Gospel Story Finder

One such family with four young children writes: “We decided to start small because of our children’s short attention spans. Our oldest child was not yet reading, but she could repeat our words, so we began reading the Book of Mormon, just three verses each night. My husband and I would read one verse each, and then Sydney would repeat a verse. We progressed to four verses and then five verses as the boys began to repeat their own verses. Yes, it was tedious, but we kept going. We tried to focus on consistency instead of speed. It took us three-and-a-half years to finish the Book of Mormon. It was a great feeling of accomplishment!”
The mother continues: “Daily family scripture reading is a habit in our family now. Our children are comfortable with scriptural language, and my husband and I take opportunity to bear testimony of truths. Most important, the Spirit has increased in our home.”

It’s worth doing, not only because you have life ahead but because you have eternity ahead, as well. Here is one report that suggests your reward for investing your inheritance well here will be to get to do it forever. President Wilford Woodruff gave this report in general conference in 1896.
“Joseph Smith continued visiting myself and others up to a certain time, and then it stopped. The last time I saw him was in heaven. In the night vision I saw him at the door of the temple in heaven. He came to me and spoke to me. He said he could not stop to talk with me because he was in a hurry. The next man I met was Father Smith; he could not talk with me because he was in a hurry. I met half a dozen brethren who had held high positions on earth, and none of them could stop to talk with me because they were in a hurry. I was much astonished. By and by I saw the Prophet again and I got the privilege of asking him a question.
“‘Now,’ said I, ‘I want to know why you are in a hurry? I have been in a hurry all my life; but I expected my hurry would be over when I got into the kingdom of heaven, if I ever did.’
“Joseph said: ‘I will tell you, Brother Woodruff. Every dispensation that has had the priesthood on the earth and has gone into the celestial kingdom has had a certain amount of work to do to prepare to go to the earth with the Savior when he goes to reign on the earth. Each dispensation has had ample time to do this work. We have not. We are the last dispensation, and so much work has to be done, and we need to be in a hurry in order to accomplish it.’
“Of course, that was satisfactory, but it was new doctrine to me” (Discourses of Wilford Woodruff, sel. G. Homer Durham, Salt Lake City: Bookcraft, 1946, pp. 288–89).

“I hope each young man who has been ordained to the Aaronic Priesthood is given a spiritual awareness of the sacredness of his ordained calling, as well as opportunities to magnify that calling. I received such an opportunity as a deacon when the bishopric asked that I take the sacrament to a shut-in who lived about a mile from our chapel. That special Sunday morning, as I knocked on Brother Wright’s door and heard his feeble voice call, ‘Come in,’ I entered not only his humble cottage but also a room filled with the Spirit of the Lord. I approached Brother Wright’s bedside and carefully placed a piece of the bread to his lips. I then held the cup of water, that he might drink. As I departed, I saw tears in his eyes as he said, ‘God bless you, my boy.’ And God did bless me—with an appreciation for the sacred emblems of the sacrament and for the priesthood which I held.

The night my brother overdosed on heroin is one I’ll never forget. I can still recall every detail: the thud of his body hitting the floor, my parents’ yells, the terror, the confusion, and the hopelessness that sank in when I realized we were back to square one with his seemingly never-ending battle with addiction.
When my brother didn’t respond, I actually surprised myself. Despite the chaos around me, an unnatural inner strength came over me that enabled me to help my parents get my brother stable. I held his stiff gray hands and spoke slowly to him as he stared back with dull eyes. Though I couldn’t believe what I was seeing, I was surprisingly calm as we waited for him to come to. I realized later that this timely calmness was the Lord’s sustaining power.
After he was stabilized and taken to be treated at a hospital, the reality of the situation struck me. My momentary heaven-sent strength ran out, and I collapsed with grief. My heart broke. My chest ached as I lay curled on my bed, and I couldn’t catch my breath. I couldn’t sob hard enough to keep up with my emotions. “How is this my life?” I thought. “He’s never going to beat this! I can’t do this anymore!”
In that moment when I collapsed with grief, I felt like I had been lifted into the air by an unseen force—a gale-force wind that slammed me to the cold, dark ground of rock bottom—a place reserved not just for addicts but for those who love them, a place I’m becoming all too familiar with.
When my brother overdosed, he had been clean for two years. We were finally seeing the light after watching him battle the brutal consequences of addiction for more than a decade. But the moment he was again exposed to his vice, everything he had worked to build in the past two years came crashing down.
After briefly seeing freedom on the horizon, we had been sucked by my brother’s relapse back into the raging, messy, and seemingly inescapable hurricane of addiction, a storm that buffets the addict while also tossing their loved ones to and fro.
I’ve come to learn that the Savior will never leave me to drown either. In my life, it has always been small instances of the Lord’s mercy that allow me to keep paddling against the stormy waves life throws at me. He enabled me to remain calm and hold myself together when my brother needed me, He has helped me muster up enough strength to get out of bed on days when I believe I have no strength left, and He continues to offer me peace despite my constant numbing fear of the unknown.

Some 30 years ago, while working in the corporate world, some business associates and I were passing through O’Hare Airport in Chicago, Illinois. One of these men had just sold his company for tens of millions of dollars—in other words, he was not poor.
As we were passing a newspaper vending machine, this individual put a quarter in the machine, opened the door to the stack of papers inside the machine, and began dispensing unpaid-for newspapers to each of us. When he handed me a newspaper, I put a quarter in the machine and, trying not to offend but to make a point, jokingly said, “Jim, for 25 cents I can maintain my integrity. A dollar, questionable, but 25 cents—no, not for 25 cents.” You see, I remembered well the experience of three towels and a broken-down 1941 Hudson. A few minutes later we passed the same newspaper vending machine. I noticed that Jim had broken away from our group and was stuffing quarters in the vending machine. I tell you this incident not to portray myself as an unusual example of honesty, but only to emphasize the lessons of three towels and a 25-cent newspaper.

Justina sat extra tall in her seat. She placed her new pencils at the top of her desk. Today was the first day of school. She’d met her classmates and drawn a fun picture. So far, so good.
Then Mrs. Werner said, “Time to work on writing!” Mrs. Werner handed out papers to the class. “You have 30 minutes to work on this. Then we’ll go to recess.”
Justina gulped. Oh no. Writing already? she thought.
Last year Justina had a hard time with reading and writing. All of her friends seemed to like it. It wasn’t so hard for them. What if this year was like last year all over again?
Justina picked up her pencil. She looked at her paper. Her stomach sank. All the other students were already writing. Except for her.
She wanted to talk to Mrs. Werner. Would she be mad that Justina was having trouble? Even if she was, that still sounded better than writing.
Justina walked to her teacher’s desk. “Mrs. Werner? This is harder than what I did last year. I don’t think I can do it.”
Mrs. Werner didn’t look upset. She smiled at Justina. “Do what you can. You might be surprised at what you can do! You can’t always choose what you’re good at. But you can always choose how hard you try.”
Justina walked back to her desk. She thought about what Mrs. Werner said. I can choose to try. That was like what she learned in Primary. Her class read a scripture that said we are “free to choose.”
Could school be different this year? Justina wondered. Maybe she could choose to make it different! Justina picked up her pencil. She looked at her paper. She took a deep breath. OK. I’m going to try, she thought.
The recess bell rang. Justina wasn’t finished yet. But she was more than halfway done! She raised her hand. “Can I stay and keep working? I’m so close to being done!”
Mrs. Werner smiled and nodded.
Justina finally handed in her paper. Her hand ached a little bit. Even her brain hurt! But she was smiling. She had never worked so hard on writing before.
The next day the class worked on reading. Mrs. Werner asked everyone to read for 20 minutes. Justina tried again. She opened her book and sounded out the words.
Justina started making new choices every day. She chose to read. She chose to write. Maybe reading and writing weren’t so bad!
She even chose to go to the library. She checked out books. Last year she would have never done that. Soon she was reading all the time. It was actually fun! And the more she read, the better she got at writing.
And soon, reading and writing became some of her favorite things to do!

My collection of the Mormonads I got from the different issues of the New Era makes up my bedroom “wallpaper.” I’d also like to thank you for the June 2000 special issue. I was so thrilled when I got it because it was very timely. I was preparing my papers for my mission at that time, and so were a number of my friends in my ward and in the institute. We did our part, working with the missionaries and attending missionary preparation class. But I was lacking a little confidence in filling out the papers. The last missionary in my family was released in 1988 while the last missionary our ward (or branch then) ever sent to the field left in 1994. Nobody close to me had fresh enough knowledge about applying for a mission to help me prepare. That issue not only helped me fill out my application, but the articles were very inspiring. They made me more excited to go. Since not many people here subscribe to the New Era, I was happy to share my copy with my friends who were also preparing to go. Five weeks after I sent in my application, I got my call to serve in the Philippines Ilagan Mission. Thanks a lot!
Sister Maria Corazon PeroyPhilippines Ilagan Mission (via e-mail)

In the early 1930s, Margaret Kisilevich and her sister Nellie gave a Christmas gift to their neighbors, the Kozicki family, which was remembered by them all their lives and which has become an inspiration to their families.
Home to Margaret back then was Two Hills, Alberta, Canada—a farming community populated largely by Ukrainian and Polish immigrants who generally had large families and were very poor. It was the time of the Great Depression.
Margaret’s family consisted of her mother and father and their 15 children. Margaret’s mother was industrious and her father was enterprising—and with all those children, they had a built-in labor force. Consequently, their home was always warm, and despite their humble circumstances, they were never hungry. In the summer they grew an enormous garden, made sauerkraut, cottage cheese, sour cream, and dill pickles for barter. They also raised chickens, pigs, and beef cattle. They had very little cash, but these goods could be exchanged for other commodities they could not produce themselves.
Margaret’s mother had friends with whom she had emigrated from the old country. These friends owned a general store, and the store became a depot for folks in the area to donate or trade surplus hand-me-down clothing, shoes, etc. Many of these used items were passed along to Margaret’s family.
Alberta winters were cold, long, and hard, and one particularly cold and difficult winter, Margaret and her sister Nellie noticed the poverty of their neighbors, the Kozicki family, whose farm was a few miles away. When the Kozicki father would take his children to school on his homemade sleigh, he would always go into the school to warm himself by the potbelly stove before returning home. The family’s footwear consisted of rags and gunny sacks cut into strips and wrapped about the legs and feet, stuffed with straw, and bound with twine.
Margaret and Nellie decided to invite the Kozicki family, by way of the children, for Christmas dinner. They also decided not to tell anyone in their family of the invitation.
Christmas morning dawned, and everyone in Margaret’s family was busy with the preparations for the midday feast. The huge pork roast had been put in the oven the night before. The cabbage rolls, doughnuts, prune buns, and special burnt sugar punch had been prepared earlier. The menu would be rounded out with sauerkraut, dill pickles, and vegetables. Margaret and Nellie were in charge of getting the fresh vegetables ready, and their mother kept asking them why they were peeling so many potatoes, carrots, and beets. But they just kept peeling.
Their father was the first to notice a team of horses and a sleigh packed with 13 people coming down their lane. He, being a horse lover, could recognize a team from a long distance. He asked his wife, “Why are the Kozickis coming here?” Her response to him was, “I don’t know.”
They arrived, and Margaret’s father helped Mr. Kozicki stable the horses. Mrs. Kozicki embraced Margaret’s mother and thanked her for inviting them for Christmas. Then they all piled into the house, and the festivities began.
The adults ate first, and then the plates and cutlery were washed, and the children ate in shifts. It was a glorious feast, made better by the sharing of it. After everyone had eaten, they sang Christmas carols together, and then the adults settled down for another chat.
Margaret and Nellie took the children into the bedroom and pulled from under the beds several boxes filled with hand-me-downs they had been given by their mother’s merchant friends. It was heavenly chaos, with an instant fashion show and everyone picking whatever clothes and footwear they wanted. They made such a racket that Margaret’s father came in to see what all the noise was about. When he saw their happiness and the joy of the Kozicki children with their “new” clothes, he smiled and said, “Carry on.”
Early in the afternoon, before it got too cold and dark with the setting sun, Margaret’s family bid farewell to their friends, who left well fed, well clothed, and well shod.
Margaret and Nellie never told anyone about their invitation to the Kozickis, and the secret remained until Margaret Kisilevich Wright’s 77th Christmas, in 1998, when she shared it with her family for the first time. She said it was her very best Christmas ever.

When I was young and preparing for a mission, my mom invited me to go to a continuing education night at the church. The topic was Joseph Smith. Of course, I had a lot going on, and I didn’t really want to go.
But she talked me into it, and I’m glad she did.
I can remember sitting in the back row of the chapel as the instructor began teaching about the Prophet Joseph Smith. I’ll never forget it. It was a riveting moment of clarity. I was completely tuned in to the story. As it culminated and the teacher bore testimony, I knew that I knew it was true. I just knew it. But more importantly, I realized that I’d always known it was true; this was just the first time I’d realized it.

Here is another story told in President Murphy’s own words:
During one of my visits to the island of Molokai, I was invited to go to the hospital at Hoolehua to administer to a little girl.
On the way to the hospital her father said, “Our little girl Louise is very sick. The doctors all agree that she cannot live. During her few years in our home, she has shown great faith in the missionaries and the priesthood they hold. This morning when I told her that you were coming to visit us, she asked if you could give her a blessing.”
As we arrived at the hospital and entered a small room, I was shocked to find ten-year-old Louise Makaiwi too weak to move and too sick to speak. Tears rolled from her big brown eyes as she tried to shake hands with me. But she could not raise her little hand from the sheet on which it rested.
Louise’s father anointed her head with oil. I sealed the anointing and under the inspiration of the Holy Spirit promised this sweet little girl that she would live. Then I suggested that she be taken to Honolulu to be checked by specialists.
Louise was carried on a soft mattress to Honolulu. Several outstanding doctors examined her, but each shook his head. Not one gave any hope for her life.
Weak and weary, Louise was brought to the mission home, but because of her blessing she was not discouraged.
Louise returned home full of faith, and only a month later she stood in a testimony meeting and told how she had been healed by our Heavenly Father.
Louise speedily regained her health and became one of the loveliest girls in that wonderful land.

One day while I was working in a department store in Oakland, California, USA, a friend stopped by and invited me to dinner. She said she would have two Mormon missionaries join us.
After dinner the missionaries set up a little flannel board and began asking me questions. I became somewhat irritated. I just wanted to listen to them and leave.
At the end of the discussion, however, a young missionary from Utah pulled up his chair, looked me in the eye, handed me a Book of Mormon, and bore his testimony. He said he knew the Church was true and that I could also know by reading the book. Then he quoted Moroni 10:4 and said that if I would ask God with a sincere heart and with real intent, He would manifest the truth of the book to me by the power of the Holy Ghost.
During the following week I read several chapters, and we met again at my friend’s house. After our third discussion, the missionary from Utah finished his mission and headed home.
I continued to read and pray each night, asking if the book was true. After praying one night, I got into bed and read several more chapters. Suddenly I heard a voice say four simple words: “You know it’s true!”
I had never heard the Spirit speak to me before. But I knew then that God knew me and loved me. I was so overcome that I could not control my tears. I knew I needed to join the true Church of Jesus Christ. I also understood how the young missionary from Utah could say he knew the Church was true.
I joined the Church and later married a beautiful young woman in the Oakland California Temple. We had eight children and lived in California for 33 years before moving to Utah.

Often the blessings come long before the end, while you’re in the service of the Lord. Jo has seen that happen many times on his mission—such as the day he met Kevin Smith.
Kevin had become interested in the Church through the fine example of a young Latter-day Saint woman in his office, and he had requested a copy of the Book of Mormon from the Blackpool Ward. Jo and his companion volunteered to deliver the scripture to him.
“At that point I wasn’t sufficiently interested in the Church to have missionaries in my home,” says Kevin, who has been confined to a wheelchair for the past sixteen years. “I had a stereotyped image of Mormon elders—tall, fresh young American lads straight out of college, wearing stylish suits, with toothpaste-advertisement smiles. I probably wouldn’t have opened the door if they had looked like that. But here were two down-to-earth people, one just as surprised as I was at the sight of a wheelchair.”
“Kevin is such a great guy,” exclaims Elder Folkett, who was surprised to find his investigator in a wheelchair. “Even before we got to his house the first time, I felt that something good would happen.”
Elder Folkett and Kevin got along well from the moment they met, and Jo baptized Kevin not long after that first discussion.

“Let me take just a moment to mention a little incident that made an impression upon me when I was a boy. …

“It was on a summer day early in the morning. I was standing near the window. The curtains obstructed me from two little creatures out on the lawn. One was a large bird and the other a little bird, obviously just out of the nest. I saw the larger bird hop out on the lawn, then thump his feet and cock his head. He drew a big fat worm out of the lawn and came hopping back. The little bird opened its bill wide, but the big bird swallowed the worm.

“Then I saw the big bird fly up into a tree. He pecked at the bark for a little while and came back with a big bug in his mouth. The little bird opened his beak wide, but the big bird swallowed the bug. There was squawking in protest.

“The big bird flew away, and I didn’t see it again, but I watched the little bird. After a while, the little bird hopped out on the lawn, thumped its feet, cocked its head, and pulled a big worm out of the lawn.

“God bless the good people who teach our children and our youth” (“A Teacher,” Ensign, July 1972, 85).

Every single day, in rain or snow or darkness, she makes the trek back and forth. Just facing the ice-coated trail on a cold winter morning might make most teens think twice—or three times—about making the trip to Mutual activities or even to Sunday meetings. Not Ella. If it’s a Church activity, she’ll find a way to be there. When she had the opportunity to attend the dedication of the Anchorage Alaska Temple, she, of course, walked the mile and a half from her house to the road, caught the ferry to Skagway, got a ride with other branch members across the pass to White Horse, then boarded a chartered bus for the trip to Anchorage—hours and hours of traveling to experience something as special as the dedication of a temple.

Seeing 30 homes built from your own designs is quite satisfying, but when you are only 18 years old, it’s an outstanding accomplishment. Robert McArthur has had his own home designing business in the Salt Lake City area and has also worked for several builders and contractors even before his graduation from high school.
His love of home designing began early in his life—he was about 15 when he started sketching designs. While a senior at Bountiful High School (Bountiful, Utah), Robert won first place in architectural drawing in the State of Utah. This entitled him to a trip in the summer of 1975 to Washington, D.C., where he competed on a national level in architectural drawing. He took second place, with a gold medal in the skills contest. In 1975 he designed a home for the 1975 Parade of Homes in Salt Lake City, competing with professional builders and designers. The judges awarded him a trophy for second-best design in the show. In 1976 he designed a home for the 1976 Parade of Homes and again won second-best design and also the coveted award for “Best Home in the Home Show” (awarded by public vote).
Following graduation from high school he was awarded a full six-year scholarship from the Home Builders Association of Greater Salt Lake. But Robert decided it was time for more important things at that age—he decided he would complete a full-time mission, so he declined the scholarship.
Elder Robert McArthur is presently serving a mission in the Washington Seattle (Spanish-speaking) Mission. When he returns from his mission, he will have 30 homes, a challenging future career, and a very happy family waiting for him.

Slanting patterns of sunlight fell across the green bedspread and across Jesse’s face. She opened her eyes and lay quietly for a moment in the unfamiliar room. She closed them again and pictured the pleasant home where she used to live in Long Beach, California: the greenness everywhere, the long white beaches, the sea air, and the small swimming pool in their own yard. I’ll miss the swimming pool most of all, she thought, and the chance it gave me to swim every day. This town at the foot of the mountains feels very different, but it must have a good pool somewhere.
And today she would find it. Her mother had promised her they would. Jesse threw back the covers. Placing her hands under her knees, she swung her limp legs off the bed and sat up. She pulled her wheelchair close to the bed and shifted herself into it. Banging the chair impatiently against the door frame, she maneuvered into the bathroom.
“Need any help?” her mother called from the kitchen.
“No thanks,” Jesse said, finally working the chair into the narrow room.
At breakfast in the large, sunny kitchen, she reminded her mother about going swimming.
“There’s a lot of unpacking still to do, and you haven’t started on your language arts lessons.”
“I hate English, and you did say that we could go today.”
“I know, and we will. Anyway, doing the work at home is better than going to summer school, don’t you think?”
Jesse sighed. “Yes, it’s better than that. I just wish I’d worked harder last year and didn’t have to do it now.”
“Why don’t you work on your studies this morning while I put things away. I’ll find out where there’s a good swimming pool, then drive you there this afternoon.”
“Sounds pretty good,” Jesse said. “I’ll try to get something done.” She wheeled out onto the wide, pleasant front porch and set her books on a table. She looked up and down the tree-lined street at the neat frame houses with small front lawns. There were no fences, no hedges; everything was in plain view. Jesse missed the privacy of her yard in California with its redwood fence and tall shrubs.
A girl about Jesse’s age emerged from a white house directly across the street. She hopped lightly down the front steps, picked up an old bicycle from the front lawn, and languidly swung her leg over the tattered seat. As she coasted down her driveway and into the street, she gave Jesse a casual wave. Jesse waved back and watched the girl disappear around the corner, then managed to do one work sheet before the girl reappeared with a loaf of bread under one arm.
At that moment Jesse’s mother came out onto the porch. She put a gentle hand on Jesse’s shoulder. “How about inviting that girl to go swimming with us this afternoon?” she asked.
“I don’t know her.”
“You’d get to know her.”
“Maybe so.” Jesse shrugged. “She looks like she’d be a good swimmer.”
The girl’s name was Diana. She and Jesse found very little to talk about as they rode to the pool. Jesse avoided dressing rooms because they usually were impossible to maneuver in, so the girls wore their suits and removed their street clothes in the car outside the pool.
Jesse’s mother left the two girls at the gate, and Jesse wheeled her wheelchair through the entrance, where they paid, and over to the pool. Jesse was used to curious stares, but she would have preferred being home in her own pool. The pool was not crowded, however, and only a few people watched as she shifted out of the chair, grasped the railing, and lowered herself onto the steps leading down into the water.
Once in the water, Jesse became like anyone else. If anyone stared, it was with admiration as her smooth, powerful strokes took her quickly to the other end of the pool and back before Diana had stowed the chair over by the fence. She did four more laps, relishing the cool water and her feeling of freedom and mobility. In the water her useless legs, trailing obediently behind her, were no problem as her strong arms took her smoothly through the water. At the deep end she stopped and looked around for Diana. Jesse finally spotted her splashing around in the shallow end. “Come on down here!” Jesse called.
Diana struck out, splashing and thrashing. As she reached the center of the pool, the splashing increased, and Jesse could see that Diana was no longer making any real progress. Her wild strokes became more frantic. Jesse swam quickly to her, caught one hand in hers, and pulled her to the edge. Diana sputtered and coughed and rubbed her face with her hands.
“Why didn’t you tell me that you couldn’t swim very well?”
“Was I supposed to shout across the pool, ‘I’m a lousy swimmer’?” She coughed again.
“Let’s get out a minute,” Jesse suggested. She shifted herself up the steps and onto the edge of the pool and sat with her legs dangling in the water. Diana climbed out and sat silently beside her.
“I’m not very good at lifesaving because I can only use my arms, so don’t do that again,” Jesse said, smiling.
“There’s a lifeguard here,” Diana said coolly.
Rebuffed, Jesse didn’t say anything.
“I don’t really like the water much,” Diana said, breaking the silence.
“Maybe we could just sunbathe for a while,” Jesse offered. Diana nodded, and Jesse shifted herself away from the pool’s edge while Diana spread out their beach towels. The two girls stretched out on their stomachs under the hot summer sun.
“I’m hungry,” Diana said, rolling over onto her back. “It must be all that exercise.” She laughed lightly, her easy good humor restored. She stood and got some money from her beach bag. Jesse watched her stride easily to the candy machine against the fence. She returned with two chocolate bars and put one under Jesse’s nose. Jesse raised her head and looked first at the candy bar and then at Diana.
“Thanks anyway, but I don’t eat much of this kind of stuff,” she said, handing the candy back to Diana.
“Why not?” Diana asked through a mouthful of chocolate.
“I try to keep in condition.”
“Condition for what?”
“Well, I want to be on the swim team at school, and I do wheelchair racing and stuff. Also, it’s easy for me to put on weight because I sit so much.”
“You’re really an athlete, huh?”
“I have a lot of respect for my body, such as it is,” Jesse said quietly, “and I try not to put junk into it.” Trying to sound casual, she added, “What do you like to do for exercise? I’ve seen you ride your bike. …”
Diana thoughtfully licked the chocolate from her fingertips. “I ride my bike to get places because it’s easier than walking. They make us exercise at school, but, other than that, I don’t do much. I’d rather read.”
Jesse stared at her.
“What’s the matter?” Diana asked.
Jesse shook her head. “It’s just that your body is so perfect, and you don’t care much about it.”
Diana shrugged her shoulders. “We don’t all have to be athletes.”
“No.” Jesse put her head down, and they soaked up the sun in silence for a while. Later they swam again, Jesse doing vigorous laps up and down the pool while Diana floated on her back or splashed around in the shallow end.
Jesse’s mother came to get them, and they rode home in silence. While Jesse transferred from the car into her chair, Diana climbed out quickly and called her thanks as she crossed the street to her own house.
“I don’t think I’ll be seeing much of her,” Jesse said as her mother pulled her up the few stairs onto the porch. “We don’t seem to have much in common.”
“Having something in common helps, but it’s not absolutely necessary for friendship,” her mother commented.
The next morning Jesse again sat on the front porch with her English book, two apples, and a teenage romance she had been reading. She opened her grammar book and stared for a few minutes at the page without reading it. She picked up an apple, studied its pattern of white specks on red for a while, took a bite, and chewed thoughtfully.
The mountains loomed above the houses across the street, and the morning light touched the rock outcropping and made them golden. Light filtered greenly through the maple leaves, making dappled patterns on the sidewalks and lawns. Jesse itched to be doing something or going somewhere. Reluctantly she looked at the page again. Pronouns. What could be more boring than pronouns? She could hear quiet morning sounds up and down the street—dishes clinking softly as they were washed, a hoe scratching, a ball hitting against a house. She looked longingly at the novel, but she wouldn’t read more of it until she’d done some work on her English. She sighed, and as she picked up the textbook again, she saw Diana come out her front door.
Diana waved to Jesse, hesitated for a moment, then crossed the street with her long, easy stride.
Grateful for any distraction from the grammar, Jesse smiled and waved and then pulled the lawn chair out, motioning for Diana to sit down.
“What are you doing?” Diana asked, looking at the books.
“I did so poorly in language arts last year that they said I had to go to summer school. But since we were moving, they let me take the course at home and send the work sheets in.”
“Why did you do so badly?”
“I guess I was more interested in swimming and racing. The teacher gave us a lot of homework, and I never did it.”
Diana took the apple that Jesse offered her and bit into it. “It’s terrible to have to do homework in the summer.” She chewed thoughtfully. “But at least it’s not a hard subject.”
“I think it’s pretty hard. Pronouns are hard—and very boring.”
“They’re a little boring, but they’re not hard and there aren’t too many of them. I’ll help you.”
Jesse smiled up at her. “Will you?” she said. “That would be great. I have to read some stories and poetry too.”
“That’s the fun part,” Diana said. She picked up the romance novel from the table. “You don’t read books like this, do you?”
“Well, yes,” Jesse said. “They’re kind of interesting. Don’t you read them?”
Diana didn’t answer for a minute. She turned the book over, put it back down on the table, then smiled at Jesse. “I have a lot of respect for my brain, such as it is. I try not to put junk in it.”
Jesse looked at her for a minute, then laughed. “Suppose you help me learn pronouns, and I’ll help you with your swimming.”
“Sounds like a good summer,” Diana answered. She pulled her chair up to the table and opened the grammar book between them.

The summer before I turned 16, my dad decided that he wanted to get as many of our family members together as he could and take us all on a camping trip. My grandparents came and so did many of Dad’s brothers and sisters, along with their families. We made a large, rambunctious group, and I often felt like I was in heaven on that camping trip, surrounded by the beauty of the mountains and among the people I loved most.
At the time my dad was also my bishop and, while at camp, we had very unique patriarchal blessing interview. One night, as the sun set and the moon began to rise, we took a canoe out onto the lake near our campsite. The water was still and serene as we glided over the surface and talked about my blessing.
We stayed out in the boat for a long time, enjoying the beauty of the stars that were beginning to come out. Then suddenly, from far across the lake, we heard singing. The sound carried easily over the water, now glistening with starlight. I immediately recognized the voices of my grandparents. They were singing Grandpa’s favorite hymn, “Brightly Beams Our Father’s Mercy” (Hymns, no. 335). In this hymn it speaks of Heavenly Father as a lighthouse keeper who guides His children safely in from the troubled sea. I think Grandpa’s favorite part is when it calls us the keepers of the “lights along the shore.” It means that while our Heavenly Father is the great guiding light, we need to tend the “lower lights” along the shore to help bring our brothers and sisters safely home.
We listened to Grandma and Grandpa sing: “Let the lower lights be burning; Send a gleam across the wave. Some poor fainting, struggling seaman You may rescue, you may save.”
At the moment they started this chorus, a beam of light shone out in a bright path across the water. Grandpa had pulled a flashlight from his pocket and, every time the song mentioned light, he switched it on and used it to guide us safely in.
Dad and I laughed with them and started rowing back to shore. I treasure that memory and will always remember my grandparents’ voices and their light guiding us in over the dark water.

When our youth group was planning to do baptisms for the dead, I wondered what it would be like in my Heavenly Father’s house. With great anticipation, I stepped inside the Los Angeles California Temple. I was overwhelmed at the feeling of peace there. Nothing could have been more opposite from my earthly home. I almost didn’t dare breathe for fear the feeling would go away. But it was constant and calm.
I loved being in the temple. In His house, I did not need to be afraid. It was safe, calm, peaceful, and comforting. I wanted to live there. Heavenly Father’s house was full of love. I was so happy. I promised myself I would be worthy to come back to His house again.

Sister Paris said that just a couple of weeks before the hurricane, she had attended training workshops held by the Church in collaboration with the National Disaster Committee and the Red Cross. They were reminded to store water, food, and medicine and secure important documents in a safe place. Because she was prepared, she and her family had the necessary supplies to sustain themselves and also help others around them. She said, “Because of the teaching of the Church, I was prepared. My family was not hungry or without basic needs. I am grateful I had attended the workshop and also grateful my life was spared so that I could reach out to those in need, as my Savior would.”
When asked what she would do differently if ever faced with a disaster of this magnitude again, she said, “This was my first time experiencing anything like this, and I never expected to see such destruction. The most important lesson I learned from Hurricane Beryl is the importance of self-reliance. I will increase my food and water storage. My emergency supplies will be better organized. I will secure my home and seek safe shelter for my family. I will also reach out to others to make sure they are prepared.”

The next morning, Sunday dawns warm and sunny, with a sky full of puffy white clouds. Buenos Aires is a beautiful city of broad, tree-lined boulevards—think of it as Paris with palm trees. Later in the morning, sidewalks and parks will fill with people out for a stroll. For now, some of the busiest places are the LDS chapels, like the one in the suburb of Belgrano. Here you meet young people like Federico Casco. His dad was going to the United States on business, and Federico had the chance to go along and visit Disneyland. Instead, he stayed home so he could have four years of perfect attendance at seminary. Now he’s graduated, and he says, “It was a light in my life. It helped me obtain a stronger testimony and helped me decide to go on a mission.”

Going on missions is not easy for Argentine youth. The economy is just starting to improve after years of high unemployment and super-high inflation. There are very few jobs available for young people under 18, so saving money is tough. On the bright side, without part-time jobs, friends have more time for each other and for Church service.

Mauro Berta is first counselor in his ward Sunday School and an assistant to the bishop in the priests quorum. Florencia Gomez is Young Women’s secretary and teaches the Stars in Primary. And Guillermo Pitbladdo is Sunday School president. Sunday night finds them at the Pacheco chapel with other friends from their stake.

These are not just recent converts, clinging to seminary to learn about their new faith. Many of them come from second- and third-generation Latter-day Saint families. They have been taught the gospel in their homes. But Diego Griffith says, “Everything I had not learned during the fourteen years that I have been a member of the Church I learned in four years of seminary. That’s where I started to become more familiar with the scriptures and where I learned about the promises of the Lord.”

Besides, as Debora Walker points out, when you are a teen, there seem to be lots more temptations around, and without seminary “it would be much more difficult to resist those temptations.”

Maybe Juan José Zopetti sums it up best: “Seminary helps me primarily to increase my testimony of Jesus Christ—his love and his mission.”

That restored knowledge of Jesus Christ—his mission and commandments—that’s the gospel. That’s what Elder Ballard sent rolling forth across a whole continent nearly 70 years ago. And here at the center, where it began, LDS youth are making sure the wave is still building.