Gospel Story Finder

A few years ago Sister Packer and I were returning from New Zealand. We left Auckland at midnight and landed in Papeete in Tahiti. We waited there for a connecting flight. Just before dawn, a plane landed. It was not the one we were to board. We did not know its route; it was just an airliner landing on that small island in the South Pacific in the wee hours of a Monday morning.
I told my wife, “I will know someone on that plane.” I stood near the gate and as the passengers disembarked, four people, none of whom I had met before, approached me. “Are you Brother Packer?” And near the end of the line was one man I knew.
The point is this. It is manifestly impossible, in Huacuyo, Bolivia, or Tierra del Fuego, Argentina, in Kemi, Finland, or Vava’U in Tonga or anywhere else on earth, for an imposter to present himself as a member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles and not be detected by the members as one who has not been regularly ordained by the leaders of the Church.

Another way we can also do better and be better is how we honor the women in our lives, beginning with our wives and daughters, our mothers and sisters.
Months ago, I received a heartbreaking letter from a dear sister. She wrote: “[My daughters and I] feel we are in fierce competition for our husbands’ and sons’ undivided attention, with 24/7 sports updates, video games, stock market updates, [and] endless analyzing and watching of games of every [conceivable] sport. It feels like we’re losing our front-row seats with our husbands and sons because of their permanent front-row seats with [sports and games].”

Several years ago I started taking the New Era when we had a teenager at home. We gave it up then because you were printing over color, which is not easy to read nor good for the vision. When you printed the article about the earthquake in Los Angeles, I wanted so much to read that article, but it was printed on top of the picture sketch of the ruins.
I have been a school teacher for many years, and in my work as a speech therapist, I make many charts for children to read. I always used black print on white paper, with plenty of space between lines.
Since your best articles were printed on color, we quit taking the magazine. Then last year I decided to try it again. But during the year some of the most important articles were again printed on color, so I have given up. I would like to have the New Era in our home and would if it were not for what some people must think a “cute” practice to attract the youth.
Martha A. GreenEphraim, Utah

by Peggy M. Mills
As one of only a few Mormons at the Tifton, Georgia, High School, Bill Osborne feels the challenge shared by LDS youth throughout the world. “If you are LDS, everyone knows you are different. I found out very quickly that if I stand by my commitments the other students respect me for it. They know what I’m supposed to do. And they expect me to do it.”
Bill has a lot of commitments to stand by, too. In addition to being the teachers quorum president in the Tifton Ward, Douglas Georgia Stake, Bill sings with the ward choir, participates in the roadshows and talent nights, and is saving his money for a mission. He also plays the piano and 12-string guitar, is a member of the high school a capella choir, has sung for the past few years in the Georgia All-State Chorus, and was the recipient of the first-place trophy in the Douglas Georgia Stake Music and Arts Festival. Bill keeps in good physical condition by running two miles each day. “Staying in shape not only applies to athletics, but to everything else,” Bill explained enthusiastically. “The winners are prepared.”
He has further developed his talents by participating in numerous theatrical productions at Tifton Junior College. These have included Peter Pan, Annabelle Broom, the Unhappy Witch, and Fiddler on the Roof.
“As I participate in competitive situations, I find that my determination comes from the love and testimony I have for the Church,” said Bill. “I thoroughly enjoy singing with the All-State Chorus, but there is a different, special feeling that comes from singing with the ward choir. I always plan to do what my Heavenly Father wants me to do. His work will come first,” Bill stated.

Instead of retreating from extended family interaction and sticking to the sidelines, “bonus” parents and grandparents can search for common interests with individual family members and discover new ideas and approaches together. In our bonus family, we share text messages on topics ranging from parenting to politics, business ventures to exercise tips, cooking to historical fiction. We began meeting separately online with each of the two extended families during the pandemic to study Come, Follow Me together and have continued it ever since then.

It’s not fair!
What happened?
I was doing my assignment in class. But most of the kids at my table were being really noisy.
So we ALL missed recess!
Later that night, the kids are memorizing Articles of Faith 2 and 3.
Hmm, “… punished for their own sins …”
So people are only responsible for what they do wrong.
Mandy, reading: “… all mankind may be saved …”
Matt: So everyone has a chance to repent and be forgiven.
Maybe life isn’t always fair …
… but Heavenly Father is completely fair to everyone!
You can memorize the Articles of Faith too!

I grew up in a small town in southern Italy. My family were not members of the Church. One day, when I was nine, two missionaries knocked on our door.
My parents weren’t interested in what the missionaries had to say, but I was. So was my brother, Alberto. Our parents let us keep meeting with the missionaries. Later we got baptized and confirmed. I was 10 and Alberto was 11.

When I enrolled in a philosophy class in high school, my dad was a little concerned. In philosophy, everything is questioned, including the existence of God. My teacher taught us things that go against religion and deny God’s existence.
One philosophy test asked, “Why have we come to the earth?” The answer I was supposed to give was so that we could become self-actualized and take our place in the circle of life. I didn’t write that answer because it’s not what I believe.
Instead, I wrote, “We have come to the earth to be tested and to return to live with our Father in Heaven for eternity with our families.”
Afterward, the teacher called me up and asked me if I knew the correct answer to the question. I told him I did but that I wasn’t going to write something I knew was untrue.
He asked me if I was religious and which church I belonged to. I told him I was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. He told me that he had never known any religious student who was courageous enough to stand up for his beliefs and write such an answer.
“I did not give you full credit because your answer wasn’t the correct one,” he said. “But I gave you points for having the courage to write what you believe.”
I was happy because I had answered according to my convictions and according to the gospel truths I know and am trying to live.
Benjamin M., Chile

“Get your coat. He’ll be waiting for us.” That’s all Dad said. I’d seen him mad and sad and disappointed and a whole bunch of other things, but not all at the same time.

“I’ll take it back to Brother Gordon’s store,” I said, pushing the shaving cream across the table. “I’ll pay for it too. It only costs a dollar and thirty-nine cents.” I swallowed hard. “I’ve got that much in my drawer.”

Dad didn’t say anything more. He just looked at me. He looked at me so hard that I felt real funny inside, and finally I had to stare at the floor or start bawling.

“I can pay for it,” I said again. “You can have the money right now.”

“Get your coat.” He almost whispered it. “And while you’re at it, bring the dollar and thirty-nine cents.”

There was nothing more to say. I guess no kid can win in a fight against his dad. There’s something about being a dad that gives him a head start. When your dad says that David killed Goliath or that Joseph was sold into Egypt, then that’s what happened. When he says that you need to go to church every Sunday, then a guy knows where he’d better be on Sunday. And when a dad says, “Get your coat and bring your dollar and thirty-nine cents with you,” then there isn’t much a person can do but get his coat and money.

I went to my room and counted out three dollars. I figured that paying more than double would make things easier on me when I got to the sheriff’s.

On the way over to Brother Gordon’s store, I got to thinking about Harry and Carl. This was all their fault, not mine. I hadn’t even wanted to take the shaving cream, but they’d said I wouldn’t be stealing. All I was supposed to do was talk to Brother Gordon while they did the stealing.

I explained all that to Dad, but he said that helping someone else to steal is still stealing and that this was even more my fault because I’d taken advantage of Brother Gordon’s trust in me. I guess he was right, but I sure didn’t think it was fair that I was getting blamed for everything. I only brought the shaving cream home with me because Harry and Carl didn’t want it after they got out of the store.

The more I thought about Harry and Carl, the madder I got. Before I knew it, I could feel tears in my eyes, and I started to sniffle. By then we were in front of Brother Gordon’s store, so I hurried and dried my eyes with my coat sleeve and got out of the car.

As soon as we walked into the store, Brother Gordon saw Dad and came over. Dad had called the sheriff already, but Brother Gordon still didn’t know anything about my stealing. Dad said I would have to tell him.

“Hello, Dick,” Dad said. “Robert has some business with you to take care of.”

“What can I do for you, Bobby?” Brother Gordon asked.

I looked at his belt buckle and held out the shaving cream. “I stole it.” That was all I could say. Brother Gordon didn’t say anything, and Dad wouldn’t help me either.

“I stole it,” I said louder. “I stole it and I’m sorry. You always said you could trust me, but I guess you couldn’t, because I’m just an old robber. But I won’t ever do it again.”

I was bawling real good by then, and I just wished I had never seen that shaving cream. I set it on the counter and dug into my pocket for my money. “The shaving cream only costs a dollar and thirty-nine cents, but I’ll pay three dollars.”

Brother Gordon didn’t know what to do. He told me to keep the money, but Dad said no. I didn’t care because I didn’t want the money, and most of all I didn’t want that old shaving cream.

I figured that since I’d bawled good and paid the money and told Brother Gordon I was sorry that Dad wouldn’t take me to the sheriff, but I was wrong.

When we walked into the sheriff’s office, the first thing I saw was his gun. He wore it down on his leg like cowboys in the movies do. Dad had told me once that the sheriff could shoot a gun better than anyone around and that he had ribbons and trophies to prove it.

The sheriff showed me into another room and told me to wait for him while he talked to Dad. I wasn’t too scared until I noticed four rifles chained to a rack on one of the walls. There was a desk in one corner with two chairs in front of it. I sat down on one of the chairs and looked at the guns on the wall and wondered if those rifles were still used to shoot robbers.

The sheriff came into the room without Dad and shut the door. Then he walked over to the desk and straightened some papers. After a second he sat down and leaned back in his chair.

“I hear you got into a little trouble. Is that so?”

I just nodded.

“I guess you know that stealing’s wrong?”

“Yeah,” I whispered.

“I guess you know that it doesn’t matter how many people do it. It’s still wrong.”

“Yes, sir.”

“A person can get thrown into jail for stealing.” He didn’t smile. He just stared at me. Now when Dad’s upset, his eyes can make you feel funny and kind of twitchy inside, but when the sheriff looked at me, it hurt. I looked at the floor a couple of times and dusted off my pants, even though they didn’t need it.

All of a sudden the sheriff stood up and took off his gun holster. “There’s no sense in my telling you that you’ve done something wrong,” he growled. “You know that. You broke the law, and your dad wants me to do something about it.”

He stopped talking while he slowly pulled his gun out of the holster. I had thought he might throw me in jail, but I hadn’t figured he’d shoot me, not for a stolen tube of shaving cream. My spit dried up, and I grabbed the chair real tight, then held my breath, closed my eyes, and waited for the BANG! There was just a quiet thud, though, when the sheriff put his gun into his desk drawer.

Well, my spit came back, and I started to breathe again. It was pretty jumpy breathing for a while, but it was real good to know I could still do it.

The sheriff coughed and sat down. “Most dads don’t bring their boys to the sheriff. But your dad isn’t like most dads.” He leaned forward. “You’re going to grow up to be a good man, Bobby, but you won’t grow up that way because you came in here and talked to me. You’ll be a good man because you have a good dad. Right now it might seem that you’re getting all the blame for what Harry and Carl did. But some day you’ll realize that your dad isn’t being hard on you. It’s Carl’s and Harry’s dads who are being hard on them.”

The sheriff leaned back in his chair and just stared at me for a while. Finally he opened his desk drawer and pulled out five paper cups. He carried the other chair across the room and set the cups on it. Then he pulled a long black horsewhip from his desk.

All of a sudden he jerked the fat end of that whip, and the skinny end shot out of his hand with a loud bang and hit one of those paper cups and tore it to pieces. It happened so fast that I jumped out of my chair. My eyes bulged, and I felt my heart beating so hard up in my throat that I thought I’d choke. He snapped that whip three more times, and then there was just one cup left on the chair.

The sheriff started talking again. “It used to be that when someone stole something, he was given a good thrashing with a whip like this.” He looked straight at me. He didn’t smile, and I knew he wasn’t playing a game. Before I could blink my eyes, that horsewhip shot out and ripped the last cup off the chair.

“I don’t whip people for stealing.” He cleared his throat and added, “But there is one thing I might whip a boy for.”

The sheriff began to roll up his whip while he talked. “You know, Bobby, dads are pretty good fellows. They take you on camp-outs, teach you how to play ball, fix your bike tires when they’re flat, tell you stories, and somehow are always around when you need a friend. Most of all, they’re there to set you straight when you get off the right track. If the world’s a good place to live in, it’s because there are lots of good dads.”

The sheriff stopped talking, and I figured he was done. But he wasn’t. He took a deep breath and started tapping his fingers on the desk. “Do you know why your dad and I are such good friends?”

I shook my head.

“My dad died before I was even born. When I was growing up, your dad was the one who fixed my bike, showed me how to play ball, and was around when I needed a friend. He was a dad to me.”

I looked up at the sheriff, and I could see that his eyes were moist and shining. He wasn’t bawling or anything, but shoot, the sheriff’s about the toughest guy around!

He was real quiet for a long time. Then he looked at me, picked up his coiled whip, pointed it at me, and said quietly, “Now, I’m going to tell you how you can get a horsewhipping. I won’t give it to you for stealing things from Mr. Gordon’s store or for fighting or breaking windows or anything like that. Those things are bad, but they won’t get you a horsewhipping. There’s something worse than doing those things. If you hurt your dad … if you ever do anything that makes him feel real bad, or if I hear you calling him ‘old man’ like some of the other boys call their dads, I’ll come looking for you. And believe you me, I’ll horsewhip you, because you have the best dad in the world, and any boy who would do those things to a dad like yours needs a good horsewhipping. Do you understand me?”

I nodded my head. I sure did understand.

Finally he smiled. I was glad to see that he remembered how.

When he told me I could go, Dad was waiting for me. I was sure glad to see him. When we walked out to the car, he put his arm around me like he does lots of times. He told me he loved me and just wanted me to be a good boy. I knew he meant what he said, and I remembered what the sheriff had said about him.

It’s been a while since I went with Dad to see the sheriff. I haven’t stolen anything else from Brother Gordon, and he still trusts me and says I’m a good boy.

The sheriff always waves to me when he passes in his truck, and whenever he talks to me, he asks me about my dad. I haven’t ever asked him if he still has his whip. He probably does, but I’m not afraid of it—or him—because there’s no reason for him to come looking for me. You see, I’ve got the best dad in the whole world, and I know it.

Marci dropped her sleeping bag on the kitchen floor. “I was trapped!” she wailed to her mother. “Just trapped. What else could I do?”
“You really had no choice,” said Mother. “Anyway, I agree with Hoa and her parents. If you had Hoa spend the night with you, then you should be willing to spend a night with her.”
“But, Mom,” groaned Marci. “That’s different. They live in a one-bedroom apartment. Hoa, her little sister, and I will be sleeping in the front room. And that’s part of the kitchen!”
Marci didn’t expect an answer. She could hear the car in the driveway and knew Dad was waiting. Sighing, she picked up her sleeping bag. “Well, I guess I have to go. Hoa would be very hurt if I didn’t.”
As Marci entered the apartment where her friend Hoa lived, Hoa’s mother turned from the stove. “We are most glad you came, Marci. We thank you.”
Marci smiled and put her sleeping bag under the kitchen table. Hoa was pouring rice into a pot. “What are you doing,” Marci asked.
“I always fix the rice for dinner,” answered Hoa. A small face peeked from behind her legs. “This is my little sister, Truc.”
Marci knelt down and touched the little girl on the arm. “Hello, Truc,” she said. “I’ve wanted to meet you.”
Truc waved a few fingers at Marci, and Marci reached for her hand.
“She’s cute,” said Marci. “I would baby-sit her any day.”
Hoa’s mother turned around and asked, “What is ‘baby-sit?’”
“I would watch Truc for you,” answered Marci.
The mother smiled. “No need,” she said. “Where I go, Truc goes or Hoa watches her.”
“Vietnamese do not use baby-sitters,” explained Hoa. She winked at Marci. “But you baby-sit me. I always have to ask you what to do.”
Marci laughed. That was true. She had been explaining different things to her new friend for six months now, ever since Hoa had come to her school.
When the father came home, they sat down for dinner. Marci thought it was very quiet, not like dinner at her house. Everyone spoke softly, and Marci could feel her voice become quieter.
“Does your name have a meaning, Marci?” asked Hoa’s father.
“I don’t understand,” said Marci.
“Vietnamese names have another meaning,” explained Hoa. “Mine means flower. Truc means bamboo.”
Marci studied Hoa. She does look like a flower. Marci looked at Truc. She wasn’t sure she resembled bamboo. “I wish my name did have another meaning, but I don’t think the names of many people in the United States do.”
After dinner, Hoa’s mother began cooking again.
“What are you making, Mother?” asked Hoa.
“For Marci I would like to make pho,” she replied. “We will eat it in the morning.”
“Oh, good!” Hoa smiled and turned to Marci. “Pho is like a soup. It is made with beef and egg noodles. You will like it.”
Marci nodded. She was sitting on the floor and Truc was on her lap. Marci looked around the room. There were no toys. A small television set was perched on a low table, but no one seemed interested in turning it on.
“Truc, have you ever heard the story of Peter Rabbit?” asked Marci.
Truc shook her head, and Marci began the story. Then she told her the story of Cinderella. After that, she related some tales about Daniel Boone and Paul Revere. Hoa and her parents listened too. They had never heard the stories either. When Truc fell asleep, Marci looked at her watch. It was ten o’clock! Hoa’s mother took Truc away to get her ready for bed.
Hoa’s father stood up and bowed. “You are most welcome, Marci. We liked the stories. I hope you have a good time here. Goodnight.”
Marci stood up and made a slight bow back to Hoa’s father. “This is one of the best times I have ever had,” she said.
Hoa yawned and brought out a mat to spread on the floor. Marci pulled her sleeping bag from under the table and put it next to Hoa’s mat. After the girls were ready for bed, Marci crawled into her sleeping bag and looked at Hoa. The warm smell of pho filled the room. “Thank you for asking me,” she whispered. “I’m really glad I came.”

It was 40 years ago this conference time when President David O. McKay called me to serve as a member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. At the first meeting of the Presidency and Twelve which I attended where the sacrament was served, President McKay announced, “Before we partake of the sacrament, I would like to ask our newest member of this body, Brother Monson, if he would instruct the First Presidency and Twelve on the atoning sacrifice of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.” It was then that I gained a true understanding of the old adage: “When the time for decision arrives, the time for preparation is past.” It was also the time to remember the counsel found in 1 Peter: “Be ready always to give an answer to every man that asketh you a reason of the hope that is in you.”

The memory of that particular experience with the First Presidency and Quorum of the Twelve has not dimmed in the intervening 40 years.

I liked Elder Maynes’s talk because he talked about trials, and I have something hard in my life—type 1 diabetes. I have to be careful what I eat, prick my finger to test my blood sugar, and get insulin every time I eat. And when my blood sugars are low, I feel tired and confused. Sometimes I wish that I could pray to Heavenly Father and say, “Heavenly Father, can you just take the diabetes away?” But He knows I can handle this trial.
Emily W., age 7, Texas, USA

As sister missionaries, we were sharing the gospel with a woman who lived in modest circumstances at the bottom of a large hill near a small city dump on the outskirts of Asunción, Paraguay.
Soledad and her husband, Oscar, lived in one room of a long, narrow house that was actually a series of connected rooms, side by side, with very thin walls. Each room was a tiny residence with one window, one door, one table, and one bed. There were several such buildings in this area, constructed of wood, with a thatched roof and dirt floors. Clay that had been pushed into the crevices kept out some of the cold.
Soledad was the mother of three young children, and she was young herself—and overwhelmed. It was all she could do to take care of her home and the daily demands of her children. But she seemed to welcome our visits and to recognize a need for God in her life.
Soledad expressed her thoughts and feelings freely. She had fallen in love and run away from home with Oscar, even though her parents didn’t approve. Neither she nor her husband had any education or a job, and their future was bleak. She wondered if God had abandoned her and if He was punishing them for the poor choices they had made.
Oscar peddled trinkets door to door in an effort to help his family survive. When he had a successful day, he would buy food and, sometimes, small gifts for the children. But when sales were poor, he would often return home depressed, angry, and drunk.
We felt challenged to help them deal with so many temporal concerns. But we also felt urged by the Spirit to continue loving and teaching them, even though at times their progress was disappointing. After several more visits and after praying sincerely, we finally felt we needed to give them some time to consider what we had taught, study the Book of Mormon, and pray by themselves.
We explained our concerns to Soledad, and she was upset. She felt we were abandoning her family. She also told us they were expecting a fourth child and didn’t know how they would survive. In anger she told us to leave and never return.
Unknown to us, however, the neighbor next door, Juan, had been listening through the wall to what we had been teaching. He was young, curious, and painfully shy. As he had listened, he had had many questions about the plan of salvation, the Book of Mormon, and repentance. He had even been borrowing Soledad’s copy of the Book of Mormon, reading it, and praying regarding all that he had been quietly learning.
Days passed. Juan began to worry when we did not return to teach Soledad and Oscar. Then one night, as a heavy winter storm was brewing, he asked Soledad where we lived and how he could contact us. She said she didn’t know, and he began to cry. He bore his testimony to her of the truthfulness of our message and ran out into the stormy night to look for us as rain poured down, turning the streets into muddy rivers.
Hours later, tired and cold, he continued to search. He began to pray as he made his way through the darkness, promising his Father in Heaven that if He would help him find us, he would be baptized and serve Him all the days of his life. In the meantime, Soledad, impressed by Juan’s testimony, started praying that we would return. Juan came home but continued to pray and read the Book of Mormon for the next two days. Soledad also prayed earnestly and talked with Oscar. Together they began reading the Book of Mormon.
Two days after the storm, as my companion and I knelt in prayer, we felt compelled to return to the tiny little homes at the bottom of the hill. We went immediately, and when we arrived, we were greeted with happy tears and excitement by Soledad, Oscar, their children, and Juan. They told us all that had happened, and from that time on, all of them were eager to learn about the gospel. It wasn’t long before Juan was baptized, and Soledad and Oscar soon followed.
I remember wondering why we were so strongly impressed to keep teaching even when Soledad and Oscar weren’t responding well. I remember wondering why we felt such an urgency to return when we had been chased away in anger. But as I saw the joy that came into Juan’s life and then into Soledad and Oscar’s family, I knew that not only was Juan listening through thin walls but that Heavenly Father was listening to prayers from each of us in turn, prayers that came from the heart.

One day Mom had everybody either weeding, picking beans, skinning tomatoes for canning, or chopping vegetables. My sister and I shredded gallons of squash and made 16 loaves of zucchini bread and two zucchini spice cakes. In between our use of the food processor, Josh, my seven-year-old brother, chopped up cucumbers, banana peppers, cabbage, onions, and celery to make medley pickles.
As sliced vegetables poured out the spout, he dumped them into an empty ice cream bucket. It looked blah, so mom headed out to the garden to get red cabbage, yellow tomatoes, carrots, and a handful of green beans.
Meanwhile, six-year-old Danny dashed into the house after emptying the compost bucket. It was his job to deposit scraps like tomato skins and zucchini ends into the compost pile. Noticing a new bucketful, he ran out the door, dumped it, and scooted back. Beaming with pride, he showed Mom how he had dumped some “extra stuff without being asked.” There went the pickles!

Because of our financial needs, my father expected me to help earn money for the family. I wanted to serve a mission, but when I turned 19 years old, he asked that I wait one year to serve my mission so I could continue working to help my family. When I turned 20 years old, he asked that I wait another year to serve.
Just before I turned 21 years old, he wanted to request that I wait one more year. But my mother told him, “Let him go serve, and it will bless us.” This really happened. Before my mission, only a younger brother and I had worked to help support the family. As soon as I went on my mission, two more of my brothers and my two oldest sisters started working, so my family did better financially.

Last summer I attended the funeral of an elect lady. One speaker described three of her great qualities: loyalty, obedience, and faith. As he elaborated on her life, I thought how appropriate it was to speak of such powerful qualities in a funeral tribute. A life is not a trivial thing, and its passing should not be memorialized with trivial things. A funeral service is a time to speak of powerful ideas—ideas that can appropriately stand beside the importance of life, ideas that are powerful in their influence on those who remain behind.
As I enjoyed the spirit of this inspiring funeral, my thoughts were directed toward the application of this principle in other settings. Parents should also teach powerful ideas. So should home teachers, visiting teachers, and the teachers in various classes. The Savior warned that we will be judged for “every idle word that [we] shall speak” (Matt. 12:36). Modern revelation commands us to cease from “light speeches” and “light-mindedness” (D&C 88:121) and to cast away “idle thoughts” and “excess of laughter” (D&C 88:69). There are plenty of other spokesmen for trivial things. Latter-day Saints should be constantly concerned with teaching and emphasizing those great and powerful eternal truths that will help us find our way back to the presence of our Heavenly Father.

Sister Boyer: All women, whatever their situations, can perform service in their homes. For example, our general secretary has not had children of her own. But she loves and serves the children of others. In fact, while we are talking here, she’s taking care of a niece and her niece’s brand new baby and three-year-old son. As long as we are thinking “What can I do for someone else?” we are on the right track. And the woman living alone can come to appreciate the great blessings she does have.

To stand tall like Jesus, I bore my testimony in sacrament meeting. It was scary because we have a really big ward, but I did it anyway.
Sierra W., age 9, Idaho, USA

My name is Emily. Do you know what I like best about being me? I like having lots of feelings inside me, and I like showing my feelings in lots of different ways.
Today I gave a talk about Jesus Christ in Primary. I felt scared. I showed I was scared when my voice cracked.
I felt peaceful, though, when I looked up and saw my father and mother smiling at me. I covered my mouth so that I wouldn’t laugh out loud when my big brother winked at me.
I felt happy when I told everyone that Jesus is my friend. I said, “Heavenly Father and Jesus love me, and I love them.”
I showed reverence when I walked to my seat with my arms folded. I closed my eyes and bowed my head when the closing prayer was given. I listened to the prayer and said amen at the end so that Father in Heaven knew I was praying too.
During sacrament meeting I sat still in my seat and thought about Jesus while the bread and water were being passed. I felt warm and calm and happy and peaceful. I felt the Holy Spirit inside my heart. I like that feeling best of all.

A few years ago we visited my mom’s friend in Texas. While visiting their family, their youngest child became sick. That night, I knelt down with her sister and explained how to pray. We prayed that her little sister would feel better. The next day she was feeling much better. I’m so glad we prayed for her to get better. My mom said she was proud of me for teaching my friend how I pray to Heavenly Father.