Gospel Story Finder

“Girls, we have a challenge,” Sister Reed said as she rushed into the living room, where Kendyl, Marie, and the rest of the eleven-year-old girls were waiting to start their Achievement Day activity.
“What’s wrong, Sister Reed?” Kendyl could tell that their leader was worried.
“A family just moved into the ward, and they have an eleven-year-old daughter named Sara.”
The girls cheered. “But that’s good news,” Marie said.
“Yes, it is good news, but Sara’s mother just told me on the phone that Sara’s having a hard time with this move. She misses her friends back in their old ward, and she hasn’t left the house since they moved in.”
“I remember when I moved here last year,” Morgan said. “It was really hard at first. I feel bad for Sara. I wish we could make her feel better.”
“I do, too,” Sister Reed said. “And there’s one more thing I haven’t told you yet. Today is Sara’s birthday.”
“Let’s have a party for her,” Rebecca suggested. “That would help her feel better.”
“Yes, a surprise party!” Cindy exclaimed. “Let’s hurry and plan it.”
Half an hour later they were ringing Sara’s doorbell.
A pretty lady with her blond hair in a ponytail, answered the door. “Hi. Can I help you?”
“We’re on a scavenger hunt,” Marie answered. “We wondered if you had any of the things on this list.”
The woman looked doubtful. “We just moved in, so everything’s in boxes.”
Marie handed her the list, “Would you mind looking, please. It’s important that we find all these things.”
The lady smiled. “OK, I’ll look.” She read down the list, and when she got to the bottom, she started to laugh. “Well, well, I guess I do have one thing on your list. I just happen to have a ‘girl named Sara.’”
The girls giggled and looked knowingly at each other.
“Just a minute, I’ll go get her.”
A few moments later, the lady reappeared with a girl who had blond hair and who was holding a brown puppy.
Sara was a little shy at first, but her mother suggested she show the girls her new bedroom. It was decorated in blue checked wallpaper with bright sunflowers. Her bed had a fluffy down comforter on it, and she had her very own curio cabinet full of porcelain dolls.
The girls asked her all kinds of questions about the new puppy, where she used to live, who her best friend was back in her old ward, and if she was excited to start school the next day.
By the time Sara answered their questions and told them about her doll collection, she felt comfortable with the girls and was excited when her mother gave her permission to go with them on their scavenger hunt.
Sara’s mom smiled happily as she told the girls good-bye.
They went from house to house in Sister Reed’s neighborhood, gathering the rest of the items on their list, which included flour, sugar, eggs, vanilla, and chocolate chips. “What are we doing with all this stuff, anyway?” Sara asked. “I’ve never been on a scavenger hunt that had cooking ingredients on the list.”
The girls looked at each other and smiled secretly. “You’ll see,” Rebecca said. “We have just one last stop to make.”
Sister Reed was watching out the window when the girls walked up the driveway. She gave them a thumbs-up signal that everything was ready. They knocked on the door, and she invited them inside.
“Wow!” Sara said, noticing the balloons and streamers, “Are you getting ready for a party?”
“Surprise!” they yelled. “Happy birthday, Sara.”
“For me?” Sara gasped!
The girls laughed and hugged her, and so did Sister Reed. “Welcome to our ward, Sara. I’m your Achievement Day leader.”
“I can’t believe it,” Sara said. “How did you know?”
“We talked to your mom, silly,” Kendyl said. “Now, come on—let’s go make those cookies we scavenged for. I’m starving.”
While some of them stirred and baked, the others folded newspaper hats and decorated them with curly ribbons and glitter. Sara asked them for suggestions on what she should name her new puppy. Cindy said, “Name him Brownie,” as she licked a gooey beater. Morgan suggested naming him Chocolate Chip and calling him “Chip” for short.
“Chip,” Sara said thoughtfully. “Chip. Hey, I like it!”
“OK, girls, it’s time to give Sara your presents,” Sister Reed said.
“You didn’t have to get me presents. The party was more than I ever dreamed of.”
“These are special presents,” Sister Reed said, “the kind you can’t buy from a store or wrap with fancy paper. Rebecca, why don’t you start.”
“OK,” Rebecca said. “Since I live right around the corner from you, I’m going to pick you up for school so we can walk together.”
“Thanks, Rebecca, I’d really like that.” Sara sounded relieved.
Morgan offered, “I’ll go with you to school lunch. I know which line is the fastest and which servers give you the most dessert.”
“That would be great! Thanks.”
“And I’d like to play with you at recess,” Cindy said. “Do you know how to play four-square?”
“Kind of, but I’m not very good.”
“I’ll teach you, OK?”
“OK,” Sara smiled.
“For my gift,” Marie said, “I’d like to take you for ice cream sometime. Have you tried pistachio-almond with hot fudge?”
Sara shook her head. “No, but it sounds really delicious.”
“And my gift,” Kendyl said, “Is to have a scrapbook party. I called my mom, and she said I could invite all of you.”
The girls screamed with excitement. Sister Reed took the last batch of cookies out of the oven, while they jabbered about their plans for the scrapbook party and all the different snacks they would bring.
The girls crowned Sara with a glittery, sparkly birthday hat they had made especially for her. She smiled proudly as they sang “Happy Birthday.” When she blew out the candle, she realized that she didn’t even need to make a wish. Her wish had already come true. Her prayers had been answered.

Chris and Byron shared everything—their toys, their clothes, their books, their bedroom, and even their colds.
“I’m bored,” sniffed Chris. “I wish we could go outside.”
“There’s nothing to do in the house,” Byron said, coughing.
“Nothing at all,” Chris agreed, “except ride my horse.”
“You don’t have a horse,” Byron declared.
Chris wiped his nose. “I do so.”
“Prove it!”
Chris opened the door to their bedroom and pointed. “See?”
Byron blinked his eyes hard. “There’s nothing there but our bunk beds.” He snorted and started to turn away.
Chris walked over to the bunk beds and said, “Good horse,” as he gently patted one of the headboards.
Byron stopped and stared at the beds.
“Want to ride him?” Chris asked. “Or are you afraid he’ll buck you off?”
Byron stepped a little closer. “He’s your horse. You go first.”
Chris slowly climbed up the ladder and sat on the bed very carefully. He gripped the bedpost and whispered, “Giddy-up, horse.”
Nothing happened. He looked down at Byron.
“Try it again,” Byron urged.
“Giddy-up, horse,” Chris said louder.
Still nothing happened.
“Wait a minute,” Byron said. He lay on the bottom bed and lifted his legs up until his feet were touching the underside of the top bunk. “Now try kicking the horse,” he suggested.
Chris put one foot over the side and kicked the side rail. “Giddy-up, horse!” he yelled. With a little help from Byron’s feet, the mattress bucked up and down. “Yippee! Wahoo!” Chris bellowed.
Suddenly Mom appeared in the doorway. “Byron! Chris! Stop that right now before you break your beds,” she scolded, then disappeared back into the kitchen.
Chris swung his legs over the side. “What do you think?”
Byron sneezed, wiped his nose, and stood there staring at the beds for a long time. “I don’t think you have a horse,” he finally said. “What you have is a tree house in the middle of a dark, scary jungle.”
Chris screeched, “Look out behind you! There’s a tiger!”
Byron scampered up the ladder. “Where?”
Chris pointed his finger at Cat, who was sitting in the corner, busily licking his paws. Cat looked up at them with big, gleaming, hungry, yellow eyes.
“Should we shoot it?” Byron asked.
“No guns,” Chris reminded him.
Cat stretched, then stalked toward the bed.
“I don’t like the way he’s looking at us. Let’s get out of here before he decides to eat us.”
Byron pulled a long string out of his pocket and made a loop in one end.
“Here comes an elephant!” he shouted. “I’m going to capture it.” He swung the string over his head and neatly lassoed the bedpost. “Got it!”
The boys rode the big elephant away from the man-eating tiger, out of the jungle, and across the hot, white sands of the desert. The string slipped down in front of the bed and mysteriously came alive.
“Rattlesnake!” Chris exclaimed.
The elephant reared back, and the boys almost fell off. They had to hang on tightly while the elephant galloped past the rattlesnake.
“Whew! That was close,” Chris said.
Soon they came to a big lake.
“Let’s leave the elephant here and take a boat across the lake,” Byron suggested.
“Good idea,” Chris agreed. “I’ll go out on deck and steer the boat out of the harbor. You hoist the anchor.”
The boat hadn’t gone very far before it ran into a big storm. Hundred-foot waves crashed onto the boat and tossed the boys back and forth.
“Better head for port,” Chris shouted down to Byron.
When they were safely anchored in the harbor, Byron suggested that they take an airplane back home and get something to eat.
“Coming in for a landing,” Chris announced. “Check the landing gear.”
Byron learned over and looked under the bed. “There aren’t any wheels. Prepare to make a belly landing, and hope that the plane doesn’t explode.”
The plane skidded and jumped across the runway and came to a jerky stop.
“Everyone out before she goes up in flames!” Chris yelled. He and Byron bailed out just as the doorbell rang. They ran to open the door. It was George from across the street.
“Come outside and play,” George said.
“Can’t,” Chris sniffed. “We have colds.”
Byron coughed. “I wish we could go out,” he said. “There’s nothing to do in the house.”
“Nothing at all,” agreed Chris.

After that the days seemed to drag, gray and dull, one after another. Part of the time I felt defensive and angry at my mother, wanting to hurt her back. But at other times I felt small and frightened, like a little girl, longing for her to hold and comfort me and dissolve my fears. She had taken the excitement and anticipation out of the whole thing, and sometimes I weakened and felt that maybe I shouldn’t go after all. But too many of my prayers had been answered, too many signposts pointed that this should be the direction my life ought to take. I kept telling myself that things would work out. Perhaps it would be easier for my family if I went away. If I weren’t so close, such a source of conflict and friction, it might be easier for them to understand, to get a broader, kinder perspective. Perhaps they might even miss me and appreciate me a little.
But I was afraid. And there was no one to understand. Lori could only see that I had the world at my feet, that I was going to Zion, Mecca, where everything would be sunshine and happiness and dreams-come-true. But I had never been to Utah before. I didn’t even know what a mountain looked like in real life. I didn’t know a single person in all of Utah, much less at BYU. What were other Mormons like? Would they laugh at me if I was different, if I did things wrong? Our little branch was so casual, so experimental. What would it be like in a congregation of hundreds of Latter-day Saints? What if they all knew ten times more about the gospel than I knew?
Finally, suddenly, the long days were past, and it was time for me to leave. The day before the bus came that would take me to the airport in Madison, I prayed and fasted all day. I couldn’t bear to leave my mother like this, with her hating me and thinking that I was deserting her, rejecting her as, somehow, her older sister once had done.
That night I had a dream. In the dream I was a little girl again, with long pigtails and a dirty face. Some mean little boys were chasing me down the sidewalk and I fell and scraped my knee. I stumbled back up and ran across the lawn, sobbing for my mother, screaming for her to come. Suddenly she was there, sweeping me into her strong, soft arms. She smoothed back my hair and kissed my cheek, and cleaned my scraped knee, painting it with iodine, then sticking a big, beautiful band-aid on top. I woke suddenly, feeling still her gentle fingers against my skin, seeing the smile of love on her face.
I sat up in bed and it came to me that my mother didn’t know how much I needed her! How long had it been since I’d asked her advice or her help? In her eyes I seemed efficient, self-contained, and sure of myself. Mormonism had excluded her from my life, and I had done nothing to compensate for that—to let her know I still loved and needed and valued her! And all these months I had been thinking it was all her fault, that I, alone, was the wounded party!
The next morning I called her into my room and asked if she would help me pack. She’s very neat and efficient, and I knew she could organize and fit in all my last-minute things in a way I never could. I told her so. I talked with her and I praised her, and soon the look of guarded puzzlement left her face and we both began to enjoy being together. It didn’t work miracles; there wasn’t enough time for that. I still couldn’t tell her how frightened I was, how much I really loved her and would miss her. But the look of cold anger had gone out of her eyes, and she came to the bus station, and when I pushed the note I had written into her hands and reached out to hug her, she reached out, too, and held me close a minute and kissed my cheek. It was all I could do to hold back the tears. I looked through the glass and waved to my family, wishing they knew how very much I loved them.

My name is Job Abram Goldrup. Several years ago, when I was four years old and my older brother, Matt, was six and a half, Dad took us camping at a place called Blue Lake in northern California. It was in the middle of a very, very hot summer. Although most of the other lakes around there—even bigger ones like Clear Lake in Mendocino County—were very low and muddy, Blue Lake was filled with water.
We slept in sleeping bags on the ground that night, and Dad told us a story. I can’t remember what it was about, but I liked the soft sound of his voice and the feeling of being with him by the lake in the woods. I felt safe and loved and excited. The moon made silver, bouncy light on the water, and I heard an owl hooting in the dark trees whose branches swayed back and forth in the dry wind. I looked a long time at the warm, bright glow of our campfire. It made the dark not too scary, just like Dad’s voice did. Yep, I liked it there. A lot.
In the morning Dad made hot chocolate and cooked hot dogs. The chocolate had a few twigs in it because he spilled the chocolate powder on the ground and some stuff got mixed up with it when he scooped it up. But that was OK because Dad said there was hardly any use being in nature if you didn’t get a little of it in you. “Besides,” he added, “a little roughage is good for the system.” We just laughed and drank it down. It was kind of a strange breakfast—what we ate should have been for dinner, and what we had for dinner we should have had for breakfast—that was part of the fun of camping with Dad.
After breakfast, we rented a rowboat and went out on the lake. Dad made us wear orange life jackets. That’s the only part that wasn’t much fun because it was already getting hot and the life jacket made me hotter. But Dad said that just as the words of the prophets are meant to help keep us spiritually safe, life jackets are made to help keep us temporally safe.
I scrunched up my face something awful and fidgeted as if to shake that life jacket right off me.
“You have to plow your own furrow, huh, Joby?” Dad said, smiling and shaking his head.
I didn’t know what he meant. I scrunched up my face again and reached my hand down into the cool water. The water felt good. And, I have to admit, so did Dad’s counsel. Even if I didn’t understand it sometimes, I knew that it meant that he cared about me and my brother.
We kind of went around in a few circles before Dad started rowing straight. Matt whispered to me that Dad was about as good at rowing as he was at cooking.
Dad heard us and laughed. “I’m just taking the scenic route,” he joked.
After a while, we reached a small island near the other side of the lake. I felt like an explorer as Dad pulled the rowboat partway onto the pebbly beach. The island was covered with trees. A few big ones had long before fallen into the water along its edges, and there were logs on the beach.
There was only one problem: It was very hot! It helped to take off my shirt and shoes and wade in the shallow water along the beach, looking for rocks and small fish. It helped, but it wasn’t enough. “Dad,” I begged, “can’t I take off my life jacket? It’s so hot, and the water isn’t deep here. It hardly comes up to my knees.”
Dad, who was wading higher up the beach ahead of us, scratched his head and scrunched up his face. “I guess it would be OK, Joby,” he said at last, “as long as you don’t wade out any deeper.”
I promised that I wouldn’t, and Matt helped me get out of the jacket. I threw it up onto the beach. It felt great to have it off! My brother and I continued to look for rocks and fish below the surface of the water, Matt poking and turning the rocks over with a stick he had brought from camp.
A few minutes later, Dad looked back to check on me and my brother and yelled, “Where’s Joby, Matt?”
Matt looked this way and that, then, bewildered, back at Dad. “I don’t know—he was right here a minute ago.”
Dad raced up out of the water and faced the thick, tangly island trees. “Joby!” he yelled again and again, hoping I had decided to venture into the trees.
Matt was worried too. “Where is he, Dad?”
Dad didn’t answer. He ran into the shallow water close to where Matt stood, scanning the water about him. Then he ran along the beach, first in one direction, then another. Suddenly he stopped, looked down into the shallow water by a fallen tree, and screamed, “Joby!” He threw himself beneath the surface and pulled me up!
A big gasp came from me as I breathed in air at last.
“Are you all right?” Dad looked at me with tears filling his eyes.
I nodded. “I guess I stepped into a hole. A feeling like a voice told me ‘Stay calm. Your dad will come for you.’ So I did. I just started looking around at the big tree roots, waiting for you to find me.”
Dad started crying hard. He hugged me like he would never let go. And for a moment, I didn’t want him to, and I started to cry too.
Afterward we all sat on a log up on the beach, and Dad explained what had happened. He said that I had stepped in a pothole and very well could have drowned. It was because of Heavenly Father’s loving, watchful care that I was spared. Dad said that the voice-feeling I had was the Holy Ghost telling me what to do. I know that that’s true because of the special feeling I had while I was waiting for Dad to find me. “If you had panicked,” Dad said, “You would have swallowed water and might have drowned.”
I will always remember that day—listening to Dad’s story and sleeping by the campfire, eating those hot dogs and drinking the twiggy hot chocolate that Dad had lovingly prepared, the cool lake water on a hot summer day. But most of all I will remember my experience with the Holy Ghost that taught me how near He is to us—as near, Dad would say, as an amen at the end of a prayer.

Subject: Dan
Age: 16 years
Event: First prom date
The dance was over. Dan carefully maneuvered his dad’s car out of the high school parking lot. “I thought we’d go out to eat,” he said suavely.
“Great!” his date said. “Where?”
“Of course, because of the prom, many places will be full.”
“How about the Pyrenes?” she suggested. “My parents go there.”
“I’m sure it’ll be full,” Dan answered quickly.
“Okay, how about the Bonanza?”
“That will be full.”
“McDonald’s?” the girl pleaded.
“Full,” Dan answered firmly. “But don’t worry. I know a place that’s never full.”
“What’s it called?” she asked suspiciously.
“Big Alice’s Truck Stop Diner and Reloading Emporium. You get all the hashbrowns you can eat.”
“Oh,” the girl said with disappointment.
The old diner seemed to be leaning into the wind along the nearly deserted section of old highway that had been abandoned with the construction of the interstate. Apparently a few truckers still went out of their way because two large semi-trucks were parked outside.
“My dad gave me ten dollars to take you out to dinner,” Dan said as they pulled to a stop in front of the place, “but, gosh, you could eat here for a week for ten dollars.”
Alice, a huge woman, stood behind the counter with her arms folded and argued politics with two truckers. Dan and his date moved quickly to the other end of the long row of stools along the counter and sat down. In a minute, Big Alice sauntered down to get their order. “Whataya want?”
“Two hamburgers with everything,” Dan said, “plenty of hashbrowns, and a couple of donuts for dessert.”
“Is it okay, what I ordered for you?” Dan asked his date. “My dad said that the guy is supposed to order. It’s etiquette.”
The two truckers and Big Alice continued their argument as she cooked their order.
“You can’t say that!” one trucker argued.
“Well, I’m saying it!” the other trucker roared. “The trouble with people today is that nobody wants to fight! Especially the kids today. They couldn’t fight their way out of a paper bag!”
Suddenly the three looked down the long row of empty stools to Dan and his date.
Dan nervously smiled at them.
In a few minutes, Big Alice brought their food and then left.
The girl carefully examined the hamburger. “The meat’s all greasy,” she complained.
“That used to bother me, too, when I first started eating here,” Dan eagerly explained, “but I learned a little trick.” Grabbing some napkins, he picked up her hamburger patty and blotted it with the napkins. “There,” he said proudly, “how’s that?”
He eagerly ate, but she took a fork and only probed the food with it.
“Aren’t you even going to eat your hashbrowns?” he asked.
“They’re greasy, too.”
“Yeah, but they’re great with catsup.” He picked up the catsup bottle, and in his eagerness, dumped the entire contents on her plate. Some of it splashed on her formal.
“Whoops,” he said apologetically.
“Please,” she said, beginning to cry, “take me home.”
“Okay,” Dan agreed. “Why don’t you take a donut with you in case you get hungry on the way?”__________

Lala loved to watch ants. “Pelusa,” she would say to her cat, “see those two ants trying to carry a crumb of bread to their hill. One ant is going one way and the other is going a different way. They’ll never get anywhere if they keep that up!”
Pelusa sat in the shade licking himself. Though he never said anything, Lala knew that he always listened.
Lala and her family lived in a small adobe hut in the dry highlands of northern Mexico. It was perfect country for ants. Among the cacti and thorny bushes around Lala’s house there were hundreds of anthills. However, no one ever visited them except Lala and Pelusa.
In her pockets Lala always carried pieces of bread. Finding an anthill, she would crumble the bread several feet away, then sit and wait for the ants to discover their meal. Before long the ants would join into a long, straight line between the crumbled-up bread and their nest. Each ant would carry home a crumb.
Watching the ants work, Lala daydreamed about the ants’ world beneath the ground … Someplace in a big chamber the ant queen must be laying eggs. Somewhere else nurse ants must be taking care of baby ants. And worker ants must be digging new tunnels, while soldier ants guard the colony’s entrance.
“How I would love to go inside the ant’s tunnels,” Lala often said to her cat. But Pelusa would only stretch and yawn.
Late one hot afternoon, something small and white fluttered past the adobe hut’s open door. Pelusa streaked from the door, chasing it, and Lala called, “It’s just a turkey feather, Pelusa, being blown by a whirlwind. Come back!”
However, Pelusa was already far away, so Lala ran after him. Eventually, her pet’s tracks led Lala into Mulehead Valley. Never had Lala been so far from home alone. She was about to turn back when she heard a familiar meow. It was coming from an abandoned mine shaft beneath a big rock balanced at the base of Mulehead Hill.
“Pelusa, come out!” Lala called into the deep hole. But the cat did not come out. Then, even though Lala knew better, she entered the mine. Pelusa was only a little way inside. He was intently staring at a pile of rubble into which he had chased a mouse. “Silly cat.” Lala laughed, and gave him a hug.
And then it happened! Turning around, Lala’s shoulder knocked something loose, and the big rock over the mine’s entrance fell with a thud. Suddenly everything inside the mine shaft was dark and quiet. “Pelusa,” Lala whispered huskily, “I think we’re in trouble!”
When the dust settled and Lala’s eyes became used to the dark, she saw a tiny crack between the rock and the mine’s entrance. She put her eye next to the crack and looked across Mulehead Valley. “They’ll never find us here,” she said to Pelusa. “And if this is what it’s like being in an ant’s tunnel, I don’t like it!”
The next morning, Lala and Pelusa were very hungry. “Pelusa!” Lala cried. “I just remembered! I have some bread in my pocket.”
Lala ate enough to make her stomach feel better. However, Pelusa didn’t like bread.
“Well, I’ll just push a little bread through the crack,” Lala declared. “Maybe the ants will eat breakfast with me then.”
The long morning hours passed. Lala was about to give up hope when she heard an anxious voice calling, “Lala, are you in there?”
“Papa, is that you?” Lala cried. Pelusa meowed for the first time since the rock fell.
Before long the big rock was moved out of the way, and Lala was in her father’s arms outside in the fresh air and sunlight. “Oh, Papa!” Lala whooped. “How did you ever find us?”
“Well, I was walking across Mulehead Valley, looking for you,” he explained, “when I came across a long line of ants. Every ant carried a piece of bread. Now who but you feeds bread to ants? I followed the line right up to the mine entrance. I’m so grateful that you remembered to feed the ants this morning!”
“Papa!” Lala exclaimed. “Tonight we must make a sweet, sweet cake with plenty of icing on it, and it must be so big that we can leave a piece on every anthill for miles around!”
And that is exactly what they did.

First Reader: We have invited [name] to take the part of William Clayton in recreating a scene from pioneer history.
Brother Clayton is sitting by a campfire somewhere in lowa, but a large share of his heart is back in Nauvoo with his wife, Diantha, who had to remain behind. It is late at night on Wednesday, April 15, 1846 …
William Clayton: Ah, [Yawns] this has been a long day for me, but I cannot sleep tonight until I finish writing in my journal. Let’s see, have I forgotten anything?
[Reads from journal] “Last night I got up to watch, there being no guard. The cattle and horses [were] breaking into the tents and wagons. … This morning Ellen Kimball came to me and wishes me much joy. She said Diantha [my wife] has a son. I told her I was afraid it was not so, but she said Brother Pond had received a letter. I went over to Pond’s and he read that she had a fine fat boy on the 30th … , but she was very sick with ague and mumps. Truly I feel to rejoice … but feel sorry to hear of her sickness. … In the evening the band played. … We had a very pleasant time playing and singing until about twelve o’clock. … This morning I composed [the words to] a new song—‘All is well.’ [Plays “Come, Come, Ye Saints” on violin or reads first verse] I feel to thank my heavenly father for my boy and pray that he will spare and preserve his life and that of his mother and so order it that we may soon meet again.” [Kneels and bows head]
Second Reader: The words of “All Is Well,” written to an English melody, gave encouragement to the pioneers. Soon it became almost a theme song. It was decided in the camps that when anyone started singing it, everyone would join in.

It all started when the Indianapolis Symphony Orchestra began outdoor summer performances at Conner Prairie Pioneer Settlement, a restored 1836 village. The first few years, all concertgoers sat on lawn chairs or blankets on the grass. Later, Symphony on the Prairie organizers offered reserved tables and chairs near the stage for a higher price. But who would set up a hundred tables and a thousand chairs twice a week? The symphony looked for a service group, and that’s where LDS Boy Scout troop 596 came in.

They are not alone. Scout leaders, families, and friends all lend a hand. “It’s a time to see friends and get to know new people,” says Emily Runyan, whose brother Chris is a Scout. “Those of us who aren’t in the troop can still be an example of service to others.”

Missy Wardwell feels that her work at Conner Prairie changed her attitude towards service. She used to feel it was a duty, “but I found this was fun because I chose to come. It was great to work on something important.”

People notice the unity between youth and adults in the Noblesville Ward. Jennifer Rasmussen attributes it to what happens when teachers and leaders labor alongside the youth. “Before,” Jennifer says, “you only saw them on Sunday. But working together is a bonding experience.”

Jennifer also points out the benefits for new or quiet kids in the ward. “These youth get to know people and become comfortable working together, whereas otherwise they might have taken years to open up. They get invited to stay and join us in other activities.”

Missy points out another benefit. “In the summer, sometimes school friends call and invite me to a party. I know what kind of party it will be. It’s security for me to have another place to go that is good and fun and social.”

The LDS youth finish and settle down on the hill with cool drinks and snacks. With their service comes a bonus—they can stay and hear the symphony concert for free. As the sun lingers near the edge of the concert shell, thousands of concertgoers arrive. Sometimes 10,000 people throng the grounds on a symphony night. After the sun goes down, the scattered lights of hundreds of tiny citronella candles flicker like caged fireflies.

“I never thought the kids would stay for the program,” says Rich Armstrong of the Scout committee. “I could see youth using lots of outdoor energy, but I didn’t expect them to be interested in symphony music.”

“I had never heard a symphony orchestra before,” says Brennan Wood. “But the more you hear symphony music, the more you understand it.”

Trent Wardwell agrees. “This has given me a better appreciation for what goes into producing symphony music. Hours before the concert, while we are putting up chairs and tables, the symphony workers have to set up their sound system and prepare the stage, just for a short, two-hour show.”

The concert is finished. A few fireworks light the sky over the orchestra shell, and the LDS youth scramble up from their places. Swarming down the hill, they start folding chairs, clearing tables, and carrying them back to storage. Now that it is cooler, demonstrations of strength take place. Austin Armstrong carries eight chairs at once. Brennan staggers under 13. Jamie Ketring and Jennifer tote one table between them, but Jon Foote hoists one above his head and carries it alone.

The final tarpaulin is tugged up and over a mountain of chairs. It is time to go home.

The thoughts of all the youth are echoed by Emily Runyan. “My main memory of summers is our work at Conner Prairie.”

In much of the world, we are entering upon unsettled economic times. Let us look after one another the very best we can. I remember the story of a Vietnamese family that fled Saigon in 1975 and ended up living in a small mobile home in Provo, Utah. A young man in the refugee family became the home teaching companion to a Brother Johnson who lived nearby with his large family. The boy related the following:
“One day Brother Johnson noticed that our family had no kitchen table. He appeared the next day with an odd-looking but very functional table that fit nicely against the trailer wall across from the kitchen sink and counters. I say odd-looking because two of the table legs matched the tabletop and two did not. Also, several small wooden pegs stuck out along one edge of the worn surface.
“Soon we used this unique table daily for food preparation and for eating some quick meals. We still ate our family meals while we sat on the floor … in true Vietnamese fashion.
“One evening I stood inside Brother Johnson’s front door as I waited for him before a home teaching appointment. There in the nearby kitchen—I was surprised to see it—was a table practically identical to the one they had given to my family. The only difference was that where our table had pegs, the Johnsons’ table had holes! I then realized that, seeing our need, this charitable man had cut his kitchen table in half and had built two new legs for each half.
“It was obvious that the Johnson family could not fit around this small piece of furniture—they probably didn’t fit comfortably around it when it was whole. …
“Throughout my life this kind act has been a powerful reminder of true giving” (Son Quang Le, as told to Beth Ellis Le, “Two-of-a-Kind Table,” Liahona, July 2004, 45; Ensign, July 2004, 63).

A few days later, I opened the door to see two fine-looking young men. They introduced themselves as missionaries for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. In the conversation that followed, they asked, “Do you believe that the church of Jesus Christ is on the earth today?” My wife and I had already considered this question while studying the Bible. We concluded that if there were a true church, it would have to have all the doctrines Jesus taught. The churches we knew, including our own, were not complete. “If it exists,” I said, “it must have all the things Jesus taught. But it does not exist.”
The missionaries said that the church they represented was organized in the same way as the church at Christ’s time. They added that this church had continuing revelation from Jesus Christ.
I felt sorry for them; they had been so misled. I told them, “I’m sure that just as our church has errors in its doctrine, so does yours. Someone has added, changed, or taken something away.” Again they testified that their church was Christ’s own church, organized with his authority and directed by him.
Soon after, I told my mother about the missionaries. She smiled and went into her bedroom, then returned with a copy of the Book of Mormon. She told me I could have it.
I began reading the Book of Mormon with a curious, but negative attitude. As I read the first page, I thought angrily, this was written by a man with a vivid imagination who knew the Bible well. I read two more pages, slammed the book shut, threw it on the table, and exclaimed, “What a fake!” During the missionaries’ next visit, I told them that I thought the Book of Mormon was a hoax. It was like the Bible, I said, except it referred to the American continent. But, undeterred, the missionaries easily handled the questions my wife and I had then, and in subsequent visits. I could find nothing wrong with what they taught us, but I could not accept the Book of Mormon.
However, the missionaries testified that I could know that the Book of Mormon was true if I followed the admonition of Moroni and sincerely sought for divine guidance. (See Moro. 10:4.) Having prayed, and while reading the words of Moroni, I received a spiritual witness that I have never been able to describe. A realization that the Book of Mormon and the Church were true penetrated every fiber of my being. Happily I exclaimed to my wife, “Margrit, Margrit, I know that it is true!”
Margrit continued to seek her own witness, and within a few weeks she also knew the truth. We set our baptismal date.

“What about family home evening? Aren’t we going to have it tonight?” my six-year-old daughter, Leilani, asked. A feeling of guilt flooded over me. My husband and I had been trying to hold family home evening, but with many claims on our time, we had fallen out of the habit. Leilani’s reminder made us recommit to not neglect family home evening for any reason.
As Leilani and her sister, Nadia, have gotten older, they have wanted to teach during family home evening what they have learned in Primary. They even draw their own visual aids to illustrate the principles they want to teach. We rejoice as parents to see them talking about the gospel and often can expand on the subject they have chosen.
“What about family home evening? Aren’t we going to have it tonight?” are words I am trying hard not to hear repeated. I know that when children are young is the best time to teach them. The world may exercise its influence, but if we work and grow alongside our children, we can reach our goal of raising men and women of principle.
Patricia Cárdenas de Prado, Guatemala

“The first book I ever owned came to me on the heels of tragedy” he recalled. “It was at a community Christmas party that came to a sudden and abrupt end when the candles on the Christmas tree set fire to Santa Claus’ coat and he ran from the room.
“I returned home … disconsolate and dejected because there was no gift for me. But the next day from out of the ruins of the fire a book, half-burned, was found with my name on it.”
It was a book that told the story of a young boy who, through hard work and honesty, went on to be a success in life.

Let me tell you about this boy again. Now he is married. He has graduated with a degree in engineering, and he has left to go away to a big city. He and his wife were nervous—a new job, a new home, away from the family.
He told me these two experiences. He worked in a large room with a lot of engineers. After he had been there for two months, he was getting things ready so that he could leave his work on time. We had taught him to arrive at work a little early and to stay a little after time, to do a little extra. But this day he wanted to get away right on time. One of the other engineers asked him where he was going.
“What are you in such a hurry for?”
“Well, we are going to a dinner tonight.”
“What kind of a dinner?”
“It’s a quorum dinner. We are taking our wives to a special dinner and social.”
The other engineer shook his head. “I don’t understand you. I’ve been here two years; I don’t know anybody yet. My wife and I are still just by ourselves. You’ve been here for two months. Already you’ve been invited to dinner.”
The next experience. One day one of the engineers asked if my son would help him move. “We found a better apartment. Saturday we are going to move. I need some help. Will you help me?” Our son said, “Yes, I’ll be glad to.” And then his wife made some bread for them and prepared a meal. He helped them move. Then he said this: “Dad, I’ve been thinking about that. He hardly knows me. I hardly knew who he was.” And he said, “If I’m the one who was the closest to him, the one he would dare to ask help him move, he doesn’t have anybody.” And he said, “Look what I have.”
When he and his wife arrived in the new city, they went to Church. He went to his quorum; he belonged the day he walked in. A quorum—to sustain one another, to help one another. A quorum of the priesthood. You boys of the Aaronic Priesthood can begin to prepare now. You’ve trained to help others—to gather the fast offerings; to take care of other assignments, the sacrament, home teaching; to get you trained to help others. Why? You belong to a quorum. A quorum. The word quorum is a marvelous word. In the Church, the worth of quorums has never yet fully been realized.
It is a tremendous honor to belong to a quorum. To be called to preside over a quorum is a distinct responsibility. To be called as the secretary of a quorum, or to teach a quorum, is a tremendous responsibility. Do you know where the word quorum comes from? It isn’t in the Old Testament or the New Testament. It comes from ancient Rome. When they would form a commission of great importance to perform a great work, they would appoint the members of this commission. And they would send them their certificate. And on that certificate the word quorum would appear. It would tell what the commission was going to do, how important it was, that great men were being chosen, and then it would contain these words: Quorum vos unum, meaning, “You are to be united.”
My young brethren, you belong to quorums. What a tremendous opportunity! You can learn to be in charge, to take care of your life and to assist others. I am grateful to have held the Aaronic Priesthood, and to still hold it. I am more grateful that my sons have held it and grateful that you can hold it. God bless you, my boys. May the Spirit of the Lord rest upon you. The gospel is true. The priesthood is a great opportunity. In the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.

I left the hospital and found myself thinking about the moments spent with my grandparents. For the first time in my life, I realized how unobtrusively and quickly time does pass. During the years, my beloved grandparents had grown old. Grandma had already passed away, and now I wouldn’t have Grandpa much longer. They would always live on in my heart, but I wanted them to be a part of my children’s and grandchildren’s lives as well. I decided that I would write on paper my memories of the times we had spent together; in that way I would be able to share my grandparents with my own children in the future.
When I returned home, I sat down and started to recall memories. I slipped paper after paper into the typewriter, typing as quickly as my thoughts would come. I knew I was making spelling and grammatical errors but decided to concentrate on meaning while I wrote my first draft and make corrections when I did the final copy. After typing up the stories on heavy white paper the size of book of remembrance pages, I covered them with plastic protector sheets and bound the pages together in a black binder. For a title page I used three pictures of Grandpa, and on the last two pages of the book I put more pictures. For my cover I enlarged a color picture of Grandpa’s sheep camp in the mountains, framed it, and glued it on the front of the binder.
My book was completed after only two weeks; writing the memories had taken only a couple of afternoons. As I relived the weeks spent in the mountains in the old log cabin where my mother had been born, I found myself typing through tears. It was there I grew to love the earth with her wild flowers and sagebrush. Grandfather was a mountain of a man as he worked with his sheep—mighty, yet ever so gentle with the little, newborn lambs. As Grandmother cooked over the old black coal stove, she shared her philosophies of life with me. Her lemon pies became her trademark. Her ideas became my beliefs.
I wrote of the afternoons they came to visit my family. Grandpa always had a brown sack full of groceries, and as he placed it on the counter, Grandma pulled out fresh fruit and vegetables and nuts. She told us children to always eat plenty of nuts and peanuts because they were good brain foods and she wanted to have smart grandchildren. Grandpa always went straight to the couch and invited us all to get on his lap. He pulled out his gold watch and chain and let us listen to the ticking sound. He then proceeded to tell us stories.
I wrote about the many weekends I spent at their home. Grandpa usually fell asleep about 11:00 P.M., while Grandma and I were just getting ready to go on our midnight walk to the corner grocery store several blocks away. Upon returning, we finally got to bed about 2:00 A.M. By 5:30 the next morning, Grandma was up and preparing breakfast. How I tried to keep up with her!
Recalling the memories made me love and appreciate my grandparents even more. Having the shared moments in black and white made me realize all they had given me. I wanted to do something special for my grandfather while he was still alive. Then a new idea came to me: why not dedicate the book to him? It was a perfect way to express my love for him. I ended the book with the following:
So, Grandpa, I have not been able to share much with you these last few years, but I will always love you and Grandma very deeply. You have given me some of my very happiest childhood memories. I thank you for them all.
I thank you for all the pretty clothes you let Grandma buy for me …
Thank you for letting me stay with you on weekends and especially for taking me to the mountains with you …
Thank you for the use of your piano and the sheet music and songs you bought for me …
Thank you for all the hamburgers and malts and root beer floats we had at “Myrts” …
Thank you for letting me take your new Buick and letting me use a whole tank of gas …
Thank you for being my Grandpa!
I love you very much!
Your granddaughter
I went to the hospital carrying my special gift for my grandfather. As I read the pages of the book to him, some of the incidents were so humorous that he struggled to laugh. When I recalled the sorrow we had shared, tears filled his eyes and he and I cried together. The most difficult part for me was to read the closing paragraph, thanking him for all he had given me. I closed the book and laid it by his side, grateful that I had given him a precious gift.
When Grandfather died, I took the book and, heartbroken, put it away on a shelf. Now, only six years later, as I read it to my little children, they talk about my grandpa and grandma as though they really know them. The book is priceless to me, but even more priceless to my children’s children as they read it and hand it down through generations of time as part of my life story. Now I know that my grandparents will be alive in the hearts of many for years and years to come.

Dallin wiggled with excitement on Grandma’s brown leather couch. The suspense was almost more than he could stand. “Hurry, Uncle Jason. Hurry!” he shouted.
Uncle Jason was about to read his mission call. The whole family was there to watch him open his letter.
Jason carefully opened the envelope and silently read the letter. His eyes lit up. “I’m going to Argentina!” he yelled.
A few months later, it was time for Uncle Jason to go to the missionary training center. Dallin watched Uncle Jason pack his suitcase with white shirts, dark pants, ties, and scriptures. Then he put in a pair of shiny new shoes.
“Wow!” said Dallin. “Can I try those on?”
“Sure. Go ahead,” said Uncle Jason.
Dallin slipped his feet into the big brown shoes and tromped around the room. He imagined himself as a missionary. He stood up a little taller. “When I go on a mission, I want a pair of shoes just like yours,” he said. “They’re so shiny, and they make me look cool!”
Uncle Jason grinned. “They sure do.”
At the MTC, Uncle Jason learned how to teach people in Spanish. Sometimes Dallin got letters written just to him. In one letter Dallin learned that Jason was finally flying to Argentina!
Month after month passed. Dallin missed Uncle Jason a lot. But it was fun to read his stories about teaching people the gospel. One week Uncle Jason wrote:
This week was the greatest! I got to baptize Carlos and his whole family! They have strong testimonies and are happy to be members of the Church.
One day Dallin decided to run over to Grandma’s house to see if she had a new letter from Uncle Jason. When he walked through the door, he saw a big smile on Grandma’s face.
“Guess what came in the mail today!” she said. She held up a white envelope with red and blue stripes.
“Another letter!” Dallin opened the envelope and began reading:
Today my companion and I walked for four hours trying to find the home of a man we met in the market. He wanted to learn about the plan of salvation. When we finally found his house, he wasn’t there. We’ll try again tomorrow. I want to find him before I come home next week.
“Next week?” Dallin said, looking up at Grandma. “Uncle Jason comes home from his mission next week?!”
“I can hardly believe it myself,” said Grandma.
When the day finally came, Dallin went to the airport with his family. He squeezed Grandma’s hand as they waited for Jason. Soon he saw several missionaries with nametags walking toward them.
“There he is!” Dallin shouted.
Uncle Jason looked older and taller than Dallin remembered. His shirt wasn’t as white as it used to be. And his shoes were faded and scuffed.
His missionary shoes are ruined! Dallin thought.
Uncle Jason hugged Grandma. Then he bent down and hugged Dallin. “You’ve gotten so big! Did you miss me?”
“Yes!” said Dallin. He squeezed Uncle Jason tight.
On the ride home, Dallin stared down at Uncle Jason’s worn-out shoes. He listened to him tell about his mission. He had walked miles and miles on dusty roads searching for people to teach. He had spent hours and hours planting gardens and doing other kinds of service. He had worked hard serving Heavenly Father and the people in Argentina.
No wonder his shoes were so worn out, Dallin thought.
Go to “Family Night Fun” for an activity to go with this story!
After a long time, Dallin finally spoke. “Uncle Jason, when I come home from my mission, I hope my shoes look just like yours.”

Lisa Toemei* paid extra attention to sweeping the floor of the one-room house. It was a special occasion. The missionaries were coming today. It would make the fourth time the American elders had visited her family.
Lisa had never been off the island of Pohnpei, which is just north of the equator in the Pacific Ocean. She looked forward to the visits of these missionaries from a land so far away. She had many questions for them.
At last the missionaries arrived. As was the custom, they removed their shoes before entering the house. “Brother and Sister Toemei, thank you for inviting us into your home.” Elder Choate greeted them in their own language.
Elder Tyson did the same.
Lisa liked listening to them, even though they spoke with a funny accent.
Barney, Lisa’s little brother, smiled shyly at the two young men.
Elder Choate and Elder Tyson came from the United States of America to teach the people about Jesus Christ. They were dressed in dark pants, white shirts, and ties. Their name badges proclaimed that they were from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Elder Choate was tall and fair, his hair so light that it appeared almost white. Even the hair on his arms was white! Lisa had never seen such pale skin and blue eyes. He was from Colorado. He showed it to her on a map. It was a small square surrounded by other squares and shapes—and very far from the ocean!
Elder Tyson was not so tall, but he still towered over her papa. His hair was bright red, making Lisa think of the sunset.
During each of the missionaries’ visits, Lisa and Barney couldn’t get their questions out fast enough. What was the United States like? How did people live without being near the ocean? What made their skin so light?
The missionaries answered the questions and then asked questions of their own. Did they know that their family could be together in heaven? Did they want to be an eternal family? Did they believe the Church was true, and if so, would they be baptized?
“An eternal family,” Mama said, her hands clasped. “It is the truth you bring us. Always we know there is something more than what we have, but we do not know where to find it. You honor us with this gift.”
Papa nodded, his face grave. “This baptism you speak of—you can do it for us?”
The elders grinned. “It would give us great joy to baptize you,” Elder Choate said. “Since Lisa is ten, she can be baptized along with you and Sister Toemei. Barney will have to wait until he is eight years old.”
“You will stay for a meal,” Mama said, already bustling about in the far corner that served as their kitchen.
What will we feed the Americans? Lisa wondered. The family had only a little food to last through the week.
Mama prepared the meal, all the while listening as the elders continued teaching from the dark blue Book of Mormon.
Lisa’s eyes widened when she saw the amount of food on the table. Rice, fresh tuna, and bananas filled the serving bowls! There was enough for several meals.
The elders held up their hands. “This is your family’s food,” Elder Choate said. “We cannot eat it.”
“You hold the everlasting gospel in your hands,” Mama said. “You must have our best.”
The young men continued to protest until Papa said quietly, “Would you turn away a gift from a friend?”
The elders looked at each other. “Thank you,” Elder Tyson said at last. “We would be honored to share your meal.”
Why?” Lisa asked her mother in a low voice as the missionaries went to wash their hands. “Why do you give them all our food? We will not have enough for the rest of the week.”
“Did you not hear what these men of God said? They bring a message from the living prophet. What is a bit of food compared to the truth and light that they teach to us?”
There was much laughter at the small wooden table during the meal. Lisa felt the Spirit warm her from the inside out. She especially liked hearing Elder Choate bear his testimony about Joseph Smith, the first President of the Church, and President Gordon B. Hinckley, the current prophet. She listened closely as Elder Tyson told of his recent visit to Guam.
Lisa scraped the last of the rice from the bowl as she put away the leftovers. She knew there would be little food for the next week, but she didn’t mind anymore.
The elders returned the following day. Each carried a sack. There were boxes of cereal and cans of fruit and vegetables.
“It is too much!” Mama said, tears bright in her eyes. “Too much.”
“Would you turn away a gift from a friend?” Elder Choate asked, using Papa’s words. “The gospel of Jesus Christ makes us all brothers and sisters. We could not let our brothers and sisters go hungry.”
Brothers and sisters—Lisa liked that.

After I was baptized, the Church became my world. I loved being at church with the other members. I remember many times being there on Saturdays with the deacons, cleaning the chapel and preparing it for Sunday. I also participated in Mutual activities. From seeing the missionaries in Primary and at home, I decided early in my life to go on a mission. When I served my mission, I was very happy. I served two years in the west of Mexico.

Children, obey the Lord’s commandments. Decide now to go on a mission and to marry in the temple. If you decide in your minds and hearts now, while you are young, to do these things, you will be good missionaries, good spouses, and good parents. I believe that what the world needs most is good mothers and good fathers guiding their families.

Children, keep away from those things that would separate you from Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ—things like lying, stealing, using drugs, violating the Word of Wisdom, doing whatever the prophets have taught us are wrong.

Be careful in choosing your friends. Good friends help us to do good things; bad friends influence us to do bad things.

Prepare now for a mission. Keep yourself morally clean. If you keep yourself clean and worthy in every way, if you take the sacrament worthily every Sunday, you will be very powerful missionaries and later you will be leaders in the Church.

I love the children of the earth. With the power and authority that I have as a General Authority, I bless you that you can gain all the blessings that your parents want for you. Where you live is not important, nor the color of your skin or your eyes or your hair. Everyone on earth is a son or daughter of God, and He wants us to return to Him as clean and innocent and worthy as we were when we were born.

My father, Parley W. Newman, served as a paratrooper in World War II. On more than one occasion, he parachuted behind enemy lines in the South Pacific and was under fire. He lost close friends in combat and was eventually wounded himself.
When I was a child, I suffered from excessive fears over the evils that exist in the world. My good parents made great efforts to help me overcome those fears, but the fears persisted.
One night, my father came into my room and told me of the tremendous fear he had daily experienced during the war—an entirely justifiable fear in the face of real and imminent danger. He told me that throughout his time in the war, he carried with him a verse of scripture printed on a card and received comfort from the promise of that verse. He then handed me a card on which he had printed that same scripture, Joshua 1:9.
I slept that night—and for many nights—with that card under my pillow and carried it with me, as my father had, until I no longer needed the card itself, for the Lord’s promise in that verse was imprinted on my mind and heart. My father’s gift of the Lord’s words was the beginning of my learning to replace fear with faith.
As a young woman I searched the scriptures for similar promises and assurances of the Lord and relied upon them with all my heart. I still do. In time, I arranged some of those scriptural promises into a poetic text that my brother, Mark, has set to music—music intended to convey both the power and peace of these promises.

What is death like? Here is a simple incident as told by Dr. Peter Marshall, chaplain of the United States Senate:
In a certain home, a little boy, the only son, was ill with an incurable disease. Month after month the mother had tenderly nursed him, but as the weeks went by and he grew no better, the little fellow gradually began to understand the meaning of death and he, too, realized that soon he was to die. One day his mother had been reading the story of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table, and as she closed the book the boy lay silent for a moment, then asked the question that had been laying on his heart. “Mother, what is it like to die? Mother, does it hurt?” Quick tears filled her eyes. She sprang to her feet and fled to the kitchen, supposedly to go get something. She prayed on the way a silent prayer that the Lord would tell her what to say, and the Lord did tell her. Immediately she knew how to explain it to him. She said as she returned from the kitchen, “Kenneth, you will remember when you were a little boy, you would play so hard you were too tired to undress and you tumbled into your mother’s bed and fell asleep. In the morning you would wake up and much to your surprise, you would find yourself in your own bed. In the night your father would pick you up in his big strong arms and carry you to your own bedroom. Kenneth, death is like that; we just wake up one morning to find ourselves in the room where we belong because the Lord Jesus loves us.” The lad’s shining face looked up and told her there would be no more fear, only love and trust in his heart as he went to meet the Father in heaven. He never questioned again and several weeks later he fell asleep, just as she said. That is what death is like. (See Catherine Marshall, A Man Called Peter (New York: McGraw Hill, 1951), pp. 272–73.)

In home evening we learned about how we can use our talents to bless others and help them feel God’s love. We read about Jesus teaching the people that they should share their light instead of hiding it. Then we talked about ways we could share our light through our talents.
Our mom suggested we play our instruments for people at a retirement home near us. At first, we were excited to play. But when we got to the retirement home, we felt nervous. We felt even more scared as we walked into the room where we were going to perform.
But when we started playing, we felt calm. The people tapped their feet and sang along to our songs. We had fun playing, and we felt happy seeing the smiles on their faces.
Since then, we’ve played at other retirement homes, and we want to keep doing it. Learning to play a musical instrument takes a lot of time and hard work, but we know Heavenly Father is proud of us for developing our talents and sharing them with others.
Illustration by Tania Rex