Gospel Story Finder

When fast Sunday came again, Mark was prepared. His family sat close to the front of the chapel so that he could be first to the podium when it was time for bearing testimonies. During the meeting, he offered a prayer in his heart that he would know what to say.
When it was time, he stood and walked up to the microphone. At first, he was nervous at seeing all the people looking back at him, but most of them were smiling, and he knew that they were his friends.
“I have a testimony of the law of tithing,” he began, “and of the Word of Wisdom. I know we have a living prophet today, and I know Heavenly Father answers our prayers.” Mark ended his testimony and sat down. His mom patted him on the knee.
He still felt a bit shaky, but mostly he had a really good feeling, like he was glowing from head to toe. He was glad that he had a testimony and that he could bear it every single day.

During his mission and afterward, Sipho’s pioneering spirit motivated other African young men to accept mission calls and to serve the Lord. In fact, during one of Elder Khomo’s Christmas phone calls from England, the township boys all gathered with his family to hear of his missionary experiences. The enthusiasm from that telephone call was contagious, and shortly afterward, those same township boys submitted missionary paperwork and received calls from the prophet to serve in the mission field themselves.

A Laurel from Arizona writes: “It was October and our high school homecoming was fast approaching, but I was only 15 and a half when a guy asked me to the dance. I thought about saying yes and meeting him at the dance. My parents wouldn’t know. But then I realized it didn’t matter that my parents didn’t know—Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ always know, and they are the ones who really count. I didn’t go to the dance. Instead I had my girlfriends over. I felt so happy and free and full of life” (letter in possession of Young Women office).

After the teacher dismissed the class, Karen gathered up her books. She smiled at Sue across the aisle and said, “Thanksgiving vacation is finally here.”
Sue frowned. “I suppose everyone’s thankful for a vacation from school.”
Karen laughed. “I’m thankful, and I’m looking forward to a great holiday.”
As they left school, Karen said, “I can hardly wait for tomorrow. My grandparents and Aunt Emily and Uncle Joe’s family are coming. And my cousin Marilyn gets to stay until Sunday.”
Sue glanced at her soberly. “You’ll sure be busy all weekend.”
“I’ll say. Marilyn’s a lot of fun. It’s great to have a girl cousin my age.”
“I wish I had a cousin any age,” Sue said.
“Our family gets together every Thanksgiving—” Karen stopped, suddenly realizing Sue wasn’t excited at all about the holiday. “What are you doing tomorrow?” she asked cautiously.
“Not much.”
“Does your mother have to work on Thanksgiving Day?” Karen asked.
“Uh-huh. Thanksgiving is a very busy day at most restaurants.”
“Oh,” said Karen, “then where will you be having Thanksgiving dinner?”
“I’ll eat at the restaurant with Mom when her shift ends.”
Karen was silent. She felt almost guilty for the busy, fun-packed Thanksgiving holiday she was expecting to have, while Sue would have to spend most of the day alone. But telling Sue she was sorry would probably make her friend feel worse, she decided. When they paused in front of Sue’s house, Karen just smiled and said, “Happy Thanksgiving.”
Sue tried to smile. “The same to you,” she mumbled and hurried up the walk.
As Karen hurried on home, a sadness came over her. Sue’s already lonely, she thought. Maybe I should have just said, “See you Monday.” But lots of people have to work on Thanksgiving—doctors, nurses, bus drivers, firemen, policemen, cooks, waitresses. Maybe Sue’s used to being alone on Thanksgiving.
“I’m glad you’re home, Karen,” Mother greeted her. “Will you get out our best silver and polish and wash it for tomorrow?”
“Ummmmm!” Karen paused to savor the aroma. “The smell of mince pies baking makes me hungry.”
By the time she had finished the silver, Mother had a pie ready for her to take to the Carvers. Karen felt content as she carried the warm pie to the elderly couple who lived on the corner.
“Happy Thanksgiving from our family,” Karen greeted Mrs. Carver.
“A home-baked pie!” Mrs. Carver exclaimed, her face glowing. “Thank you so much. Being remembered makes Thanksgiving very special.”
“Do I smell mince pie?” Mr. Carver asked, getting up from his chair.
Karen smiled. “Hot from the oven.”
“Warm mince pie’s my favorite.” Mr. Carver’s eyes twinkled. “If you don’t mind, I’ll have a piece right now.”
As Karen left the Carvers, she thought about what Mrs. Carver had said about being remembered. Then she thought of Sue.
When she arrived home, holiday preparations again dominated her thoughts. And by the time she’d straightened her dresser and made room in her closet for Marilyn’s clothes, she was almost too tired to think. “I can hardly wait for morning, though,” she told her reflection in the mirror just before she said her prayers and crawled into bed. “Marilyn will be here for the whole weekend!”
But with the lights out, Sue’s loneliness again intruded into Karen’s thoughts. “I wish I could give her a happy Thanksgiving,” she murmured to herself, her troubled thoughts keeping her awake. Somehow, such a wish seemed like asking Heavenly Father to help the poor while selfishly refusing to help them yourself. Then, smiling suddenly to herself, Karen turned on her lamp and set her alarm.
Karen was already in the kitchen the next morning when Mother got up.
“Karen!” Mother said, looking surprised. “Are you up early to help me stuff the turkey?”
“Whatever you want me to do,” Karen replied. “But I’ll need some time off this morning.”
“Time off? On Thanksgiving?”
Karen told her mother about Sue and about the plan she’d made last night.
Mother gave Karen a big hug. “I think your plan will make Thanksgiving more meaningful for all of us.”
Karen telephoned Sue’s mother and told her about the plan.
“Thanks so much, Karen,” responded Mrs. Anderson. “You have no idea what it means to me to know that Sue won’t be spending most of Thanksgiving alone.”
As soon as breakfast was over and Karen had the dishes washed, she put on her coat.
“With all the work to do around here,” her brother Bill protested, “where are you going?”
Karen grinned. “I’m going after an extra pair of hands.”
Karen rang the bell three times before Sue, still in her bathrobe, answered the door.
“Aren’t you ready?” Karen asked.
“Thank you for your invitation, Karen, but I couldn’t intrude on your family, especially on Thanksgiving.”
“You’re my friend. You won’t be intruding.”
“Thanksgiving is a family day,” Sue insisted.
“On the first Thanksgiving, the Indians weren’t members of the Pilgrims’ families,” Karen pointed out. “Thanksgiving is a day of friendliness and thankfulness.”
“Maybe it was—a long time ago,” Sue said. “But holidays change like everything else. Besides, your cousin’s coming.”
“Marilyn is my friend as well as my cousin. You two will like each other.”
“You haven’t planned for me.”
“When there are sixteen people, there’s always room for one more.” With a mischievous twinkle in her eye, Karen looked as grim as she could as she added, “I should warn you, though, we’ve been assigned the dishwashing detail.”
Sue laughed at that, relaxing a little. “Sounds more fun than frightening.”
“After the last dish is done and put away, you and Marilyn and I can plan what to do Friday and Saturday—that is, if we have any strength left.”
Sue’s eyes began to sparkle. “Don’t make it sound so gruesome. You know you’ll love every minute of it.”
“Only if you’re helping,” Karen said. “Knowing you were here alone would spoil my day.”
Sue’s enthusiasm suddenly evaporated. “But I forgot—I want to be with Mom today too. She only has a short time when we can celebrate Thanksgiving together.”
“We’re eating at noon. You’ll be ready to eat again by the time your mother gets off work.”
Excitement danced again in Sue’s eyes. “I’ll be ready in a wink.”
“Good,” Karen said. “I promised my brother I’d bring back an extra pair of helping hands.”

Staley’s Butte—7,921 feet high. He knew its elevation by heart after studying an old road atlas that Grandpa had in the bookcase. And he knew the mountain because he’d climbed it right to the top.
Sam’s mind wandered back to a Friday in the fall four years earlier, just after school had started. The family was around the kitchen table, talking about lots of little things that seem to be best discussed over a warm supper. Along about dessert time, Dad abruptly brought up the subject of climbing Staley’s Butte.
“You got much planned for tomorrow, Sam?” Dad asked between bites of chocolate ice cream.
“Nothing outside of the regular chores,” he answered cautiously, wondering if his answer would lead to additional work.
“What do you think of the two of us packing a lunch and making a climb up Staley’s Butte? I don’t believe you and I have ever climbed it.”
“Sure, Dad!” Sam said. “Really? That’s a pretty hard climb isn’t it?”
“Oh, it’s a test. That’s for sure. But you’ll make it,” Dad encouraged, and then turning to Mother. “Say Ruth, did you hear Vernon Henderson sunk a new well …”
Nothing more was said about the climb, at least until five the next morning when Sam felt someone gently shaking his shoulder.
“You going with me on the hike today, Son?”
Sam was a little startled by having his sleep broken so unexpectedly. “Huh … hike? Oh yeah, Staley’s Butte,” he said groggily. “We’d better fix something to eat for when we get to the top,” he said, proud of what he felt was admirable foresight.
“Already done,” Dad reassured, smiling. “I’ve been up an hour. Breakfast is on the table, and I’ve got a pack full of sandwiches. Are you going up there in your pajamas?”
“Be right with you,” Sam said, swinging out of bed and fumbling around with some clothes.
Thirty minutes later they were turning away from the highway and onto a dirt road that led to the mountain. The morning air was clear, still, and cool. Sam leaned back in the car seat, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. The air smelled mostly like dew and juniper, with the fragrance of sage intermingled. Higher up, where the road started switching back on an upward path, he knew the fresh smell of pine would dominate.
They poked ahead for another ten miles before Dad slowed up and pulled the car over where the road flared just before a wooden bridge crossed a hard-running stream. Light had been making steady gains on the darkness, and now sunshine was reaching the tops of the trees. Sam pulled back on the door handle and jumped out into the nippy, tingling air.
“There’s a trail that runs parallel to the stream. We’ll follow it for a couple of miles,” Dad said matter-of-factly. “There’s a little draw that washes down almost from the top of the mountain. We can follow it up almost to the summit. The last stretch is tough, but I think we can lick it.”
Dad was digging through the back seat for the pack with the food in it. He fished it out and hefted it onto his back, then stopped just short of letting it rest on his shoulders.
“You know, Sam, I think it might be time to let you carry the pack. You’re about as big as I am now.”
They started off on the trail, Dad in the lead, taking long, loping strides. Gradually the trail left the streamside, climbing higher into the thick pine forest. The harsh noise of the rumbling water was slowly replaced by the sounds of the wind stirring through the tree limbs and a host of mountainside birds clucking and calling. Soon the sunshine filtered to the trail and Sam was mildly surprised to find perspiration forming on his forehead. They pushed on for an hour, not saying much, but sharing the communication that seems to come naturally for fathers and sons in the outdoors.
They hiked on for 45 minutes. The pine forests were thinning into small meadows and patches of rock. Sam noticed they were now able to look down on the tops of the lower peaks nearby.
“This is where we leave the trail,” Dad said, stopping for a rest. “The streambed should lead us almost to the top. How about some water?”
Sam took the pack off and passed a plastic jug to his father. Far below, perhaps a half-mile, the stream thrashed and twisted down the canyon. Its gurgling could only be heard during the moments when the wind died down.
Dad handed the water jug back to Sam, who took a couple of long swallows before wiping the top off and placing it back in the pack. He looked at Sam. “How about you taking the lead? I’m getting sort of tired I guess.”
“Okay, Dad, but don’t expect me to slow down on your account,” Sam teased.
“Then let’s go, Mr. Young and Arrogant.”
Sam turned and faced Staley’s Butte. It wouldn’t be an easy climb, this last stretch. The slope was steep and there was plenty of loose rock. And the top of the butte resembled a king’s crown, with tall spires that seemed to dare anyone to climb them.
They made steady progress for the next hour, zigzagging along the rocks. But the small streambed they’d been trying to follow began to narrow and steepen, finally disappearing among the upper reaches of the mountain. It wasn’t long before both father and son were using hands and feet to help them work their way to the top. Sam found himself nearly out of breath as he searched for hand holds and solid footing. Dad was right behind, and Sam could hear him breathing hard. They rose, slowly, arduously, until the terrain flattened into a small mesa two dozen feet wide with a few good-sized stones sprinkled about.
“Ready for a rest?” Sam questioned, hoping that his father would say yes.
“I think so … that was quite a climb … that last little stretch,” his father panted. “There’s some good sittin’ rocks here. Let’s take five.”
Both of them were quiet for a few moments. The water jug was passed around again.
“By the look of things, we’re going to have to grow some wings if we want to make it to the top,” Dad said, studying the steep spires above. “You still game?”
“I think we can do it, Dad,” Sam said slowly. “If we stay to the left there seem to be places between the spires where we can get some good holds.”
“That’s our best bet, no doubt about it,” Dad agreed. “You know, my foot is kind of bothering me. Blisters. Why don’t you start up, and if you make it okay, then I’ll follow you in a few minutes. I think I’d better take care of my foot,” he added with a trace of playfulness in his voice.
Sam took the challenge. “See you at the top,” he said.
The last part of the climb was the most difficult. Sam carefully crept up an opening between two of the spires, ignoring a dozen scrapes and small cuts he received as he pulled himself up. After 20 minutes, he crawled over the last ledge. He stood up and gazed at the panorama around him, then called down to his father to let him know he’d reached the top of Staley’s Butte.

Illustration by Anastasia Suvorova
While my husband and I attended college and for many years afterward, things were financially tight for us. Instead of buying gifts, I made them. One year I made Christmas tree skirts to give to my sisters and sisters-in-law.
I gathered material scraps and remnants that were green, red, white, or a combination of those colors. Most of the fabrics were not Christmas print. I cut them into simple squares and sewed them together to make the tree skirts. Each skirt had a variety of fabric types.
That year for Christmas, we traveled to my in-laws’ home. Sharon, my sister-in-law, lived nearby, so we went to visit her family and deliver our gifts.
To my dismay, under her tree I saw a beautifully pieced and quilted tree skirt made of Christmas-patterned materials and scalloped edges. Sharon was talented in sewing, quilting, appliquéing, tatting, weaving, and other skills. She had made the skirt earlier that year.
I could not help but compare her beautiful tree skirt to my simple one. I was embarrassed to give it to her. I told her I understood if she didn’t want to use it.
When we opened our gift from Sharon the following year, we were surprised that she had given us the tree skirt I had admired the year before. She had graciously accepted my simple gift and in turn had given us a much nicer gift.
After fighting a physical illness for 12 years, Sharon passed away when she was only 38. A few years ago, as I put her Christmas tree skirt around our tree and thought about her, the tree skirt became symbolic of the gift of the Atonement the Savior offers us. No matter how good we desire to be, we are all mortal, with flaws and weaknesses. We are imperfect, like the simple tree skirt I had given Sharon.
In comparison to the beauty of the Savior’s life, we will always fall short. But if we do our best to offer the Savior a broken heart and a contrite spirit, He in turn offers us the blessings of His beautiful Atonement. We receive something much greater than our gift to Him.
I am grateful for the special reminder of His Atonement the tree skirt has become for me.

Elder Bruce Porter of the Seventy recounts an experience: “As a missionary in Germany nearly 25 years ago, I arrived in the city of Wuppertal as a new zone leader shortly after the missionaries who preceded me had had phenomenal success in baptizing several families and individuals. Their baptisms represented a substantial addition to that branch, which had nearly 100 members. We decided as missionaries to concentrate a great deal of effort on integrating and fellowshipping these new members so that they would remain active members of the branch for the rest of their lives. We taught them all of the new member lessons, as well as additional lessons of our own making; we enrolled them in a yearlong Gospel Essentials class taught by the missionaries; we worked with the branch leadership to ensure that they received callings and were integrated into the branch through socials and fellowshipping by members; we arranged for them to meet one another and help teach other investigators so that they would form bonds among themselves that would help them as a group remain active in the future. In short, we spent more than six months after their baptism doing what we could to ensure that their testimonies were strong and that they were integrated into the Church.
“Today, 25 years later, almost all of those families and individuals are still active and faithful. Many of their children have served missions and have been married in the temple. We now have a second and even a third generation of activity in the Church. The one couple who did go inactive had a daughter who remained active and has since been married in the temple. Although this is only one case, my experience then persuaded me that time spent by missionaries working with members to integrate new members into the Church will pay off richly in the long term” (letter to Elder Richard G. Scott).

On my mission, rejection and failure were as much a part of our everyday lives as eating and breathing. It was easy to expect rejection and anticipate that our investigators would lose interest in our message. But five weeks in one particular city taught me a valuable lesson. It was a city where no one had ever had much success. But someone forgot to tell my companion or me. We got along famously. We worked hard. And we had fun. We met lots of people interested in our message. We had a thriving investigator class each Sunday in this tiny branch. Miracles were happening in people’s lives. And we felt we were just scratching the surface of this golden city.

Why did we have so much success there? I believe the Lord blessed us with success because of our attitude. My companion and I loved working together. We were united. We worked hard. We honestly believed the city was a gold mine just waiting to yield up its treasures. Attitude has a lot to do with faith. Faith has everything to do with success. And faith is contagious.

Unfortunately, I was late in understanding this lesson. I failed to make the connection between the fruits of our labors and the way we labored. Consequently, I was not able to apply this principle as successfully in my next two assignments.

There are probably many other things I would do differently if I had the chance to serve my mission over again, but these four stand out in my mind. If you look at these ideas carefully, you’ll see that they fall within the qualifications the Lord Himself outlined for His servants: “And faith, hope, charity and love, with an eye single to the glory of God, qualify him for the work. Remember faith, virtue, knowledge, temperance, patience, brotherly kindness, godliness, charity, humility, diligence” (D&C 4:5–6).

Before leaving for the England Manchester Mission, it became evident just how much Jolyon’s new attitude toward life had affected him. Not only did he take part in, and win, several national paraplegic sporting events, but his social life also improved.

“We had a stake fireside on dating standards,” Jo says. “And the final challenge was a competition to get youth mixing. We had to see who could have the most dates (same partner allowed no more than five times) in six months. The prize would be a trip to London for a meal and a show.”

Despite the fact that Jo was in the hospital for one of those months, and his mission departure was a month before the competition finished, he still came out winner. His total—38 dates in four months. Now he has a two-year wait for the prize.

I kept hearing the words of the doctor. Looking kindly at the room full of elderly people, he had told us that, if we thought there was nothing to get out of bed for, we were dying. If we were living, we needed to get up, feed our body, keep it clean, and exercise it.
I was past eighty. I didn’t want to get out of bed. But it was Thursday, and I hadn’t yet fulfilled my weekly temple assignment. The evening news had been more distressing than usual. I was troubled about some family matters. My house and yard took what little physical strength I had. Helplessness, indecision, and my aging body frustrated me. Finally, I decided to leave this world for a few hours and go to another—the temple.
When I arrived at the temple, I sat for a while and quietly absorbed the feeling around me. The sister on my left was young and beautiful, with golden, shoulder-length hair. She smiled. The sister on my right seemed even older than I was. She smiled. I felt I was with friends.
Suddenly, I knew what had been depressing me. Satan is very real, and he is here on this earth to hurt and mislead everyone he can. It struck me with startling force that he would hurt even a little old lady, and that he had been hurting me. I felt peace and a closeness to the strangers beside me.
I saw that the power of Christ is stronger than Satan. I knew I had agency and could receive peace if I would seek it. My uncertainties and the problems of growing old drained out of me. My mind grew quiet and confident. I knew I was capable of handling all the decisions I needed to make.
I sat up straighter and felt happy. My friends beside me also seemed to feel the surging spirit that filled the room. The spirit testified that Heavenly Father lives. I knew then that the problems of life have purpose and help us choose right or wrong, good or evil, joy or sorrow. I knew that Jesus Christ lived on earth and is living now—and that through him I can be redeemed from my mistakes. I felt a power at that moment that would guide me and strengthen me to do what the Lord has planned for me to do.
How foolish of me to worry or fret during the few remaining years I have in mortality. I felt thankful for my home and confident that I could manage it. The Lord would help me make a celestial circle around the small spot of earth that is temporarily mine. My heart was filled with eagerness to begin a new life of hope and joy. I was filled with the desire to clean the house, trim the shrubs, plant some flowers, talk to the neighbors, and welcome any of my family who would come.
And my children do need me. All my grandchildren and all my great-grandchildren and their families need me. They need my well-being, my courage, my ability to be happy, and my love.
The temple session was closing. I silently gave thanks for the gift the Lord had given me that day. I promised to keep always in my heart the temple spirit I had felt. Outside, I paused in humble gratitude for flowers and budding trees. I knew that my apricots were blooming at home and that my daffodils would be there to greet me like a banner of gold. My heart reached out in love for home, for family, for life itself, for everything. I quietly resolved to live the last years of my life in gratitude and to make them become a sweet memory in the forever of the future.

Today, the difference between who I was then and who I am now is immense. From September 2024 to April 2025, I took various small jobs to cover basic expenses while coaching gave me motivation and taught me discipline. I wanted to create professional opportunities for myself, so I registered for three different exams: prison guard, professional tourism qualification, and a SEFI (a local employment agency) training program.
Thanks to my faith in God, my perseverance, and my coaching sessions, I now hold a professional qualification in tourism. I passed the entry exams for the prison guard role, and I’m currently enrolled in “Business Creator and Manager” training, an intensive three-month program. Opportunities are opening up for me!
On a personal level, I’m now reflecting on finding my eternal companion, someone to build my eternal family with. Putting Christ at the centre of my life has become a clear and natural choice.
Coaching has had a powerful impact on my life. Without those regular sessions, I would still be lost—trapped in fear, doubt, and lack of self-confidence. Today, I know what I want. I’m ready to move forward. And I can finally say that I’m proud of myself and the path I’ve walked, even though it’s been filled with trials.
With the Lord by my side and inspiring people like my coach, I know where I’m headed. I can’t wait to have the ideal job so I can, in turn, give back and thank those who supported me when I had nothing. That truly means a lot to me.

“I remember a special boyhood experience when my father once took my brother and me to an athletics competition, and I saw a man throwing the javelin for the first time. It made a great impression on me as a ten-year-old. Several years later in high school, after a lot of practice, I won the javelin event and became Victor Ludorum (Winner of the Games) with successes not only in the javelin and discus, but also in the high jump, long jump, and middle-distance events. Later still I represented the University of Nottingham and became a qualified javelin and discus coach.”

Torje Gundersen, 18, lives in Narvik, where he performs the harsh, rough labor that teenagers eager for money seem willing to do. He spends his days at a factory, cutting and weighing fish. But Torje has an excellent reason for working so hard: he’s saving up for his mission.
Torje is the only young man his age in the Narvik Branch, and here at the conference he’s all smiles. He’s just had his interviews, and he knows he’ll be receiving the Melchizedek Priesthood, one of the final steps in preparing for his mission.
“I know the Church is true,” he says simply. “It’s hard for all the youth here to always see that. It’s a lot like being in the middle of a rainstorm. Sometimes life seems all dark and threatening. But if you hold on to the gospel, if you live by the principles, you’ll make it through the storms. There’s always better weather.”

I have a 12-year-old brother named Carson, and he knows how to save his money. He pays tithing on everything he earns, and the rest goes straight to savings. Our family had been planning on leaving for a vacation at the end of January, and Carson had saved every dime for a year.
At the time the tsunami hit Indonesia last December, we watched the news night after night and saw the death toll mount. We prayed for the people who were suffering. It was hard for us to imagine the damage done by the tsunami when we have never experienced that kind of disaster, but my brother, Carson, brought a lesson about this tragedy close to home.
The Sunday after the tsunami, our bishop said that extra fast offerings for the Asian countries would be greatly appreciated. As soon as we got home from church that day, Carson ran to his room and got the money that he had been saving so carefully. He had saved over $200! He came downstairs, grabbed a tithing slip, and began filling it out. My mom saw what was happening and broke down in tears. Soon the whole family surrounded our 12-year-old brother to watch him give away every nickel of his vacation money to fast offerings. Carson showed us all that the Lord comes first.

Young Women in the San Jose California South Stake are wondering why everyone tells such horror stories about boot camp. As far as they’re concerned, it’s about the greatest thing to do with their free summer days.
Of course, their “boots” were a little different than those worn in the military, and it was a training camp for living a Christlike life, rather than serving as a soldier. BOOT (which stands for “building our own testimonies”) camp had a lot of the same activities that all girls’ camps have. But the highlight of camp was having poems written by the girls set to music by their stake president. The songs were then sung by a guest soloist at a special camp fireside, and tape-recorded for the girls to keep.
“It made my poem sound so good,” says April Gustavson. “I couldn’t believe it was something that I wrote.”

When Elder Neil L. Andersen of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles and his wife, Kathy, visited during our stake conference, Sister Andersen shared a story with us. She said that when they were living in France, she made photocopies of the conference talks for each of their children—even the very young ones. She was shocked when she found out the price of the photocopies, which was very high. Then the thought came into her mind: “What is it worth to you for your family to have the words of the prophets?”

This story really touched me, and I made sure everyone in our family had his or her own copy of the conference talks. Our daughters were very excited. We used them for family home evening and during scripture study. I loved seeing one daughter reading talks on her own and marking them with her highlighter. Another daughter, recently baptized, begged me to read talks with her one-on-one.

As part of my lesson in Relief Society, I challenged each sister to review the talks from the previous conference; some sisters reread the talks, and others watched them online. Several sisters expressed how they felt much more prepared for the upcoming conference.

When I was in the Young Women program, I was one of only two Laurels surrounded by Beehives. Because the other Laurel had athletic engagements each week, I found myself, a lone Laurel, suffocated by so many younger, seemingly immature girls. Our Young Women program was struggling: hurt feelings, drama, and offense were common. For a while no one in our ward wanted to attend meetings.
Then I was called to serve the younger girls at girls’ camp. It was a daunting call. I felt intimidated, annoyed, and nervous. But I went.
I have never experienced a more miraculous change of heart. In less than a week, I gained a testimony of the divine potential within each and every child of God. The Savior allowed me to share His love for my sisters in the gospel. His eyes illuminated my sight, and I really saw each girl as a beloved daughter of our Heavenly Father. Through serving the girls, the Lord opened my heart, and they became not just the girls in my ward but my girls.
By the end of the week I had the ability to recognize divine qualities in every girl, and my heart felt like it would burst because of the love I felt for them. Although this change of heart was unexpected, it taught me that charity comes through meaningful service, and it truly is the pure love of Christ.

Howard R. Driggs tells of an incident in the life of the poet Longfellow that illustrates the concept I would like to stress:
“It happened that, while the poet, at over eighty years of age, was still teaching at Harvard, one of his appreciative students asked him, ‘How do you keep so perennially young, Professor Longfellow? We never get tired of your classes. You always have something new and interesting to give.’
“‘I’ve never had that question put to me before,’ returned the poet. Then, looking out of the window, he said, ‘Do you see those two apple trees in the yard?’
“‘Yes.’
“‘Do you observe any difference between the blossoms on the older tree and those on the younger one?’
“‘No,’ replied the student, ‘they look just alike to me.’
“‘How do you account for the fact that the old apple tree flowers out as beautifully as does the young one?’ persisted the teacher.
“‘I can’t explain it.’
“‘Let me tell you the secret. That old tree managed last year to grow enough wood to put forth its new blossoms. Blossoms, you know, always come on the new wood.’
“‘Oh, I see,’ said the young man, ‘to keep young one must keep growing.’
“‘Yes,’ came the quiet response” (in Especially for Mormons, comp. Stan and Sharon Miller, Provo, Utah: Kellirae Arts, 1978, 4:2–3).

Once there was an ordinary house, with an ordinary fence, an ordinary yard, and an ordinary car parked in the driveway. What went on in this house, though, was anything but ordinary.
Anyone who knew anything about the Pout family who lived in the house would tell you, “Don’t borrow sugar there,” or “Don’t sell cookies there,” or “Don’t throw your ball over that fence.” You see, everyone in this ordinary house was extraordinarily grouchy. Mr. Pout and Mrs. Pout were grouchy. Sue and Lou Pout, their daughters, were grouchy. Even their dog, Boo, was grouchy.
It all started on a very ordinary day. “Why didn’t you mow the lawn?” Mrs. Pout yelled at Mr. Pout. Mr. Pout huffed outside, mumbling something about Mrs. Pout’s dry meat loaf.
Seeing Sue Pout out in the yard, Mr. Pout frowned and angrily asked, “Why didn’t you pick up your toys? I have to mow, and they’re in the way!”
Sue got up with a groan, threw her toys onto the porch, marched into the house, and stomped up to her bedroom. Lou was on the floor, playing with blocks.
“Get out of my room!” Sue demanded sulkily. “And play with your toys in your own room.”
Lou scrambled out of Sue’s room and into her own. Boo was curled up on her bed.
“You’re getting hair all over my bed,” Lou complained loudly.
Boo jumped off the bed and ran out of the room with his tail between his legs. He went outside and lay in Mrs. Pout’s flower bed—on purpose!
Day after day their grouchiness got worse and worse, and everyone in town tried to avoid them.
One bright morning, a stranger with a wide, red hat came to town. She was going to visit an old friend but could not find her house. She walked straight up to the Pout’s front door and knocked. Mrs. Pout answered with a frown.
“Good morning. My name is Eva Smiley, and I am looking for the home of my friend Ava Twinkly. Do you by chance know where she lives?” Eva asked with a smile.
“Next block over, three houses down,” Mrs. Pout grumbled as she started to shut the door.
“Thank you so much,” Eva said. “By the way, you have the most beautiful flower bed I have seen. You must have put your heart and a lot of hard work into such a magnificent display.”
Mrs. Pout was not used to hearing such kind words and could not help but smile at the stranger’s compliment.
“Well, have a good day, and thanks again for the directions,” Eva said as she walked toward the street, her wide, red hat bouncing with each step.
That day, for the first time in a long while, Mrs. Pout hummed as she worked in her flower bed, carefully tending each delicate flower.
Later, she saw Mr. Pout outside and called to him, “Thank you for mowing the lawn yesterday. It looks so nice!”
Well, Mr. Pout could not help but smile at the kind words. All the rest of that day, he whistled as he cleaned out the garage.
That evening Mr. Pout found Sue watching a television show. “Thank you for washing the dinner dishes,” he said warmly. “I appreciate how you help out around the house.”
Sue could not help but smile at the kind words and hugged her father for the first time in a long while.
Before going to bed, she noticed a picture Lou had colored and hung on the refrigerator. She went up to Lou’s room. “The picture you colored of the mountains is great! You made the mountains look big and real!”
Lou could not help but smile at the kind words, and that night she had pleasant dreams.
The next morning, Boo was curled up on Lou’s bed. She petted him and got up to get him a dog bone. “You’re a good dog, Boo, and you keep me warm at night,” she said gently.
Boo had not had a dog bone in a long while. It made him very happy, and that day he did not lie in Mrs. Pout’s flower beds.
That morning at breakfast, Mr. Pout grinned and said, “Would anyone like to go to the lake today for a picnic? We could get some ice cream on the way home.”
Bright smiles lit all the faces around the table. Something amazing and almost magical had happened to the Pouts. They were no longer grouchy! And although they would always be the Pout family, their attitudes from then on were most unpoutlike.
And somewhere a smiling stranger walked away from another house, her wide, red hat bouncing from side to side.

“I saw the funniest show yesterday. You should check it out. Then maybe we could watch it together sometime!” Brooke said.
Camille loved chatting with her best friend while they walked home from school together. She loved how much they had in common.
“Sounds great!” Camille waved goodbye and walked in her front door.
After Camille finished her homework, she turned on the TV and found the right show. It would be so fun to talk about it with Brooke tomorrow!
The show was funny. The characters did silly things and told jokes. Camille laughed a lot. But not everything they said was funny. They said some words that made Camille feel like there were frogs hopping in her stomach. They weren’t good words.
What should I do? she wondered. Camille knew these words were not nice. But she wanted to know how the show ended. What would she say if Brooke asked her about it tomorrow?
With a sigh, Camille turned off the TV.
After Mom got home, Camille helped her set the table for dinner. “How was school?” Mom asked.
Camille put out the forks and spoons. “It was really good! Except … Brooke told me about a show to watch. I started watching it, but it had bad words in it. I didn’t feel good about it, so I turned it off.”
“It sounds like you made a very good choice.”
“But Brooke wants to watch it together. We’re best friends! We like the same music, the same ice cream, the same books …”
Mom set a dish of pasta on the table. “True, but that doesn’t mean you have to do all of the same things. Especially if it’s something you don’t feel good about. It’s OK to make different choices than a friend does.”
“What do you mean?” Camille asked.
“Well, we choose to avoid bad words so that we can feel the Holy Ghost,” Mom explained. “But not everyone has the same standards as we do. That doesn’t make them bad people.”
Camille was still worried about what would happen when Brooke asked her about the show. They talked about everything! What if Brooke thought she was being a baby? Or worse, what if she didn’t want to be friends anymore?
Camille said a prayer before going to sleep. Heavenly Father, please help me talk to Brooke tomorrow. Please help me be brave. Camille climbed into bed and hoped that things would be OK at school.
“Camille!” Brooke yelled across the playground. She ran through the grass to meet Camille. “What’d you think of the show? Wasn’t it funny?”
Camille took a deep breath. “I actually didn’t watch much of it.”
Brooke looked confused. “Why not?”
Camille thought for a second. Should she just say she’d been busy? What was Brooke going to say? “Well … I didn’t watch it because they said words I didn’t like. I didn’t feel good watching it.”
“Oh,” Brooke said quietly. Then she said, “That’s OK. We don’t have to watch it together. We can find a show we both like or do something else together.”
“OK.” Camille smiled. Then the two friends walked to class together, talking and laughing the whole time.
The author lives in Utah, USA.