Gospel Story Finder

Choosing to be modest has always been easy for me. I grew up in a house where standards were high, and when I married in the temple, my garments reminded me to dress modestly.
Swimsuit shopping, however, turned out to be a struggle for me. Without the guideline of garments, I found myself wanting to wear swimsuits that I would be ashamed for anyone I knew to see me in.
My husband and I were planning a cruise for just the two of us. I thought the cruise would be the perfect time to wear such a swimsuit. I wouldn’t see anyone I knew, and therefore I wouldn’t feel guilty. No one would know I was a Latter-day Saint, and all the other women on the ship would most likely be dressed like me.
Because I was already married, there was no real reason for me to have a modest swimsuit, or so I thought. Modesty guidelines were just for teenagers, right? But I had a nagging feeling in the back of my mind. I had been married in the temple. I had accomplished my goal to stay worthy and find a worthy husband. And I wanted to continue choosing the right.
I decided to look up “Dress and Appearance” in For the Strength of Youth. It had been a while since I had reviewed the booklet, so the words jumped out at me: “Through your dress and appearance, you can show that you know how precious your body is. You can show that you are a disciple of Jesus Christ and that you love Him” ([2011], 6).
Those words echoed in my head. Was I a disciple of Jesus Christ? Was I willing to be true at all times and in all places (see Mosiah 18:9)?
Since then I have decided that even in my late 20s, I must maintain the principles I learned in my youth. Those principles definitely still apply to me. I want to be a good example to my children. I want them to know that I am a disciple of Jesus Christ.

Nine times seven is sixty-three. Six times eight is … forty-two? No, that’s not right!
Luca furiously erased his answer.
“Time!” Luca’s teacher called. “Everyone pass in your tests.”
Oh no! Luca thought. But I’m not even done!
Luca sighed as he handed in his test. He had to get a 90 percent on his timed tests to pass his multiplication tables and become a class Multiplication Master. But he just didn’t know how he was going to do it!
That night during family scripture study, Dad read from the Doctrine and Covenants: “Therefore, if you will ask of me you shall receive; if you will knock it shall be opened unto you” (D&C 6:5).
Luca’s head popped up. That was the answer! Prayer!
Luca started praying every day to do well on his timed multiplication test. This would work. It had to work. He would finally become a Multiplication Master!
On Tuesday, Luca came home from school and grabbed his basketball.
“Do you need help studying?” Mom asked.
“Nope! I’ve got it taken care of!” Luca said as he ran out the door. He believed so much in prayer that he didn’t even take out his flash cards to practice his math.
On Friday, Luca knew he was going to pass the test. But when he sat down to take it, the answers just didn’t come, and he did even worse than before!
Luca walked home from the bus stop with his head down. He had prayed so hard to be a Multiplication Master. Why didn’t Heavenly Father answer his prayer?
When he got home, he shot baskets until Dad came home from work. Dad honked the car horn as he pulled up.
“How was school?” Dad asked, walking over.
“Not very good,” Luca said, looking down. “I can’t pass my multiplication test.”
“That sounds pretty discouraging,” said Dad. He held up his hands for a pass.
“I should have passed!” Luca said. “I prayed and everything. Dad, you said that Heavenly Father answers prayers. He definitely didn’t answer mine today!”
“Did you practice with your flash cards?” Dad asked.
“No.”
“Did you study?”
“No,” said Luca. “But I prayed all week!”
Dad dribbled the ball and looked at Luca. “Well, multiplication is kind of like basketball. How did you get so good at basketball?”
“I practiced,” said Luca.
“Yes, and so when we pray for Heavenly Father to help you before your games, we’re not praying for Him to magically make you a better basketball player. What do we pray for?”
“For me to remember what I practiced,” Luca said.
“Right. Prayer works best when we do our part and also ask Heavenly Father to help us.”
“So my part is studying my flash cards?” Luca asked.
“Exactly,” said Dad, passing the ball back to Luca.
Luca heaved a big sigh and took a shot. The ball bounced off the rim. “So … I should study hard and ask Heavenly Father to help me.”
“There you go!” said Dad. “Now, are you ready for a little one-on-one?”
Luca grinned and stole the ball from Dad. “Sure! As long as you help me study at the same time.”
“You’re on,” said Dad. “Six times five is?”
“Thirty!” Luca took another shot. This time it swished through the hoop.
Between practice and prayer, maybe he would become a Multiplication Master after all.

Edson S., age 16, Georgia, USA
Likes marching band, playing sports of any kind, and spending time with his family.
My freshman year of high school was very difficult. I was doing online school because of COVID-19. During that year, my dad got COVID and passed away. I had to deal with that loss the whole year. Exactly one year later, my grandfather passed away. During my junior year, my grandmother passed away. I was in the room with her when she passed.
I always had a feeling of emptiness because of these things that happened in my life. I felt like maybe I was doing something wrong or was paying for my mistakes or something. During that time, I wasn’t doing the best things either. I wasn’t letting Christ’s light shine through me.
One day, while reading the lyrics of the hymn “I Stand All Amazed” (Hymns, no. 193), the line “Such mercy, such love and devotion can I forget?” hit me. When I read that, I felt my emptiness be filled. The words “can I forget” made me stop and think. Throughout my life, with all the stuff that I’d been suffering and going through, I wanted to forget. I wanted to find an easier way, to have fun, and to do things that weren’t right, all while not relying on Jesus Christ.
Even though I was in a dark place and trying to go astray, Jesus Christ didn’t let me forget His mercy and love. When I was down, He didn’t forget me. So, if He didn’t forget me, I shouldn’t forget Him.
I believe that even if you’re in a dark place and you think God’s not going to give you a second chance, He will. He loves you and cares for you.

As a high school teacher, I’ve seen students completely change themselves in hopes of winning friends.
Lora, a sophomore, was new in my school, and she had everything going for her. She was pretty, smart, athletic, and personable. Unfortunately, it was her first experience in a new school, and she had difficulty adjusting. She had never known what it was like to be new, to be a stranger, to be without friends.
In her desperation to make friends, Lora latched onto the first kids who showed an interest in her. Those kids were, in my estimation, less than desirable. They lived for the weekends when they could “party hardy.”
They welcomed Lora with open arms, and so she was sharing the shallow existence of those whose only happiness is found in alcohol, drugs, or immorality. Lora continued to be pleasant and active in my class, but she had changed. Her sparkling countenance was gone, and her academic motivation was fading.
It’s important to have friends, but friends and popularity aren’t worth self-destruction. One Church leader said it well when he advised youth to, “Seek not to be well known; seek, instead, to be worth knowing.”
It’s not difficult to get to know people if you involve yourself in school activities, talk to people, and act friendly. But sometimes the hard part comes in making real friends out of people you get to know. If, however, you’re “worth knowing,” you’ll have little trouble turning acquaintances into friends.
So then, how can you be worth knowing?
First, be interested in others. Martin H. Durrant, my former bishop and stake president, lifts my spirit every time I meet him. He always asks me about myself, my family, my job, or my hobby. His questions are sincere, and I know, without a doubt, that he’s genuinely interested.
But it’s not always easy to talk about other people’s interests. For example, a friend and I were finishing graduate school at about the same time. Every time we met he’d tell me in great detail about his research project and how it was going. In all the time we were working together, he never once asked me about my work and study. He didn’t seem like a real friend because he didn’t seem interested in what I was doing.
Once you learn to talk to others about their interests, practice being cheerful. Having a smile on your face forces you to be in a good mood. No one enjoys being around a grump or someone who looks like they’re carrying the world’s problems on their shoulders.
In addition to being cheerful, it’s also important to be a good listener. Sometimes when my wife has a problem or is struggling with a decision, she’ll talk to me about it. My first impulse is to stop listening, tell her what I would do, and advise her to do likewise.
It took me a while to learn that she didn’t want my advice; she wanted my willing ear. The next time a friend tells you about a problem, bite your tongue the minute you’re tempted to dispense advice. Let them say all they have to say; then give advice only if they ask for it.
And, finally, be a good influence on others. When I was a sophomore in high school, some of my friends started drinking and smoking. They knew I didn’t drink or smoke, but they began to pressure me to join their parties anyway. The more they pressured me, the more uncomfortable I felt, until finally I stopped hanging around them. I figured that if they were really my friends, they wouldn’t push me to do things I didn’t want to do. Real friends would never ask you to do something you shouldn’t.
Really, this friendly advice is basically what you’d do if you followed the Savior’s advice to “love one another.” If you really work at loving those around you, and show that love, you’ll be the kind of friend everybody wants.
It’s never easy being the new kid on the block, and making friends and breaking into social groups can be tough. Here are a few ideas you might want to consider.
Give yourself some time. If you’ve just moved to a new town, or changed to a new school, it will take a while to establish friendships. Don’t worry if you have to spend some time alone for the first few months. Take advantage of this time by participating in family activities, developing your talents, and learning about your new surroundings.
Don’t be afraid to make the first move. You can’t always wait for people to introduce themselves to you. Remember, they might be as apprehensive approaching the “new” person as you are talking to them.
Stay away from people who drag you down. If your friends force you to choose between them and doing what you know is right, it’s time to look for new friends. Pray for guidance when you are making new friends, and make a commitment to yourself to maintain your integrity.
Get involved. In addition to getting to know the kids in your ward or branch through Mutual activities, try joining a club at school, going out for a sports team, volunteering to decorate for a dance, or trying out for a play. These types of activities often involve teamwork, so it’s a good way to really get to know people who share your interests.
Be worth knowing. Think about the kind of person you would like to be friends with. Write down some of the qualities that person would have, and then work to cultivate those traits in yourself.

Because of that example from my father, years later I was able to make a similar decision. I had just been hired by a consulting company, and they flew six of us employees from the Philippines to Sydney, Australia, to join with 400 managers from all over the world for training. We flew first class. A limousine picked us up at the airport and whisked us away to a five-star hotel, where each room had a big basket of goodies. The company wanted to show us that this was a good company to work for, and it wanted its new hires to stay.
After the first day of meetings, we had a gala dinner, a formal affair. We sat about 12 to a table, each with 10 managers and 2 managing partners who were to be our role models in the company. They told us stories about how they started in the company and grew in their careers with it. They told us of multimillion dollar deals they had closed, important businesspeople they had worked with, and major projects they had directed. I heard the names of Fortune 500 CEOs mentioned frequently and was in awe of these men because of the work they did.
We were all feeling great about our opportunities until one of the people at the table asked, “How does your wife handle all of your traveling? You’re constantly gone.” And one of the partners answered, “I was just divorced two years ago.” And the other partner at our table said, “I’ve been divorced for five years.”
I remember my thoughts: “These are not the men I want to be. I don’t think I want to work for this company because I don’t care much about worldly accomplishments if my family is in disarray.” The example of my father made it easy for me to decide to put my family first, and I found another job that allowed me to do so.

I knew I needed to go to the temple. I lived only a short car ride away from the nearest temple, yet I hadn’t been in months.
One night, I was reading Elder Neil L. Andersen’s talk from the October 2022 general conference. A sentence stood out to me: “As we enter the temple, we are freed for a time from the worldly influences crowding against us as we learn of our purpose in life and the eternal gifts offered us through our Savior, Jesus Christ.”1
I wanted to feel free from the world. Struck with a burst of determination, I scheduled an appointment to do proxy initiatories.
On the day of the appointment, I came home from work feeling tired and grumpy for no reason. I wasn’t in the mood to go to the temple.
But I remembered my past desire, even if I didn’t feel it in the moment. I went back out to my car and started driving.
Twenty minutes later, the temple came into view.
Tears sprang to my eyes. In that moment, my desire returned. The temple was the place I needed to be that night. I had to hold back more tears so I wouldn’t lose sight of the road.
The temple is a place of refuge from worldly influences and the struggles in our lives. President Russell M. Nelson has asked us to “establish a pattern of regular temple attendance.”2 As we do, we’ll enjoy the blessings of returning again and again to the house of the Lord.
Here are just a few of the blessings I noticed from attending the temple that day:
When I attended the temple that day, my bad mood was lifted. It was replaced by “the peace of God, which passeth all understanding” (Philippians 4:7).
The peace we find in the temple comes directly from God. We can connect to God anywhere through His Spirit, but the temple is set apart for us to commune directly with the Lord.
President Nelson taught: “[The temple] is His house. It is filled with His power. … I promise that increased time in the temple will bless your life in ways nothing else can.”3 Attending the temple allows us to feel God’s power. That power can come as revelation, as clarity of mind, or as a feeling of comfort.
Beyond feeling peace, I also remembered the covenants I had previously made. As I acted as proxy in the initiatory, I focused on the words of the ordinance. Those words reminded me that God would give me strength and would help me persevere through my trials.
When we return to the temple, we remember the promises we make to God and the eternal promises He makes to us.
Elder David A. Bednar of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles taught: “We do not build or enter holy temples solely to have a memorable individual or family experience. Rather, the covenants received and the ordinances performed in temples are essential to the sanctifying of our hearts and for the ultimate exaltation of God’s sons and daughters.”4
While we receive personal blessings in the temple, we should also remember the work we do for the dead. When we perform proxy ordinances, they are for the salvation of those beyond the veil.
The names of the people I helped were provided to me by the temple. I didn’t know any of the women I stood as proxy for that day. But I felt the sacred power given to them through the initiatory ordinance.
Our temple attendance helps further God’s plan for His children. In our own small way, we are participating in the work “to bring to pass the immortality and eternal life of man” (Moses 1:39). Elder Bednar taught, “As we become anxiously engaged in this sacred work, we are obeying the commandments to love and serve God and our neighbors [see Matthew 22:34–40].”5
For those of us who live near a temple, it may be easy to forget the blessings that come from temple attendance. As President Russell M. Nelson has promised, “Increased time in the temple will bless your life in ways nothing else can.”6 For those who live far from a temple, it may be hard to fit temple visits in our schedules. But the power of temple attendance is constant, and the blessings are real.
As we spend more time in the temple, we can find rest from our challenges and our hurt. We can commune with God and be part of His great work—for our own souls and the souls of all His children.

“Seven years after his death, I received a text from my son—or so it appeared.
“My teenage grandson (his son) had just celebrated a birthday and was given his dad’s old phone as a present.
“And I still hadn’t updated the contact information.
“Curious to see what my son and I said to each other in the last days of his life, I began to scroll through past texts.
“I saw many short messages about errands and family events. My heart sank the longer it took to find a text that simply said, ‘I love you.’
“I knew that he knew I loved him, but I wondered if I had missed the chance to say it one last time.
“Since then, I’ve tried to end every text with ‘Thank you’ or ‘I love you so much.’
“I want YOU to stop right now and check YOUR texts.
“Sometimes we get so busy telling each other the urgent things that we forget to say the most important thing: I love you.
“I invite you to text or tell the people you love and live with just how much you care about them.
“Let’s not wait another second to let them know how much they mean to us.
“Text them. Tell them.
“I promise you won’t regret it!
“‘Beloved, let us love one another: for love is of God’ (1 John 4:7).”
Sister Tamara W. Runia, Facebook, July 23, 2024, facebook.com/youngwomenworldwide.

David Bednar’s own reliance on the scriptures and his teaching of their importance have been evident throughout his priesthood service. Elder Bednar remembers: “During my training before my mission, we went to the solemn assembly room in the Salt Lake Temple. President Harold B. Lee was there to answer questions from about 300 missionaries. He stood there in his white suit, holding his white scriptures. He answered every question from the scriptures, or he said, ‘I don’t know.’ I sat there and thought that I would never be able to know the scriptures the way he did, but my objective became to use the scriptures in my teaching the way that I saw President Harold B. Lee do it. That desire is the genesis of all my scripture study.”

Lights! Camera! Action! Will Norman Mormon (yeah!) be able to foil Sam Snitch (hiss!) and rescue Lora Lovely from his evil clutches?
The Cody Second Ward, Cody Wyoming Stake, filmed the answer to this and other pressing questions, with the Aaronic Priesthood and the Young Women getting into the act. The script for “Norman Mormon Bites the Dust!” was written by two members of the Laurel class, but the whole group helped brainstorm the plot, characters, and dialogue.
In addition to acting chores, the young people worked on lettering, make-up, props, costumes, or filming committees. Except for the horses that were of the stick variety, everything was authentic. The film was a special high-speed film made to run slightly faster and look a little grainy. The setting—at nearby Trail Town—was an old, rebuilt western street complete with wagons, boardwalk, and cabins filled with brass beds, old quilts, antique chests, chairs, and a player piano. A costume shop loaned them many old, gay nineties costumes. Of course, the hero dressed in white and the villain in black. And even their fake mustaches were made of real hair. The only requirement to act in the play was a willingness to be a ham!
After the action shots were completed, the film crew, working with their specialist, took still photos of written conversation placards. Cards included “Ladies, please remove your hats” and “Please keep your laughing to yourself. It might disturb others.” An introduction shot of a “roaring” toy tiger was also added. The stills were spliced into the film as it was edited. A talented musical specialist helped work out a sound track of old-time songs and ragtime music appropriate to each scene.
The melodrama premiered at a two-ward party, and if enthusiastic hurrahs, yeahs, hisses, and boos from the audience are any indication, the film was a huge success. But that wasn’t the end of Norman Mormon. The young people immediately made plans to show the film at the local nursing home.
Everyone involved in “Norman Mormon Bites the Dust” agreed that it was a fun way for young people to learn new skills and create unity.

Jill twisted her high school ring, round and round her finger, the blue stone glimmering as it caught the fluorescent light. Round again—here’s my graduation date, she thought. Round once more—here’s the good old Morrisview High School crest, the snarling tiger mascot posed to leap sinuously out of the silver. Jill turned the ring again, imagining a shimmering tiger splashing down the carpeted corridor like so much quicksilver. Round and round, the ring toured her finger as Jill wished she could be anywhere but in this silent, carpeted hallway. It’s so quiet, she thought. Cryptlike.
Jill started to feel mildly claustrophobic. Her fingers relentlessly worked at her ring, twisting, pulling, twisting again. She didn’t feel well at all. Wishing for the umpteenth time that she didn’t have to be here, she started to reflect on the events of the last few months.
Lockers clanged dully all around her. Jill hardly noticed the noise or the sound of her friends’ voices as they traded witticisms across the hall. She stared into her locker as she fought back bitter tears. Bright teenage voices echoed and rebounded down the corridors as the students poured out into the crisp fall air. Jill grimaced against the salty taste of her tears as she softly shut her locker door. She quickly turned around and walked down the hall, her booted heels clicking rhythmically on the tiles as she walked out into the cold afternoon air. Leaves crackled as she stepped down the stairs that led from the high school. She paused at the bottom of the steps and pressed her hot, flushed cheek against one of the stone tigers. The surface of the stone was rough and pitted, yet strangely relaxing. A small smile creased her face as she thought of the sentinel tigers, their stony snarls forever guarding the steps to the double-doored entrance. As a child she had been a little bit afraid of their fierce countenances. At 17, she loved the frozen animals. With a sigh she pushed away and started towards her home.
Derek. Derek, Derek, Derek. She always ran up against something that reminded her of him. Little things: the restaurant where they first met, the Plaza Theater, the park where they played on the swings like children one sunny Saturday. Happy memories, sad memories. They swirled around Jill’s fevered mind like bits of broken glass—glittering, interesting, but painful.
Derek was the one who had decided that the relationship wasn’t working. He had broken up with Jill.
Broken up, dumped, jilted—words that all amounted to the same thing—heartache, confusion, and terrible anger. These emotions churned inside her, making her feel sick. She was devastated over the breakup.
There had been so much pressure during the time they dated. Pressure from her mother to date one of the “nice Mormon boys” instead of the rough, unreligious athlete who had completely captured her heart. Pressure from her Church teachers to invite Derek to church. (She had asked Derek to church—once. She had brought it up timidly as he drove her home one night. He had laughed. She never mentioned it again.) Pressure from him to ignore the things she had been taught at church. Pressures that had stampeded rampant through her soul, leaving her feeling confused and distraught.
Jill passed quietly through the park. A duck pond lay like a slate gray jewel set in gently rolling hills. The ground was carpeted with leaves. Scenes from her life passed like angry accusations. Jill knew that she was not on the right course. Sure, she went to her church meetings most of the time at first, but she didn’t feel anything there and it became easier to miss. All her member friends had moved, and she hadn’t made new ones because she had tried to make Derek’s world her own. A catching sob struggled to rise from her throat, but she choked it down. With a whirl of emotion Jill turned and ran.
Whirr, click. Whirr, click.
The mechanical clock on the wall made precision noises as it duly recorded the minutes of time. It stared down like a sentinel at Jill. The rust-colored carpet stretched along for what seemed like miles across the corridors. Jill’s heart thumped painfully louder with each tick of the clock.
Except for the pounding of her own muffled heartbeat and the sound of the clock, the halls of the church were silent. The silence began to seem accusing. Miserably, Jill wished that she could be anywhere else. She began to hum a gentle hymn that had always been a childhood favorite. It sounded emptily in the hall but started a tiny ember of warmth within her.
She stared down the hall at the light coming from the crack under the door.
Jill remembered a period of self-loathing. Her insides seemed twisted with hatred. Unfortunately, the poison grew inside of her until it was almost a palpable thing. She grew shrewish. Her friends started to avoid her, and even her mother commented on Jill’s waspish behavior. Jill remembered snapping angrily, “No, nothing is wrong. How could anything be wrong? Derek dumped me, and my friends now treat me like an outcast. And my mother is constantly on my back. How could anything be wrong?”
Jill could see the hurt on her mother’s face. She felt terrible. Terrible and guilty. She quickly turned and ran out of the room.
It was a wretched time. Alone and filled with anger, Jill began lashing out at everyone. Her grades suffered dramatically. She no longer felt capable of putting effort into anything and often stayed home from school, pretending to be sick.
If only …
No! Jill’s mind skirted the sentence as if it were a deadly snake. With a sigh of exasperation, she started to form the sentence in her mind once again. She felt as though the acceptance of this sentence was the key to the riddance of her problems, the plug at the bottom of this whirlpool of hate she had been carrying along with her for so many weeks. She tried to say it aloud.
“If only Derek and I hadn’t …”
The sentence trailed off softly, like falling November leaves. She forcibly finished.
“If only Derek and I hadn’t gone up to the ridge that first time. If I had been a stronger willed person. If I …”
For the first time, Jill allowed herself to cry.
Outside, a cleansing December snow had softly started to blanket the ground.
Jill’s reverie was cut short as the door at the end of the hall opened. Light spilled out onto the carpet. The bishop’s voice boomed cheerfully as he shook the young man’s hand. Martin smiled back. Suddenly, the bishop looked over at Jill, who had been trying to pretend she was part of the furniture.
“Oh, Jill. It’s good of you to wait. I’ll be ready for you in a few minutes if you wouldn’t mind staying a bit longer.”
“Sure, I don’t mind waiting.”
Martin looked happily over to where Jill was hunched. As the bishop walked back into his office, Martin sat down on one of the chairs next to Jill. “So, what are you doing here so late?” he asked affably.
With a small sigh, Jill looked up into Martin’s face. It was a pleasant, open face. For the first time in a long while, Jill found a smile hovering right beneath her skin. With a surprised inward shrug she released it.
“The bishop called me in for my six-month interview. It’s a bit overdue, but I suppose it’s better late than never.” Inwardly, Jill knew that she would never have found the courage to ask to speak to the bishop. She was grateful for the convenience of this interview. She had been praying for courage to confess to the bishop, and then suddenly there was this interview.
Martin looked down at the upholstery on the chair arm as he spoke, “You know, we’ve known each other since we were four and you clouted me on the back of the head with a shovel in the sandbox. Do you remember?”
“Yes, you sat on my sand castle just as Prince Charming was about to ride up and save Sleeping Beauty.” With a pang of nostalgia, Jill remembered how she and Martin were almost inseparable before their freshman year in high school. During that year, they both made new friends, and they, well, drifted apart. She couldn’t remember the last time they had spoken.
Martin started the conversation. “I noticed that you’ve been away from church for a while …” The sentence trailed off uncertainly.
“I know.”
“Well,” Martin hesitated, feeling somewhat foolish. “Well, I just wanted to say that I’m glad you’re back.” With this proclamation finished, he blushed to the roots of his sandy blond hair.
Jill felt stunned at this. Through all her inactivity she had never realized that she was being missed. “Thank you,” she whispered, feeling dangerously close to tears.
“Ummm, hey, I think the bishop’s ready for you now.” Indeed, his office door was open and he was beckoning Jill with his hand.
“Oh, yeah.”
“If you want me to wait I can give you a ride home,” Martin said.
Jill stood up, gathering her things together. One memory flashed swiftly across her mind. It was the hot summer of her tenth year. She had been bike racing with Martin up the hill to her house. Everything was going fine until her front tire hit a patch of gravel that caused her to skid out of control. Martin brought his bike to a screeching halt and helped Jill untangle herself from her bicycle. Jill remembered she had bumped her nose and skinned both her knees. Martin helped her limp home and then left. As her mother carefully applied Band-Aids to the torn knees, Jill told her that Martin was glad she fell because she had been winning. Her mother tried to explain that she was sure that that wasn’t true, but Jill insisted, pointing out that he had even left her alone. About a half an hour later, Martin showed up at their doorstep. He had brought Jill’s bicycle back and put it in the garage. He asked if Jill could come outside for a minute. Jill remembered walking out with a cool expression of complete disdain. She was completely surprised when Martin presented her with a “victory scoop” of strawberry ice cream. She had been winning, he had explained, so he bought her an ice cream cone with his allowance.
“Well?”
With a jerk, she focused on Martin’s face. “Sure, you can wait for me.”
The interview went along much as one would expect—the same questions that Jill had answered many times before, the similar replies. As the clock ticked away the minutes, Jill could feel herself growing panicky. A chorus of voices cried inside of her head, “No—don’t say anything. Don’t tell him! If you start to say something, there’s no going back. Just smile, utter trivialities, and leave.”
A quiet, clear voice eased through the babble like a hot knife through warm butter. “Tell him. He’ll understand.”
Jill remained in turmoil, all the while smiling and agreeing with what the bishop said. An anxious look at the clock confirmed that the interview was drawing to a close. She’d have to say something now. Now.
Her voice was frozen. Her mouth felt dry. She couldn’t form the words. The bishop’s understanding brown eyes looked deep into her soul. Finally he spoke.
“Is there something else you want to talk about? Something that perhaps I can help you with?” The questions were a gentle prod trying to hook the answer from her paralyzed lips.
The chorus screamed in her head.
No, yes, No, yes, No!
Yes … yes …
Words seemed to jump back to color. Underground springs welled up in the desert, bringing life.
A voice that she hardly recognized as her own answered.
“Yes …”
An hour later, Martin guided Jill across the smooth blanket of snow to his car. Snow, dusted from the windshield, sprinkled on the planes of her teary cheeks as the full moon shone gentle assurance.
She felt light, as if something heavy had been lifted off her. It was the first step, a step she had dreaded, but one that she had to take. She would be willing to face the remaining challenges and difficulties until the price was paid.
Through her tears, Jill saw a world that promised spring and new life.

Because of my father’s experience, he was very anxious for me to have a good education. When I’d say, “But I don’t want to go to school,” he’d say, “Then I’ll go in your place. Do you think the teacher would mind? I wonder if I can fit into the seat at your desk?”

That always made me laugh because I think it would have frightened my teacher to see a grown man coming to school, and I knew he couldn’t fit into the small seat at my desk. So I would go to school.

Sometimes I’d complain, “My teacher makes me work too hard.” Then Dad would just smile and mess up my hair and say, “I doubt it.” (I’m not sure, but the way he smiled always made me feel as though he wanted that teacher to make me work hard. I never could understand why, for I thought the only good thing about school were the recesses.)

Later when I had graduated from high school, served a mission, and completed my courses in college, I went on to earn a Ph.D. from a school in New England. (Ph.D. just means you are a doctor that doesn’t give shots or fix broken legs. In fact, I’m not sure Ph.Ds can fix much of anything.)

When I received my diploma I wanted my father to have it. He had never received a graduation diploma from any school and I thought he deserved this one. I told him that although my name was on it, the diploma should really be awarded to him. I told him they probably just made a mistake in the printing. That made him laugh and then it made him cry. I wasn’t sure then why it made him cry—but I know now.

My father died last year, and now he is getting more of the education that he always wanted when he was a little boy. And me? Well, my wife and I have children of our own in school. And when they say, “But I don’t want to go to school,” I say, “Then I’ll go in your place. Do you think the teacher would mind? I wonder if I can fit into the seat at your desk?” And when they say, “My teacher makes me work too hard,” I just smile and mess up their hair and say, “I doubt it.”

Fathers, I guess, are like that. In His own special way, I think Heavenly Father is like that too.

Have a good year in school and learn all you can. It is going to be important to you for a long, long time. In fact, it will be important forever.

Nina watched as Sister Kelly struggled to pick up the toys her baby had scattered during sacrament meeting.
Sister Kelly was going to have a new baby soon, and Nina figured it must be hard for her to move around. She wondered how Sister Kelly managed to take care of Emily, especially since Brother Kelly had to travel a lot for his job.
The Kellys had moved into a house down the street from Nina a few months ago. Sister Kelly waved to her each afternoon as she walked home from middle school. Sometimes she stopped and played with two-year-old Emily for a few minutes.
Nina stooped now and began to gather up the toys and put them into the diaper bag.
“Thank you, Nina,” Sister Kelly said, standing with a sigh. “It’s getting harder and harder to bend over.” She smiled as she patted her rounded stomach, but her smile looked tired rather than happy.
How does Sister Kelly take care of Emily? Nina wondered. But what can I do? I’m only eleven years old. I have school all day and homework after that.
Nina thought about it all during Primary. When a girl in her Valiant class told a story about President Spencer W. Kimball,* Nina listened intently.
When the prophet had been waiting in an airport, he noticed a young, pregnant mother struggling to urge her child along in the line. She nudged the toddler along with her foot but didn’t pick her up. Other passengers whispered and pointed at her, but no one offered to help. President Kimball picked up the crying child and comforted her. The woman told him that because of orders from her doctor, she could not lift her child.
Only President Kimball had recognized that the young mother needed help. Only he had offered that help. Never once did he judge her, as the other passengers had.
A wave of pure knowledge swept through Nina, and she knew exactly what to do and how to do it. She spent a lot of time talking on the phone with her friends and watching TV at night. If she gave up those things, she’d have plenty of time to help Sister Kelly for a few hours each day. She could do her homework after the supper dishes were done.
She found her mother after church and explained her plan.
“I think that’s a wonderful idea.” Mom gave Nina a quick hug. “I’ll fix a casserole and send it over. If I double the recipe, they can freeze half of it and have it another night, as well.”
Nina found Sister Kelly after church. Her eyes looked tired, and faint lines creased the corners of her mouth.
“Sister Kelly, may I come over and play with Emily after school for a couple of hours? Oh, and Mom wants to bring a casserole.”
A single tear tracked down Sister Kelly’s cheek. Then another.
Nina didn’t know what to do. Then she remembered that when Mom was expecting her little brother, Jared, she had cried really easily. Nina reached out to touch Sister Kelly’s shoulder. “Is something wrong?”
“No. Something is right!” Sister Kelly dug in her purse for a tissue, then wiped away her tears. She hugged Nina. “I’m crying because I’ve been praying for someone just like you.” The tears fell faster. “You’re an answer to my prayers.”
Nina felt tears well up in her own eyes. “Does Emily like to play with puzzles? My little brother has some wooden ones that he’s outgrown. Maybe I could bring them with me.”
“Emily loves to do puzzles.” Sister Kelly found another tissue and handed it to Nina. “Would you like to come to the nursery with me and tell her the news?”
“I sure would!”
Nina could hardly wait until the next afternoon.

Years ago my great-great-grandfather picked up a copy of the Book of Mormon for the first time. He opened it to the center and read a few pages. He then declared, “That book was either written by God or the devil, and I am going to find out who wrote it.” He read it through twice in the next 10 days and then declared, “The devil could not have written it—it must be from God.”1
An honest, unbiased reading of the Book of Mormon will bring someone to the same conclusion as my great-great-grandfather, namely: “The devil could not have written it—it must be from God.”
I too have read every page of the Book of Mormon, again and again, and I bear my solemn witness, like my great-great-grandfather, it is from God. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Cancer? Me? I thought only people in big cities got cancer. After biopsies and close examinations by competent specialists, I learned the problem I was having with the swelling in my right forearm was an osteogenic sarcoma. Translated, it meant I had a type of bone cancer which, in those days, was nearly always fatal, even with the amputation of the affected limb.
Fatal! I was 19; having something fatal had never crossed my mind. I was excited to serve my mission, marry in the temple, have a great family, and enjoy a wonderful life. Still I loved the Lord, and I knew He loved me. Whether He allowed me to remain here or leave this life, it would be OK.
The immediate outcome was the loss of my right arm. The extended outcome has proven to be a lifetime of adventure. As I look back, I can honestly say the loss of my arm, rather than being a tragic experience, has been one of my greatest blessings. I have learned and gained so much from it.
The adjustment was interesting. I had been working in logging and road-building operations in the Pacific Northwest woods, so my body was strong. But I was extremely right-handed, and that greatly-depended-upon arm was truly missed. Although I could formerly throw a baseball farther than anyone on the team, with my left arm I could throw a ball only a short distance. Writing was really interesting. My penmanship could have been improved on by almost any preschool child. Everything was a challenge: tying shoes, buttoning shirts, carrying large objects, driving, shaving, drawing, eating, being stared at, enduring phantom pain, and so on.
Very quickly I came to realize I had much to get used to, to learn, and to relearn. I also realized there was very little I could do about the fact that I had only one arm, and my attitude about that fact—and in life in general—was totally up to me. I was at a crossroads. It was apparent I could cry if I wanted to, or I could handle this and all other challenges with faith and a positive attitude. My happiness and eternal well-being were dependent upon my choice.
The decision was simple. I chose to be positive, creative, very active, and to do everything possible to fulfill my destiny as a son of God, sent to grow from an earthly experience. Once made, this choice was firm and I never looked back.

I had put my trust in those large hands many times. My thoughts returned to the day that I was stuck halfway down a turret at Caernarfon Castle. The turret, like the rest of the castle, was dark and made of huge granite blocks. The stairs spiraled upwards and were worn from centuries of footsteps. Tourists milled around the ancient landmark. Laughs, shreaks, and voices speaking several languages echoed off the damp, cold walls. Climbing up the turret had seemed relatively easy. I kept to the outside wall where the stairs were wide and headed toward the light at the top. The route down, however, meant teetering on the sliver of stone step in the center of the tower while hordes of huge adults streamed by me, flailing cameras and bags that hit me as they passed. Instead of heading toward the light above I was going down into a pit of darkness. I was terrified.
I could hear people above me beginning their descent. I knew that I would cause a huge traffic jam unless I moved, but I was frozen. “Dad,” I whispered. “Dad.” The sound bounced back hauntingly. I heard footsteps, then a strong voice that I recognized. “Sian, take one step down; just one.”
“No,” I gasped, “I’ll fall.”
“It’s okay,” came the reply. “I’m right in front of you.”
I looked down, my stomach churning. I saw his hand reach out around the central pillar. I took a deep breath and stepped down.
“Good girl. Now one more,” came the encouraging voice. I kept my eyes on my feet and my hand on the clammy stone pillar as Dad coaxed me onward.
Suddenly there was light and green grass and safety. I ran through the archway into the castle’s courtyard. I was down. I was free. I looked for my father. He was standing at the archway watching me, smiling at my excitement and conquest.

Becky Larson was only in junior high and already the cross-country coach at her future high school was encouraging her to join his team when she was old enough. Although she was running in junior high, she wasn’t sure she wanted to continue in high school.
But the night before her first day of high school, the coach called again to ask her to come to practice and give the team a try. She couldn’t bring herself to turn him down.
“I went to the practice after school the next day and ran three miles,” says Becky, who is now 22. “I thought I was going to die. My body hurt so bad; but Coach made it fun so I kept coming back.”
Although cross-country was usually more hard work than play, Becky stuck with the sport throughout high school. She was a state champion in 1986, and after high school she ran a year for BYU. “Those were some of my most disciplined years, some of my best,” she says.

Dear Reed,
Our den wanted to do a kind deed for the Morales family, so we invited our friends and neighbors to help us. It wasn’t a ward-sponsored project. We collected blankets and winter clothes, and some people gave us money. Dad put the money in the bank and has enclosed a check. We sent a big box of stuff today, but you should get this letter first.
It was a lot of work, but we all feel great.
Love,Buddy
Querido (Dear) Buddy May,
Your muy amable (very kind) brother gave us una caja grande (a big box) of warm clothes and blankets. He also gave us money for to buy food and medicina (medicine). He explained that you and your Scout friends and neighbors sent all these wonderful things.
My family is muy agradecida (very grateful) for todo (everything). And now that I am sano otra vez (healthy again), I can find another job.
Espero que (I hope that) you can understand my letter. I do not always have the English words I want. God bless you and your friends.
Sinceramente (Sincerely),Jorge Morales

I recently gave my first talk in sacrament meeting. I had just read the article “An Example to Nonmember Friends” (Oct. 2010) and knew that I should use that as my topic. I liked that people shared experiences in their lives. It helped me understand more about being an example to those around me. One way I can stand as a witness is by magnifying my priesthood responsibilities. A few weeks ago a few other deacons in my ward and I went to a rest home. We take turns preparing and passing the sacrament with the other wards in our stake. While I was there I felt very peaceful and happy inside. I knew that I was doing what the Savior would have me do and would be doing Himself if He were there. I am thankful for the examples of others I read about in the magazine and hope I can also set a good example to those around me.
Spencer G., Utah

I’m so hungry!
Me too. Let’s stop here.
Hmm. I’ll just have a snack at home.
Want one? Here.
Oh, I didn’t see you pay for it.
Oh … uh … I didn’t. I just took it. Some of the other kids take stuff all the time.
I can’t take this. I wouldn’t feel good about it.
I don’t really feel that good about it either.
I think I know what will make us both feel better.
You were right. I feel a lot better after taking it back.
Me too. It always feels good to do the right thing.

As I casually peered out the window, an unexpected stomach spasm began at the sight of an all-too-familiar car pulling into our driveway. It shot from the pit of my stomach, tickling its way upward, stopping briefly to flip-flop my heart, then climaxed in my throat with a delighted scream. Matthew Conally was here! Actually here at my house! He was only the most coveted hero on campus. And he was actually here!
I began to run to the door, but just as I realized it wouldn’t look cool, I tripped, falling flat on my face, and from my now horizontal position, I had a horrifyingly realistic view of our living room floor. It was covered with blocks, Lincoln logs, doll clothes, doll furniture, a dollhouse, and among other things, that rotten Tonka truck I had just tripped over.
As I picked myself up, another unexpected spasm began. Only it began in my throat, draining all the moisture, and dropped downward until it landed with a painful thump in the pit of my stomach. The living room was a total disaster area! What kind of an impression would it make? Grabbing up an armful of coats, newspapers, and books, I relocated them into the next room. Next, I began kicking anything else that would fit into and under the sofa and then threw the cushions back into their natural position on top. As I ran past the window, I could see that Matthew was having a hard time climbing over the tricycles in the driveway. I dumped another quick load down the hall just as the doorbell rang. A final glance around the room revealed that I had cleared out most of the clutter.
Putting on my calmest smile and trying to concentrate all my 16 years into a look of maturity, I opened the door. Then there we were, face to face, Matthew Conally and me, his biggest fan.
“Well hi!” I said in my sweetest, most surprised voice.
“Hi. How are you?” came his refined reply.
“Just fine. Won’t you come in?” I most invitingly smiled back.
Matthew strolled through the door and handed me a book.
“Well, I just dropped by to bring you back your book. You left it in the car the other night. You know, the night I brought the gang home.”
“Oh, really? Gee, thanks for bringing it by. I was beginning to wonder where I had left it.” That was my coolest response yet, but I was letting my cool go too far. I knew darn well that I had left it on purpose as an excuse to see him again.
But of all times, why had he chosen this day to return it! The whole house was such a mess because I was in charge. Mother was in the hospital with a new baby. It was very evident that I wasn’t as organized as she. I watched Matthew’s puzzled expression as he looked around the room and into the kitchen. That was the worst spot in the whole house! Nothing in the kitchen was in its proper place. Aside from every dish, pot, and pan piled high in the sink, every box, package, mixing bowl, and canister was stacked on the counters.
With a crush like I had on Matthew, I knew enough about his life history to write a book. He was an only child, and it didn’t take much to know he’d never seen a mess like this one. Matthew was suddenly aware I was watching him. He calmly lifted his eyebrows and tried to explain.
“Oh, I, I was just wondering if, if I could have a drink of water.” He seemed pleased at his quick response.
“Sure,” I said, “but you’ll have to excuse the mess.” This seemed like the only natural thing to say. I reluctantly led him into the kitchen and was even further embarrassed to find that there weren’t any clean cups. Quickly I grabbed a clean bowl and filled it. Then I handed it to him with an apologetic smile.
“You’re lucky today,” I chuckled encouragingly, “sometimes it gets down to plates!” Matthew didn’t say anything. I was going to explain about Mom and the new baby and me being in charge of eight younger brothers and sisters, plus the house, when Kent and Steve came running into the kitchen chasing each other. They made it around our legs twice and over the kitchen table, throwing chairs for barricades. After they had made two more laps, I was furious and, without thinking, handed the baby I had rescued from the floor to Matthew and excused myself.
I ran after the boys, even though their size was in their favor. They darted around the furniture in the bedroom—over, under, through, and between. I finally caught two handfuls of hair and found, much to my delight, a brother attached to each. After threatening them with the termination of their lives, I returned to the living room, panting. There I found Matthew still holding little Jerry in the same position. He hadn’t moved an inch. It was obvious he didn’t know what to do with the baby. When he saw me, he quickly handed him back, giving Jerry a nasty little smile.
“What in the world is he wearing?” he asked.
“Oh … ah … it’s a towel. We’re all out of clean diapers.”
We sat down as I tried to explain about the circumstances.
“You see, the washing hasn’t been done yet. My mom is in the—” Again my explanation was interrupted. Matthew’s eyes suddenly grew terrified, and he opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something. Quickly I grabbed Jerry, prying his teeth away from Matthew’s arm. Little Jerry was teething and happened to like the feel of flesh against his sore little mouth. But Matthew didn’t understand.
“I think he likes you,” I told him reassuringly.
“And I think you’re right,” he replied as the baby once again squirmed his way back onto his lap. But this time, very much to Matthew’s relief, Jerry sat quietly, beaming his toothy grin. Then into the room came Kent and Steve and Lori and Cathy, dancing and singing, “Ginnie’s got a boyfriend! Ginnie’s got a boyfriend!” One glance at the look on my face, and they knew it was time to leave.
My anger and embarrassment were suddenly forgotten as I heard Matthew’s terrified voice announce, “I think he’s wet!” Again I quickly rescued Jerry from his lap. Jerry wasn’t wearing plastic pants and, boy, was Matthew soaked!
“Where’s the bathroom?”
“Gosh, I’m sorry about all this.”
Matthew followed me down the hall. Then as I opened the door I found myself staring at another embarrassing mess! I had forgotten I had hung flannel sheets in place of towels on the racks. Again I was apologizing.
“I used all the towels as diapers!”
“What kind of a madhouse do you live in?” I was surprised to find his good looks fading away with his anger. “This place ought to be condemned!”
Matthew stomped into the bathroom and slammed the door behind him as I began to apologize. The doorbell rang. I slowly walked down the hall back to the living room and sank down onto the sofa. I just couldn’t face anyone now.
The bathroom door swung angrily open. Out charged Matthew with a huge wet spot on his pants. It looked terrible. He said nothing, just stormed out of the house.
“My mom had a baby,” I quietly called after him. “It was a girl.”
The front door had been left open and in through it came Charlie. Good old Charlie Miller, the best piggyback-ride-giver and sidewalk-snow-shoveler in the neighborhood, with a smile big enough to make a pumpkin jealous.
“Hi, Ginnie! I rang the bell, but nobody answered. Hey, what’s wrong? What was Matthew Conally doing here?”
He sat down and listened as I told him about the whole horrible mess. Suddenly I was surprised to hear the sound of laughter. Charlie thought it was funny! And then I was laughing, too. We howled until we thought we’d break. The tears were rolling down my face from pure delight. How come everything suddenly seemed so funny?
Charlie had come over with a pie his mother had baked. But it was after he had changed Jerry’s diapers and was helping with the dishes that I realized he was truly something special. Quietly I slipped my name bracelet into his coat pocket—just in case he needed a reason to come back over.