Gospel Story Finder

“Wherever I go, it’s the children that concern me. I remember a little six- or seven-year-old girl that I met in Ethiopia. She was collecting water from an irrigation ditch. It was full of silt and mud, but it was the only water available. She went down a very steep bank with a basin and a cutoff plastic bottle which she used as a dipper, and filled the basin with the black water. Then she carried it home on her head. God bless those dear little ones. How He must love them. And how heavy are the burdens that they have to carry. It tears at my heart.

Subject: Lisa (Elizabeth)
Age: 16 years
Event: A ride home with Larry Hill, local football hero
“Did you see Friday night’s game?” Larry asked as he helped her into the car.
“Oh, sure. You were wonderful!”
“Thanks.’”
“I bet you have to practice hard to get so strong and fast. Just watching you run around the other team is so exciting.”
“Things have always come easy for me. ‘Natural talent’ is the way the paper describes it.”
“But you must train hard.” “No,” he answered, “training is for people who don’t have natural talent.”
“Are you going to play in the pros?” she asked.
“Oh, sure,” he answered confidently. “I’m going to be a legend in my own time. Someday you’ll see me on TV and you’ll tell people that you knew the great Larry Hill and that he gave you a ride home from a school pep assembly practice.”
“Okay,” she smiled, “I’ll do my part if you do yours.”
“It might be a nicer memory if you’d sit a little closer,” he suggested. Turning on his four-track stereo to mood music, he casually put his arm over her shoulder. “You know, Lisa, I was watching you tonight. I think I could really fall for you.”
She sat forward, leaving his arm dangling in the air. “Larry, do you know where I live? It’s on Fairmont.”
“Sure, I know.”
“Then where are you driving?” “I thought we could go up on the hill overlooking town and look at the moon … and talk.”
“You can see the moon really well from my house,” she suggested.
He looked at her suddenly with a puzzled expression. “You’re joking? You don’t want to go up there with me?”
“I’ve got to go home. My parents will be worrying.”
He angrily flipped off the music, made a U-turn in the middle of the block, and sped back toward her house. “I’ll tell you one thing, “he finally said, “there are not many girls in our school who’d turn down attention from me.”
“Really? Maybe I’ll be a legend in my own time, too.”
“You’re making fun of me, aren’t you?”
“Larry, you’ve got the whole world telling you how great you are. Isn’t that enough?”
“Why won’t you go up there with me and talk?”
“I’ll talk with you in our kitchen over popcorn. Why do you want to go there?”
“I might want to kiss you.”
“And parking up there has worked with other girls?”
“Look, who else ever pays any attention to you? I’m doing you a favor.”
“You sound so sorry for me,” she said. “Is a kiss from you such a prize?”
“Other girls think so,” he answered crisply.
“Suppose I just let them have my share.”__________
“But my cousin says that you are a good athlete,” Elizabeth said to Dan.
“I play racquetball. I’ve been state champion three times. Since I wasn’t cut out to be a football player, I substituted racquetball.”
As he opened the car door for her outside the restaurant, she gave him a broad smile.
__________
“Elizabeth, you have the most beautiful smile.”

My father, my hero, taught me this lesson. When something is difficult, even terrifying, you meet it head-on and practice it over and over until it is no longer terrifying or difficult. As a novice driver, I was terrified of driving over railroad tracks. I would purposely take a longer route to get places where there was a bridge over the railroad tracks, rather than taking the shorter route. I did not want help to get over this fear, because there were bridges! Why did I need to improve? On top of this was my lack of competence with standard transmission. It happened that when it was time to take my driver’s test, the family vehicle with automatic transmission was out of commission and all that was left was our old, red, rust-spotted, standard-transmission, ugly Volkswagen bug. I was bemoaning the fact to my young women’s leader, who offered to allow me to drive her Karmann Ghia for my driver’s test—a sporty little car with the desired automatic transmission. Hesitantly, my father agreed to let me borrow her car. He also decided I needed more experience not only handling the little sports car but also with maneuvering railroad tracks, so he devised a training run. The first set of tracks was my undoing. Crossing lights started flashing as I slowly approached. I stopped, regrettably, just past the line where I should have stopped, and the guard arm came down on the roof of the car. Of course, I started bawling. My father got out, held the guard arm up and told me to back up. I did so, bawling, and with a little too much adrenaline in my foot action, stopping as the Karmann Ghia’s bumper tapped the bumper of the car behind me. I looked at the rear-view mirror through tears, and seeing the man from the car behind get out and approach, I put my head down on my arms on the steering wheel and howled. The voice of the man from the car behind didn’t scream at me but comforted, “Don’t cry, Deanna.” Who would expect that in a town with that few LDS people, I would have bumped into, literally, Keith Miller, who was in our stake presidency in Redding, California, and a family friend? Like my dad, he was also a driver’s education teacher at one of the high schools, so he’d probably dealt with a few meltdowns with new drivers. While the single train engine moved slowly past us, my dad inspected the Karmann Ghia’s roof and President Miller’s car bumper for damage. I don’t even know if there was damage! My father must have taken care of it. Dad still expected me to drive home even though he could have taken the wheel for me. He made me drive around and around over the railroad tracks. Humbled, the next day after my 16th birthday, I drove the old VW bug with standard transmission for my driver’s test, passing by the skin of my teeth, making it over the railroad tracks without incident during the driving test.

I felt like my dad was forcing me to lift my foot higher than I was capable by making me go around and around the railroad tracks, but I knew in my head it was for my good. I needed to be humbled and accept the help, advice, and required practice from my father.

Paul ran down the school steps and got into Mom’s car.
“How was school?” Mom asked.
“Great!” Paul exclaimed. “We have a new girl in our class named Cristina. She is from another country, and she is just learning to speak English.”
“I hope you will help her feel welcome,” Mom said.
“I’d like to, but how can I do that if she can’t understand me?” Paul asked.
“That’s easy,” Mom said. “Just smile.”
“Smile? What do you mean?”
“A smile can mean hello, how are you, or have a nice day. It is an international sign,” Mom said.
“I never thought of it that way before,” Paul said.
A few days later, Paul was excited to tell Mom about his day.
“Mom, remember when you told me that if I couldn’t talk to Cristina, I should just smile?” Paul asked. “Well, it worked!”
“That’s great!” Mom said. “What happened?”
“During recess I noticed that Cristina was standing by herself. She had a jump rope in her hand, but she wasn’t jumping. I wanted to be nice, but I didn’t know what to say. Then I remembered what you said and I smiled at her. She smiled back. Then she started jumping rope, and for the rest of recess she looked happy.”
“That’s wonderful!” Mom said. “I’m proud of you for being nice to Cristina.”
About a month later, Paul went to a school party at the roller-skating rink. As he skated around, he noticed that Cristina was standing alone at the side of the rink. Then there was an announcement over the loudspeaker: “Find a buddy to skate with for the next song.”
Paul skated over to Cristina. She looked surprised. He gave her a big smile and motioned for her to join him. Just like that day on the playground, she smiled brightly. As they skated with their classmates, Paul realized Mom was right. A smile means friendship in any language.

by Jennifer Haldeman
Our first full day together was finally over, and we turned out the light. Within two minutes, each of our pillows was wet with tears of homesickness. And yet, there was a closeness among us. Debbie Dall, Jennifer Waite, and I had all felt at ease with one another since our first meeting (although it had taken place just a few days before we were to live together). Our mothers love to tell the story of how we had talked nonstop for nearly two hours when we first met.
Our parents were all living and working in Saudi Arabia at the beginning of our junior year in high school. There being no American high school in the kingdom, our parents arranged for us all to attend an American boarding school in Lugano, Switzerland. We would room together, the only three LDS girls in the school. Never having met one another, we were perhaps at first a bit apprehensive about the arrangement, but our parents continually assured us that we had much in common and would get along fine.
Our parents’ words of encouragement did prove to be true, and Debbie, Jennifer, and I became close remarkably fast. Within the first week of school, word spread that we were Mormons. We easily squelched most of the strange rumors circulating about the Church, but some prejudices still existed. One girl even admitted to me that her brother said he felt uncomfortable around us because our strength to uphold our morals frightened him and made him realize his own mistakes.
Many positive things also happened due to the “advertisement” of our religion. Several of our good friends became interested in the gospel. Although it was difficult to interest them in attending sacrament meeting because it was in Italian, we found an alternative. Through the kindness of an English-speaking member in our branch, we were able to use her home to hold weekly Family Home Evenings with the missionaries and hopefully plant the seeds of the gospel.
On one such occasion we asked a teacher at school to drive us to the meeting, as it was difficult to reach with public transportation. She agreed, and upon dropping us off, asked if she could join us. At the end of the evening this teacher revealed her motives in attending. She said that she had noticed us on campus as a happy group, and one which did not obtain this happiness artificially through the use of alcohol, etc. She said that as the school’s college counselor she saw we had direction and a set of goals in our lives which was absent in so many of the students she counseled. She confessed that she had come that night simply to see what made us tick but that events of the evening had impressed her more than she ever expected. She subsequently began taking the missionary discussions.
As the year came to a close, Jennifer and Debbie decided they would not be returning to the school the following year. There would not be another “Mormon room” in the dorm or questions about all the pictures of big white buildings on our walls. But hopefully, the seeds we had planted and the friendships we had made would never be lost. We had lived together like sisters, and on our last day together, as on our first, the tears flowed freely—but this time for a different reason.

It was one of those rare Sunday mornings when, for a very special reason, I happened to be at home in my own ward. We sat on the last row, and our only son, a tall, fine young man, walked up the aisle at the invitation of the bishop and stood by the pulpit. The bishop spoke about my son and presented him to the congregation for their sustaining vote to his advancement in the Aaronic Priesthood. We all voted, and I later had the great privilege, at the invitation of the bishop, to ordain my son.
Later that day, during lunch, he told his sisters about the events of that morning. He said it was kind of scary walking up the aisle and standing up before the congregation with the bishop. But he said, “When they voted, I looked down and saw Dad’s hand higher than all the rest, and I felt all right.” And he was right. I had lifted my hand just as high as I could get it. He is my son, and that is how I feel about him. The relationship between fathers and sons is a very special one.

An eighteen-year-old priest recounted:
“On one occasion, I was persuaded to join a group on a weekend excursion. I was told that the [plans] for the day included … sightseeing, a lunch, and a movie. I was promised that there would be no [inappropriate activities]. All … knew that I was a Latter-day Saint and … deeply committed to the moral standards of the Church.
“Upon reaching the city, we visited a place or two of historical significance and ate lunch. Then the inevitable happened—the group turned toward a bar and a house of [prostitution]. I refused to enter these dens of iniquity, and I openly expressed my anger over the broken promises of my associates.
“As I walked away … , my companions taunted me by shouting, ‘When are you going to grow up?’ ‘When will you stop being a sissy and a religious fanatic?’ ‘When are you going to be a man?’” (Carlos E. Asay, In the Lord’s Service [Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Co., 1990], p. 46).

Stewart woke up with an intense feeling of dread. It was Friday—dodgeball day in gym class. His stomach was already tying itself in knots. He ate no breakfast, and he was mostly silent while his mom drove him to school.
First period was art class, his favorite. He liked it because it was something he could do well. He also liked it because he didn’t have to compete with anyone. There was no winner, no loser, just everyone doing his very best. That’s fair, he thought.
Second period was English, a class that Stewart would have really enjoyed if it were not right before gym. He loved to read. It was a grand adventure to let his imagination whisk him off to faraway places. But today, just as he got into a story and started enjoying it, he remembered that in less than an hour he would be in his gym shorts and sneakers, waiting for all the other boys to be chosen for teams. Then someone would finally say, “Oh, great—I guess we’re stuck with Stewart!” He hated that part even worse than the actual playing of the game. Naturally, the biggest, most athletic boys were chosen first; Stewart understood that, but he didn’t understand why they had to make fun of him just because he didn’t play as well.
Third period came. Stewart walked across the football field to the gymnasium, dreading even the musky smell of the locker room. He and the other boys dressed quickly and took their places on the gym floor; the coaches didn’t like to be kept waiting.
“Line up; it’s dodgeball day,” Coach Warden shouted. “We need some team leaders!”
Stewart kicked at the chipped lines painted on the old gymnasium floor, wishing that the period was over and that he was eating lunch. He was startled when Coach Warden called his name—he had never been called on to choose a team before!
Soon he and three other boys were standing in a line facing the group. Then Coach Warden walked over, “Stewart, you go first.”
Immediately most of the boys began the usual ritual of jumping up and down, waving their hands, and yelling, “Me! Me! Me!” Dan just stood there with his arms folded across his chest. He didn’t have to jump up and down; he was the best athlete in the whole school and was always chosen first. He told Stewart, “Go ahead—pick me, and I’ll pick the rest of the team for you.” When Stewart hesitated, Dan looked puzzled. “Pick me—you know I’m the best.”
The entire gymnasium became silent in disbelief when Stewart said, “I choose Craig.”
Craig stepped forward with a look of amazement that turned into a big grin. “I’ve never been first pick before.” He had always been chosen just before Stewart—next to last.
The other team leaders made their first choices. When it was Stewart’s turn again, a pin could have been heard dropping as he called out, “Andy.” Andy had usually been chosen just before Craig.
At each subsequent turn, Stewart went on going up the ladder instead of down, choosing boys who were usually “assigned,” rather than chosen. The other team leaders chose the best athletes, as usual.
For the first time, Stewart enjoyed the game. His team came in last, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that every boy on the team felt wanted.
After the game, the boys went to change clothes. Stewart was tying his shoelaces when Dan towered over him and taunted him, “I told you to pick me. But you wouldn’t do it. You’re nothing but a loser.”
“Dan!” It was the authoritative voice of the coach. “Stewart is many things, but a loser certainly isn’t one of them.” Coach Warden made Dan apologize, sent him and the other boys on to class, then turned to Stewart. “I want to thank you.”
“Huh? What for?”
Coach Warden sat down on the bench, motioning Stewart to sit beside him. “For reteaching me a very important lesson. You see, whenever there’s competition, there has to be a winner and a loser. Everyone wants to be a winner, and nobody wants to be a loser. Today the other team leaders were thinking only about winning, so they chose the best athletes. You were more concerned with the boys themselves, with their feelings. It would’ve been very easy for you to have picked Dan and let him put together the winning team for you. But you didn’t. You were brave enough to choose those whom the others considered losers. But you were the real winner today, Stewart, and so were your teammates. I’m very proud of you.”
The coach walked with Stewart to the door, then went into his office and made a list of all of the boys. He cut the names out on individual strips of paper and threw them into a baseball cap, ready for picking the next day’s teams.

When I was younger, I had trouble falling asleep each night. It was frustrating to be so tired and still not be able to rest.
I talked to my parents about my struggle, and they suggested I switch out my pillows, move my head to the other side of the bed, and not be near any electronic devices before bedtime. But even after following their advice, I still couldn’t sleep!
Then my dad gave me one more suggestion that changed everything. He said, “When you say your nighttime prayers, just talk to Heavenly Father.”
So night after night, I began talking to Heavenly Father about my day. I would start with when I woke up and talk about everything that happened until right when I was in my bed. I told Him about people I saw, blessings I was grateful for, how pretty it was outside, and things that made me feel happy. I also told Him about things that were sad, like if I hurt my leg or made a mistake.
I wasn’t able to fall asleep right away, but I noticed that my relationship with my Heavenly Father was strengthening. He listened to me. He understood my high points and my low ones. He helped me feel calm enough to eventually fall asleep each night.
I am so grateful I could talk to Heavenly Father during those sleepless nights. I know He loves me and helps me, even with small things like helping me sleep.
Alyssa B., 19, Virginia, USA

“I think you have plenty of petals,” Mom said to Autumn as she carefully placed another handful of pretty pink and white rose petals into Autumn’s basket.
Autumn frowned. “Just a few more,” she said, picking up some red ones.
The rose bushes that lined the sidewalk near Autumn’s house dropped what seemed like thousands of petals on the ground every spring. The neighbor who owned the bushes told Autumn she could collect all the petals she wanted. And Autumn wanted lots of them!
Autumn loved to dress up like a bride and act out pretend weddings. Sometimes she asked her sister to play the wedding song on the piano as she walked down the aisle, and sometimes she convinced a friend to be the pretend groom. And Autumn loved to scatter rose petals on the ground, just like flower girls did for brides in the movies.
One day, Mom told Autumn that her favorite cousin, Angie, was getting married in a few months. She had asked Autumn to be her flower girl! “That means I can walk down the aisle in a real wedding with a real bride and groom!” Autumn exclaimed. “I know just what to do. I’ll carry a little basket with rose petals, and I will wear a beautiful dress, and—”
“Well, not quite,” Mom said. “You will be wearing a beautiful dress, but Angie is getting married in the temple, so she will not walk down an aisle.”
“Will I still throw rose petals at the wedding?” Autumn asked. Now she felt worried.
“No, honey,” Mom said. “Only people who have made special covenants with Heavenly Father can go inside the temple to see a wedding. But you can wait in a special room at the temple, and when Angie and Noah come out, you will be one of the first to see how happy they look. Then they will want to take lots of pictures with you, and they might need your help at the reception that night.”
“But Mom, won’t Angie be sad not to walk down the aisle?” Autumn asked. “That’s the best part of a wedding.”
Mom pulled Autumn close. “No, Angie won’t be sad,” she said. “And I think you know why. What do you remember about the temple?”
“When you get married in the temple, you can be together forever,” Autumn said.
“Right,” said Mom. “For time and all eternity. That means that Angie and Noah will be married forever if they obey the commandments. That’s the best part—and it makes them very happy.”
Autumn believed Mom. But deep inside, she still wished that Angie could walk down the aisle and that she could carry her little basket of rose petals.
On Angie’s wedding day, Autumn wore a pretty new dress and had pink flowers in her hair. At the temple, Autumn waited in a room with her cousins while Mom and Dad went inside to watch Angie and Noah get married. When Mom and Dad came out, they walked with Autumn around the temple grounds, and she saw flowers even prettier than the roses at home.
Soon Autumn saw the temple door open, and Noah and Angie walked out with radiant smiles. They looked so happy! It made Autumn feel warm and light inside.
As Angie and Noah walked around the temple grounds holding hands, Autumn knew they had made the right choice to be married in the temple, even though it meant that Autumn did not get to scatter rose petals like she had seen in the movies.
Mom noticed Autumn looking at Angie and squeezed her hand. Autumn smiled back. “I’m glad I got to see Angie and Noah come out of the temple,” she said, looking up at the beautiful white building. “It was much better than petals.”

There’s one in every school. You know the type. The girl who seems to live a charmed life. Everything she touches—schoolwork, friendships, extracurricular activities—turns to gold. You wonder what her secret is and hope that maybe a little of whatever it is will rub off on you. But deep down inside you wonder if you can ever really be like her, because people like that seem to only come one at a time.
The Laurels in St. John, New Brunswick, Canada, however, seem to have misunderstood that “rule.” Instead of only one shining star in their school, all the Latter-day Saint girls are recognized on campus.
Take Sacha Koumbias, for example. She is student council president and works on a committee to build school spirit. Melissa Spragg loves to be in school musicals and plays. Virginia Clark—Ginnie to her friends—stands alongside Melissa in two of the school’s choirs and is a great dancer. Finally, Erin Robichaud was recently selected as the high school’s student of the year.
You might expect that in a group like this, there would be fierce competition, maybe even a little jealousy. But instead of jealousy there is support; instead of competition, encouragement. The girls say that when there are only four of you in a school of 1,000 students, there’s just no room for anything but good feelings and a lot of help from each other.
Being a member of the Church is what life is all about for these girls. When they talk about what excites them the most, it’s not an upcoming school dance or game; it’s the dedication of the Halifax Nova Scotia Temple. So, if it’s not what defines them, why spend time on all that extracurricular stuff?
“People at school know who we are,” says Melissa. “I think all of us feel a little bit responsible to stand out so that people will know Church members are good people.”
The high-profile activities these girls are involved in also afford them many opportunities to share the gospel.
“My friends always want to know why I don’t drink,” says Sacha. “I think that sometimes they think it’s a little weird, but they seem to respect us.”
That respect comes in handy when the girls are defending what they believe in at school. Like the time Sacha and Erin talked in one of their classes about how important marriage is, despite the fact that the rest of the class seemed to think that “a piece of paper” wasn’t necessary for people in love. Or the countless times Ginnie has told classmates that she does not now, nor will she ever, smoke cigarettes.
“When you face a bunch of people telling you that what you believe is silly or strange,” says Erin, “it’s nice to know that you’re not the only one who thinks a certain way. It helps you stay strong.”
Life isn’t always smooth sailing, even for these girls. Of all the problems this group has faced, they agree that Erin’s was the most dramatic. During a youth conference trip to the Toronto Ontario Temple a few years ago, Erin noticed that she was suddenly covered with what looked like huge bruises from head to toe. But she hadn’t been injured, or even jostled, in any way. It was only a matter of hours after she discovered these bruises that Erin was in a hospital in Ottawa—a day-long drive from St. John. She had acute lymphoblastic leukemia.
“Since I was so far away, I lost touch with friends from school, but Melissa and Sacha both came to see me,” she says. The years following weren’t always easy. Erin’s treatment was aggressive and tiring.
“Your perspective really changes after something like this,” she says. “Having good friends, good family, and the gospel is really what’s important.”
That support group comes through for less dramatic problems, too. Melissa dated a nonmember for a while. Melissa says they were too serious, and she felt that it wasn’t leading her toward the temple marriage she has as a goal.
“I knew I needed to end it,” says Melissa. “It was really tough, probably the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I knew it was the right decision, though, and the girls really helped me through it.”
Ginnie and Sacha have struggled with the stress that comes with the busy lives they lead. When things get too stressful, they know they can turn to their friends for understanding.
“It helps me to know that my friends are worried about the same things I am, especially getting good marks in school,” says Ginnie. “It doesn’t seem so bad when I know that they worry too.”
Soon the girls will be graduating from high school and receiving all the honors and accolades that girls like them typically get when they graduate. But that’s not what these girls will remember most about their years together. They’ll remember fun and good times, things like slumber parties, youth conferences, and stake dances. They’ll remember girls’ camp and testimony meetings. They’ll remember that they are daughters of Heavenly Father and that they had sisters in the gospel to help them stay strong.
No one ever told these girls that in order to win, everyone else would have to lose. Instead, they help each other, pushing and pulling until everybody reaches the top. And, not surprisingly, they not only make room for the four of them, but they always leave a little extra space, just in case someone else would like to join them.
Not long ago, there was a new addition to the Laurel class in St. John. Nathanielle Pître, who speaks French as her first language, doesn’t attend the same school as the rest of the Laurels. Instead, she attends a French-immersion school (her family is from French-speaking Quebec). Nathanielle, the only member of the Church in her school class, says she relies on the strength she draws each day at seminary.
“Sometimes it’s hard to be the only member at school,” she says. “But going to seminary, being with the other kids my age, really helps me feel good all day.”

Let me introduce you to two of your fellow students Kathy and Daniela from El Salvador. Kathy was among the first 20 students from her country to enroll in BYU-Pathway Worldwide, while Daniela’s mother inspired her to enroll. "Thanks to BYU-Pathway," Daniela said, "my English improved, I was given a leadership role, and my pay doubled." Both earned BYU-Idaho degrees and traveled here for graduation.
Elder Deiter F. Uchtdorf has said, “For members of the Church, education is not merely a good idea—it’s a commandment.” [1]
Kathy and Daniela are powerful examples of this truth. They show us that pursuing an education isn’t just a personal goal—it’s a spiritual act. Let’s talk about why that matters.

I learned a lot about gratitude from my father. To teach us, he would often repeat the quote: "I cried because I had no shoes until I met a man without any feet." While serving as a member of a stake presidency in the Philippines, I recall one Sunday when I had an assignment to visit a ward. A typhoon had just passed, and I was not particularly feeling excited to magnify my calling that morning. I had many burdens on my mind and I would rather attend church with my family. But I went nevertheless, albeit a little grumpy. Afterwards, I was in hurry to get home after the meetings when one of the mothers in the ward stopped me to ask if I can interview her to renew her temple recommend. I grudgingly obliged. She came to the interview smiling and happy. When I asked her first how her family was doing, she replied that their home was flooded nearly up to the roof the night before. They had to tie up and bring all their belongings to the ceiling. They also had to bring their kids in the middle of the night to an evacuation center and then they had to go back to watch over their house. Because of this they did not have much sleep. Yet she said both she and her husband were happy to be able to come to church that Sunday, especially so because she was going to get her temple recommend renewed. As she was telling me the story, I was somewhat confused because the happy expression on her face did not match the tragic adversity she was telling me about. Then I began to be very ashamed because I had murmured and selfishly dwelt on my problems when I still had a warm bed to sleep in. This sister taught me a lesson about gratitude that morning I never forgot. When I remember her I am inspired to always count my blessings.

I yanked the middle drawer right out of my dresser and rifled through it, hurling all the rejected clothing to the floor. It was “Bulldogs Wear Blue” day at school, I was late, and I still couldn’t find my Bulldogs sweatshirt. Finally recognizing a blue sleeve poking up out of the bottom drawer, I grabbed the wadded sweatshirt. Giving it a good stretch to try to pull out the wrinkles, I threw it over my head and rushed to the front door.
“‘Bye, Mom,” I said, smearing a kiss on her cheek and racing down the driveway toward the bus stop. From the sidewalk, I could see the last child boarding the bus.
“Here comes Michelle,” someone called to the driver. Then everyone on the bus turned to watch as I ran to it. Red-faced from running and from embarrassment, I slunk into the first available seat without ever looking up.
At school, I was halfway through the Pledge of Allegiance when I glanced at the chalkboard and realized that I had forgotten my homework. Last night I had struggled through a math story problem four times before I figured it out, and now I had left it home, where it would do me no good at all! When a day starts like this, it’s guaranteed to be rough. By the time the bell rang at three o’clock, I was miserable.
I trudged home from the bus stop, rehearsing my troubles of the day. Maybe Mom made some of her delicious peanut-butter cookies, I thought. The chewy ones with the crisscross marks on the top. Warm. With milk. I couldn’t wait!
My happy thoughts quickly disappeared when I walked into the kitchen. My little brother—not my mother—had been busy in the kitchen! There was a white powder trail from the flour bin to the middle of the floor, where he sat with a big mixing bowl full of slimy goo. “What are you doing?” I asked.
“I’m making bread just like Mom,” he answered, throwing a handful onto the floor and “kneading” it into the linoleum.
On another day, I might have thought it was funny. But not today—I was angry! I wanted to be greeted by warm cookies, not a little brother making a big mess!
Just then Mom walked in and saw the disaster. “What’s going on?” she asked. “Michelle, why are you just watching him make such a mess?” Her voice rose a notch. “And your room is a disaster! Go to your room and don’t come out until it’s clean.”
I slammed the door to my room and flopped onto the bed. It isn’t fair! I didn’t make a mess in the kitchen. Why am I in trouble? I’m the one having a bad day. Nobody cares. I sat up and wiped the angry tears from my eyes. I could hear the twins crying. My slammed door must have woken them from their naps.
I looked around my room. It really was a disaster! There was a drawer on the floor, and I had scattered clothes everywhere that morning while looking for my Bulldogs sweatshirt. And during the day, my would-be-baker brother must have invaded my toys, because they were scattered around the room, too. It was a mess. And it wasn’t fair! That brother of mine was a problem. Why can’t he stay out of my stuff? I wondered. I decided to rearrange my room so that he couldn’t reach my toys anymore.
I pulled everything off all the shelves and out of my desk drawers—toys, papers, crayons, everything! Everything of any interest to a little brother was going to be moved out of reach. As I rummaged through my closet, looking for toys that would need to be protected, I found my Tyrannosaurus Terror Drawing Kit.
Meanwhile, Mom had gone to the twins’ room to settle them down again. Then she had returned to the kitchen and found my brother trying to clean up his mess. Dragging a wet towel in the dough, he had smeared paste from the middle of the room to the sink and all around!
After Mom finally got the kitchen under control, she came to my room, where she found me sitting on an even bigger pile of stuff, playing with my dinosaur drawing kit. I knew right away that I was in big trouble. Her eyes widened and she opened her mouth to say something (or maybe yell something). Instead, she just turned around and left crying, looking totally defeated.
I felt awful. Everything had gone wrong—my sweatshirt, the bus, my homework, my little brother—and Mom was upset with me. I felt all alone. Not knowing what else to do, I knelt and prayed. “Heavenly Father, please help me. Help me so everything is OK. Help my mom be happy. Help her to love me even though I have a messy room. Please, Heavenly Father, please help me.” Still kneeling beside my bed, I buried my face in my pillow and sobbed.
Shortly, I heard Mom in the hall. I jerked up and grabbed a shirt to act like I was putting it away. I didn’t want to get in trouble again for not working.
When Mom came into my room, her eyes were red and swollen worse than mine. She quietly asked if I had been praying. I hesitated because I knew I was supposed to be cleaning, but I nodded yes.
Mom cleared a spot beside me, sat down, and put her arms around me. “I love you,” she said. “I’m sorry I was upset with you. I’m sorry you’re not having a very good day. I’ve had a hard day myself, and I was praying for help when the Spirit whispered that you were praying for me, too.”
“Really?” I asked. “Heavenly Father heard my prayer, and the Holy Ghost told you?”
“That’s right,” Mom said, smiling.
I started to cry again, but this time it was because I knew that somebody cared. Heavenly Father had watched my awful day, and He understood that I needed love more than I needed a clean room. And even though I didn’t get warm peanut-butter cookies, I felt a real warmth inside, a comforting knowledge that I am never alone.

My priests quorum was pretty much like any other quorum. We had an adviser, inspiring lessons by the bishop, assistants to the bishop, and then the rest of us. Our ward was neither huge nor small, but we had a number of members who seldom or never came to any meetings. In one particular quorum meeting we spent a lot of time discussing those young men who had not been to church in a while. Brother Wheeler, our quorum adviser, had prepared a list.
When I was young, many considered me shy and quiet, and I did not especially go out of my way to make noise or be seen. I was not the first to volunteer to visit the young men on Brother Wheeler’s list. All he was asking was for us to pick a name, make a friendly visit, and invite them to our upcoming weekly activities.
Hands went up when Brother Wheeler called out names from this list. He said it was a plus if you were already friends, neighbors, or schoolmates. I started to feel guilty as the list grew smaller and smaller. Finally there was one name left. The other boys were chatting about their plans of how they were going to take care of this assignment. Brother Wheeler looked at the name on the list and then at me. I lifted my hand. Smiling, he wrote down the boy’s name and sketched a map for me. He said the family had moved in a while ago and a visit could really benefit the young man.
We lived in an area of southeast Idaho where it was a mixture of farms and homes. Many of the parents commuted to work in town. As in many communities like this, we were fairly close-knit, and everyone pretty much knew everyone else. But I didn’t recognize the name I was given, nor did anyone else in our quorum.
Sunday passed, and I considered the name I’d received. Monday came and went. I still considered. Tuesday passed, and I considered with increasing gravity. How was I going to approach a total stranger and ask him to come to church?
Wednesday came, and my consideration began to change into worry. The week was already passing by, and all I could consider was a gut feeling of dread. This young man I was to visit had never been seen at church, he had never been seen at Scouts, he had never been seen at school, he had never even been seen, period.
The school bus dropped me off at my house. I pulled out the folded note I had been carrying with me since Sunday. The young man’s house was about two-and-a-half miles from mine. I wanted to get it over with and release this burden. I told my sister where I was going and, with grim determination, headed out.
Imagination fed on anticipation. I pictured a family where the dad answered the door with a shotgun in his hands and vicious dogs were ready to attack. I walked half a mile. I pictured a family that only spoke Russian. I walked along. I pictured a family with so much wealth that they only wore tuxedos and ball gowns. Was this how Nephi and Sam felt while they were on their way to get the brass plates? Or worse, perhaps this is how Laman and Lemuel felt. Suddenly, there I was in front of the house.
I rang the doorbell. I heard heavy footsteps. The door swung open, and an older man stood there. He looked at me. “Hello,” he said.
A rush of relief came over me. He was not holding a shotgun, he spoke English, and he was not wearing a tuxedo. “Uh, can uh …” I looked at my note. I couldn’t remember his name. “… Bill …” I couldn’t think straight. “… play?” I finally blurted out. I felt like a little kid. What kind of word had I used? “Play?”
The man looked very surprised.
“Is Bill … available?” I corrected myself. Did I read the map wrong? Was I at the wrong house? “Does a Bill, Billy, or even a William live here?”
The man’s expression changed from confusion to smiling enlightenment. “Oh, yes, of course. Come in. You must be from the ward. Brother Wheeler called last week and told me someone would be coming.”
An entire flood of relief swept through me. I followed the man through the front room, past the kitchen, down a hallway, to a bedroom. The house was neat and modest. I saw a picture of the Salt Lake Temple on the wall. The Ensign magazine sat on the kitchen table, opened. I saw scriptures on the shelf. “But these people never come to church,” I thought with more than a touch of confusion. And what about Bill, who was a total hermit apparently—and a very lazy one, because it appeared he was still sleeping.
The man softly knocked. “Billy?” he said as he gently opened the door.
Instantly everything was explained. I felt so small. A wheelchair and a hospital bed sat in the center of the room.
An emaciated boy lay there staring out the window. He turned his head to look at us. His eyes widened. “Help me sit up, Father. Do I have company? What is your name?”
I did not have to worry about carrying the conversation; Billy was very good at assisting me with that. I returned regularly to his house for the next several weeks. I brought various games; he especially liked chess. I learned that he was actually a foster child and had not seen his birth parents for years. Billy’s disease was critical, and the older couple he was now with had taken him in so that he wouldn’t have to stay by himself in the hospital. He was a member of the Church but could only remember being baptized.
Brother Wheeler arranged for us to have our priests quorum meet for class at Billy’s home. His bed had been moved to the front room to help accommodate the extra visitors. Our bishop came and even helped bless the sacrament for Billy and his foster parents.
I felt pretty good about the whole thing. Over the past few months I had made a friend, and I had helped this friend make other friends in our quorum. I did not anticipate the phone call I received from the bishop later that week. He told me he had interviewed Billy and found him worthy to hold the Aaronic Priesthood. Billy had asked the bishop if I could ordain him.
We held our priesthood meeting again at Billy’s house the following Sunday. I do not remember what I said during the ordination. I do remember Billy’s smile and the tears he was pushing back—the tears Brother Wheeler, the bishop, and all of us were pushing back.
A few weeks later, Billy was not available for “playing” anymore. His condition had worsened, and he spent most of the time in the hospital. About six months from my first meeting with Billy, he died.
Now what I remember most about Billy is not what I did for him on my visits, but what he did for me. A young man whose name I came to know from a simple list had become one of the most treasured memories of my youth.

My wife and I were in the front of our yard one day when the newspaper boy came down the street on his bicycle. His bicycle was loaded with papers. About 20 or 30 yards in back of him, there was another boy following him on a bicycle. I was not sure at that time what their relationship was, but I did notice they were coming down the street at a pretty good clip.
When the newspaper boy came to our sidewalk entry, he was traveling too fast to make the approach to our home, and, as a result, he went one way, the bicycle went another way, and the papers went everywhere. Noticing the boy had fallen on the lawn and was not hurt, but realizing that he would undoubtedly be embarrassed from the fall in front of his friend, we moved toward him.
At the sight of this perfect three-point landing, if we may refer to it as that, his companion shouted his pleasure and laughed heartily with complete and full enjoyment at the misfortune of his associate.
Trying to relieve the embarrassment of the paper boy, knowing he didn’t want help but he wanted to have his pride repaired a little, I took a few more steps toward him and said: “It’s kind of a low blow to have your friend laugh when you’ve had a bad spill, isn’t it?”
He went on picking up his papers without even looking up. Finally, he had the papers back in place and got on his bicycle; and as he started out away from our home, he made the remark: “He isn’t my friend—he’s my brother.”

I have always learned in Primary and at home that we should be honest. We should not keep what does not belong to us, we should return change when we receive too much at the store, and we should always tell the truth even though we may be punished.
One day when I was nine, I was waiting on the school patio for my mother and I saw a wallet on a bench. There was money in it.
I thought about what I should do. My mother works very hard to take care of my two sisters and me, but things weren’t going very well at home. I thought about what I could buy.
Then I started to worry about the person who had lost the money and how much she would miss it. I sat down and waited because I knew she would come to look for it.
After some time, a very upset woman appeared and asked, “Have you found a wallet?”
I answered, “Is this it?”
Her joy was so great she hugged me. She thanked me again and again.
At that time, I did not even think about why I made the decision to be honest. But when I told my mother about it later, she said the Holy Ghost had whispered to me and I had listened to the still, small voice.
I am grateful for having learned to be honest.

During a school break when I was eight, my dad asked me if I wanted to do something to earn money for my mission. I thought it was a good idea, but I wasn’t sure what to do. After some thinking, we decided to make bread. That night, we made 20 loaves. We didn’t know if they would sell, but after we posted about it on social media, they all sold in one night!
I set a goal to keep making and selling bread. At first it was fun. But over time, to be honest, it didn’t feel as fun. It was hard! I had to wake up at six in the morning before school to make the dough. Then my mom helped bake it during the day. When I came home from school, I had to bag the loaves, deliver them, and clean the baking equipment.
I also had to talk to people I didn’t know very well. Sometimes I didn’t know what to say. That was one of the hardest parts. My parents explained that the point of this wasn’t just to earn money for my mission but also to learn to work hard and talk to people. I started to feel more comfortable. And after a while, I enjoyed doing that!
My bread business definitely taught me how to work! I know that what I learned from this goal will help me on my mission.

April told us her mother had died of a drug overdose when April was 14. April lived on the streets and had a baby she placed for adoption when she was 15. She struggled with her own drug addiction, started dealing drugs, and was eventually sent to prison.
“One day I wondered why I was even alive,” April said. “It wouldn’t have made a difference if I died. No one knew I was in prison. No one would even know I was gone.” She then prayed and asked God if He knew who she was.
The following week, a counselor in the prison handed her a letter from the girl she had placed for adoption.
“God must be looking out for you,” the counselor said.
“I write to my daughter now, and she visited me once,” April said. “I don’t know much about religion, but I know that God cares about me because He answered my prayer.”
After April shared her story, we all sat quietly with tears in our eyes.

As the Church continues to expand throughout the world, many members live where we have no chapels—and may not for the foreseeable future. I remember a family who, because of such circumstances, was required to meet in their home. I asked the mother how she liked going to church in her own home. She replied, “I like it! My husband uses better language at home now, knowing that he will bless the sacrament here each Sunday.”