Gospel Story Finder

Alaska in February may not be anyone’s idea of warm, but Mia Maids in the Sterling Ward, Soldotna Alaska Stake, spread the sunshine of their love and smiles year round by helping others. For Valentine’s Day this year, the girls made small gift baskets and took them to the elderly sisters in their ward. Even more important than the treats in the baskets, though, was the time the girls spent visiting the women and finding out about their lives. Here’s what the girls had to say about the project:
“It was a wonderful activity that brought us together. I am so happy to be able to serve, especially the elderly people.”—Sally Van Dyke
“I enjoyed making these baskets because I got to be with my friends and it was a lot of fun. (It always is when we get together.)”—Megan Maxwell
“It was so nice to visit some of the older people in our ward and hear their interesting stories.”—Shannon Christenson
“Those ladies are so happy and bring joy to my life.”—Rachel Cook

But it saddened Margarette that the Prophet and his wife, Emma, had lost so many children of their own. Their young child had died shortly after Margarette’s mother had given birth to twin baby girls not long ago. The Prophet and his wife were so kind to children, Margarette was sure they missed their own sweet baby.
One day, Margarette heard the Prophet talking to her mother in the kitchen. He asked if she would let him borrow one of the twin girls to help comfort Emma.
“You may take one home with you, as long as you bring her back each night,” Margarette’s mother said. She handed him little Mary. Margarette watched as he gently wrapped a quilt around the baby and, cooing to her, opened the door and left.
True to his word, the Prophet returned little Mary every night, except for one. Margarette’s mother was nervous when he didn’t come at his usual time. She decided to go check on the babe, and hurried away to the Prophet’s home, the Mansion House. Soon afterward, Mother and the Prophet returned with little Mary. Margarette heard him explaining again that Mary had been cranky. He had been trying to calm her down before he returned her.
The next morning, the Prophet arrived as usual. Margarette’s mother handed him Sarah instead of Mary, thinking he would not know which baby he was holding. Sarah and Mary were identical—even some family members couldn’t tell them apart. After gently cuddling the child, the Prophet looked down at her face and then slowly shook his head. “This is not my little Mary,” he said.
Margarette’s mother nodded and took Sarah back to the cradle.
After the Prophet left with Mary, Margarette said, “He must really study Mary’s face in order to tell the difference between her and little Sarah.” As Margarette left the kitchen, she noticed her mother blotting her eyes with the hem of her apron.
Soon afterwards, the Prophet stopped taking Mary to his home, but he often came to visit her. Sadly, a short time later, Mary was called to return home to her Heavenly Father. Just after Mary died, Margarette was sitting at the kitchen table when the Prophet arrived. Little Mary’s body lay quiet and still in her cradle. The Prophet rushed to pick her cold form up in his arms. He cried as if he had lost one of his own little children. Again and again he whispered, “Mary, oh my dear little Mary!”
Margarette went to where her mother stood sobbing and softly said, “See how much he loved her, Mother—just as he loves all children. It is right that he is often called ‘the loving friend of children.’”

“We’re glad you could stay with us tonight. This is the coldest night I can remember in Illinois,” Sarah Ann said, taking a seat at the table across from Mr. James. “Our family moved here from New York after Father died. He and Mother left Norway to escape those who wanted to punish them for being Quakers. When they arrived in America, Father worked hard to build a house.”
As Sarah Ann told the story, she could almost smell the fresh-cut maple wood again.
“One day, our home caught fire, and everything was destroyed. When Father returned from work and saw us standing in the street, he asked Mother if we were safe. She answered yes, and Father knelt down right there in the middle of the street and thanked God for protecting us.”
“Your father must have had a lot of faith in God,” Mr. James said.
Sarah Ann nodded, wishing her father were still with them.
Soon their visitor said good night and went to bed. Mother reached for his worn socks, which had been drying by the fire, so she could mend the many holes. This was a scene Sarah Ann had witnessed a hundred times. She kissed Mother on the cheek and went to bed.
When Sarah Ann awoke the next morning, Mr. James was gone. But the house was not quiet. There was a large crowd gathered in the road outside, and Sarah Ann leaned out the window to hear what was happening.
Two men were standing in the middle of the crowd. Sarah Ann recognized them as the Mormon missionaries who had arrived in the village last week. It was obvious that whatever they were talking about was important to them.
One of the men held up a book and said, “We testify that the Book of Mormon is true. We also testify that there is a living prophet once again on the earth.”
Sarah Ann suddenly felt a warm feeling fill her heart. It surprised her. She knew in that moment that what the missionaries were teaching was true.
Sarah Ann rushed to tell Mother about the experience and her desire to be baptized. Some of Mother’s friends were members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and even though they were good people, Sarah Ann could tell that Mother didn’t want her to be baptized.
“Sarah Ann, this is a big decision. If you still feel the same way when you are older, then you may be baptized,” Mother said.
Sarah Ann agreed. Over the next three years, she learned all she could about the Church. As she did, her faith in Jesus Christ and His restored gospel grew. No amount of time could take away what Sarah Ann felt about the gospel.
Finally, Sarah Ann was baptized. On her baptism day, Sarah Ann made a promise in her heart that she would always do whatever Heavenly Father asked her to do. She was about to find out what that would be.

The first prophetic statement regarding the temple as given by Elder Cowley was recorded by a missionary to the Northern Far East Mission, Elder Harrison Ted Price in his journal in 1949. It was given on the site where the completed Tokyo Temple now stands, 5-8-10 Minami Azabu, Minato-Ku, Tokyo, Japan, the former location of the Northern Far East Mission and later the Tokyo Mission offices. Elder Price reported that a special dedicatory service was held in the library and foyer of the mission home, Sunday, July 17, 1949.
“In the dedicatory services for the mission home at 4:30 P.M., this afternoon, President Edward L. Clissold gave a fine talk summarizing the establishment of the mission here in Japan. This was followed by the dedicatory prayer given by Elder Cowley, which was one of the thrilling prayers that I have heard. In this prayer, he told of countless blessings from the Lord that have been enjoyed here to date, and went on to prophesy—‘there will someday be many church buildings—and even TEMPLES built in this land.’ I gave the closing prayer in this meeting.
“I was sitting on the front row in this gathering and clearly heard these words. The above quote is I believe the exact words that this great prophet said, for this prophetic prayer so impressed me at the time that I went to my room shortly after and wrote these words in my diary that I now have before me. This same day, I remember asking Elder Cowley specifically about his statements on buildings and temples in Japan, and he surprised several other elders and me by answering that he didn’t remember saying that, ‘But if I said that—that’s the way it will be.’ Other experiences with Elder Cowley have convinced me that when the Spirit of prophecy was upon him, he was sometimes as surprised as his listeners at the marvelous things that he said.” (Elder Harrison T. Price, Missionary Journal No. 3, p. 149, July 17, 1949, as recounted in a letter to President Paul Andrus, Northern Far East Mission, 1958.)

One such family with four young children writes: “We decided to start small because of our children’s short attention spans. Our oldest child was not yet reading, but she could repeat our words, so we began reading the Book of Mormon, just three verses each night. My husband and I would read one verse each, and then Sydney would repeat a verse. We progressed to four verses and then five verses as the boys began to repeat their own verses. Yes, it was tedious, but we kept going. We tried to focus on consistency instead of speed. It took us three-and-a-half years to finish the Book of Mormon. It was a great feeling of accomplishment!”
The mother continues: “Daily family scripture reading is a habit in our family now. Our children are comfortable with scriptural language, and my husband and I take opportunity to bear testimony of truths. Most important, the Spirit has increased in our home.”

Daniel L. Carter
As a young boy in Idaho, Dan Carter often cried when he listened to the Tabernacle Choir at conference time because the music was so beautiful. He said, “I always yearned to be able to share my testimony and feelings of the gospel through music.”
When he was asked to write a song to help prepare boys to receive the priesthood, he worried about his ability to write one that boys would enjoy singing. “After several weeks of working and rewriting, an idea for the music came. … I felt … sure that this song [‘A Young Man Prepared’] could help boys.”

—Lisa, a high school sophomore, tells about the time the quarterback of the football team asked her to the homecoming dance.
“I couldn’t believe my luck,” she said. “One of the most high-profile guys in the school had asked me to the most prestigious dance of the year.”
Her enthusiasm dampened, though, when after the dance her date started driving down a lonely road she realized led to Lover’s Lane. Quarterback or no quarterback, she had decided long ago that “parking” was something she would not do.
To avoid embarrassment, she began talking about how this particular road reminded her of a friend’s experience. The police had caught her friend and a date parking up there, and had taken them to the police station.
“Of course, anyone who is silly enough to park deserves what they get,” she laughed. Without speaking, her date turned the car around, and a few minutes later they were sitting in her living room eating pie with her parents.

My missionary companion and I were eating a quick dinner at a member’s house one Sunday evening in December when we heard a knock on the door. There were the youth from the branch singing. We were serving in the Joliet Illinois Second (Spanish) Branch. It was nice to see the youth serving and to hear them singing familiar Christmas carols.
Later that evening we were visiting with one of our investigator families when we heard a knock on the door. To our surprise, there stood the same group of youth singing Christmas carols for our investigators.
I was impressed that they would think not only to visit people they knew from the branch, but also to visit the people the missionaries were teaching. I thought it was a wonderful way for the youth to get involved in missionary work.
Our investigators were impressed for a very different reason, however. After the youth left, they told us how amazed they were that a group of teenagers would give up their Sunday evening to bring others some Christmas cheer. They commented on how many youth today seem selfish and would not do such a thing but that the youth in our Church were different. They wanted their children to be like these young men and women.
Soon after Christmas this wonderful family decided to be baptized, and I know one of the influences on their decision to join the Church was the members’ testimonies and examples. They could also see the light in the members’ faces. I know they saw it that night when those youth gave of their time to spread the spirit of Christmas.

Jimmy’s refusal. One evening when Jimmy went with friends to a party, “a girl came up and offered me alcohol,” he says. “I said no and didn’t pay any attention to her, but she kept offering it to me. And it wasn’t just alcohol—there were invitations to do other things. I didn’t agree to any of it, and I pulled away from the group. Some of the kids said I was antisocial, but I knew I couldn’t stay there. Every time I have a trial like this and overcome it, I become stronger.”

Nicholas Ofosu-Hene was a young policeman assigned to guard an LDS meetinghouse during the freeze. His duty was to watch over the building at night. When Nicholas first arrived at the meetinghouse, he saw that things had been scattered around, with papers, books, and furniture in disarray. In the midst of this disorder, he saw a copy of the Book of Mormon. He tried ignoring the book because he had been told that it was evil. But he felt strangely attracted to it. Finally, Nicholas could ignore the book no longer. He picked it up. He felt impelled to start reading it. He read through the night, tears running down his cheeks as he read.
The first time he picked it up, he read all of 1 Nephi. The second time, he read all of 2 Nephi. When he got to 2 Nephi chapter 25, he read the following: “And we talk of Christ, we rejoice in Christ, we preach of Christ, we prophesy of Christ, and we write according to our prophecies, that our children may know to what source they may look for a remission of their sins.”
At that point, Nicholas felt the Spirit so strongly that he started sobbing. He realized that in the course of his reading he had received several spiritual promptings that this book was scripture, the most correct he had ever read. He realized that the Latter-day Saints, contrary to what he had heard, strongly believe in Jesus Christ. After the freeze ended and missionaries returned to Ghana, Nicholas, his wife, and his children joined the Church. When I saw him last year, he was a police commander and was serving as the president of the Tamale Ghana District of the Church. He says: “The Church has transformed my life. … I thank the Almighty God for leading me into this gospel.”

Illustration by Allen Garns
One Christmas years ago I had too much on my mind to savor the season. My husband, Andy, had developed a cough that, following medical tests, briskly evolved into lung damage, surgery, reconstruction of his esophagus, and biopsies—“just to be safe.” His surgery occurred a week before we moved to a new home.
A few weeks before Christmas, I visited with my neighbor Janae. She asked if I was ready for Christmas. I managed to reply that I was as ready as I would be. I mentioned that we’d always made Christmas cookies with my grandma just before Christmas, and that I’d wanted to make aprons for the girls but probably wouldn’t get around to it.
A week later I settled in the overstuffed chair beside our Christmas tree. The girls were in bed, and Andy was working in his office when I heard the doorbell. I opened the door to find Janae on my doorstep, holding three packages as snowflakes fell behind her.
“Come in,” I said, certain that she could sense my surprise.
“Thanks, but I need to get back,” she said. “These are for your girls.”
Janae handed me the packages.
“They’re aprons,” she said. “They’re not the best, but I was able to finish them tonight.”
In a moment of humbled astonishment, I breathed a thank-you. We hugged, and I watched her make her way home.
As I sat again in my chair, I carefully unfastened the white satin ribbon of one box. Upon opening it, I found a homemade apron fashioned from Christmas fabric. I ran a seam between my thumb and forefinger as I thought about Janae. She had four small children, including twins who were just over a year old. She taught piano, and she held a busy and important calling in our ward.
I tried to figure out when she would have had time to make aprons, and I knew at once that she didn’t have time. She made time.
Tears fell as I felt the love of Heavenly Father extended through Janae—a measure of warmth and comfort as I was encircled about “in the arms of [His] love” (D&C 6:20).
It has been many years since we received the aprons. My daughters have long since outgrown them, but I keep them in my pantry, hanging by their strings from a polished hook underneath newer ones. Each time I see Janae’s gifts, I’m reminded of the comfort and love I felt that night. They remind me of what I want to be—a disciple of Jesus Christ worthy of revelation and willing to give service.

You recall the legend of a king who became bored with his routine living. He announced to his subjects that the person who could provide him with a game that would give him constant pleasure would be rewarded greatly, even unto half of his kingdom. Of course everyone wanted a “piece of the action.” Day after day, month in and month out, he reviewed all of the games that were invented. Finally a subject came to him and told him he had invented a game that would entertain the king as long as he lived. The subject demonstrated the game—he told the king that the game must be played on a board with 64 squares. He said the name of the game was chess. He taught the king all the moves and played several games with him. The king was so enraptured by the game that he told the subject to ask for anything. The man declined, suggesting that he had received enough pay if the king enjoyed the game. However, the king would not take no for an answer. Finally the subject said, “If you are determined to pay me something, give me one grain of wheat for the first square on the chessboard, two for the second, four grains for the third, eight for the fourth, and so on, doubling the number for each square until all 64 squares of the board are covered.”
The king was very disappointed that this was all the subject desired of him. Finally he agreed and sent a servant out to get a bushel of wheat and pay the man off. Well, by now you have the message—it wasn’t that simple. By the time the king tried to pay off the 64th square in wheat, he found that all of the crop of his country was not adequate to pay the debt. To do so would have required 18,446, 744,073,709,551,615 grains!

José’s lovely young wife had died while he was away. José took their little daughter, Mercedes, and went with her into exile in Europe. She became the joy of his life. He planned what he must teach her, just as he had always planned his battles. On a chart he wrote his ideals for her:
To make her kind and gentle.
To make her love truth and hate lies.
To inspire her with a feeling of confidence and friendship.
To arouse in her a charity toward the poor and unfortunate.
To arouse in her respect for other people’s property.
To accustom her to keep a secret.
To inspire in her a respect toward all religions.
To teach her to speak little and to speak accurately.
Her father was Mercedes’ great example.
During his lifetime José de San Martín refused salaries, promotions, prizes, and honors. The government of Chile once gave him money that he immediately returned for a public library. A farm he was given was used as a hospital for women. He died in Boulogne, France, a poor and almost unknown man. He knew that others with whom he had fought were enjoying fame and fortune, but he cared only for the freedom of the people of South America.
In the past few years the world has come to know José de San Martín and to honor him as one of the great men of all time. Statues have been raised to his memory and many public buildings have been named for him. With special love and gratitude the people of the countries of South America that he helped to free refer to him as the “Saint of the Sword.”

Several years ago I had as a special acquaintance and good friend an Aaronic Priesthood-age boy from whom I learned some of life’s special lessons. He came from what we commonly refer to as a good family, but his parents seemed to take the heart of the gospel for granted. They were willing to attend most of their meetings on Sunday, if it was convenient. They were warm people and friendly—always receptive to the brethren and sisters who came to their home. But I doubt if they had family prayer very often, and I’m sure family home evening was something occasionally discussed but seldom experienced. With no real personal attention, the children were allowed to come and go as they pleased.
On one occasion my young friend told me he was sure that his parents loved him, but, oh, how he wished they cared about him! You know, to a young person there can be a difference. He said he wished just once as he went out the door they would ask him where he was going and when he would be home. He wanted them to give him some guidelines. He confessed that he wasn’t always sure of the judgments that were left to him. If only they had cared enough.
Now, years later, the offspring of this family have experienced the birth of illegitimate children, divorce in their own marriages, runaways, drug addiction, and most everything else that can be tragic in our lives.

Abraham Kwaku Fokuo joined the Church in August 1985, when his oldest daughter, Alison, was 14 years old. He had traveled to Washington D.C. in the U.S., to do his master’s program. He had finished his masters and was working on a PHD in seminar at Wesley Seminary to become a Methodist minister. One day he was in his apartment filling out forms for a promised scholarship when he heard a knock at the door. He peeked through the hole and saw two young white men. He opened the door, and the two young men greeted him. He started being taught and then was baptized. Alison said, “Like Father Lehi, he realized that the fruits were desirable to taste, and he wanted his family members to enjoy the same, so he abandoned his studies and came back to Ghana”.

Like Andrew Mello, Andrew Hovey, age 19, received a copy of Preach My Gospel during his high school years, but it wasn’t until he was a university freshman that he came to appreciate it. Through the influence of a returned-missionary roommate and a mission-preparation class, Andrew began to prepare for his mission more actively than he ever had before. His prayers became more intimate and meaningful, his scripture study became more directed, and his plans for his mission became more real, he says. Moreover, he started using Preach My Gospel to direct his efforts.
Since then, Andrew has developed a system for marking and color coding his scriptures to coincide with principles he has studied in Preach My Gospel as well as for recording thoughts and impressions he receives during his study. But he’s quick to acknowledge that the point is not to have a prescriptive way of marking or color coding or note taking. Rather, “you can personalize your study method in a way that fits you best,” he says. “That’s what’s great about the gospel. We’re all different, but the gospel fits all of us.
“It’s the same with Preach My Gospel. It teaches basic doctrines in broad ways so that you can use it as a guide. We can use it the way we need to for our own learning or to reach someone else.”

In 1878, President John Taylor called Saints to settle in the San Luis Valley of southern Colorado. Early in the twentieth century, Pa moved our family to that desolate land.
Our new farm was littered with rocks. Before we could till the ground, we had to clear them away. Using a wheelbarrow, Ma and I carted away the small rocks. There was only one way to remove the boulders—blow them up with dynamite.
Pa dug under each one as far as he could and placed the dynamite underneath. He was careful to set each charge in just the right place so that the blast would tear the boulder completely apart. Finally everything was ready for Pa to light the fuse. Mama herded us children out of danger.
Boom!
The first boulder exploded into hundreds of fragments and a cloud of dust. When the dust settled, the boulder had disappeared. I now had to pick up the pieces and fill the hole with dirt.
We repeated the process, Pa lighting the dynamite and I clearing away the shattered rock. By the end of the third explosion, I was growing tired of picking up rocks and wanted to be in on the “real” work—lighting the dynamite. I took a few steps toward Pa.
“Willard, stay back!” my mother called.
I scowled. At nine, I was the oldest and believed I was a man.
As I started back to the homestead, a sense of danger ran through me. A whispering in my heart warned me that something was wrong.
I didn’t understand. I wasn’t in any danger. I was well away from the blasting. Certain that I had imagined the voice, I concentrated on what Pa was doing. Maybe he’d see that I was nearly grown and ready to work alongside him.
The feeling of danger grew.
I recalled the promise my father had made at the time of my confirmation: “I bless you with the power of discernment. Listen to the Spirit. It will guide you and protect you from harm.”
I tried to ignore the voice, but it wouldn’t be still. I could no longer pretend that I didn’t hear the insistent whisper.
I bless you with the power of discernment.
The words were as clear now as they had been when Pa pronounced the blessing more than a year earlier. If I wasn’t in danger, maybe the voice was telling me that someone else was. Ma was hanging clothes on the line, my little sister pulling at her skirts. I grinned at the picture they made. My smile faded as I realized that I couldn’t see three-year-old Hyrum.
“Hyrum!” I shouted. “Hyrum!” Shading my eyes from the sun, I squinted into the distance. Then I saw him—heading straight toward the field, chubby legs churning.
I took off after him, running and praying and shouting all at the same time. “Pa!” I screamed, waving my arms to attract his attention.
His back turned to me, Pa couldn’t see my warning or Hyrum toddling toward disaster.
I reached Hyrum at the same moment the boulder exploded. Throwing my body over his, I shielded him the best I could. Sharp rock fragments rained down on me, pummeling my head, back, and legs.
Hyrum began to squirm. “Heavy,” he said. “Let me up.”
I rolled off. My body screamed with pain, but I scarcely noticed. Gently, I ran my hands over my little brother. “Are you all right?”
He wiggled away from me and stood. His chin wobbled, but he appeared unhurt. “Scared,” he said.
“I was scared, too.” I pulled Hyrum to me and hugged him.
By then Pa had reached us. Tears tracked through the dirt and grime on his face. His big arms circled us, squeezing tight. “How did you know that your brother was in danger?”
I hesitated, not sure how to explain. “A voice told me that something was wrong. I didn’t pay attention at first, but it kept poking at me until I had to listen.” I paused, then confessed the part that stung my conscience. “If I had listened the first time, Hyrum wouldn’t have wandered away. He’d never have been in danger.”
Pa laid his big hand on my shoulder. “But you did listen. That’s the important thing.” Pa took a deep breath. “That was a mighty brave thing you did, Willard.”
“I prayed, Pa. I was praying so hard the words nearly choked me.”
“So was I, Son. So was I.”
Ma and my little sister came running. Laughing and crying at the same time, Ma hugged me and Hyrum. Soon, all of us were hugging and crying.
A sweet feeling of peace settled around my heart as I knelt by my bed that night. My prayers took longer than usual as I thanked Heavenly Father for the whisperings of the Spirit in my heart.

It showed up even in her work. On Mondays, she cleaned for Mrs. Wilson, Mrs. Brown, and Mrs. DeCroy. On Tuesdays she ironed for Mrs. Draper and Mrs. Blackburn. But on Wednesdays, she went to Mrs. Price’s. Mrs. Price had had a stroke several years before and was a semi-invalid—and very poor. Every week Mrs. Price would say, “I’ll pay you next week.” My mother invariably responded, “You paid me too much last week and I owe you more work. Don’t trouble me about money now.” I knew that my mother never received any money for her work there, but she explained gently that Mrs. Price needed the help, and she needed to safeguard her pride at the same time. O Kin Yan Cante did both.
Wednesdays were special for another reason: Relief Society meetings. O Kin Yan Cante loved her close association with the sisters and would marvel, “Can you imagine, me, who never went to school, sitting with people who can tell you about such a faraway place as heaven? I feel important when I go to those meetings and after.” She would hum throughout the week the music she heard at Relief Society.
On Thursdays, O Kin Yan Cante cleaned the back room of our town’s only store. Shifting all of the sacks and boxes was backbreaking, but it paid more than her other jobs—enough to buy our food.
Fridays she sewed and mended for people. Saturdays she baked for parties. Sundays were her days of rest, and she listened attentively every afternoon between Sunday School and sacrament meetings when I read to her. I wish now that I had been more sensitive to her hunger for knowledge.
Maybe the great temptation entered my life the day a girl at school casually asked me who the Lamanite was that I’d been walking with. It had been my mother; and suddenly I realized that I didn’t look like an Indian, that I looked white. I didn’t lie, but said something evasive, “Oh, that is O Kin Yan Cante,” and changed the subject.
The knowledge was still resting somewhere in the back of my mind when I packed my boxes to go to nurses’ training in Salt Lake City. College was a dream beyond my mother’s power to realize for herself, and to see it coming true for me was equally exciting to us both. I worked hard and liked school; when the chance for a summer job in the obstetrical department came up, I took it and O Kin Yan Cante agreed—even though I know how much she had looked forward to seeing me again. It would mean enough money to pay my expenses for the whole year.
That fall, another family from our town was bringing their daughter up to school. They insisted that O Kin Yan Cante come with them. There would be plenty of room for her in the home of the Salt Lake relative they were staying with. Her reluctance to come was overcome by her desire to see me.
But my desire to see her was almost overcome by my reluctance to have others see us together. Lacking in self-confidence, I had never mentioned that I was part Indian, even though one of the most popular girls at school—and a good friend of mine—was a Lamanite from Arizona.
O Kin Yan Cante called, her voice calm but tired, when they got to town. (She had never been more than 180 kilometers from home in her whole life and to Reno, Nevada only twice, to family funerals.) I took a cab to the house—a large white house with a green roof, trimmed hedges, and carefully kept grounds—and a doorman! I had never seen such wealth. I embraced my mother, waiting for me just inside the door, the first tears I had ever seen her shed glistening in her eyes.
But I also saw the people in the house staring at us, shocked. They must have never seen a Lamanite before, and I, her own daughter, looked at her with their eyes and felt myself withdraw from her.
Our Nevada friends held a hurried conference and O Kin Yan Cante was seated at the dining room table with us instead of in the kitchen where they had planned to put her; but I felt completely isolated during the meal, burning with shame and humiliation—not on their behalf but on my mother’s. That night she was given a pillow, a blanket, and a cot in the kitchen.
Our Nevada friends decided to return the next morning instead of sightseeing for a couple of days as they had planned. O Kin Yan Cante had always wanted to see the temple but didn’t get the chance. I could not speak; but she smoothed my brow with her golden brown hand and said, “Be all you can be, my daughter; be like these fine people who are so gracious to me.” She really meant it! A knife would not have cut so deeply. After she left, I cried and cried.
I spent my next summer at home and learned, from a friend, that O Kin Yan Cante was working on a beautiful bedspread, a very complicated piece of work that she had started after returning from Salt Lake. My friend assumed that it was a gift for me, but I had never seen it and O Kin Yan Cante had never mentioned it.
One night I couldn’t sleep and arose to find her laboring in the dim light over a magnificent crocheted bedspread—red and pink roses set in white squares and surrounded with small green leaves.
“Oh, mother!” I exclaimed. “Is it for me?”
“No.”
I knew I shouldn’t pry anymore.
As I was getting ready to go back to school, O Kin Yan Cante lovingly and gently tucked the spread into a box. “Will you please give this to the people in Salt Lake who let me stay at their home?” she asked. “It is my gift of pewhal (thanks).”
I burst into tears. “They were cruel to you. They were snobs. They deserve nothing,” I sobbed.
Quietly, my gentle mother said, “I am a member of the Church. It teaches us a better way. We are to forgive; and how often do we really have a chance to return good for unkindness? I have done that which my Savior and those in the kingdom would have me do. Do not harbor ill-will; pray for them and help them.”
I turned away, the tears running, silently now, down my face. My mother had not only forgiven them but forgiven me for being ashamed of her. But how could I forgive myself?
But that too was the gift of my mother’s gentle heart. She had given me both a Lamanite and a white name. And my Lamanite name, “Twanica,” means “willing to try.”

For Tanner, Easter would not be the same this year. His grandpa had died, and Tanner was sad he would never share this special time with him again.
But during Primary, Tanner was reminded that the reason we celebrate Easter is because Jesus lives! When He was resurrected, His spirit was forever reunited with His body, never to experience death again. Tanner learned that because Jesus was resurrected, everyone would be resurrected someday, including his grandpa!
An Easter song filled Tanner with happiness as he sang: “Jesus has risen, Jesus, our friend. Joy fills our hearts; He lives again.”* Tanner wanted to share this good news with everyone. He decided that before Easter, he would place on his neighbors’ doorsteps small bundles of spring flowers with scriptures about Jesus’s Resurrection. He imagined the smiles on their faces when they found his gift on Easter morning.

It’s important to be thoughtful of your friends’ frames of reference, too. Remember that LDS culture, beliefs, and even language can be very foreign to people who are not familiar with it. A little Muslim girl, for example, was invited to go to Primary with her friends. When she got home, she quickly announced to her mother that she was never going back to the Mormon church. “Why not?” inquired her mother. “Because it’s haunted,” the girl replied.

“What do you mean it’s haunted?” her mother asked. “What makes you think that?”

“They told me so,” she said. “They said there was a Holy Ghost there, and that you could feel the spirit all around.”

Her friends didn’t drop her just because she was scared, though. They continued extending invitations to her, and, most important of all, they continued being her friend. When she was 19, she decided to embrace the gospel and was baptized.