Gospel Story Finder

“Last month our presidency had the opportunity to speak at BYU Women’s Conference on the topic ‘Jesus Christ Is Relief.’ I focused on the emotional relief the Savior provides as the Master Healer. I shared my youngest daughter’s experience with emotional health challenges that began when she was a very young girl. Over the past five years of her healing journey, she has come to understand how the Savior has been with her throughout her whole life, even during the times she felt utterly abandoned by Him and unable to feel the Spirit. She came to recognize that Jesus Christ was there in every good thing that came into her life and in every good person who offered a helping hand.
“Millions struggle with mental and emotional health challenges. One of the very difficult parts of these challenges is the stigma surrounding them and the harsh judgment by some that they are a character flaw or a sign of weakness or laziness. The effects of mental and emotional illness are just as real and just as devastating as a physical illness or injury, but the effects can be less outwardly apparent than a broken leg or cancer. The effects of mental and emotional illness can often make it hard for a person to function or find joy. Some tell those with mental health challenges to just ‘get over it’ and ‘try harder’ or ‘be more faithful.’ We wouldn’t say that to someone with cancer or a broken leg.
“Our Savior, Jesus Christ, is our greatest source of relief. What a blessing it is that we can partner with Him to help bring emotional, spiritual, and physical relief to those around us. Let us be instruments of relief in His hands for those around us, including our own family members. There are so many who need the Savior’s relief!”

I have shared before my memory of the first day I set out to practice healing. It was not quite 50 years ago—but close. I could hardly sleep the night before my first day as a nurse. I remember it so vividly. The spring air was cool, and the sun seemed unusually bright. Two conflicting feelings left my heart pounding. First, I felt courage and couldn’t wait to put that first tube into the first orifice. On the other hand, I was afraid that by sheer inexperience I would violate the promise to “do no harm.” As a student nurse I did not have the blessing of the computer-simulated patient that our students now have.

That first day I carefully pulled on my support hose, little white nylon dress, and ugly prescription shoes. My crowning glory was the starched white cap that held my long hair tucked tightly beneath. I couldn’t wait to handle the instruments, titrate the fluids, and perform the treatment procedures. I wanted to cure. I wanted to care. I wanted to heal.

I have learned a lot about healing since that day. I have learned that healing is a process of restoring and becoming whole.

My name is Thomas, and I am a gatherer.
This year in Primary we are learning how to gather. Our leaders asked us to gather our families for prayer and scripture study. They want us to practice gathering so we will know how to gather now and when we grow up—on missions, at school, or even when we are alone. That way we can always spiritually gather with Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ and find peace in Them.
My job is to gather my family for morning prayer. I ask, “Will you please join me for prayer?” My brother Henry gathers us for evening prayer and scripture study.
One Saturday morning, we left early to play basketball. Afterward, we ran errands. I suddenly remembered and said, “Mom, we forgot to gather to pray.” She told me we could gather when we got home. But I said, “We need to gather and pray right now!” She asked me to say the prayer, but she kept her eyes open because she was driving.
Mom and Dad tell Henry and me how thankful they are that we gather our family for prayer and scripture study. They say our small voices make a big difference in our home. They tell us that because we gather, our family is blessed.

When two missionaries knocked on the door of Judy Marie’s home in 1996, they found a humble family, ready to listen to the gospel. “The missionaries spoke about the gospel, the Prophet Joseph Smith, and the Book of Mormon,” she says. Although Judy Marie; her mother; her brother Javier, age 13; and her sister, Marie Carida, age 12, heard the discussions and accepted the gospel together, Judy Marie’s own conversion was a deeply personal experience. “When I prayed, Heavenly Father gave me answers,” she says. “It was very beautiful, and I felt the Spirit very strongly.”
Judy Marie compares the story of the tree of life in 1 Nephi 8 [1 Ne. 8] to her own conversion. “When the missionaries taught us about the gospel, they showed us the fruit and brought us out of the darkness,” she says. “I remember when Elder Joshua Carter baptized me and Elder Joshua Smith confirmed me. I felt I was born again, mentally and spiritually. I know I am a daughter of God.”

There once was a prince in Thailand who wanted a rare white elephant to ride through the city so he could show everyone that he was as rich as other princes. However, though he sent men into the jungle to hunt, he was unable to obtain such a rare animal. At last he proclaimed that he would give a hundred pieces of gold to anyone who could find a white elephant for him.
In a village not far from the prince’s castle there lived a potmaker who, hoping to receive the reward, went to the prince.
“My neighbor is a famous washerman,” the potmaker told the prince. “He washes the whitest clothes in the world. Even the king sends clothes to him. If you give him a gray elephant, I am sure he can wash it white.”
The prince was excited when he heard this and he sent for the washerman at once.
“One hundred pieces of gold will be yours if you can wash my gray elephant so it is white,” the prince told the washerman.
“But your highness … ,” protested the washerman.
“Say nothing more,” replied the prince. “Go now and prepare. I will bring you the elephant tomorrow.”
The next day the prince brought a gray elephant to the village where the washerman and the potmaker lived.
“I will need a large pot in which to bathe the elephant,” said the washerman.
“Very well,” the prince agreed, “I will ask the potmaker to make one.”
So the potmaker was ordered to make a large pot. He was very frightened, because he had never made such a large pot before. He asked his relatives and friends to help him, and together they worked all day and all night until the pot was finished.
With the prince and all of the villagers watching, the washerman prepared to wash the elephant. He poured water into the pot and led the elephant up to it. But when the elephant put one leg into the pot, the pot broke into a thousand pieces!
The prince was angry. He ordered the potmaker to immediately make a stronger pot.
After many days of hard work, the second pot was ready. The elephant put one leg inside the pot. Nothing happened. Then the second leg went inside, and the pot broke into a hundred pieces!
The angry prince ordered a new pot to be made at once.
In a few days the third pot was ready. The elephant put one leg into it, and nothing happened. Another leg went in, and nothing happened. Finally the whole elephant was inside the pot, and still it did not break. Everyone cheered.
Then the washerman began to make a fire to heat the water in the pot.
“I must now have hot water to scrub the gray color off the elephant,” explained the washerman to the prince.
But the water remained as cold as ever.
“Your highness,” said the washerman, “the water does not get hot because the pot is too thick. I need another pot.”
This made the prince furious. Turning to the frightened potmaker, he cried, “If you do not have the right pot ready in three days, I will throw you into prison.”
Three days later when the prince returned, he was surprised to find the village deserted except for some old women and children who told him that the rest of the villagers had gone to bathe in a nearby river. Hurrying there in anger, the prince found the potmaker, the washerman, and the other villagers scrubbing their hair with all of their might.
“What on earth are you doing?” cried the prince.
“We are trying to wash our hair white,” answered the villagers.
“You must be fools! You cannot turn your hair white by washing!” replied the prince scornfully.
Then the washerman said, “If we cannot turn our hair white by washing, how do you expect me to turn your gray elephant white by washing?”
Then the prince realized that what he had asked the washerman to do was impossible. And sadly he took his gray elephant home.

Judy always seemed to be angry, but Raybell remembered one day last summer when she wasn’t. Raybell’s yellow kitten had disappeared. She had searched everywhere around their farm and finally had walked down the road calling it. Raybell was afraid a coyote had come down from the hills and eaten it. Tears were falling as she walked along the road. Suddenly she looked up, and through the blur of her tears, she saw Judy running across the field toward her with the yellow kitten in her arms. She held the kitten out to her. “Is this yours?”
Raybell gathered the soft kitten into her arms. It purred and rubbed its nose against her cheek. “Yes. Where did you find it?”
“When I cut through the field I heard a loud meow, and there it was, between the rows of wheat. I thought maybe it was yours.”
“Thanks for bringing her to me.” Raybell smiled, and Judy smiled back.

One Sunday morning in a nursing home in the valley, I witnessed the presentation of a beautiful gift as a young girl shared her musical talent with those lonely and elderly men and women who yearned not for food or for clothing but for someone who cared, someone who shared, and someone who provided a “hyacinth” for the soul.
A hush fell over the wheelchair-confined audience as the girl took bow in hand and played on her violin a beautiful melody. At the conclusion, one patient audibly declared, “My dear, that was lovely.” Then she began to clap her hands to express approval. A second patient joined in clapping, then a third, a fourth, and soon everyone applauded.
Together the young girl and I walked out of the nursing home. She said to me, “I have never played better. I have never felt better.” She had been guided by God and led by the Lord. Aches, pains, despair, and sadness had been conquered. Compassion had gained the victory.

We just received here in Brazil the great September issue. The article on unusual dates reminded me of a real fun date I had once. It started when three friends and myself were crawling around a local mine near my hometown. We knew it was safe, and many people had visited it. The idea struck me as to how we could share all the fun we were having there. We finally came on the idea of having a restaurant in the mine for our dates. So one Saturday we arranged the event. Two of the fellows would be waiters one week, and the other two would bring dates. Then we’d reverse our roles. We spent the morning hauling up tables, chairs, silverware, china, radio, and other assorted equipment. This is easier said than done—the hike was two miles from the nearest road. All the equipment was put on pack boards on our backs. Then about 4 P.M., the dates came up (for what seemed to the girls to be a regular cave exploring trip). We spent the next several hours crawling around the mine, marveling at anything from small nuggets of gold to blind crickets. We all had a good time, and all precautions were taken—hard hats, ropes, three varieties of lights.
Then, on the way out of the mine, we were suddenly met by two waiters dressed in French-style clothes. We were led to a table complete with crystal and linen, candlelight and soft music. The menu was given—five different choices that were all the same but were written in five different languages. Appetizers, soup, salad, steaks, baked potatoes, dessert, and punch. The whole thing was cooked over an open fire outside the mine. The girls couldn’t believe it, and the rest of the hike down in the moonlight was a touch of fantasy also. The girls raved about it for weeks. The whole meal cost only $5 per couple.
Elder Gary E. LewisRio de Janeiro, Brazil

Karl Bielefeldt, 14, of the Aqua Fria Ward, West Maricopa Stake, Arizona, doesn’t just study history—he lives it. He and a few friends spent half a year studying the Holocaust, then wrote and produced a ten-minute play about an individual in Italy who was responsible for saving many lives during that time.
The play won a number of competitions, giving Karl and his team a chance to compete in National History Day in Washington, D.C., where they placed eighth out of seventy-three entrants in their category.
Karl has also won awards for spelling and knowledge of science. He plays trombone in a jazz and an all-state band, and loves to work with computers. He still finds plenty of time to serve as a leader in his Scout troop and priesthood quorum.

New members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints cannot make it alone. They might appear to be as independently strong as the redwoods, but they need us and we need them. President Hinckley, in a satellite broadcast last February, shared the story of a woman who became a member last year. She wrote:
“‘My journey into the Church was unique and quite challenging. This past year has been the hardest year that I have ever lived in my life. It has also been the most rewarding. As a new member, I continue to be challenged every day.’
“She goes on to say that when she joined the Church she did not feel support from the leadership in her ward. Her bishop seemed indifferent to her as a new member. Rebuffed, as she felt, she turned back to her mission president, who opened opportunities for her.
“She states that ‘Church members don’t know what it is like to be a new member of the Church. Therefore, it’s almost impossible for them to know how to support us’” (“Find the Lambs, Feed the Sheep,” Liahona, July 1999, 122).

On Sunday morning, December 9, 1849, at eight o’clock, about 30 children between the ages of 8 and 13 arrived in a small classroom that had been built in a home. They stamped their feet on the threshold, shook the snow off their coats and hats, then took their places on simple benches. They waited expectantly for the class to begin. It was a cold, snowy day outside, but the fireplace radiated a warm and friendly glow. Richard Ballantyne’s eyes shone brightly as he called the Sunday School to order. He led the boys and girls in a song, and then he gave a quiet but fervent prayer dedicating this room in his home for teaching children the gospel of Jesus Christ. His voice was rich, and his words rolled forth as words do under the spell of reverence and emotion. Thus we have the founding of the first Sunday School in the Salt Lake Valley.
Organizing a Sunday School was not foreign to him. In his native Scotland he had organized a Sunday School in the Relief Presbyterian Church, of which he was an active member. It was natural for him to have a great desire to educate young people in the knowledge of the gospel. He had been reared in a home where his father was fond of repeating from memory whole chapters of the Bible and then reciting them to his children. It was a home where they would not even take a sip of water without first taking off their hats and saying grace, as was also the custom before they would eat a meal.
Rumors were spreading around the Scottish home that a new prophet had been raised up in America. At first Richard paid little attention to these rumors, but as his religious questions became more perplexing, he openly sought further light and knowledge. It was in 1841 that Elder Orson Pratt appeared in Edinburgh. Richard listened to his message and investigated the Church for a year. Finally he was converted and was baptized in the North Sea. He said, “I was so convinced that Joseph Smith was a prophet and the Book of Mormon was the word of God, and that if I did not accept it I would be damned.” As was the case of many of those early converts to the Church, he sold his business and emigrated to America, taking with him his mother and some of his brothers and sisters. They arrived in Nauvoo on November 11, 1843, at a time when there was great turmoil in the city. They eventually left Illinois and made the trek to Winter Quarters. There he was married and soon made preparation for the long journey west. They arrived in the Salt Lake Valley in September of 1848 and immediately commenced building a home. It was in this home that the first Sunday School in the valley was held. When the chapel—the old 14th Ward—was completed, the Sunday School moved to the new meetinghouse.
Brother Ballantyne had a fervent desire to teach young people the gospel of our Lord and Savior throughout his entire life. Thanks be to the late Conway Ballantyne Sonne, a cousin of mine, for this history of the first Sunday School (see Conway B. Sonne, Knight of the Kingdom: The Story of Richard Ballantyne [1949], 7–48).

“Mormons aren’t Christians.”
The statement from one of my high school classmates caught me off guard.
“Of course we are,” I said.
“Then why do you read the Book of Mormon?” he said as he walked away, leaving me no chance to reply.
I thought about his question a lot. The answer is, of course, that Mormons are Christians and the Book of Mormon is another testament of Jesus Christ. We read it along with the Bible to learn even more about the Savior.
I had read the Book of Mormon before. I knew it was true. But because of my classmate’s question, I felt prompted to study it in a new way, keeping track of how often it mentions Jesus Christ. As I did, I was amazed.
I had hardly opened the book when I read on the title page that the Book of Mormon is written to convince readers “that Jesus is the Christ, the Eternal God, manifesting himself unto all nations.”
In the introduction to the Book of Mormon, I read, “The crowning event recorded in the Book of Mormon is the personal ministry of the Lord Jesus Christ among the Nephites soon after His resurrection.” It said that those who gain a witness from the Holy Ghost that the record is true “will also come to know by the same power that Jesus Christ is the Savior of the world.”
I turned to “he Testimony of Three Witnesses,” who said that an angel showed them the plates from which the Book of Mormon was translated, and that “we know that it is by the grace of God the Father, and our Lord Jesus Christ, that we beheld and bear record that these things are true.”
Next, “The Testimony of the Prophet Joseph Smith” told of the visit of angel Moroni, who said the Book of Mormon contains the fulness of the everlasting gospel “as delivered by the Savior to the ancient inhabitants” of America.
The Converting Power of the Book of Mormon, by Ben Sowards
I hadn’t even made it to 1 Nephi, and already I had found a lot!
My search continued. In 1 Nephi, I found that Lehi knew about the coming of the Messiah (see 1 Nephi 1:19). I read his prophecies about the Redeemer, “who should take away the sins of the world” (1 Nephi 10:10; see verses 4–10). I read Nephi’s description of the birth of Jesus Christ, His ministry, death, Resurrection, and future visit to ancient America (see 1 Nephi 10–12).
I read prophesies that the Book of Mormon would affirm Bible truths that “the Lamb of God is the Son of the Eternal Father, and the Savior of the world; and that all men must come unto him” (1 Nephi 13:40). And I read Nephi’s testimony that “all nations, kindreds, tongues, and people shall dwell safely in the Holy One of Israel if it so be that they will repent” (1 Nephi 22:28).
After one day, I was on page 53. I had finished just one of the books in the Book of Mormon, but what powerful witnesses I had already received!
In the weeks that followed, I found page after page of testimonies of Jesus Christ, visions in which He appeared to prophets, and the detailed description of His ministry among the ancient Americans. I concluded my reading with Moroni’s powerful testimony of Jesus Christ (see Moroni 9); his challenge to, “ask God, the Eternal Father, in the name of Christ, if [the Book of Mormon is] true” (Moroni 10:4; emphasis added); and, on the last page, his tender and compelling invitation to “come unto Christ” (Moroni 10:30, 32).
I found that the Book of Mormon refuted my classmate’s statement completely. If a Christian is someone who believes in Jesus Christ, then page after page in the Book of Mormon says, “We believe!”
Eventually, I saw my friend again. I told him about my experience and invited him to read the Book of Mormon. He politely declined but said he was happy that I accept Jesus Christ as my Savior. And after our discussion, I think he understood better what I mean when I say, “Of course we are Christians.”

When I got back from my mission, I met a beautiful lady named Sandra Joelene Lyon at stake conference. We both attended Idaho State University in Pocatello but lived in Blackfoot. The best part about commuting was that Sandra and I carpooled in the same group. I could tell she was one of God’s precious daughters, and I knew she was the right one for me to marry. One day I sat next to her in the car and said, “You know, you really ought to write your missionary a ‘Dear John’ letter because you know you’re going to marry me anyway.” It wasn’t quite that simple, but after a couple of years we were married.
We got engaged in December, which makes Christmas especially meaningful. Being married for eternity is the greatest gift we could have given each other. My wife is a wonderful blessing as she provides gifts of love to me, our children, their spouses, and our grandchildren. Her love does much to keep our family united.

The first was a very small experience, but with long-lasting consequences. When I was in graduate school many years ago, I attended a branch potluck supper. One of the leaders said something to me that offended me. I have long forgotten what was said, but I remember I felt so hurt that I went back to my apartment and wept. I thought, “I’ll show them! I don’t want to be with people like that. I won’t go to church anymore!” But reason—or the inspiration of the Comforter—prevailed. I realized that I could continue to feel offended and harm only myself or I could acknowledge that although my feelings had been hurt, I knew the hurt was not intentional and I had best just let it go. It was one small experience, but it had eternal consequences. My life would have been very different, in unhappy ways, if I had held onto my hurt feelings. Instead I humbled myself and chose to continue participating in the gospel feast.

Dan Jones, a mite of a man physically and a college graduate who left the field of learning to become a sailor, sailed the five oceans and had set foot in almost all of the ports. He ran a steamboat called The Maid of Iowa up and down the Mississippi River, and it was seamanship that brought Dan Jones to the Prophet Joseph Smith. One day he landed a boatload of Saints in Nauvoo, and the Prophet came to the wharf to meet him. He walked up to the little captain, put his hand on his shoulder, and said, “God bless this little man.” Dan Jones never forgot that benediction. He joined the Church that year to become one of the Prophet’s most trusted friends. He was with his beloved Prophet in the Carthage Jail the night before the martyrdom when the Prophet asked, “Brother Jones, are you afraid to die?”
Dan Jones replied, “has it come to that, Brother Joseph? Being engaged in such a work as we’re engaged in, I don’t think death would have any terror for me.”
The Prophet said, “Brother Jones, you shall not die, but you shall go to Wales and fulfill the mission assigned you.” After the martyrdom Dan Jones sailed for Wales, where he performed a most successful mission, setting an all-time record for convert baptisms. He testified, “I have come in obedience to the counsel of the martyred prophet, as a messenger to my native land to bear testimony of the work for which his brother Hyrum died, and which he sealed with his own blood.” (See Thomas C. Romney, The Gospel in Action, p. 89.)

Latter-day Saints are weird.
I mean that in a nice way. After all, my best friend and next-door neighbor, Ben Blanchard, is a Latter-day Saint, and he’s great. Ben has a wild sense of humor, is good at sports, and likes to build model cars and planes, just like me. The rest of his family’s pretty neat too. Mr. Blanchard is a whiz at repairing bikes and go-carts and other mechanical things. Mrs. Blanchard makes scrumptious pies and cakes. Becky’s OK, Joel’s not bad for a baby, and Tom, who’s just younger than Ben, is all right too.
So, they’re a nice family, just a little weird. Like on Mondays. Not long after we moved into the neighborhood, I went over to play at the Blanchard’s one Monday night after dinner.
“I can’t,” Ben said when he came to the door.
“Why not?” I asked.
“Oh, I’m doing stuff with my family,” he said.
“Like what?” I asked.
Ben shuffled a little and looked flustered. “Well, on Mondays we have family night. We sing, have a lesson, play games, and have a treat. It’s churchy.”
“Oh,” I said. “Every Monday?”
“Every Monday.”
I wouldn’t mind the games and treats, but I don’t sing, and a lesson sounds boring. Sometimes Ben tells me about the lessons. Once he went through the whole day at school being real polite and not cracking his usual jokes about the teachers.
“What’s wrong?” I asked as we got on the bus. “Are you sick?”
Ben looked put out. “We had a lesson last night about being kind and thoughtful and had to set goals for the week. I’m trying to be more considerate of my teachers.”
“Oh” was all I could say.
Soon I could tell when Ben had a family-night goal to be considerate, or to say thank you all the time, or to pick up litter, or to get to bed early, or to watch out for his younger brothers. He would act really strange for a week or two, then gradually slip back toward his old ways.
Sometimes the Blanchards went places on Monday nights. The next day I’d ask Ben where his family had gone, and he’d say to visit his aunt or to pick apples for Church welfare or to a widow’s house to weed her garden.
One Monday in November I was helping my dad change the oil in the car when the Blanchards drove off, then came back so quickly that I couldn’t figure out where they could have gone.
“Where’d you go last night?” I asked Ben the next morning.
He got a funny look on his face. “Oh, somewhere,” he answered.
I couldn’t believe it. Ben always told me where they went! “What is this, some kind of secret mission?”
Ben half-laughed, half-choked, “Sort of.” He looked behind him and then leaned toward me and whispered, “Becky made me promise not to tell anyone.”
I spent the next week trying to puzzle out what the Blanchards could have done that Becky wouldn’t want anyone to know about. Had they discovered gold or silver? Were they rehearsing a circus act? Or maybe they were plotting to take over the world!
The next Monday the Blanchards stayed home. I was outside with Dad again, helping him replace the porch light. We were nearly done when a car came up the street. I was instantly alert because we live on a dead-end street, and we hardly ever get strange cars on it. Even more mysterious, this car was creeping along at a snail’s pace. As soon as the car passed our driveway, its headlights blinked off. But the car kept on going and stopped just beyond the Blanchard’s house.
I nudged Dad. “Something fishy’s going on here,” I whispered.
We tiptoed to the hedge that divides our property from the Blanchards’ and watched. A figure got out of the car and crept up the driveway to the Blanchard’s porch. He—or she or it—placed something by their door, pressed the doorbell, and scooted down the driveway.
Dad squeezed through the hedge and grabbed the skulker’s jacket. “What are you doing?” he asked.
I squeezed through the hedge, too, and ran up to the door while Dad marched the boy—we could tell that much now—up the driveway behind me.
By the time Dad got to the door, Ben and the rest of his family were crowding around the door, wide-eyed.
“Do you know this boy?” Dad asked.
“It’s Frank Adams,” Mr. Blanchard told us.
Frank was absolutely crimson. He bent down and picked up a plate of cookies. On top of the cookies was a ghost shape cut out of paper. “I just left these,” he explained weakly.
The Blanchards all whooped with laughter. “He was phantoming us!”
“Huh?” Dad and I stared at each other.
“Can I go?” Frank looked desperately at Dad. “Mom’s in the car and probably thinks I’ve been kidnapped.”
Dad let go of Frank’s jacket. “Sorry. I was just trying to watch out for my neighbors,” he said, shaking his head as Frank rushed down the driveway.
I was dying of curiosity. “What was he doing?”
Becky sighed. “Different families in our ward—our church congregation—have been going around on Mondays and secretly leaving treats on other people’s door-steps. We say that the Family Night Phantom left them.”
Dad and I stared at each other again and raised our eyebrows.
“Better cookies than vandalism,” Dad finally said with a shrug.
“I bet that’s what you were doing last week. Right?” I asked Ben.
He nodded, embarrassed.
As Dad and I walked home, I thought again how weird Latter-day Saints were. Who else would leave cookies and stuff at people’s houses without being seen? Crazy!
The next Monday night our doorbell rang. Mom, Dad, and Tina were all watching TV, so I went to see who was there.
Nobody was there! At first I thought it was somebody’s idea of a dumb joke. Then I looked down. The Blanchards had phantomed us! They’d left a plate of brownies and a silly drawing of a ghost.
Nutty, right? Absolutely nutty. But I must say, the brownies were delicious. Maybe family night phantoms aren’t so weird after all.

A counselor in a bishopric recently shared an experience that teaches how important each neighbor is. While looking out over the congregation, he saw a child with a large box of crayons filled with a variety of different hues. As he looked at the many members of his ward, he was reminded that, like the crayons, they were very similar but each person was also very unique.
He remarked: “The shade they brought to the ward and the world was all their own. … They had their individual strengths and weaknesses, personal longings, private dreams. But together, they blended into a color wheel of spiritual unity. …
“Unity is a spiritual quality. It’s the sweet feelings of peace and purpose that come from belonging to a family. … It’s wanting the best for others as much as you want it for yourself. … It’s knowing that no one is out to harm you. [It means you will never be lonely.]”6
We build that unity and share our unique colors through benevolence: individual acts of kindness.
Have you ever felt lonely? Do you notice those who are lonely, living in a black-and-white world? Young women, I’ve watched as you bring your unique color into the lives of others with your smiles, your kind words, or a note of encouragement.
President Thomas S. Monson taught us how to interact with our peers and everyone we meet when he told the young women of the Church, “My precious young sisters, I plead with you to have the courage to refrain from judging and criticizing those around you, as well as the courage to make certain everyone is included and feels loved and valued.”7
We can follow the example of the good Samaritan and “change the world” of just one person by being benevolent.8 I would like to invite each of you to do at least one Samaritan-like act this coming week. It may require that you reach beyond your usual friends or overcome your shyness. You may courageously choose to serve someone who doesn’t treat you well. I promise that if you will extend yourself beyond what is easy to do, you will feel so good inside that kindness will start to become a part of your everyday life. You’ll see that benevolence can bring joy and unity to your home, your class, your ward, and your school. “Remember this: kindness begins with me.”
Not only did our Savior love all; He served all. Expand your goodness to many. Old and young can be greatly blessed by your kind service. President Monson, since the time he was a young man, has always had a special place in his heart for the elderly. He recognizes the value of a short visit, a ready smile, or a squeeze of a well-worn, wrinkled hand. Such simple acts of charity bring color into a life that sometimes is made up of long, lonely, gray days. I would invite each of you to be mindful of your grandparents and the elderly. Look around at church tomorrow and identify those who could use your shade of color added to their life. It doesn’t take much: greet them by name, engage them in a short conversation, be available to assist them. Could you open a door or offer to help with their home or garden? What is a simple task to you at your young age can be an overwhelming project for an older person. “Remember this: kindness begins with me.”
Sometimes being benevolent is most difficult in our own families. Strong families require effort. “Be cheerful, helpful, and considerate of others. Many problems in the home are created because family members speak and act selfishly or unkindly. Concern yourself with the needs of other family members. Seek to be a peacemaker rather than to tease, fight, and quarrel.”9 “Remember this: kindness begins with me.”
Jesus loved the children, took them in His arms, and blessed them.10 Like the Savior, you can bless all children with your kindness, not just those in your home.
You may not know the impact your life and example may have on a little child. I recently received a note from a friend who manages a day-care center in a local high school. Attending that high school are several young men and young women who are members of the Church. She shared with me this experience: “As I walk through the halls with the little children, it is nice to see how many lockers have pictures of Jesus or of temples taped to the inside of the doors. One of the children saw a picture of Jesus on the inside of a [young woman’s] opened locker door and said, ‘Look, Jesus is at our school!’ The student was moved to tears as she bent down and gave the child a hug. I thanked the young woman for the good example she was to those around her. It is uplifting to know that there are so many youth that are trying to stand for truth and righteousness and do their part in inviting the Spirit into their lives, even though it is difficult at times with all the noise and harshness in the world around them. We have some wonderful youth in the Church.”
I couldn’t agree more! Young women, you are changing the world by centering your life on Jesus Christ, and you are “becoming what He wants you to be.”11
Thank you for your benevolent lives; for including those who may be different; for your kindness to your peers, the elderly, your family, and little children; for being neighbors to those who are lonely and those who have challenges and heartache. Through your benevolence, you are “pointing others to [the Savior’s] light.”12 Thank you for remembering “kindness begins with me.”
I know that President Thomas S. Monson is a prophet of God whose life has been a model of benevolence from which we can learn. Follow our prophet. Learn from his example and listen to his words. I believe in the gospel of Jesus Christ, and I know that through Joseph Smith the priesthood has been restored to the earth.
I know that our Savior lives and loves each of us. He has given His life for all. I pray that we will center our lives on Jesus Christ and “follow in His ways” by loving and serving one another.13 By so doing, I know that we can make the world a better place, because “we believe in being … benevolent.”14 I so testify in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

The rest of the day, I was a little subdued. We came home, and I found out that a friend had been badly hurt while riding his bike. He had been riding with another group and had gone off the edge of an embankment. He had tried to ride it out. I guess he hadn’t had time to make a decision. He ended up with multiple fractures in both arms. The doctor told him he would never be able to do much manual labor the rest of his life. He would be limited in what he could do.
That really drove home to me how grateful I was for having made my decision ahead of time. I had already visualized what I would do in the safety of my garage. So when the moment of danger came, I reacted just as I had imagined. I let the bike go and saved myself from injury.
I realized that in other areas, if I decided early in life what I was going to do, when I was faced with the dilemma there would be less problem choosing the right because the decision would already have been made.

“Look! Look what you’ve done!” Akiko shouted at her little brother. She held up the broken Japanese semi (cicada) cage Tadomi had accidentally broken. “I’ll have to build this one all over again,” she said, gathering the bamboo pieces into a pile. She held up the other cage that was unbroken to hear the sharp chirp of the semi inside. “I’m going to show Mr. Ohashi this one,” she told Tadomi.
“May I come along? I could carry the cage for you,” Tadomi offered eagerly.
“No, thank you. I can carry it myself. I don’t want this one broken too,” said Akiko. She turned and skipped down the lane, admiring the pink cherry blossoms as she passed. Stopping for a moment, she picked up a few pink petals from the ground and added them to her semi cage.
Soon Akiko arrived at Mr. Ohashi’s outdoor fish market where she saw him hanging up a line of dried fish out in front. He still had a big box of fish left to hang up.
“Hello, Akiko. What do you have there?” asked Mr. Ohashi.
Akiko held up her bamboo cage with the chirping semi inside. “Listen,” she said as she held the cage up to Mr. Ohashi’s ear.
“Your semi sings beautifully. That’s a nicely built cage too,” he said.
“Thank you, Mr. Ohashi,” said Akiko.
“Would you like to help me display the rest of the fish? You can hand them to me out of the crate,” said Mr. Ohashi.
Akiko set her cage down and took a stack of dried fish out of the box. As she held them under her arm, two long pieces fell out of the stack into a muddy puddle.
“Oh! Look what I’ve done,” cried Akiko, close to tears. She tried to pick up the two dirty pieces of fish.
“It’s OK, Akiko. I know you didn’t mean to,” comforted Mr. Ohashi, patting her shoulder gently. “How about helping me finish?” he asked.
Akiko was surprised that he still wanted her help after what she had done. While she helped Mr. Ohashi hang up the rest of his fish, she thought about how she had acted with Tadomi.
“Come again soon,” called Mr. Ohashi, as Akiko handed him the last fish.
When she arrived home she saw Tadomi, looking very unhappy, rolling a small red ball back and forth near their doorstep. “Tadomi, can you help me rebuild the cage?” Akiko invited. “I know it was just an accident that you broke it.”
Tadomi looked surprised. “Do you really want me to help?” he asked.
“Of course I do, silly. I need you to hand me the bamboo pieces.”
So Tadomi began to hand Akiko the pieces she needed as she worked. Soon the cage was half finished. As Tadomi was waiting for Akiko to ask for the next piece, he rolled some long pieces back and forth. He did it faster and faster on the stone path. Then, without meaning to, Tadomi snapped the bunch in half.
“Oh, no! Akiko, I didn’t—” Tadomi began, trying to explain.
“I know you didn’t mean to do it,” Akiko said understandingly.
Tadomi’s face brightened. Then they both laughed and went into the house to get more bamboo for the cage.

A Primary teacher told me about a powerful experience with his class of 11-year-old boys. One of them, whom I’ll call Jimmy, was an uncooperative loner in class. One Sunday the teacher was inspired to put aside his lesson and tell why he loved Jimmy. He spoke of his gratitude and his belief in this young man. Then the teacher asked the class members to tell Jimmy something they appreciated about him. As class members, one by one, told Jimmy why he was special to them, the boy lowered his head and tears began to roll down his face. This teacher and class built a bridge to Jimmy’s lonely heart. Simple love, honestly expressed, gives hope and value to others. I call this “repairing the breach or the gap.”