Gospel Story Finder

“One time my mother told me that I could have a birthday party and invite anyone I wanted. We decided that eight children would be about right. But when I got to school and looked at all the children in my class, I couldn’t decide whom not to invite, so I invited all of them without saying anything to Mother. Instead of eight children at the party, there were forty-four! She just laughed about it and put some cupcakes into the oven. By the time we had played our games, she was able to serve them all something. A lot of mothers would have been upset over the situation, but not mine.”

Fourteen-year-old Juliano Garcia of the Guaiba Jardim Ward was thrilled with the prize he’d won. Although he’d only been a Church member for just under a year, he’d managed to win a scripture chase in his multistake seminary bowl. As he began to look through the pages of his prize, a booklet entitled The Holy Temple, he became fascinated with the pictures of temple baptismal fonts and celestial rooms. Juliano didn’t know much about the temple, but as he read in the booklet about baptism for the dead, his heart immediately turned to his deceased grandparents. “I thought about my grandparents, how great they were, and I thought that more than anything I wanted to go to the temple for them.” Juliano hasn’t been able to travel to the São Paulo Temple, but is now preparing to go in Pôrto Alegre.

As Juliano and other Brazilian teens continue to construct their own temple-worthy lives little by little, they do not doubt that when the doors of the new temples are ready to be opened, they will be ready to enter.

When the Angel Moroni appeared to 17-year-old Joseph Smith in 1823, he told the young prophet about the marvelous restoration that was about to take place, quoting from Malachi:
“Behold, I will reveal unto you the Priesthood, by the hand of Elijah the prophet, before the coming of the great and dreadful day of the Lord.
“… And he shall plant in the hearts of the children the promises made to the fathers, and the hearts of the children shall turn to their fathers” (see JS—H 1:38–39).

This prophecy is literally being fulfilled in the hearts of young Brazilians. “The Spirit of Elijah is working … especially on the young people, to do work for their ancestors. It’s something that we cannot explain,” says São Paulo Temple President Barbour.

Take 16-year-old Jeferson Montenegro of Canoas and Suelen Alexandre (15), José Meirelles (18), Priscila Cavalieri (18), Carlita Fochetto (14), and Carolina (16), Christiane (15), and Carlos Rodriguez (12), of São Paulo (pictured above). These young people volunteer in their family history centers for 10–20 hours each week, assisting Church members in their research, entering extracted names into the computer system, and searching for names of their own ancestors.

These teens aren’t unusual. Many Brazilian youth have found the names of hundreds of their ancestors and eagerly begun their temple work. Why? “I feel the influence of the spirit of Elijah,” says Jeferson. “It makes me feel a closeness with those who’ve gone before me.”

Andrew Mello, age 18, still has several months before he submits his mission papers, but that doesn’t mean he’s not actively preparing now. Studying Preach My Gospel, he says, has been one of the best ways he’s been able to do so.
Some preparation has come through personal study. Other times it comes from training in his priests quorum. On the first Sunday of each month, a member of the quorum is assigned to teach a lesson from Preach My Gospel to his peers and adviser. Sometimes they teach the full 45-minute lesson, but other times, just for practice, they’ll teach the 15- or 5-minute versions of several different lessons instead.
And while Andrew acknowledges that this preparation is equipping him for full-time missionary service, he can also see advantages in his life right now.
“I find myself thinking about things from Preach My Gospel all the time,” says Andrew. “I am the only Mormon in my high school, so people often ask me questions about what I believe. I’ve been able to use lessons and skills from Preach My Gospel to tell friends or acquaintances about the gospel.
“There are some questions or conversations that could go a lot of different ways,” he continues, “but when I can steer them in a productive direction because of things I’ve studied, that feels awesome.”

It was one of those warm summer afternoons, the kind of day that seems to envelop the mind in daydreams and push out thoughts of work or study. While I’d been on my mission, this had been the hardest kind of day to keep my mind on the work. Now it was the same way with school. Since before noon I’d been up in the foothills east of campus collecting root samples. My lab partner and I had been collecting them for a botany project. It had taken us about twice as long as it should have, because we spent as much time chasing butterflies as we did collecting plants. After we had finally completed our collection, my lab partner had given me a ride in his car back to civilization, and I’d got on a bus to go home. It was Friday afternoon, and with the quiet influence of the early summer day still in my mind, I decided as I rode along to dedicate Saturday to sunny beaches and cool water.
I was beginning to imagine the day in a little finer detail when the air brakes gave a familiar hiss and I noticed a small Chicano boy getting on at the front of the bus. The bus was about half full. There were several empty seats between the front of the bus and where I was sitting so I paid little attention. Gazing back out the window, I let my mind drift again to my imaginary weekend.
But just as I was getting back to my daydreams, I saw that boy again out of the corner of my eye. He had passed two empty seats and seemed to be coming straight for the one next to me.
He was about nine or ten, dressed in well-faded but clean pants and a red-checkered shirt. The shirt seemed a little too big, it probably used to belong to his elder brother. As he approached, I stared determinedly out the window, hoping he’d pass by my seat and sit in one of the empty ones behind. But he didn’t.
“Hi, mister,” he said, sitting down next to me. He had a smile so big it seemed about a size and a half too wide for his face. I didn’t want to smile back, but his grin was too contagious; I couldn’t help smiling back at him.
“Hello,” I answered, trying to regain my stern composure.
“It’s a nice day, isn’t it?” he said.
“Yes,” I answered, “it is a nice day.” This time I managed not to smile, and I looked back out of the window hoping that would end the conversation. It was a day too well suited for daydreaming to waste talking to some little boy about the weather. There was silence for a moment, and I began to relax again. I began to imagine playing volleyball on the beach.
“Hey, mister, are you married?”
“What?” I asked, turning back to the boy. His smile, if possible, seemed even a little wider than before.
“Are you married?”
“No,” I answered coldly, hoping he’d realize I didn’t want to talk to him.
“Oh,” he said, looking down disappointed, his smile disappearing. I seemed to have momentarily surprised him. He was thinking. Then in an instant he looked up again, his eyes brighter than ever. “But you’re going to get married, right?”
I tried not to smile, but his eyes and that row of teeth made it impossible. “Yes,” I said smiling back. “I guess I will.”
“And when you get married, mister, are you going to love your wife?”
Now he had surprised me. The question seemed out of place coming from someone so young. I felt like he was leading up to something, but I wasn’t sure what. “Of course,” I answered cautiously, “of course I will.”
“And when you love somebody, you always want to be with them, don’t you, mister, even after you die?”
Suddenly I realized what he was doing. He was asking me a Golden Question. He was a Mormon. I sat there looking at him. I didn’t answer; I didn’t know what to say. How many times had I asked almost that same question? How many times on the buses and streets of Brazil while I was on my mission? But that was my mission; that was then, not now. It seemed inconceivable that those same words were being repeated to me here, at home, by a ten-year-old boy. The bus was slowing rapidly and the boy stood up, taking something from his pocket and giving it to me.
“Hey, mister, I have to get off here. Take this. It’s got the name of two of my friends on it. If you want to know more, give them a call. Good-bye, mister.” And he was gone.
I sat staring at the pamphlet he had given me. It was folded in half and a little tattered at the corners. I unfolded it and read the title, “The Plan of Salvation.”
I’d come home from my mission almost two years ago. I’d brought home my missionary journal, color slides, souvenirs, and a lot of memories. But I’d left my mission behind. How many people had I told about the Church in the time I’d been home? How many Golden Questions had I asked? How many nonmembers did I know who might be interested if only I’d bring up the subject? I’d just been taught a lesson about missionaries that I hadn’t learned in the whole time I’d been on a mission, and it had been taught to me by a young boy with nothing but a testimony and a smile.
The bus was filling up with people now. We were near the center of town and it was almost 5:00. A young man in a business suit sat down next to me. Self-consciously I stuffed the pamphlet in my shirt pocket and looked down at my feet. I was still thinking about that boy; as young as he was, he was still more of a missionary than I’d ever been. I glanced up again. The man next to me was looking out the window, probably daydreaming.
“It’s a nice day, isn’t it?” I said without thinking.
“Yes,” he smiled back, “a very pretty day.”
I sat for a moment, touching the pamphlet in my pocket. Then, with my biggest smile, I asked, “Are you married?”

Far off in the middle of the Pacific, near the Equator, you’ll find a group of 33 small islands known as the Republic of Kiribati. Of the 78,000 residents who live there, 400 are students of Church-sponsored Moroni High School on the island of Tarawa.

“The Young Warriors” are the school’s pride and joy. That’s the school’s championship basketball team, made up of sophomores and juniors. They started practicing in March for the national tournament in July. When the time came, not only did they beat all the teams in their own division, but they were challenged by the teams in the upper division, and beat all of them, too. That cinched the national title.

In Kiribati, people seldom use surnames, so here is a list of the winners as you would know them. Back row: (l–r) Tauati, David, Jonathan Shute (an American teacher), Birate, and John. In the front row are (l–r) Maraeru, Pakaa, Temaati, Eddie, and Been. They’re all winners, both on and off the court.

In fast and testimony meeting, Brother Johnson told an experience he had while driving across a lonely stretch of highway. The still, small voice told him to take a different route home, one that would add about 10 kilometers to his trip. Although he had been eager to get home from his business trip, he obeyed the prompting. On his detour, he came across a car accident. A young family had been traveling to visit relatives. When the father, who was driving, fell asleep, the car drifted too close to the side of the road and rolled down a steep hill. Brother Johnson was able to call for help and administer first aid.

Lorraine and Janet Fisher of the Worcester Ward explained how they handle going to parties. “We go to our friends’ parties, but it’s never been a problem. One friend brings his instant chocolate and another brings the milk. Never once have I ever been pressured into doing anything I didn’t believe I should. And they admire us. Our friends used to drink at parties, but now they don’t. They stopped drinking because they saw we had a better time. They found out you don’t need to drink to have a good time.”

Jenny was excited to visit her friend Anne, who had moved to New York, but she was also afraid. What if she missed her airplane? What if Anne wasn’t there to meet her?
Dad helped Jenny find the right place at the airport and hugged her good-bye. “Have a good time,” he said. Jenny felt nervous, but she remembered that in family prayer Mom had prayed for her safety.
On the flight, Jenny read a book and drank juice. After landing, she found Anne’s family waiting with big smiles on their faces. “Welcome to New York!” Anne cried.
During the week they played, hiked, picnicked, and shopped. They even saw the Palmyra Temple and the Sacred Grove. When it was time to fly home, Jenny felt brave. She found her seat—right next to the window!—and put on her seatbelt.
Just as the plane began speeding up, it slowed again. The engines quieted, then stopped. “Is something wrong?” Jenny worried to herself.
“We can’t take off yet because of thunderstorms,” the pilot announced.
Three hours later, the airplane was still sitting on the runway. “I should have been home by now,” Jenny moaned. The grouchy man next to her muttered some bad words, and she felt even worse.
At last, the plane took off. Everyone cheered, except the grouchy man, who scowled. Jenny watched the city lights disappear beneath the clouds, then fell asleep.
A sudden flash awoke her. She blinked out into the darkness. There it was again!—sizzling, crackling lightning. Her stomach turned cold. She had never seen lightning so near. Her hair stood on end, charged with static electricity. She wanted to ask someone what would happen if lightning struck the airplane, but everyone else was asleep. Even the flight attendants were out of sight.
Bam! Another blinding ray of light exploded outside.
“Heavenly Father,” Jenny silently prayed, “I’m scared. Please help me to feel better and get home safely.”
As thunder rumbled and the airplane shook, Jenny remembered her vacation. She had flown to New York without any trouble. She had played, hiked, and ridden in a car. She hadn’t scraped her knees, caught a cold, or gotten lost. She hadn’t even forgotten her toothbrush. Nothing had gone wrong. Suddenly she realized that all of those things were blessings from Heavenly Father.
“If He protected me on the ground,” she thought, “why can’t He protect me in the air?” Peace entered her heart. She knew that no matter where she went, as long as she was faithful, she would be in God’s hands.
She settled back into her chair and fell asleep. When she awoke, the lights of her hometown twinkled up at her. “Prepare for landing,” the pilot said. Jenny offered a prayer of thanks, grateful to be safely home again.

Relaxed in their shirtsleeves on a warm spring day in 1897, the McKay brothers, David O. and Thomas E., sat at a table in their rented cottage, reading their mail.
For David O., this was a time of triumphant climax in his college career and of great expectations for a new world to conquer. His hopes and spirits were high.
After three years in the university’s normal school, he felt ready to resume his chosen career as a teacher, a career he had interrupted to complete his own schooling. Before coming to the university, he had graduated from the Weber Stake Academy in Ogden, Utah, and had returned to his beloved Huntsville, as principal and teacher in the town’s little school.
A year of teaching whetted his appetite for more training, and he again became a student, enrolling at the university. In those three years of college, he displayed qualities that would help carry him to the pinnacle of leadership in the Church.
He was elected president of his class and played on the university’s football team.
A highly prized employment opportunity had been offered him in Salt Lake County, through the recommendation of the university’s teacher training director.
Most important of all, he had found the most wonderful girl in the world, Emma Ray Riggs, and she was willing to become Mrs. McKay. The future, indeed, seemed full of promise for David O. McKay.
Then he read the letter. In a moment, all his hopes seemed dashed. He was called to serve for two years in the British Mission. Swallowing disappointment, he accepted the call. It proved to be a marvelous time of spiritual growth.
He never regretted his decision. Teaching opportunities and Emma Ray awaited him on his return.

Once while serving as a mission president in Kentucky, I was faced with a direct conflict on family activity and Church activity. The Kentucky Derby was soon to be held, and our family had looked forward to going for weeks. Three days before the big event, the schedule for the Lexington Stake conference was shifted one week forward, and the Saturday leadership meeting was now scheduled for Derby Day. As mission president, I was invited in a midweek phone call from the visiting general authority to be at those sessions.
In the conversation, I told the leader about my previous plan and asked him his opinion. He replied, “Sometimes we just have to choose.” And that is all he said.
What would you have done?
Church work often requires that fathers be away from home. But by setting proper priorities, planning, and delegating, a father can organize himself to be effective in church duties and to be home much more often than he would suppose.
Some fathers who spend undue amounts of time in church callings are proud of these long hours away from home and consider them a sign of dedication. Often it is dedication, but in some cases it is just a way of not going home. Some fathers feel more capable in activities away from home than they do with their families. We should examine ourselves to see if, under the guise of “dedication,” we’ve left to our wives the most important of all causes to which we should be dedicated—our families.
Some feel that if they devote many hours away from family to their church duties, the Lord will compensate by ensuring that all will be well at home. But fathers who are faithful in the Church can and sometimes do have critical problems at home, and one reason may be a lack of father-family experience.
On the other hand, a father who feels successful at home comes out of that home filled with the spirit of love. His heart has been warmed by the home fires of his own family, and he is then able to warm the hearts and souls of his brothers and sisters. A man who devotes sufficient time and energy to family activities and who likewise is dedicated to the Lord and building his Church receives the Spirit of the Lord. It is the Spirit and not endless hours at Church activities away-from-home which brings success in church work.
In my opinion, some Church planning and leadership meetings are far too long. I was once asked by a Church leader, “Are you as a leader punctual in conducting meetings?”
I said, “Yes, I always start meetings on time.”
He said, “But are you punctual?”
I answered again the same way, “We start on time.”
He asked me the same question again, and as I sat looking perplexed he said, “I know that you begin your meetings on time, but do you end them on time?” He added, “End the meeting at the appointed time and let people go home to their families. Those who neglect the appointed quitting time are as much in error as those who neglect the beginning time.”
Sometimes a father will excuse himself for not being home enough by saying, “It isn’t the quantity but the quality of time spent that matters.” There is some truth in this statement for some people, but we must not use it to soothe a conscience that tells us we are too much away from the family.
When I was called to be a mission president, I was fearful that at a most critical time in the lives of my eight children I might not have sufficient time to be a good father. I had determined that being a father was as important a call from the Lord as being a mission president. That meant that even though I would dedicate myself to the mission, I would have to double my dedication as a father.
With that in mind, one of my first important tasks was to tie a big rope to a high limb on the huge ash tree that grew in our front yard and make a swing. With the swing came instant neighborhood friends for our younger children.
A few months after our arrival, we attended a mission presidents’ seminar. Each president was asked what he felt was the best idea he had put into practice so far in his mission. When my turn came, I said, “The best thing I’ve done so far is to build a swing.” Everyone laughed. I described the swing and explained that my major goal was to be a good father and that the swing was my symbol of this priority. The leader sustained my action.
I’ve found that I allow more time for my family if I remind myself that playing with the children is church work. While I was mission president, I would often go to a beautiful amusement park with my family. I would just walk around the park with a smile on my face, holding hands with my children, eating candy.
Once in a while, the thought would enter my mind. “You’re the mission president. You’d better get back to the office.” But then I’d smile again and say to myself, “Well, I’m doing my church work here. I’m with my children and my wife. We’re having a fun day, and tonight I’ll be able to write in my journal that I did six hours of glorious church work today.” I’d eat a little more candy and let the children lead me wherever they wanted to go.
Church work with your family doesn’t mean you leave other church work undone. It merely means that you do both—and you can do both. Some days you can spend a whole day with the children. Other times it will have to be a ten-minute wrestle or one paper airplane constructed after the evening meal.
Some years ago I was serving as a bishop. At the same time I was working on a doctor’s degree at a university and working a full-time job. I was under some strain, fearing that because of my desire to succeed in so many areas I was really failing as a father.
One Sunday evening I stayed late at church to complete some work. As I walked into the chapel to turn off the lights before going home, I suddenly felt lonely. I felt that my back would not bear for another day the heavy burdens I was carrying.
I fell to my knees near the pulpit and cried to the Lord. I poured out the feelings of my soul to him and described in detail my seemingly insurmountable tasks. When I finished I remained kneeling. And then I heard the Spirit speak to me in my heart. The answer it gave me was all I needed. It said just three things: Go forward. Do your best. Love your family.
I arose a new man.
Since then, whenever specific conflicts have come up between my family and church work, I’ve remembered those words and followed the advice given me years ago in Kentucky by a great Church leader—“Sometimes you just have to choose.”
Perhaps the only mistake we really make is when we choose one way over the other all of the time.

I was getting to know my new bishop when he said, “You said everything is fine, but something seems wrong.”
I explained that I was constantly behind in my coursework. I was depressed, lonely, and struggling with social anxiety.
“You are too hard on yourself,” he said. He taught me about the Atonement of Jesus Christ and the Savior’s patience and mercy. He also suggested that I talk to my parents and consider the possibility of therapy.
I started seeing a therapist. It didn’t solve everything at once. But because of my loving bishop, I got the help I needed.
Brenna H., Utah, USA

Thanks, Mom. Great pancakes.
Yes, thanks.
Remember to clean your rooms before …
That was a great idea to clean secretly last night.
Yeah, and working together made it go pretty fast.
I hope Mom went to check our rooms. She’ll flip.
Looks like it. She just came down the hall smiling.
Hi, Mom. What’s new?
That was a great surprise!
And we’re not done yet.
Vacuuming would’ve been too noisy last night!

“Life’s not fair!” exclaimed Amy, twisting and plaiting her long auburn hair.
Sam, who’d been around since Sunbeam days, raised his eyebrows. They were the last youth in the foyer waiting for lifts home from seminary.
She turned to the notice board, jabbing a finger at a dazzling poster. “‘New Year’s Social,’ it says.” She jabbed again. “‘Bring a date,’ it says. How am I supposed to do that? No one ever asks me. There’s just nobody around this place.”
She slumped gloomily onto the bench, contemplating a dateless Christmas, dateless New Year, dateless forever.
“Thanks a lot.” Sam pulled himself to full frame, short, lean, and topped with a cheery face, nicely sprinkled with spots and freckles.
“So, Mike, Adam, and I are nobody, are we? I’ll remember that next time you want a puncture fixing or algebra sorting out, or …”
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry, Sam. I didn’t mean to make you mad. It’s just that you’ve always been here. You’re more like … well … brothers. You know—good friends. Dating’s different.”
“How different?”
“Very different. A date should be exciting, romantic, unusual. I want to be whisked off my feet by someone who reveals a delicious character under a tough skin. Someone hard to reach, but cool and …”
“Mushy.”
“Pardon?”
“Really mushy. You’re describing a TV soap star, Amy. People in real life aren’t like that. Sounds as though you’re expecting some posh bloke to roll up in a Jag. I’m afraid you’re in for a long wait.”
He picked up his scriptures. “Come on, there’s your mum’s Austin. Looks like she’s in her usual hurry. She’s reversing already. She’ll be down at the gates if we’re not quick.”
Amy bent down to her bag. “Hang on,” she added, handing him a seminary booklet. “Don’t forget next week’s work. Doesn’t sound very easy reading to me, that section 95. There’s another unfair thing. How can someone be loved at the same time as being chastened? It doesn’t make me feel very loved when I’m getting a telling off.”
“Depends how you listen,” said Sam, reaching for the door. “And whether you hear with your brain or your spirit.”
“You don’t make much sense sometimes, Sam Harper.” She paused, buttoning her coat. “Sam?”
“What?”
“Between you and me, do you think I’m pretty enough to get a date?”
Sam looked away. “Yes,” he said.
“Then why don’t I?”
He stood quiet for a while, keeping the door open with his foot. Then he tapped his scriptures. “Another part of that section 95 might hold the answer. Verse 6 is very interesting.”
Amy poked him in the ribs and brushed past, head in the air.
“Oh, you’re so … so … serious.” This final word came shooting out. “Move it, then.” She began running. “Last one to the car buys chips on the way to your house.”
Sam moved. He took the shortcut, hedgehopping a stone wall and a few rose bushes.
“Slow coach,” he panted, as Amy came in a close second. Then he smiled. “But the chips are on me anyway.”
“Thanks,” she gasped, regaining her breath as he opened the car door. “But you don’t have to.”
Sam’s smile widened as her mother revved the engine. “And some for Sister Frank, seeing as we kept her waiting.”
Before the inner car light switched off, Amy glanced up just in time to catch that smile reflected in the depth of his eyes. It was mingled with such an expression of kindness that a warmth seemed to bounce right back into the whole of her being.
How odd, she pondered, while the car gathered speed. I’ve never noticed Sam’s eyes do that before. She tried to recall the last time she’d ever watched his eyes while he talked. She couldn’t.
She gave a shrug as the chip shop came in sight, quickly dismissing such unfamiliar thoughts.
The following weekend brought snow and ice.
The atmosphere in Sunday School wasn’t much warmer. Amy had read Doctrine and Covenants 95:6 that morning: “They who are not chosen have sinned a very grievous sin, in that they are walking in darkness at noonday.” [D&C 95:6]
Her first reaction had been indignation, followed swiftly by tears. Now she sat amidst her friends feeling dejected.
“What’s up, Amy?” asked Sam, dropping into the empty chair on her left. “You look like you’re having a good-cheer famine.”
She glanced briefly at him, then sniffed. “You really took that verse 6 out of context, didn’t you Sam.”
With a sheepish grin, he cringed a little. “Oh—that.”
Amy half turned away. “Why, may I ask, is it a sin to have no date? And I’m not in darkness.” Her voice rose with a slight wobble. “And everything’s quite bright and sunny, thank you.”
Sam sighed with embarrassment. “Look here, Amy,” he touched her arm. “I … I didn’t want to hurt you. It’s just that … I mean …” he stammered, turning crimson. “Uh oh, I think I’ve blown it. I can’t explain properly. It was a kind of joke. You know a play on words?”
Bending her head forward to let long strands of hair hide her face, she said in a small voice, “I wasn’t very amused, Sam.”
“Maybe you didn’t listen with your spirit, Amy. I mean, think of it this way. …”
Fortunately, the teacher arrived before he could tangle things further.
Amy sat through the lesson in a dream, letting everything slide over, like warm breath on frosted windows.
By the time midweek seminary came round again, she had melted a little and could see the funny side, even half admiring his weird sense of humour. Imagine Sam having nerve to say that to her. Walking in darkness indeed. Who did he think she’d missed around here?
She chuckled to herself. It was worth catching the early bus to seminary and getting there in time for some teasing.
But Sam wasn’t there. For the first time ever Sam was not at seminary. No one had heard from him all week. Amy felt a niggle of worry.
However, all such problems soon vanished when Amy’s mother arrived at nine. She could hear Mum’s voice before the car door was half open.
“You’ll never believe what’s happened. Maybe I was seeing things. No, they were real all right. But how could they be? Didn’t have time to double-check. Too late leaving. But how in the world … I mean … bananas—at this time of the year?”
“Mum, what are you talking about?” asked Amy, with a worried frown.
“There they were, dear. On the beech tree in the front garden. Bunches of bananas. All over the branches!”
“But, Mother, bananas never grow in England. You must have been imagining things.”
Sister Frank started the engine, shaking her head resolutely. “I may get slightly muddled at times, but I’m definitely not senile yet.”
The homeward trip was even faster than usual. And sure enough, there in the front garden was a banana tree.
Amy clambered out of the car in a daze, vaguely aware of a telephone ringing in the distance. She walked slowly up the path. “Must be some sort of hoax, Mum. They’re tied on,” she called over her shoulder whilst reaching out to touch the nearest one.
But Mother had turned her back towards the house. “Won’t be a minute dear—let me answer that phone.”
Amy pulled down the fruit, shivering. It felt cold and uninviting. She was just about to let it slither to the ground, when she noticed half stuck tape crumpled round the top. Peeling back the skin wasn’t easy. Then her eyes stretched in amazement. Folded neatly under the surface was a piece of paper.
Her fingers were too chilled to be careful, but she managed to straighten the paper enough to decipher a message.
“Is this an exciting, romantic and different enough way to ask for a date? If so, please climb the nearest easy branch and pull down banana number two. The one with a red heart stuck at the top.”
Clambering up the lumpy trunk and onto the first branch, Amy found the next one. The heart had slipped a bit, but another message fell out.
“Well, you’ve been whisked off your feet and this fruit reveals a delicious character under a tough skin.”
She wrinkled her nose. “You’ve got to be joking,” she muttered, prodding the banana, now squishy and turning brown.
“Now go for the fruit on that branch overhanging the hedge,” she read. “The one with two hearts. Be careful. It’s not easy.”
Amy hesitated, then quickly climbing, she stretched across the hedge top, only to find herself sliding gracefully into it. Spitting frosted twigs from her mouth, she reached again, grabbing at the banana.
As brown pulp squirted in her hands, she immediately wished she hadn’t bothered. Letting out an exasperated yell, she jumped down. “Oh, that Sam Harper! Just wait till …”
But she couldn’t resist opening the note. Her voice sounded surprised when she read out loud. “So sorry this one was hard to reach, but it’s definitely cool and …”
“Mushy?” came a familiar voice from behind the hedge.
“You can say that again,” exploded Amy. She tossed back her hair, then pulled down another banana. In seconds war would have broken out, but for Sam’s infectious laughter.
“So this is where you were during seminary. You’re a nut case, Sam. What am I going to do with you?” She shook her head and began brushing bits of tree off her coat.
He took out a tissue and gently wiped banana mush from her hand. “You could try answering my question,” he replied softly.
“Which one?”
“Please will you be my date for the New Year’s social?”
She looked at him for a long moment. There was that smile, hovering in his eyes again, only this time it seemed anxious and hopeful as well as kind.
“I think I must be slightly mad, but yes—on two conditions.”
Sam knelt in the slush at her feet, and with a flourish, pulled out a box of Cadbury’s milk tray from inside his coat. “Anything,” he promised, solemnly. “And here’s something to take away the taste of bananas. I know in the TV advert the man leaps off a mountain at this moment, but, … as we don’t have one handy …”
Amy giggled, giving a mock curtsy whilst he gallantly placed them in her outstretched hand.
She pulled him to his feet with the other hand. “Okay, I’ll be your date, but only if there are no more bananas—not ever.”
“And the other condition?”
She paused. “Will this mean I’m no longer walking in darkness at noonday?”
Sam grinned. “How could anyone be in the dark with me around? Come on, let’s celebrate.”
“Does a drink of Mum’s hot black current and toast sound exciting enough?”
Sam closed his eyes and sighed. “Umm! Delicious!”
Amy nudged him towards the house. The rest of the bananas could wait until morning. After all, dates don’t grow on trees every day of the week.

Margaret Dean knew all about the misconceptions people had about the Church. As an African American, Sister Dean had friends who wondered if she would be discriminated against when she became a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. But she knew better, and she wanted others to know better, too. So Sister Dean set about knocking down those walls that Troy, Melissa, and all the rest of the members of the stake came up against when they tried to do missionary work.

Under the direction of the stake president, Sister Dean set about organizing a Black history celebration to be held at the stake center. She enlisted the help of the youth and youth leaders in the stake, and she also asked local leaders from other churches to participate. That first year no one really knew if it would work, or if anybody would even come. But by the fourth year, the last year that Sister Dean would be alive to attend the program, the celebration was filling the stake center to capacity and providing countless missionary opportunities. One highlight for Sister Dean—who has always loved music—was the 60-member choir comprised of youth from the Pensacola stake and the nearby Mt. Zion, John the Baptist, Mount Lily, Zion Hope, Greater Union, and Greater True Vine Churches.

April Reisinger, a Laurel, was a member of that choir. “I think that something like this helps you get to know each other. In the choir not only did we learn to sing together, which was a challenge since there were so many of us; we also prayed together at rehearsals. There was always a good feeling there.”

Although Sister Dean has died, the program she worked so hard to develop lives on. Every year, the crowd at the stake center grows larger. And every year, Latter-day Saint youth get a chance to share in the heritage of their community and to make friends who are members of other faiths.

Hey, Sam!
What’s wrong?
I can’t find Floppy, my elephant from Great-Aunt Alice!
I’ll help you look.
We’ll never find him.
Let’s say a prayer for help.
Heavenly Father, please help us find Floppy.
Hmm …
Sam! Look!
You found him!
Let’s say a prayer to say thank you.
Heavenly Father, thank you for helping me find Floppy.
Now there’s one more thing we should do.
Can I play too?
Heavenly Father cares about what we care about! We can pray to Him anytime, anywhere, about anything.

As a member of the high council of the Piura Perú Central Stake, I was asked to speak about charity, the pure love of Christ, in the sacrament meetings I visited. As I spoke, I mentioned the account in the New Testament of a rich man asking Jesus, “Good Master, what shall I do to inherit eternal life?” I emphasized this part of the Lord’s answer: “Yet lackest thou one thing: sell all that thou hast, and distribute unto the poor, and thou shalt have treasure in heaven: and come, follow me” (Luke 18:18, 22).
I was also impressed by Jesus’ promise that He will reward those who give to the poor, treating acts of charity as if they had given directly to Him: “For I was an hungred, and ye gave me meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink: I was a stranger, and ye took me in” (Matt. 25:35).
One day several months after giving these talks, I was hungry and went to a food stand where one of our members worked. I ordered seviche, a typical Peruvian dish consisting of fish prepared with lemon. After I sat down to eat, I became aware that someone was standing behind me. I turned around and saw an old man, dressed in an old but clean suit and wearing a wool hat. He had a white beard and used a cane.
He said nothing, and I went on eating. But then, suddenly, a thought came into my mind: What blessing can you expect if you don’t apply what you teach? Remembering my sacrament meeting talks, I looked at the old man again. “Would you like a dish of seviche?”
He said nothing, only continued to stare at me. I was sure I had never seen him before, and I went back to eating.
A few seconds later he spoke, “Could you possibly give me some money for lunch?”
“A lot of people might use the money to buy liquor,” I replied. “I will pay for something to eat.”
After a moment’s pause, he said, “That would be fine.” So I ordered a plate for him.
The old man sat down at another table and was served. When I had finished my own food, I paid my bill and his. I wondered if I should say good-bye to him, but he was enjoying his seviche so much he didn’t even look at me. So I started on my way home.
I had not finished taking the first step when I felt a clear and penetrating impression of heaven’s gratitude for my actions. So strong was the impression that my eyes clouded up with tears of joy. I thought of the words, “For I was an hungred, and ye gave me meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink: I was a stranger, and ye took me in.”
When I got home, I went into my bedroom and knelt in prayer. I thanked God for His all-embracing love.

At work on 30 December 1999, I was thinking about the members of the Jardim Paineiras Ward, where I serve as elders quorum president. I wondered how I could help the brethren in my quorum grow in the kingdom of the Lord. Then the idea flowed into my mind to ask the brethren to feed the Lord’s sheep.
On 31 December 1999, I found at my door the January 2000 issue of the Liahona (Portuguese). One of the first talks in this general conference issue was “Feed My Sheep” by Elder Ben B. Banks of the Presidency of the Seventy. I immediately realized how blessed we are to have the Holy Ghost to guide us. I was able to read parts of the talk to the brethren in elders quorum meeting. I asked them to read it carefully at home and to think about this subject. I am very grateful for the blessings I receive when I seek the help of the Lord.
Fernando J. Calderari,Jardim Paineiras Ward, Juiz de Fora Brazil Stake

Zoey dashed to the door the moment she heard the bus stop. Flinging the door open, she raced down the driveway.
“Zach! Zach!” she called. “I kept my promise. I didn’t go into your room once after I got home from kindergarten.”
“Good job!” Zach said, patting Zoey on the back.
“Now can I have the piece of gum that you promised me?”
Zach stopped. He stuck his hand into his pocket, but it was empty. “I’m sorry, Zoey. I forgot and traded it to David for a cupcake.”
“Oh.” Zoey turned and walked slowly back up the driveway. She found Mom in the kitchen, getting out flour, sugar, and salt. Zoey’s face brightened. “Is it time to bake the cookies you promised I could help you make after I got my toys picked up?”
“I’m sorry, Zoey. I forgot that I need to bake cinnamon rolls for a meeting at school tonight.”
“Oh.” Zoey trudged into the living room, flopped onto the couch, and thumbed through the Friend magazine that had just arrived. When she saw a picture of Jesus Christ surrounded by little children, she smiled, remembering how much Jesus loves little children.
The phone rang, and she jumped up to answer it. Hearing who it was, she chirped, “Dad, guess what? I told everyone at school today about the bike ride you and Zach and I are going on tonight. What time will you be home?”
Zoey’s shoulders drooped. “But, Dad, you promised we could go if we helped you weed the garden last night.” She listened as Dad explained. “Oh.” Zoey hung up the phone. Tears spilled out onto her cheeks.
“Who was on the phone?” Mom asked as she came into the living room.
“Dad.” Zoey sniffled. “He said you need to get a baby-sitter for tonight. He forgot he has to work late.”
Mom took Zoey’s hand and gently sat her on the couch beside her. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“Nobody keeps their promises!” Zoey blurted out. “I stayed out of Zach’s room, but he traded the piece of gum he promised me. I cleaned my room, but you baked cinnamon rolls instead of cookies.” Zoey wiped her tears with the back of her hand. “And Zach and I helped weed the garden, but Dad can’t take us on the bike ride, after all. I’m never going to believe anyone’s promises again.”
Mom hugged Zoey a long time. Then she picked up the Friend Zoey had been looking at. “Zoey, there is Someone who never breaks a promise.”
Zoey wiped her eyes. “Who?”
“Jesus.” Mom pointed to the picture of Jesus and the children. “In two years, you’ll turn eight and be baptized. When we’re baptized, Jesus promises us the gift of the Holy Ghost, membership in His church, and forgiveness for our sins. Do you know what we promise Him?”
“To be good?”
“That’s right,” Mom said. “We promise to obey His commandments and to take His name upon us. That means we’ll act like Jesus Christ—like He would want us to act. And we also promise to always remember Him.”
“I know why He asks that,” Zoey said firmly. “You can’t keep promises if you forget what you promised.”
“That’s right. One reason we have the sacrament every week is to help us remember our promises.”
“But how does Jesus remember His promises?”
“Let me read you something very special that Jesus said.” Mom reached for the scriptures on the table, turned to 1 Nephi 21:15–16 [1 Ne. 21:15–16], and read, “Yea, they may forget, yet will I not forget thee, O house of Israel. Behold, I have graven thee upon the palms of my hands.”
Closing the book, Mom asked, “Do you know what that means, Zoey?”
Zoey closed her eyes and remembered the pictures she’d seen of Jesus on the cross. “Does it mean Jesus remembers because of the scars from the nails in His hands when He was killed?”
Mom nodded. “Jesus never forgets His promises.”
“Wow! That means I can always believe Jesus’ promises. It makes me want to work extra hard to keep my promises to Him.”
Mom gave Zoey another hug. “We all need to work extra hard at keeping our promises, both to Jesus Christ and to each other. Will you give Zach, Daddy, and me another chance to keep ours?”
“OK.” Zoey smiled. Then shaking her finger at Mom, she added, “But don’t forget that with promises, it’s important to remember.”

I was born and brought up in the slums of Nairobi, Kenya. As a young child, my family and I attended church and I was an altar boy. (This is where I learned to speak English.) We attended regularly, but over time I became discouraged with religion and promised myself that I would never be a part of an organized religion again.
As an adult I lived on the streets. I ate and clothed myself from items I found in rubbish bins. I worked at recycling but became deeply involved in the slum culture of drugs—selling and smoking marijuana on a regular basis. I married but struggled to care for and provide for my wife.
One day, as I was going through the recyclables, I came across a book. It was the Book of Mormon. It was dirty and soiled, so I threw it back into the bin and went on with my work. Sometime later, I was going through a different recyclables bin and came upon the very same book. It was still in poor shape, but I thought it might have some value if I were to sell it to someone—so I threw it in with my pile of recyclables.
Then the rainy season came—and one day, when returning to my pile of goods, there was the Book of Mormon sitting right on the very top, rinsed clean by the rains. The pages had been washed and were fluttering dry in the breeze. It was in much better condition than I had first found it. At that moment it struck me that this book was in some way “self-preserving”—especially since it had crossed into my life now three times. I decided to take it home, where I put in on a small shelf in my shack. There it sat for almost a year.
One day as I was spraying insecticide in my shack, I moved a few items and again noticed the book. This time I opened it and read the cover page. Then the next page and the next and the next. I was intrigued by the story of the angel Moroni appearing to the young boy Joseph Smith. I read a little further and found myself completely engrossed. For the next ten days I read the book, and for some curious reason I felt a strong urge to stop smoking marijuana. Reading the book took my mind off my need for the drug. My skin started itching and burning—and I could not sleep. But as I read the Book of Mormon, this agony was relieved, and I kept reading.
I got to 3 Nephi 27 and read: “Therefore, whatsoever ye shall do, ye shall do it in my name; therefore ye shall call the church in my name; and ye shall call upon the Father in my name that he will bless the church for my sake.
“And how be it my church save it be called in my name? For if a church be called in Moses’ name then it be Moses’ church; or if it be called in the name of a man then it be the church of a man; but if it be called in my name then it is my church, if it so be that they are built upon my gospel” (3 Nephi 27:7–8).
That’s it I thought! I must look for a church that goes by the name of Jesus Christ. But no matter how long I searched, I could not find it. For seven years, I continued my quest. My friends kept trying to get me to return to my old lifestyle and smoke with them, but I refused—for I had given that life up for good!
By this time, I had become employed as a security guard. One Sunday—on election day—I went to vote during my lunch hour. As I got to the Catholic Church building where the voting was being held, I noticed a placard directing members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints to meet at a certain location for transport to a conference some distance away. I literally ran to this place and caught the last man getting on the bus. “Where is this church?” I asked him. “I want to be a member!” The man gave me contact information for the missionaries and took my telephone number. He said he would pass my information along to the elders.
A few days later, I received a call from a good missionary, Elder Egbert Brandin. He and his companion came and taught me about the plan of salvation—and I knew immediately that this is the true Church of God. Shortly afterward, I entered the waters of baptism and was washed clean—just like my copy of the Book of Mormon.

A priests quorum decided one winter to gather food for the needy as a service project. This event soon developed into a competitive activity with the Laurels to see who could gather the most food.
Jim, one of the members of the quorum, became very excited about participating in this activity. He planned to use a cart he had built for a parade and was determined that he was going to collect more food than anyone else.
The night came, and the priests and Laurels met at the chapel. They went out at the same time and returned at the specified time later in the evening. Much to everyone’s surprise, Jim’s cart was empty. He was rather sober and didn’t seem to want to talk to anyone. Some of the boys made fun of him and asked, “Where’s your food, Jim? We thought you were going to beat us all.”
Seeing the situation Jim was in and knowing that he had an interest in automobiles, the adviser grabbed him and said, “Come outside, Jim, I want you to look at my car. It’s giving me some trouble.”
When they got outside, the adviser said, “What’s wrong, Jim?” Jim began to cry and said, “I don’t know if I want to talk about it.”
“Are you upset?”
“No, not really. But when I went out to collect the food, I really got a lot. My cart was full. As I was returning to the chapel, I stopped at the home of a nonmember woman who is divorced and lives within our ward boundaries. I knocked on the door and explained what we were doing, and she invited me in. She began to look for something to give me. She opened the refrigerator, and I could see there was hardly anything in it. The cupboards were bare. Finally, she found a small can of peaches.
“I could hardly believe it. There were all these little kids running around that needed to be fed, and she handed me this can of peaches. I took it and put it in my cart and went on up the street. I got about halfway up the block when I just felt warm all over and knew I needed to go back to that house. I gave her all the food.”
The adviser said, “Jim, don’t you ever forget the way you feel tonight, because that’s what it is all about.”
Because of the priesthood Jim held, he had received the ministering of angels and through the Holy Ghost had been guided to do something that was far more important than winning the contest.