Gospel Story Finder

The lights dimmed, and a hush fell over the audience. All eyes watched as Elise seemed to float across the stage in a soft, blue dress that swirled around her like a mist. She danced as if no one was watching.
Lacy sat quietly as musicians played, quartets sang, and families performed comedy acts and wonderful musical numbers. The more she saw, the worse she felt. If only she had a talent! The ward talent show was the best activity of the year, and Lacy was never able to be a part of it.
All the way home, Lacy was quiet. Finally Mom said, “That was one of the best talent shows yet.”
“Your friend Elise sure can dance, Lacy,” her brother Ryan added. “She seems to float.”
I wish he was talking about me, Lacy thought.
“I hate going to the talent show, Mom,” Lacy tearfully admitted later that night. “I’d rather stay home than go and see all the things that others can do. I can’t do anything. Our family can’t do anything, either. The Billings family sings together. The Myerses have their own family band. All my friends either sing, dance, or play an instrument. I feel like a loser.” Lacy sobbed into her pillow.
“Lacy,” Mom quietly reminded, “we all have talents. They may not be performed on a stage, but they are wonderful. You must find yours and then use them. That’s why Heavenly Father gave them to you. Why don’t you think about the things that you do well, and we’ll talk later.” Mom quietly slipped from the room to care for their newest foster child, three-year-old Brittany.
Sometime during the night, Brittany slipped into Lacy’s bed. “Bwitney scared,” she said. “Bwitney scared at night.” Lacy gently pulled the covers up over her trembling little body and patted her back.
During Primary on Sunday, Brittany wanted Lacy to stay with her, so Lacy sat in the Sunbeam class with her. “Children, we have a new Sunbeam to welcome to Primary. Lacy, would you like to introduce your new sister to us?”
Brittany squeezed Lacy’s hand as they walked to the front. “This is Brittany, my new sister.” As the children sang “Hello! Hello! Hello! Hello! We welcome you today,” Brittany hid her face in Lacy’s dress.
“Why is your new sister so shy?” Lacy’s friend Alan asked after Primary. “She acts like she’s afraid of the world!”
“She is afraid. How would you feel if you had to move to a new home where you didn’t know anyone, not even your new family? She’s just a little girl. She’s still getting used to us.”
Alan poked Lacy in the arm as he ran down the hall. “You’re going to have the biggest family in the world if you guys get any more kids.”
Later, Lacy was helping Brittany get ready for bed. “Wead to Bwitney, please, Lacy.”
Lacy laughed and hugged Brittany. “Sure! Go get a book. I’ll read you one story.”
Brittany came running back with a book of Bible stories. Pointing to the picture of Noah, she said, “This one, Lacy.”
“You really like that story, don’t you? This time, why don’t we be the animals? The bed can be the ark. We’ll climb onto the ark and look for our stalls.”
Brittany hung her head down low and made her arms into an elephant’s trunk. Lumbering onto the ark, she bellowed, “I hungwy! I firsty! I sleepy.”
“Caw! Caw! I need my nest. I need some seed,” Lacy crowed as she flapped her arms and “flew” around the ark.
When the girls finished the story, it was bedtime for Brittany. “Tuck me in, please, Lacy.”
Stepping into the room, Mom said, “Prayers first, Brittany.”
“Lacy help me,” Brittany told her.
“Is that OK, Mom?” Lacy asked quietly.
Mom nodded with a smile.
Brittany knelt by her bed. It amazed Lacy how easily all her sisters and brothers learned to pray. With a little prompting, Brittany began. “Dear Hebenly Father, please bless Lacy. She loves me. Amen.”
Tears stung Lacy’s eyes. A million thoughts flashed through her mind. She knew a little about each of the children who had joined her family before they came. All of them had suffered more than Lacy could imagine. Each had brought her or his own special spirit into her family, and Lacy loved them all. She enjoyed helping to care for them. She read to them and played games with them. She helped them to dress and did their hair. Most of all, she tried to help them to be happy, to feel safe, and to know that Heavenly Father loved them.
Lacy hugged Brittany as she tucked her in. “I really do love you, Brittany. You’re a wonderful sister.”
“Mom,” Lacy said later. “I think I know what one of my talents is.”
“You have many talents, Lacy. Which one do you mean?”
“Well, it’s really an easy thing. You can’t watch it or listen to it, and you’d never be able to do it in a talent show. I’m not even sure it’s a talent. But I know I’m good at it—our whole family is good at it—and it helps people.”
“Lacy, not all talents are meant to entertain people. Some are meant to bless them. Which talent are you talking about?”
“I love all the kids who come to live with us. I love them so much that I want to help make their lives better. If they get to stay forever, then I get to keep helping. If they have to leave, I pray that what they have learned and felt here stays with them forever. Is that a talent, Mom?”
“Lacy, it’s only one of your talents, but it’s surely one of the best of them.”

The Primary of the Prospect Ward, Adelaide Australia Firle Stake wanted to work on bringing their scriptures to church. They decided to put a “fuzzy” in a jar every time they did, because the scriptures give us a warm, fuzzy feeling inside. At the end of the year, they joined the fuzzies together. Their fuzzy “snake” was 6½ meters (21 feet) long! All the children enjoyed this activity, and some days every one of them had their scriptures with them at Primary.

Shortly after the October 2010 general conference, Jared and Kathleen Smith of Utah, USA, decided to take a drive around the neighborhood with their three children to enjoy the colorful autumn leaves. Before leaving, Brother Smith put a vial of consecrated oil in his pocket. The words of President Henry B. Eyring’s priesthood address to be ready for priesthood service at all times had been on his mind (see “Serve with the Spirit,” Liahona and Ensign, Nov. 2010, 59).
On their way home, the Smiths happened upon a crowd gathering around a little girl lying on the ground, apparently suffering from some kind of head trauma. They heard a woman shout, “Please, does anyone have consecrated oil? Please!” Brother Smith quickly pulled over and handed his oil to the girl’s father. After a priesthood blessing, the girl regained consciousness and began talking to her parents. Moments later, paramedics arrived and took her to the hospital.
“We felt a warmth and a peace in our hearts for having been in the right place at the right time, for having brought oil, and as President Eyring spoke of, having been ready,” says Brother Smith. “Our children saw the blessing of priesthood power, and we left feeling Heavenly Father’s love for both us and this young girl and her family.”

When I was about eight years old, my dad bought each of us boys a six-month-old horse. We started riding them when they were young. We rode them in the Ogden Pioneer Days parade.
When I was a few years older, Dad sometimes took us into the mountain canyons on horseback. One day, I needed to return home before the others for some reason. I had never done this alone before. When I came to one fork in the trail, I did not know which way to go. But I knew that Heavenly Father knew. So I got off my horse and knelt in prayer. After I got back on my horse, something inside me said, “Give the horse his rein and let him go where he wants.” I did that, and in about fifteen minutes, I came into a clearing and could see the way to go.

Illustration by Gary Alfonso
One day my grandmother asked me to take some food she had prepared to my aunt. It was a hot Saturday afternoon, and there were a lot of other things I wanted to do instead of go on an errand for my grandmother. I told her to ask one of my cousins to go instead, but she insisted that it should be me.
An hour passed, and I began to feel that I should do what my grandmother had asked. I picked up the food and made my way to my aunt’s house. It was far away, and when I arrived, I didn’t plan on staying long.
I found my aunt and her five-month-old baby in a hammock tied to two young mango trees. The trees were beside a river that ran behind the house. I walked toward them to deliver the food. Suddenly, the ropes to the hammock broke. My aunt and her baby rolled into the river. Fear gripped me. I didn’t know how to swim, and no one was around to help. I didn’t know what to do.
Immediately, I heard the voice of the Spirit: “Jump in!”
Without a second thought, I jumped. Fortunately, I found the baby in just a couple of seconds, and my aunt was able to get out of the water. As I came out of the water with the baby, I couldn’t believe what had just happened. I jumped in a river when I didn’t know how to swim, but because I listened to the Spirit, my baby cousin and I were saved from drowning.
I realized how important it is to recognize and listen to the direction and inspiration that God gives to us through the Holy Ghost. I am grateful that I eventually did what my grandmother asked and took the food to my aunt’s house. I know we must make efforts to be sensitive to spiritual promptings so we can be the hands of God to help His children.

William W. Phelps was one of the Prophet Joseph Smith’s close friends. William was appointed printer for the Church. He moved to Missouri and became a leader in the Church there.
Later, because of some faults he thought he saw in the Prophet Joseph, he became an enemy of the Prophet. He signed a certificate defending the actions of one of the enemies of the Church. Because of William’s and others’ actions, Joseph not only lost a loved and trusted friend, he and other Church leaders were sent to prison!
Two years later, William realized what he had done was wrong. “I am as the prodigal son … ,” he wrote to the Prophet Joseph. “I know my situation, you know it, and God knows it, and I want to be saved if my friends will help me. … I have done wrong and I am sorry.” He asked to be received again as a member of the Church.
Joseph answered immediately with love and forgiveness. He wrote: “Believing your confession to be real, and your repentance genuine, I shall be happy once again to give you the right hand of fellowship, and rejoice over the returning prodigal. … ‘Come on, dear brother, since the war is past, / For friends at first, are friends again at last.’” (See History of the Church, 4:141–42, 163–64.)
Joseph forgave his friend, and William became a valiant servant of the Lord once more. William wrote the hymn “Praise to the Man” (Hymns, number 27) about his forgiving friend, the Prophet Joseph.

A few years ago, I was interviewing missionaries. A winter storm was blowing in as missionaries came and went throughout the day. The storm changed from icy rain to snow and back again. Some missionaries arrived by train from nearby cities and walked to the church through the storm. Others rode their bicycles. Almost without exception they were cheerful and happy. They were the Lord’s missionaries. They had His Spirit and felt joy in His service regardless of their circumstances.
As each companionship concluded their interviews, I will never forget watching them go back out into the storm to preach the gospel and do what the Lord had called them to do. I could see their commitment and dedication. I could feel the love they had for the people and for the Lord. As I watched them leave, I felt an overwhelming love for them and for what they were doing.
Later that night, I attended a priesthood meeting in the same city. The storm had continued and was now mostly snow. During the opening song, the branch president of the smallest and farthest branch and his two missionary counselors, Elder Warner and Elder Karpowitz, came into the chapel. As they got ready to sit down, these two wonderful missionaries took off their winter hats and gloves. They took off their outer coats. Then they each took off a second winter coat and sat down. Like the missionaries earlier in the day, despite the weather these missionaries were happy. They felt the Spirit of the Lord in their lives. Through service in the Lord’s cause, they felt a certain love and warmth and joy that are difficult to describe.
As I watched these great young missionaries that evening, I had a remarkable experience. In my mind’s eye, I saw missionaries throughout the mission going out into that winter night. Some were knocking doors and facing rejection as they sought to teach the gospel of Jesus Christ. Some were in homes or apartments teaching individuals and families. In spite of the conditions they faced, they were doing what they could to teach the gospel of Jesus Christ to those who would listen, and they were happy. Into my heart came a feeling that I cannot fully explain.
By a wonderful gift of the Spirit, I felt His love, the pure love of Christ that He has for faithful missionaries everywhere, and it changed me forever. I understood how precious each missionary is to Him. I caught a glimpse of what prophets would describe as the “greatest generation of missionaries” the world has ever known (see M. Russell Ballard, “The Greatest Generation of Missionaries,” Liahona and Ensign, Nov. 2002, 47). I began to understand why it was necessary to raise the bar so that missionaries everywhere would be entitled to the protection, direction, and happiness that accompany the Spirit of the Lord. I also began to understand why—as parents, bishops, stake presidents, and other leaders—we must do everything we can to help the young people of the Church become worthy of the blessings of missionary service.

There were at least two Latter-day Saint connections to the Titanic. Both illustrate our challenge in understanding trials, tribulations, and tragedies and provide insight as to how we might deal with them. The first is an example of being appreciative for the blessings we receive and the challenges we avoid. It involves Alma Sonne, who later served as a General Authority. He was my stake president when I was born in Logan, Utah. I had my mission interview with Elder Sonne. In those days all prospective missionaries were interviewed by a General Authority. He was a great influence in my life.

When Alma was a young man, he had a friend named Fred who was less active in the Church. They had numerous discussions about serving a mission, and eventually Alma Sonne convinced Fred to prepare and serve. They were both called to the British Mission. At the conclusion of their missions, Elder Sonne, the mission secretary, made the travel arrangements for their return to the United States. He booked passage on the Titanic for himself, Fred, and four other missionaries who had also completed their missions.

When it came time to travel, for some reason Fred was delayed. Elder Sonne canceled all six bookings to sail on the new luxury liner on its maiden voyage and booked passage on a ship that sailed the next day. The four missionaries, who were excited about traveling on the Titanic, expressed their disappointment. Elder Sonne’s answer paraphrased the account of Joseph and his brothers in Egypt recorded in Genesis: “How can we return to our families and the lad be not with us?” He explained to his companions that they all came to England together and they all should return home together. Elder Sonne subsequently learned of the Titanic’s sinking and gratefully said to his friend Fred, “You saved my life.” Fred replied, “No, by getting me on this mission, you saved my life.” All of the missionaries thanked the Lord for preserving them.

With work on the temple progressing amid a tense peace, in the spring of 1845 President Young turned his attention to the West. Joseph Smith had spoken privately of “a place of safety preparing … away towards the Rocky Mountains.” 11 Only weeks before his martyrdom, the Prophet had commissioned the Twelve to seek that place of refuge.

President Young found it no sacrifice to leave home and temple, for he knew that the destiny of the Saints lay not in Nauvoo but in the West. There, he believed, they would become a mighty people; there they could build new homes and a new temple in safety. Believing this, when mobs attacked settlements around Nauvoo in September 1845, President Young used the occasion to publicly announce the long-planned migration.

A major concern for Brigham was finding the right place. After frequent fasting and daily prayer in his room in the temple, he saw in vision the right spot and felt he could recognize it. His mind at ease, he was now ready.

One month later, Brigham Young and the first company of Saints crossed the Mississippi River, though it was still winter. Once on his way, President Young seemed drawn westward as if by an unseen hand. “Do not think … I hate to leave my house and home,” he wrote his brother Joseph from the Iowa prairies. “No, far from that. … It looks pleasant ahead,” he wrote, “but dark to look back” toward Nauvoo. 12

The Iowa experience, nonetheless, proved difficult, and for a time it seemed that the whole Church was mired, both literally and metaphorically, hub-deep in the spring prairie mud. Moving thousands of Saints hundreds of miles took far longer and consumed more resources than even Brigham Young had imagined. The experience drained him and forced him to grapple with his limitations. He lost so much weight that his clothes no longer fit. Exhausted physically and emotionally, Brigham understood more than ever the need for God’s intervention. And he longed for Joseph to counsel him and to reassure the people.

As Brigham Young left his bed on the morning of 17 February 1847, illness seized him so suddenly that he “fainted away, apparently dead.” 13 Only those who die and go through the veil could know how he felt, he said two weeks later, adding that “I know I went to the world of spirits.” However, it was not given him to remember immediately the details of what he saw there: “All that I know, is what my wife told me about it since. She said that I said, I had been where Joseph & Hyrum was” and that “it is hard coming back to life again.” 14

Once revived, Brigham Young fell asleep and dreamed, and when he awoke, he recorded what he had seen. “In my dream I went to see Joseph,” he wrote. Finding Joseph sitting by a large window looking “perfectly natural,” Brigham took him by the hand, kissed his cheeks, and asked him why they could not be together as before. Joseph arose from his chair, looked at Brigham, and spoke in his usual way: “It is all right.” Brigham protested, but Joseph replied: “You will have to do things without me a while and then we shall be together again.”

Brigham then addressed Joseph as his mentor and asked for counsel. The advice was direct and simple: “Be sure to tell the people to keep the spirit of the Lord.” 15 Brigham then turned and saw Joseph in the light, “but where I had to go was as midnight darkness.” Because Joseph insisted, Brigham “went back in the darkness” and awoke. 16

Though Brigham Young spoke frequently of this in the weeks before heading for the Rockies, he did not elaborate on its meaning. Undoubtedly, it buoyed his spirits and provided still more evidence that he was on the Lord’s (and Joseph’s) errand. Though still burdened by the demands of leadership and the magnitude of the challenge, he was at peace.

That peace was not always shared by those closest to him. Two weeks after President Young’s illness and vision, his brother, Joseph Young, called on him in his office and “stated that he thought 100 lbs Provisions”—the announced minimum for the trek west—“very little for each Pioneer.” Some months before, he had told Brigham that getting the Saints safely across Iowa would require as great a miracle as Moses leading the children of Israel through the wilderness. Should they now expect a second miracle? With so little, he insisted, any mishap at all could endanger the whole enterprise. For Brigham Young, that amount—all they could expect to obtain—simply must do. “Brigham replied he wanted all to stay here, who had not faith to go with that amount.” 17 Though not foolhardy, President Young was realistic. After doing the best they could, the Saints had no choice but to depend on the Lord for the rest.

President Young faced the challenge with such unwavering confidence because he knew the plan was not his own. As he told the Saints nearly 10 years later, “I did not devise the great scheme of the Lord’s opening the way to send this people to these mountains.” Who did? “It was the power of God that wrought out salvation for this people,” he insisted. 18

From the moment Brigham Young entered the Salt Lake Valley in 1847, he had a focused sense of mission about what the Saints must do there and a firm conviction that, through the Lord’s protection, they would be privileged to do so.19 He foresaw that if they lived worthily, they would never be driven from there.20 This faith sustained him and informed his decisions throughout his long tenure as civic and Church leader in Utah.

In 1857–58, President Young’s faith was put to a severe test as thousands of U.S. troops marched to Utah as an “escort” for Alfred Cumming, who was sent by the U.S. government to replace Brigham Young as governor. Some have argued that Governor Young should have immediately sought a political solution. Logically, compromise and accommodation seemed the only policy that might preserve peace.

President Young felt otherwise. The Saints’ experiences in Missouri had taught him what enemies can do when backed by military authority. Confident that if the Saints did all in their power, the Lord would prevent disaster, Governor Young declared martial law and mobilized the territorial militia to do everything short of bloodshed to slow down the advancing troops. Grasslands and supply wagons were burned, provisions and cattle confiscated, and the advance units harassed day and night. Still the troops came—until the timely arrival of heavy snows forced the army into winter camp near Fort Bridger, roughly a hundred miles from the Mormon settlement in the Salt Lake Valley. 21

That did not end the army’s advance, of course. By spring, soldiers wanted revenge for a miserable winter. Facing a renewed and perhaps even more dangerous threat, Brigham Young ordered his men to prepare to oppose the army but added the promise that “not a gun will be fired, not a man slain.” One of his commanders, a man who viewed President Young as the Lord’s mouthpiece, replied that “he knew it was true but he did not believe a word of it.” Given the circumstances, bloodshed seemed inevitable. 22

Even as troops advanced toward the city, Brigham Young and governor-designate Alfred Cumming, aided by Thomas L. Kane, the non-Mormon friend of the Saints who had risked his life to reach Utah in the winter, concluded a peaceful accord. Without incident, the army marched peacefully through a deserted Salt Lake City to an isolated encampment 30 miles away. U.S. Army Captain Jesse Gove summarized the toll of the Utah War: “killed, none; wounded, none; fooled, everybody” 23—everybody except Brigham Young, who, throughout, had an inner assurance that the encounter would not result in calamity.

President Young’s leadership was not flawless, of course; in mortality, no one’s is. “There are weaknesses manifested in men that I am bound to forgive,” he said on one occasion. “I am right there myself. I am liable to mistakes,” he continued, but “I am where I can see the light. I try to keep in the light.” 24 The promise he felt was not that he would make no mistakes or always know what was best but that, in the end, God oversees the essentials. He quickly abandoned what did not work well for something that might work better, but his direction and his destination remained unchanging. Long-term goals based on revelation provided the consistency that informed his day-to-day decisions and gave him the confidence to press forward regardless of the obstacles—or even the errors.

Such certainty sometimes made Brigham Young appear stubborn. A few months after the peaceful resolution of the Utah War, President Young visited Governor Cumming. Concerned that they had narrowly averted disaster, the fair-minded governor cautioned Brigham Young to refrain from provocative acts in the future.

“With all due respect to your Excellency,” the President interrupted, “I do not calculate to take the advice of any man that lives in relation to my affairs.” Though not spurning friends and counselors, during such crises, in God alone would he trust. “My religion is true,” he told the governor solemnly, “and I am determined to obey its precepts while I live.” He would, he insisted, “follow the councils of my heavenly Father, and I have faith to follow it, and risk the consequences. …

“You may think strange of it,” he concluded, “but you will yet see that I am right.” 25

It was a beautiful Sunday morning. Augusto sat on his porch to enjoy the sunshine. His daughter, Mylene, climbed onto his lap.
“Tatay (Dad),” she said, “why don’t we go to church like my friends?”
Augusto wasn’t sure what to say.
“Well,” he said finally, “your mom and I went to different churches before we got married. But afterwards we stopped. We still believe in God and study the Bible, though.”
Mylene nodded. But Augusto kept thinking about her question. Maybe he did need to take his family to church.
Augusto decided to pray. “If you want me to serve in a church or do anything for you, just let me know,” he told Heavenly Father.
A few days later, there was a knock at the door. It was two young men in white shirts and black nametags. They said they were from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Augusto had many questions for them. For nine months, he listened to them teach. Finally, he decided to be baptized. He promised God that he would always do his best to obey and help others. His wife, Myrna, was baptized one month later. And little Mylene was happy to go to church!
Augusto and his family helped the Church to grow. They helped build the Church’s first chapel in the Philippines. Augusto also served as a branch president several times. Even though it was hard, Augusto remembered the promise he made at his baptism to do his best.
Years passed. Augusto’s family grew, and so did the Church. When the first stake in the Philippines was organized, Augusto was the stake president. Mylene grew up and got married in the temple. So did Augusto’s other children. Some served missions too.
Eventually, Augusto was called to be a mission president in the Philippines. He helped the missionaries have faith and share the gospel, just like the missionaries who taught him.
One day, Augusto got a phone call from the prophet. He asked Augusto to serve as a General Authority. That meant Augusto would teach other leaders in the Church. It also meant he would give a talk in general conference!
When it was his turn to speak, Augusto stepped up to the pulpit. He took a deep breath. He talked about the faithful members in the Philippines. He talked about the missionaries there who worked so hard. And he shared his testimony of God’s love.
As he sat back down, Augusto felt happy. He knew Heavenly Father had helped him keep the promise he made at baptism. And no matter what happened, Augusto knew he would keep that promise for the rest of his life.

I witnessed this union of generations one time when I was helping a woman in my ward. Her parents had been divorced when she was young, and she knew very little about her father’s side of her family. We found basic records that identified her father’s parents and grandparents. She had never known their names. She was overcome with love and joy. The Spirit of the Lord filled her heart, and she was eager to take their names to the temple so they too could make sacred covenants with God.

When my bishop told me, “The Lord is calling you on a mission,” his words seemed to have a different meaning than they had two years before, when he made the call for the first time.
I was 18 then, a newly ordained elder and busy preparing myself to enter medical school. Besides that, my parents had been inactive for a long time and had never properly trained me to accept such a call if it ever came. I felt these were sufficient reasons for me to say no but decided to ask for some time to think about it. I approached my father and, as I expected, he emphatically refused to let me accept the mission call.
I thought I had been smart enough to fool everybody, but in fact I was the only one being fooled. About a year later, just before I was to take the long-awaited entrance test to medical school, the Lord called me again. This time I resolved to pray about it. I told the Lord that the result of the test would be the answer to my doubts. If I passed, I would understand that my mission would be medical school; if I failed, a proselyting mission would be what he wanted from me.
I passed the entrance exam. Blessings were poured upon me in an avalanche. My father changed to a better-paying job, which he needed to pay for my expensive studies. The lessons in medical school entered my mind with incredible ease, and I became an outstanding student. I became engaged to a wonderful LDS girl, even though she lived 360 miles away and we met just a few times a year. Good health, so seldom enjoyed before, became steady in my family. I was called to be a counselor in the Campinas Stake Sunday School presidency. Through the efforts of the home teachers, my younger sister became active again in seminary. The Lord was blessing us abundantly.
But two years later, I was sitting right there before my bishop once again, being reminded of my obligation to the Lord’s work on the earth. I felt different about it this time, but I was still reluctant to accept. I wanted the Lord himself to tell me what to do. Scriptures that promised marvelous blessings, shown to me by returned missionaries and the bishopric, did not seem to help.
Praying was not enough either. I fasted also, asking the Lord to give me an unmistakable answer so that I would not be left in doubt. It seemed like a fierce battle inside me, my spirit contending against my mortal reasoning. I was nearly exhausted from it when I felt the “burning in my bosom” and knew the Lord had revealed that accepting a mission call was what he wanted from me.
The first round had been won. Now the scriptures would give me strength to support an unshakable faith in God. I knew that other trials would come but not so soon.
When I phoned my fiancée to wish her a happy birthday, she asked about my decision. I told her I had decided to go on a mission, but that I would like to talk with her when she came to see me in a few weeks. She insisted that we talk about it right then. Her sweet voice became choked as if something bitter were being swallowed against her will. We said good-bye.
I went to my room to pray to my Heavenly Father so she could understand and accept my decision. A little later the phone rang and that same sweet voice said with firmness, “Thank you for the birthday gift.” At first I thought she was being ironic, but then I realized she was sincere.
Little by little the Lord was showing that he had prepared the way for me. However, I felt that I would need his help a lot more when I talked to my father. My father is a good man, but his hard life had made him tough and materialistic. Such an outlook would prevent him from accepting my decision.
On a Sunday afternoon, when we were alone in our backyard, I decided to tell my father. He listened until I finished and then asked very dryly, “Is this your will?” I nodded. “Very well, now listen! When you took this course you destroyed the love that existed within me for you. I am not going to drive you out of the house but from my heart. Those medical school stickers that I proudly exhibit on the windshield of my car will be removed, and you will have to do much to put them back on. You tore down a great dream of my life, and as far as I am concerned you fell down with it.”
I tried to answer him and express my great love for him, but my words stopped in my throat. I wished that the whole world would fall upon me for bringing such great suffering to my father, whom I loved so much.
Time went by. My father went to stake leaders to try to stop me. In a last and desperate attempt he went to the stake president. When he returned home that night, he had only harsh words for me.
While I prayed to the Lord to give my father understanding, the Spirit dictated to me that I should listen to him without saying a word. The night before he was to talk to the stake president again, he was sitting alone in the backyard. He said the moonlight made the night clear. He took the opportunity to pray to the Lord in the way he knows and said, “Father, I know that you have given me everything, but do you need to collect all at once? You know I cannot bear it.” In that very moment the backyard became filled with shadows that started to move towards him. My father became stricken with fear and ran to his room like a frightened child. He spent the whole night talking to my strong and sweet mother. That long talk with my mother and his interview with the stake president, when both cried, were enough to change his thinking.
And then came the night that I will never forget. I was in the kitchen peeling a pineapple for our dessert when my father came home. He stopped behind me, placed his briefcase on the floor, and said, “May I talk to you?”
I was already getting used to his aggressive talking. I answered yes and continued to peel the pineapple. “Listen, young man, when I talk to someone I like him to look into my eyes.” I stopped, turned to him, and heard him say with a calm and tender voice, “My son, go and do what you have decided to do because the Lord has told me that it is right. You can count on me for help because I love you very much.” We embraced each other, and the Lord bound the heart of the father to the son and of the son to the father. Tears of joy rolled down our cheeks.
And now my longing for my fiancée and my parents, my desire to attend medical school, and even my disappointment at having to turn down a long-awaited job—all of this is overshadowed by the joy of having received a letter from President Kimball saying, “Dear Elder Areas. You are being called by the Lord to work in the Brazil, Rio de Janeiro Mission. …”

Life seems to have a way of changing the most carefully made plans, but no one would have expected the traumatic experience that awaited Don. His fun on the reservation was cut short by painful events, and his mission began in a much different way than one would have imagined.
While riding in the back of a pickup with some of his friends, Don accidentally fell out onto the hard, black pavement and skidded painfully along its rough surface. That was the last thing he remembered until he awoke in a hospital bed, his body in physical torment.
An excruciating pain in his back persisted through the long night, and as the new day began, Don found himself unable to move his arms, hands, or legs. He was paralyzed from his neck down!
Following an emergency operation, he awoke in a recovery room conscious that the pain in his mended back was subsiding; but he was also painfully aware of his helpless limbs that refused to respond to his efforts to move them.
Don’s concerned doctors had little hope that this condition would ever change. As he lay helpless in his hospital bed, fighting back the tears of discouragement, he poured out the feelings of his heart to his Heavenly Father, asking for strength to endure and for a recovery from his affliction if it were His will.
Night after night while others slept, Don struggled through the long, dark hours attempting to move his helpless hands that lay inertly by his side. He would pray and try, pray and try, repeating over and over in his mind, “I can do it, I can do it, I can do it!” Then, as the early morning light filtered softly through the blinds of his window, he would surrender himself wearily to a merciful sleep.
On one such interminable night, Don’s heart suddenly pounded with excitement as an almost imperceptible movement was made by one of his fingers! Holding his breath in suspense, he moved his finger again!
There was no sleep for Don that night. A wonderful, elated feeling of hope buoyed his troubled spirit and gave him renewed determination to regain the use of his hands.
Each night became a new adventure as gradually, with great effort and perseverance, the use of his hands and arms slowly returned to him.
In the meantime, Don’s doctor had procrastinated the unwelcome task of informing him that he must mentally prepare himself to accept his paralysis as an unalterable fact of his young life.
With great difficulty, the doctor broke this news to Don. It was a poignant moment for the good doctor who turned quickly to leave the room to conceal his emotion. As he made his exit, he stole a last glance at Don lying quietly in his bed. Just at this moment, Don reached his arm up to the head rail of his bed and pulled himself into a more comfortable position. The startled doctor could not contain himself. “Do that again, Don! Do that again!” he shouted with excitement. Soon the room was swarming with nurses and doctors who came running to learn the cause of the great commotion. It was a moment to be remembered.
Although Don was happy to feel the strength gradually return to his arms and hands, he had to fight back the tears when he looked down at his helpless legs.
In these trying circumstances he began to fulfill his desire to be a missionary. He told his roommate about the Book of Mormon and gave him a copy to read. Charles, a Hopi Indian boy, immediately became engrossed in the book, and, when darkness came at the close of the day, he continued reading. He devoured the words of this book for three days and two nights, jealous of the time it took to eat or rest. Finally, when he had turned the last page, he rose from his bed and walked over near Don’s side and asked, “Don, where did you get this book? I have shared in the traditions of my people that we hold to be sacred. Many of our traditions are written in this book. Where did you get it?”
Don happily shared his testimony with this new friend as he told him of the restoration of the gospel and of its special meaning to them as Lamanites, a covenant race and descendants of the Book of Mormon people.
Soon after this Charles was released to go home, anxious to share this new message with family and friends. Don was moved to a rehabilitation center in Denver, Colorado. He was quite unprepared for what he encountered at his new residence in the paralytic ward. Everyone seemed depressed, discouraged, and despondent. Patients could not understand how Don, who was in an equally distressing condition, could seem so happy. Some of them asked, “Why are you always so happy and smiling?” Don replied, “My smile keeps the tears from my eyes, and my laughter keeps the lump from my throat.”
With courageous determination Don took advantage of the special care he now received. Long after others would tire and leave the gymnasium, he would remain—trying, trying, trying. Through his valiant effort, accompanied by humble petitions to his Heavenly Father, he was finally strong enough to go up and down the parallel bars alone; and then he was able to walk with braces and crutches. His new mobility permitted him to attend church services. This spiritual comfort brought him great joy, but he was totally surprised by the reception he was given upon his return to the hospital. Everyone teased him for going to church! In his characteristic way, Don’s smile merely broadened at their taunting. He resolved to do something about the gloomy atmosphere in this, his new home, so he happily embarked upon the next chapter of his mission.
In the days that followed, he could be seen wheeling himself down hallways and into every room where patients would receive him, preaching the gospel to all who would listen. He became known good-naturedly as “the prophet,” a title that he accepted graciously.
In the evenings he often lifted his voice in song as he accompanied himself with his guitar. Others began to join in, and the spirit spread. Friday nights soon became known as the time for a hootenanny, and patients joined together with voices raised in song and laughter. Patients began to smile and call each other by name. This new spirit extended into other activities as well.
One of the more dramatic examples was the organizing of a wheelchair olympics.
On the day agreed upon, patients wheeled excitedly from place to place as they marked out a course for the coming events. Wheelchairs were lined up at a starting line, while occupants leaned forward, intently waiting for the starting signal. The signal was given, and they were off in a flurry of wheels and laughter. After a breather and an untangling of wheels, patients were given a chance to challenge another wheelchair. Don looked around, and pointing his finger at one of the chairs, said, “I challenge that chair.”
“Don, you can’t do that,” the astonished attendant replied. “That chair has a motor!”
The competitive young man was undaunted and remained firm; so a course was set and an eager audience waited expectantly for the signal to begin this most unusual race. Soon the signal was given and Don’s hands fairly flew as he propelled his chair toward the finish line. When he had gained full momentum, he ventured a cautious look toward his opponent, only to discover that he was shifting to a higher gear! To complicate matters further, a woven wire fence was stretched a few short feet behind the finish line.
With the heart of a champion, Don ducked his head and gave it everything he had. He crossed the line only inches ahead of his opponent and crashed happily into the wire fence. He was picked up and dusted off amid excited expressions of admiration. He had won!
All was not happiness for Don, however, for he longed to see his home, his family, and his friends. In spite of his high resolve, his vision clouded when he looked down at his crippled legs. Wonderful Church members tried to fill his hour of need, and Don said, “Through their kindness they put a smile on my face and laughter in my mouth.”
As time drew near for him to be released, he began to worry about his acceptance by friends and family upon his return.
The day finally came when his foster parents arrived. It was an ordeal for Don to muster up enough courage to direct the question that had filled his mind completely. “Do you want me to come back?” he asked apprehensively. They softly replied, “Of course, Don. We have a bed waiting for you.” The kind response was too much for him! This time his tears flowed freely and mixed with theirs in a demonstration of joy and love.
On the night of Don’s departure, a special hootenanny was held in his behalf. His many new friends shook the rafters with a song rendered in his honor: “Too Many Chiefs and Not Enough Indians Around This Place.”
The courage and spirit of this young man had touched the lives of others and left an indelible impression.
Two of the residing patients and two members of the nursing staff who waved good-bye to Don had embraced the gospel of Jesus Christ as a result of his influence. Many looked to the future with new hope, and each felt a personal loss at his departure.
Upon his return home, Don’s numerous friends were out to greet him and welcome him back into their circle of friendship. Don soon found a job at an LDS mailbox bookstore that enabled him to meet the payments on his car, a vehicle equipped with special controls that would carry him to his work and to the Mesa Community College where he was enrolled for classes.
As I concluded my visit with him, he handed me a letter. “What is this?” I asked. “It’s a letter from my physical therapist in Denver,” he smiled in reply.
I unfolded the pages and began to read. “Dear Don,” the letter began, “I don’t know how to thank you. Yesterday was the happiest day of my life. It was the day I was baptized a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
I hope I will remember the example of Don. I hope I will remember his parting words when I asked about his future. He looked directly at me and spoke with conviction: “I’ll wipe away my tears and let the winds of discouragement blow. I cannot fail, for God is with me.”

While I was a boy working in the fields with my mother, she taught me one of the most important lessons in life. It was late in the morning, the sun was up, and we had been hoeing for what I thought to be a very long time. I stopped to look back at what we had accomplished and said to my mother, “Look at all we have done!” Mother did not respond. Thinking that she had not heard me, I repeated what I had said a little louder. She still did not reply. Raising my voice a little higher, I repeated again. Finally, she turned to me and said, “Edward, never look back. Look ahead at what we still have to do.”

I can’t believe that my parents named her Angela! They’re both teachers, so you’d think that they’d know better than to call the terror of the kindergarten an angel. Being her eleven-year-old brother is hard. I have to baby-sit her on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons. The other days I have soccer or my first-aid class for Scouts. That and my homework keep me “legitimately” busy until suppertime.
The thing is, Angela has a vivid imagination. She’s always pretending to be a world-famous astronaut or world-famous ballet dancer or something else “world-famous.” She also likes to talk a lot, which drives me bonkers. And she loves animals. You’d think they were people, to listen to her.
Last Tuesday Mom was just leaving for a class as I walked in the front door after school. She gave me a quick kiss and said good-bye. I sighed and headed for the kitchen. It was too quiet! Angela was sitting at the kitchen table, eating a gooey peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich. Except for the grape jelly around her mouth, she looked like one of those kids in a TV commercial. But she didn’t fool me! I looked around the kitchen for signs of damage. I didn’t have to look far. Max, our sometimes-troublesome mutt, was under the table, having a great time finishing off the grape jelly—right out of the jar.
“He was hungry, too, Jeff. How could I eat in front of him?” Angela asked as I glared at her.
I shooed her next door to play with her friend Carrie so that I could clean up. Carrie has a swing set, and I figured it would help if Angela wore off a little energy. I used some wet paper towels to mop up the rest of the grape jelly, then curled up with my latest book, Invader from the Unknown.
Not even five minutes later I heard Carrie screaming at the top of her lungs. “Angela’s stuck! She’s going to fall! Hurry, Jeff!”
I tore out of the house and over to Carrie’s swing set. Angela wasn’t making a sound, but she had a panicky look on her face. She was hanging upside down from the swing set by one foot.
As soon as I helped her down, she gave me a mischievous grin. “The swings were gone, so we’ve been practicing for the Olympics. We’re going to be world-famous gymnasts.”
I gave Angela a threatening look. “You’re going to be a world-famous prisoner if you keep it up. One more caper like that, and you’ll stay in your room until Mom gets home.”
“I’m sorry, Jeff. I’ll be really good now. Carrie and I will have a tea party for our dolls.”
A few minutes later, all was quiet. Keeping one ear tuned for trouble, I stretched out on the couch with my book again. The alien ship had just set down on planet Earth, and billows of smoke were rising from the craft. …
All of a sudden I realized that there was real smoke and that it was coming from the kitchen! I made it there in record time. Carrie was hightailing it out the door for home, and Angela was staring sadly at a cookie sheet with several little black mounds on it.
“I did it just like Mommy did the peanut-butter cookies the other day,” she told me, “but I didn’t know what number to put the oven on, so I just turned the knob as far as it would go. I guess that was wrong, huh?” Seeing the fury on my face, she added quickly, “I turned it off as soon as I saw the black smoke.”
I looked at the clock, and my anger turned to panic. Mom would be back soon! “Angela,”—I spat out the ultimate threat between clenched teeth—“if you don’t help get this kitchen cleaned fast, I will never give you a piggyback ride again!”
Angela’s eyes widened, and she grabbed the sponge. She started wiping the counter, making big doughy streaks in the flour she had spilled while making the cookies. While we worked to get the worst of the mess cleaned up, Angela talked a blue streak about how she and Carrie were going to be world-famous cooks. I looked at the black blobs in the garbage can and had to admire her optimism. I was awfully glad that I had my first-aid class the next day, though. I didn’t think I could take another afternoon like this one.
“Angela, how about another snack?” I figured food would keep her quiet, and I didn’t know how much more of her jabbering I could take. I opened a can of little hot dogs. The food didn’t slow her down a bit; she was still talking a mile a minute. I growled, “Angela, if you don’t stop talking while you’re eating, you’re going to choke.”
All of a sudden, Angela got very quiet. She had a funny look on her face, and she was turning blue!
Without thinking about it, I reached over and whacked her on the back. Nothing happened. Then I remembered the Heimlich maneuver. It’s to help someone who has something caught in his throat and can’t cough it up. I’d just learned it last week in first-aid class.
I was scared. I’d only tried the maneuver on the dummy there, and I knew it should only be used in a real emergency or the person could be hurt badly. But Angela looked like she was going to pass out any minute. I heard my voice saying, “Don’t be afraid, Angela. I know what to do. I’m going to stand behind you like this. …”
I put my arms around her in a bear hug from behind, right below the rib cage, as the instructor had demonstrated. I made a fist with my left hand, thumbside against her stomach, and grasped the fist with my other hand. Taking a deep breath, I gave a sudden squeeze.
Angela made a funny choking sound, and the meat popped out onto the floor. She started breathing and crying at the same time and wrapped herself around me like a pretzel. That was OK with me—I was so glad to hear her breathing again that I wouldn’t have cared if she’d hung on all day.
Now both Mom and Angela think I’m terrific—or, as Angela says, “a world-famous hero!” And Mom said that as a reward for my heroism I don’t have to do the dishes for a week.
I’ve decided that Angela isn’t such a bad kid after all. She’s just different. “Unique,” Mom says. But then so am I. Unique, I mean.
And I’ve decided something else: Angela can have all the piggyback rides she wants—this week anyway.

I grew up in the high mountain town of Lake Tahoe, California. As kids, we spent magical winters navigating through four to six feet of snow, digging tunnels, and engineering impressive ice caves. Winter was a wonderland of fun and adventure.
In our neighborhood there were many cabins that people used only in the summertime, and another breathtaking snow sport, indulged in by some of the older kids, was climbing up onto the low roofs or porches of these empty cottages and jumping into the snow drifts far below. This roof-jumping excitement was a big no-no for me; a mom and dad rule that I found very restrictive.
The temptation grew to be too much. One day, at the age of nine, I climbed up a woodpile, monkeyed over an old ivy trellis, and scrambled onto the roof of the neighbor’s house. I sat triumphant for several minutes, surveying my domain. I felt free, and confident. It was glorious up here! I was absolutely sure my mom and dad didn’t know what they were talking about.
I remember so clearly that first jiggle of doubt as I moved to the edge of the roof and looked down at the snow. It seemed a long way down. “Aw, come on,” I chided myself. “You’ve seen the other kids do it, and they come out laughing, so it must be tons of fun.”
Temptation took hold of me, and I launched myself off the roof. Actually, everything seemed wonderful for the two seconds until my feet hit the snow. Then I remembered something important. The big kids always put their arms out, like bird wings, so that they’d only sink into the snow up to their armpits.
My thin little arms were straight down at my sides. The result of this was that I entered the snow like a rocket—sleek, smooth—and I got stuck. The snow pressed around me. I was in about 4 feet 4 inches (1.32 m) deep, and since I was only 4 feet 2 inches (1.27 m) tall, I was in trouble. I was wedged in tight, and it was a terrible feeling. I was not free anymore.
I shoved my head back, looked up into the brilliant blue sky, and yelled. I knew my mom was just inside our house. Sure that she would hear me and come running, I yelled again. No answer. The snow was absorbing my voice like cotton.
Five minutes went by; then 10. I was getting cold and very panicked. I tried to wiggle my way up. No good. I tried to kick my legs. I lost a boot. Fifteen minutes went by. I started to cry. I was so afraid I’d be stuck here forever.
Then I heard my mom’s voice calling. It sounded far away, but it was unmistakably her voice, and it was yelling my name.
I yelled out, “Mom, mom, I’m over here! I’m in the snow!”
It took some time, but eventually she found me. She dug me out and took me in to thaw by the fire. I’d been stuck only about 20 minutes, but it seemed like days. I was so glad to be free.
Mom didn’t say anything about jumping off roofs, or the loss of my boot. I guess she could tell by the look on my face that I was pondering the big issues of life: rules, foolish acts, and consequences.
Later that day my dad came to my room to have a little talk with me.
“Gale.”
“Yes, Dad.”
“Your mom and I love you.”
I felt tears coming. “Yes, Dad.”
“We give you rules because we love you, and we want you to be safe. You may not always understand why there’s a rule, but you have to trust us.”
“Yes, Dad.”
That was it. He must have known that I’d already learned a big lesson from my snowbound mistake. He stopped at the door to smile at me, and I knew without a doubt I was precious to him. I also knew that he would be so sad if I did anything that brought pain into my life. I remember promising myself that I would try to be a better girl.
Junior high and high school brought their share of boundary pushing and challenges. There were times when I put my toes right on the edge of the roof and peered over. It was hard not to jump when so many of the other kids were rebelling. Whenever I thought about jumping, the memory of being stuck in the snow would come to me, and I’d feel again that fear, and cold, and loss of freedom. I’d remember my father’s voice of love and concern.
I know that Heavenly Father gives us rules to keep us safe. He does this out of love. I also know that He’s very sad when we make choices that bring pain into our lives.
The world may think they’re free as they go about breaking or flouting God’s laws, but true freedom, safety, and peace come by being obedient to the rules of a loving Heavenly Father.

We get many letters about athletes who clean up the courts or the fields but not many about athletes who clean up the team’s language. Andy Fuhriman was chosen basketball MVP and All-Star, not only for the baskets he made, but for the way he influenced the team. He even helped the coach stop swearing.
Andy made the sacrifice of turning down a chance to play in an AAU tournament because it was held on Sunday. He’d rather be in his priests quorum in the Sandpoint Ward, Sandpoint Idaho Stake. His other interests are painting and studying, as demonstrated by his high grades.

It was just a normal Sunday morning until we entered the classroom. Our new Primary teacher, Brother Smith, was waiting for us.
“We’re going on a field trip today,” he announced after Sue gave the opening prayer. He put on his coat, grabbed his cane, and walked out the classroom door. “The bishop has given us special permission.”
Brother Smith had a twinkle in his eye, but he’s old and walks with a cane, so we didn’t have a hard time keeping up with him.
“Where are we going?” I asked as we went out the foyer doors and started down the walk.
“To a very special library,” explained Brother Smith, the twinkle in his eye getting brighter.
Our town had just opened a new library, but I hadn’t been to it yet. This was going to be fun! Then I remembered something. “The library is closed today—it’s Sunday!”
Brother Smith smiled as we reached the parking lot. “This library is open whenever someone wants to read and learn.” We all looked at each other with surprise; nothing in our town was opened that often!
“What kind of library is it?” asked David. David’s father was a lawyer, and he knew that lawyers had their own libraries full of law books.
“It’s a sacred library,” Brother Smith answered.
“You mean the meetinghouse library?” asked Sue, looking back. Her mother was the meetinghouse librarian, and she knew that it had lots of books and pictures and tapes about gospel subjects.
“No, not the meetinghouse library.” Brother Smith took out his keys and opened his van. “Everyone in!” We all piled in, jockeying for the window seats, as Brother Smith explained more about his mysterious library. “It has two rooms—an ‘old’ room and a ‘new’ room.”
“Our new city library has two rooms just for children’s books!” Jared piped up.
“This sacred library doesn’t have many books,” Brother Smith said. “In fact, it has only 66.”
“We have more books than that at home!” exclaimed Justin.
“In the old room there are 39 books,” Brother Smith continued with a smile.
“What kind of books?” asked David.
“Well, the first five are often called ‘The Law.’”
“My dad uses law books,” David said.
“These law books teach us God’s laws. They teach us about the Creation and about Adam and Eve. They also teach us about Moses and the laws God gave to him.” Brother Smith paused, but none of us said anything, so he continued. “There are 12 history books that tell us how the people were blessed when they obeyed God and how they were punished when they didn’t obey.”
“Is there any poetry?” Michelle asked. “I like poetry.”
“Yes,” Brother Smith replied, “there are four poetry books and another of wise sayings.”
By now I’d noticed that Brother Smith hadn’t started the engine; we were just sitting in the van, talking.
“And the last collection of books in the old room of the sacred library is 17 books written by prophets.”
“What do they say?” Justin asked.
“They teach the people to obey God, and they tell us about future events.”
By now most of the class realized we weren’t going on an ordinary field trip. But we still wanted to know about this sacred library.
“Now, in the new room of this library,” Brother Smith continued, “there are only 27 books.”
“Yes,” said Sue, “and four of them are history!”
Unlike me, Sue seemed to know what Brother Smith was talking about.
“Actually, there are five history books,” he told her, “but in four of them, sometimes called the Gospels, four different authors tell the story of Jesus and his life and teachings.”
“What are the rest of the books?” I asked.
“They are letters from church leaders to church members who lived in different places,” Brother Smith explained, pleased to see that I was interested.
“Where is this library?” I asked.
“In my hand.” Brother Smith held up a book.
“The Bible!” David announced.
“The Holy Bible,” Michelle added.
“The Holy Bible,” Brother Smith agreed. “In the Greek language, bible came to mean ‘divine library.’”
“The Old Testament and the New Testament are the two ‘rooms’!” I exclaimed.
“What did you learn today in Primary?” my mom asked later that day. She always asks, and in the past, I didn’t remember very often.
“We learned that we carry a whole library to church,” I answered proudly.
Mom gave me a funny look. But then Dad whispered, “Brother Smith’s his new Primary teacher,” and her puzzled look changed to one of understanding.
I can’t wait to go to Primary next week. Brother Smith says he’s going to take us on another field trip.

“I was just remembering something that happened to me when I was a little girl. My father took me to a carnival and bought me some cotton candy. It was pink and looked like the clouds at sunset. I just thought it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. When we got home, it was time for bed. I decided to save it so that every day I could have it and look at its beauty. I put it in a little box and put the cover on. The next morning when I woke up, I rushed to look at my beautiful treasure. There was just a lump of sugar and a sticky cardboard funnel. I cried because I thought someone had destroyed it. When I told my mother that I had wanted it to last forever, she said, ‘You can’t save cotton candy. If you want cotton candy forever, you have to make a little every day.’”

One day I was playing on the playground, and there was a girl who had a different- looking face. My mom told me that she couldn’t help that she was born that way. A boy was being mean to the girl, and I didn’t want her to have her feelings hurt, so I played with her. She was fun to play with and was really nice. I am glad that I got to play with her. I chose to do the right thing by not making fun of someone who looked different.
Caroline S., age 7, North Carolina, USA