Gospel Story Finder

On the way home from church, Anna remembered the little slip of paper her teacher had given her. “Mom, guess what! I’m giving a talk in Primary next Sunday.”
“That’s great,” Mom said. “On what?”
“I have to talk about the Restoration. But I’m not sure what that is.”
“Restoration means that God brought back, or restored, everything He wants His Church to have,” Mom said. “Through the Prophet Joseph Smith, He brought back temples, the priesthood, baptism, and the gift of the Holy Ghost. Without the Restoration, we wouldn’t have the Church!”
Anna nodded. “I guess that makes sense. But I don’t think I can explain it like you did.”
“Hey, I have an idea,” Mom said as they got home. “Come with me.”
Anna followed Mom to the family room. They had started a puzzle last night, and the pieces were still spread out on a small table.
“Think of the gospel like a puzzle.” Mom picked up a piece. “Many pieces of the picture were on the earth at different times. But after Jesus and the Apostles died, many gospel truths were lost or changed. Those pieces of truth needed to be brought back.”
“So then what happened?” Anna shuffled some of the loose pieces.
“Many years later God called a young farm boy to bring the pieces back and put them together like when Jesus was on the earth. Who do you think that was?”
“Joseph Smith!” Anna said, smiling. “I think I’m starting to get it.” She and Mom talked more about Joseph Smith and the different pieces of the gospel that God brought back through him.
The rest of the week, Anna wrote and practiced her talk. She prayed to Heavenly Father that she could be brave and share her message in Primary.
On Sunday, when it was time for Anna’s talk, she stood up, took a deep breath, and held up a puzzle on a board so everyone could see. All the pieces were together in the puzzle.
“A long time ago, many of the important pieces of the gospel were on the earth. When Jesus and His Apostles died, some pieces got lost.” Anna took some pieces out of the puzzle and set them down. “Then Heavenly Father and Jesus called Joseph Smith as a prophet to bring back the missing pieces of the gospel. This is called the Restoration.” She picked up a puzzle piece to show the Primary. On the back were the words “Priesthood power.”
Then Anna showed the rest of the pieces. She read the back of each piece before she put it in its spot in the puzzle. “A living prophet … twelve Apostles … temple work for eternal families … baptism by immersion … laying on of hands for the gift of the Holy Ghost.”
Anna showed the finished puzzle. “Now we have all the pieces of the gospel. That means we can see the big picture of how we can be happy and live with Heavenly Father again someday. I am grateful for the Restoration. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”

You know what to expect at girls’ camp—tents, outdoor cooking, dirt.

During a week spent in the high mountains of southern Utah, girls and leaders from the Las Vegas East Stake found something more, something magic. They discovered in each of their fellow campers something special to love.

Mary Beth Long, a first-year camper, came to camp reluctantly, but that soon changed. “Our camp leaders are crazy. You should have seen what they did!” What they did had something to do with a zany sense of humor and red licorice in their ears. Somewhere between flag ceremonies and foil dinners, magic touched Mary Beth’s heart, and she knew her leaders loved her. “I will never be the same person I was before girls’ camp,” she exclaimed.

Alma Elizabeth’s father had trouble walking. In Sweden he had been a concert violinist and an orchestra director. Then rheumatism crippled him. Slowly he learned to use his hands and feet again, but it was difficult and painful. Elizabeth’s father was unable to walk as fast as the wagon train was moving, and he insisted that his family continue with the wagon train, promising to overtake them later.
Her father struggled on until he saw a light. It was a camp of soldiers on their way to the Civil War. One soldier spoke Swedish. When they learned that Alma Elizabeth’s father was a musician, they found a violin and he played it for them. In the morning they took him on horseback and overtook the wagon train.

As mayor of Palo Alto, he brought about a number of civic developments and projects that serve Palo Alto’s needs today. But his warmth and goodness also helped him win friends for the Church. They grew to understand and respect the standards he lived by. Still, few of his non-member acquaintances realized the depth of Mayor Haight’s commitment to his church—until one night in 1963.
At the end of a city council meeting, Mayor Haight told city officials, citizens, and reporters that there was one additional item of business not listed on the agenda. “I want to announce,” he said, “that as of tonight I am resigning as the mayor of Palo Alto and as a member of the city council, as Mrs. Haight and I have been asked to go to Scotland for the Mormon Church. The meeting is now adjourned.”
Non-member friends on the city council tried to persuade him not to go, but he explained that the call to service had come from President David O. McKay, a man he regarded as a prophet. David Haight felt the only matter to be resolved was when he would be needed in Scotland.
“The Savior talked about putting your hands to the plow and not looking back, and I’ve thought of that many, many times,” Elder Haight says now. “You don’t look back with regrets, with a sense of wishing for what you had been involved in.”
That day, twenty-four years ago, he put his hand to the plow and has never looked back with regret.

On a cold winter day several years ago, I visited one of the branches in Dnipropetrovsk, Ukraine. It was fast Sunday, and we warmed ourselves in the glow of the testimonies borne in the poorly heated, rented space where we were meeting.
I especially recall the testimony of one sister whose inspired face I can still see in my mind. She was a single mother. She and her one-year-old child lived in the dormitory of the factory where she worked. Economic conditions were not good. Her wages were low and paid irregularly. Despair and then eventual hope in God brought her to the gospel.
Not long after her baptism, she was preparing food for herself and her child when a young woman who lived in the same building said: “I know things are difficult for you. Like me, you are a single mother, earning low wages, with no place of your own to live. There is little hope of a good future for yourself and your child. Like me, you have a gray, dull life. Like me, you fear for your child and the uncertainty of tomorrow. But why are you always smiling and your eyes always shining? Why does joy light up your face?”
The questions made this sister stop and think about the changes that had occurred since her baptism. As she gained faith in Jesus Christ, the fear that had corroded her life had disappeared. The path back to the Father that opened before her had permitted her to have hope, which had led her to baptism and developed within her a certainty of a tranquil and happy future for her small family. By receiving the gift of the Holy Ghost, she had received a firm testimony. The false values of the world gradually gave way to the higher values of the gospel, and these higher values became a firm foundation for both thought and deed. She realized that it was precisely these changes that had given her a new outlook on the world. Long-awaited joy and peace had come into her life.

But when I returned home from my mission, I got a job and moved away from my family. I got an apartment in a different state, with roommates who had very different standards than mine.

My co-workers also lived very different lives than I did. They would get together every weekend to drink and party, and they invited me to join. Not wanting to be in an environment like that, I always turned down their invitations.

But, weekend after weekend, as I sat alone in my flat and woke up each Sunday to go to church on my own, I started to feel discouraged.

Although I said no to early invitations to go out with my co-workers, I felt jealous—they seemed like they were having fun. I noticed that the friendships they developed when they went out seemed to be helping them move forward in their careers.

I just felt like the quiet, boring co-worker no one knew.

One weekend I was tired of feeling lonely. So I decided to go with them when they asked. I justified the decision by deciding beforehand that I wouldn’t try any alcohol.

I told myself, “Even if I’m in an unholy place, just being there won’t hurt me if I’m not doing anything unholy, right?”

As I started going out with these co-workers, I gradually started to change. I stayed out late on Saturday nights, which resulted in me sleeping through church on Sundays.

Although I wasn’t drinking alcohol, I wasn’t standing in holy places. Physically, I wasn’t going to church. Spiritually, I didn’t think about the gospel or make time for Heavenly Father. I was trading my meetinghouse for parties. I didn’t leave room for the Spirit in my life.

One day, I woke up and realized how far I had let myself drift away from Heavenly Father. I felt like I finally understood the term “godly sorrow” (2 Corinthians 7:10). My mind and heart were full of anguish.

“What am I doing?” I thought. “This isn’t me.”

Despite going out on weekends, I didn’t feel happy.

I knew I needed to get back on track with my faith. I needed to repent.

I used to think that repentance was a painful, difficult process, full of guilt and shame. But through this experience, I have learned that repentance is the process of allowing Jesus Christ to change our natures and help us become “new creatures” (Mosiah 27:26).

Ultimately, it was the thought of Jesus Christ and His Atonement that helped me remember who I truly am, the choices I want to be making, and the environments I want to be in.

I started praying for the first time in months. I stopped going out with my co-workers. I went back to church. I opened my Book of Mormon more often.

As I returned to my consistent spiritual habits, I felt peace and renewed comfort. I gained a testimony that when God asks for space in my life and I give it to Him, He will bless me. I can choose to stand in holy places, and if I sometimes find myself in an environment that makes it hard to feel the Spirit, I can hold fast to my standards and faith and rely on Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ to protect me (see 2 Kings 6:15–16).

This experience showed me that the world has such a strong, enticing pull, and we can easily be swept up in it if we aren’t making room for the Spirit in our lives.

Before, I was so worried about my career and loneliness. But after wandering away from the gospel, I realized that if I follow Jesus Christ, He will continue to prepare a way for me physically, socially, spiritually, and financially. As my relationship with Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ has improved, I’ve found new ways to socialize while not putting myself in spiritually dangerous environments.

I know that Heavenly Father has provided a solution for me in Jesus Christ and that my life will be filled with blessings as I continue to follow Him. I feel so grateful for a Savior who was willing to suffer for me so I could choose to follow Him again.

One of the special memories of my life is an experience that occurred during the early years of my marriage. I was attending Brigham Young University (in Provo, Utah,) and we had just moved into our first home with our first baby.
Since we had a new baby, my wife was no longer working and we were seriously troubled financially. One month we figured out that if we payed our tithing in addition to the other bills we had to pay, we would be left with exactly fifty cents. But we really didn’t struggle with that decision very long because we believed what the Lord had told us through the prophet Malachi. (See Mal. 3:10–12.) We paid our tithing.
The following Monday I was downtown looking at picture frames on display in a store. One of our friends at Brigham Young University had given us a beautiful etching to hang in our home, but of course I could not afford to buy a frame. As I turned to leave, though, I felt impressed to go back and ask the young man behind the counter if he knew of anyone who was looking for a house painter. My father had been a painter, and his father also, and I had been trained in the trade. I didn’t think there was much chance of getting a job because it was winter and because there was not much work anywhere. Nevertheless, I heeded the urge and asked the clerk about employment.
He said, “You know, one of our customers was in here just this morning looking for a well trained painter.” He gave me the man’s address, I called him within the hour, and by afternoon I was earning two dollars an hour as foreman of a painting crew. That was high wages at the time, and I have never been out of a job since.

White puffs of frozen breath tickled my nose as I twisted the key in the lock on hangar 20, row four. It opened with a click, and John and I worked together to pull the dilapidated doors wide apart to reveal our pride and joy—a shiny blue-and-white, single-engine Piper Dakota airplane, number 80838. We had come to the airport for flying practice for John, who was working on getting an instrument rating. I was to be the safety or copilot, and John’s son Duane had come along just for the ride.
The asphalt pavement was damp with moisture from a low layer of fog which had enveloped the valley. Visibility was down to less than a mile on the ground, but if you looked straight up at the sky you could see the round lustrous disk of the sun trying to shine through. I let John preflight the airplane while I closed the hangar doors. Then with anticipation of an enjoyable morning the three of us climbed aboard.
“Salt Lake Clearance, this is Dakota 80838. IFR clearance on request to Brigham City for a practice ADF approach,” John’s voice crackled in my headphones. As we waited for clearance to go, I explained some of the instruments and procedures to Duane, who was sitting in the back seat. Each instrument has an important purpose and each must be checked for accuracy to ensure a safe flight through the fog. The compass, the directional gyro, altitude indicator, and especially the VOR were all important for this flight because we would be taking off in very marginal conditions and could possibly be coming back to land in even more reduced visibility.
The fog seemed to be getting more dense the longer we waited to go. The cold temperature inside the cockpit caused our breath to condense on the windows, making it even more difficult to see. I could sense that Duane was just a little nervous about the whole experience, but he didn’t say a word. John did the pretakeoff run-up, called the tower, and then we were on our way, straight down the runway.
The soft muted glow of the runway lights slipped by faster and faster as the little plane gained speed. Then suddenly we were airborne. The runway disappeared below us, and within what seemed like only a few seconds, we were enveloped in a soft gray nothingness. The roar of the engine filled our ears, and I had the feeling that we were beginning to turn to the left. As safety pilot I had been watching the instruments carefully and noted that we were holding our correct heading, our pitch was okay, and altitude proper. My feelings were all in my mind. We were on instruments and had to trust them now no matter what our other senses might try to tell us.
I remembered hearing stories when I was first learning to fly about pilots who got into clouds and tried to follow their senses instead of the instruments. They would go into what was called a “graveyard spiral.” The pilot begins to turn slightly and loses a little of the normal lift of the wing. To correct this the pilot pulls back a little on the yoke, which tightens the turn and makes him lose more lift, a cycle which keeps getting worse as he pulls back harder and harder, eventually spiraling him right into the ground.
We had only been airborne a few minutes, but it seemed longer, when the gray mist around us began to get brighter and brighter. Then, like flipping on a brilliant radiant light, we broke out on top and sunlight bathed our faces. Above, the sky was blue and bright. Below, the entire valley looked like a gigantic ocean filled with white frothy water. The mountains raised their snow-covered peaks in majestic grandeur. Duane smiled, I smiled, and John smiled. It is a challenge to fly for the first time under real instrument conditions while in training, and John had done well.
The rest of the flight went smoothly. We flew along the charted course and made an instrument approach into Brigham City, then headed back. The sea of clouds was still there, and as we got closer to home, I could once again feel the tension rising just a little from the back seat. I knew Duane trusted his dad, but he was still wondering just how we would get back down through this when we couldn’t see.
We were descending now, and the clouds were getting closer. Soon they closed in around us, and once again there was nothing to see but dull gray mist. The sound of the engine seemed to get louder, and our eyes strained to see something—anything that would give us a clue of our position. Nothing came. A minute went by, then two. The cross needles were centered on the instruments, speed was okay, we should be all right. Suddenly there was a flash, a brilliant, yet fog-shrouded light, then another and another and then a whole line of bright white lights leading our little plane right out of the murk and in perfect position to land on the broad expanse of runway that we could now make out before us. The landing was smooth, and although two of us had been through this before, there were three silent sighs of relief when we felt the wheels touch the ground. It had been a great day.
As we taxied back toward the hangar, I turned in the seat and said to Duane, “Well, how did you like flying through the clouds?”
“Oh, it was okay,” he answered. “I sure felt like Enos though.”
“Enos?” I asked, “What do you mean?”
“I just prayed a lot,” said Duane, and we all laughed together.

I live in Tucson, Arizona, with my parents, my brother Stephen, my grandfather Juan, and my great-grandmother Maria. As a member of the Sonora Ward in the Tucson Arizona Stake, I have enjoyed many opportunities to magnify my callings in the Aaronic Priesthood. I have helped clean yards of the elderly and others unable to take care of their homes. I have also helped clean the church cemetery and ballpark. But what has helped the most in learning to honor my priesthood was an experience I had in helping my own family.
One summer my aunt and uncle left my four young cousins with my parents. I was asked to baby-sit them much of the time. During those months, I had the interesting experience of learning how to change diapers and fix lunches as well as figure out ways to keep my little cousins from getting into trouble. The first few days were hard on all of us, but by the end of the summer, we were all enjoying ourselves and doing well. I learned to appreciate what parents have to teach their children, and by the end of the summer, I felt a greater love for my cousins than I’d ever felt before.

I remember a few seasons ago we invited a photographer to come into our home to take our Christmas picture. He looked like a Latter-day Saint, and we didn’t discuss religion with him. He came and took several poses in our home and outside. As I went a week or so later to pick up the proofs. I looked around his home and began to conclude that he wasn’t a member of the Church. I then began to ask him questions that I hadn’t before. I asked him if he had lived in Salt Lake City all of his life. He said, “No, I’ve been here about seven years.” I said, “How do you enjoy living among the Mormons?’” And he said, “Well, they don’t bother me, and I don’t bother them. The home teachers haven’t even come by to see me.” And then he said, “In fact, no one has ever spoken to me about the Church.” And here he had been in our midst for seven years! Somewhere in our neighborhoods there may be someone living this Christmas season whom we could select as our gift for the Savior. There might be something we could do with that person that would bring him closer and better prepare him to hear the gospel taught by the missionaries.

As a member of the Church, you can expect that the full-time or the ward or branch missionaries will ask for the opportunity to help you make a list of people with whom you could share the gospel. The missionaries may suggest you think of relatives, neighbors, and acquaintances. They may ask you to set a date by which you will try to have the person or family prepared to be taught by the missionaries. I’ve had that experience. Because we in our family accepted that invitation from the missionaries, I was blessed to perform the baptism of a widow in her 80s, taught by sister missionaries.

When I placed my hands on her head to confirm her a member of the Church, I felt impressed to say that her choice to be baptized would bless generations of her family, after and before her. Even after she passed away, I was able to be in the temple with her son as he was sealed to her.

Following up on a member referral, my missionary companion and I visited the home of a young mother. We knocked at her front door a number of times before she opened it and welcomed us inside. We explained who we were and told her that a neighbor had referred us to her. She accepted our introduction and settled down in front of us, ready to hear the first missionary discussion.
The woman’s ten-year-old daughter, who was sitting in the room with us, didn’t make the slightest effort to turn and look at us. Instead, she turned up the volume of the television set. Her mother seemed to be following the discussion very intently and did not seem to notice the noise. So my companion continued presenting the discussion.
A few minutes later, the girl again increased the volume. The sound was now so loud that we couldn’t hear the mother clearly. Still, she did nothing to remedy the situation, but continued showing the same interest in our message. I began to feel quite annoyed by the girl’s behavior and her mother’s lack of action. I felt even more irritated when I realized that the daughter wasn’t even watching the television—she was drawing on some paper! I tried to appear calm on the outside, all the while thinking, “What a brat! And why doesn’t her mother say something to her!”
My thoughts were far from the discussion when the girl left the room, leaving the television set turned on. How infuriating!
But when she came back a little later, I saw her face for the first time and realized that she had Down’s syndrome, a condition causing mental retardation. I looked at the young mother, who was fully concentrating on my companion’s message. “What a considerate mother!” I thought. “Perhaps she doesn’t want to say anything to her daughter because of her condition. Or perhaps she doesn’t want to interrupt us.”
Humbled, I presented the second part of the missionary discussion. Then we offered a prayer, set our next appointment date, and visited informally with the woman for a while. As we talked, we were amazed to learn that she was deaf and that she had understood our presentation by reading our lips.
As we left her home, I felt very sorry that I had misjudged both mother and daughter. Neither had been aware of how the television had distracted us.
Even though I had not spoken my feelings, I had not controlled by thoughts. My judgment had been based on little or no understanding of the situation. Since that experience, I have always worked to control my thoughts and not be so quick to judge others.

When I turned 12 years old, I was the only young man attending my ward in Cape Town, South Africa. Even so, my bishop felt inspired to call a Young Men presidency.
My Young Men president could have said to himself, “What am I supposed to do with only one young man? We cannot organize activities for only one.” Instead, he gave of his best and magnified his calling. The presidency organized hikes, camps, Scouting activities, Mutual evenings on Tuesday nights, lessons on Sundays, sand boarding, and activities at the beach. After a while, other young men began coming out—two, then three, and then four.
I am filled with gratitude that these Young Men leaders were faithful in their callings and made an effort for just one young man—me. I am a better person because they didn’t give up and so are the others who participated in the Young Men program in our ward.
Greg Burgoyne, South Africa

The summer after Mother came home was wonderful. Primary was grand! We had Primary on weekday mornings. One week we made little dolls out of stockings. Then we made them little leather dresses. We cut fringe into the bottom of the dresses and added beading. Then we braided their hair. We also embroidered faces for them. We made them little beds out of cardboard and yarn.
Primary was the beginning of my testimony. I learned the gospel there and felt the Spirit through good music. I remember the leaders who taught us the songs with so much energy. Singing was fun! I don’t remember anybody telling me what I was feeling, but it was the Spirit. That’s the kind of power that good music has.

In 2016, one night while on my mission, after praying and falling asleep, I had a dream in which a tall man dressed in white, whom I couldn’t clearly see, appeared to me. As he drew nearer, I realized it was my father. His presence filled me with immense joy, and he imparted many teachings to me, instructing me to write them down. The next day, as I reviewed my journal, I found that much of what he had taught me was recorded therein. My joy was full of the truth that many of the things he shared lightened and eased my progress on the covenant path.

Katie looked at the hole in her mother’s garden, then at her big shaggy dog. “Jolly, why do you dig so much?” she asked.
The big dog gave her a curious look.
Katie giggled. “And look at your face—it’s all covered with dirt.”
Jolly wagged his tail.
“I guess digging makes you happy. That’s all there is to it.” She reached down and fastened the leash she carried onto Jolly’s collar. “Time for our walk.”
Leading Jolly through the backyard gate and heading up Cranberry Lane, Katie smiled and waved to everyone she saw. “Know what, Jolly? The people on this street are probably the nicest neighbors in the whole wide world.”
When they walked past the house on the corner, though, Katie said, “But I do wonder about the new people. I don’t think they’re very nice at all.”
For years the Martins had lived in the house on the corner. Then last month they had moved away. Now some new people, named Logan, lived there.
The Martins had always let the kids play in their front yard, but the Logans had plowed it up, spread black dirt, planted grass seed, and posted a sign that read: KEEP OFF THE GRASS.
“I don’t like that sign,” Katie told Jolly. “It doesn’t belong on Cranberry Lane. I don’t think the Logans do, either. Neighbors on this street don’t tell other neighbors to stay away.”
Just then a car pulled into the Logan’s driveway, and a man got out. He wore a dark blue uniform.
“That must be Mr. Logan,” Katie whispered to Jolly. “Look, there’s something shiny pinned to his shirt. Oh, wow—it’s a badge! He must be a police officer! He’ll probably arrest anyone who steps on his lawn, even if it’s just an accident.”
After watching Mr. Logan go into his house, Katie turned and started for home, feeling a little scared. Things were never going to be the same, now that the law was keeping tabs on Cranberry Lane.
When she reached home, she took Jolly to the backyard. But before she could close the gate, he scampered through it and headed lickety-split up the street. When he got to the Logans’ yard, he stopped and began to dig.
When Katie finally caught up with him, she started shouting, “Jolly! Stop that!”
But the shaggy dog just started a new hole. Dirt flew everywhere.
Katie began to cry. “Jolly,” she wailed, “you’re going to get me arrested!”
Suddenly, as if he understood, Jolly stopped digging and ran pell-mell over to her and jumped up on her legs for a comforting pat.
“Oh, Jolly, you’re the only dog living on Cranberry Lane. Mr. Logan can easily find out who ruined his lawn. He’ll probably put me in jail!”
Katie quickly took Jolly home and to the backyard, where she carefully shut the gate. Then she went to the garage and got a garden rake. Dragging it behind her, she headed for the Logans’ house.
Knees knocking, heart pounding, Katie rang the bell.
Mr. Logan answered immediately. “Hello there,” he said.
Katie swallowed. “My name is K-K-Katie C-C-Cooper. My d-dog—” It was no use. Katie dissolved into tears.
Mr. Logan opened the screen door and stepped outside. “What about your dog?”
“He—he d-d-dug up your new gr-gr-grass,” she managed to get out.
“Oh, so I see. Tell you what—I’ll go get my rake, and you and I will do a little repair work.”
He wasn’t going to arrest her—he was going to help her! Katie could hardly believe it.
He returned with his rake and more grass seed, and the two of them went to work. “Know what, Katie? My wife and I have always lived in an apartment, so this yard is a dream come true for us. Especially now. My wife and I have a new baby boy—born last night!
“We want nice soft grass for him to play on,” Mr. Logan continued. “That’s why I put up the sign. Grass seed won’t grow if people walk on it, you know. But as soon as it has a good root system, the sign will come down. Then you kids can play here anytime.” He took a final swipe with his rake, then leaned on it and smiled at her. “Thank you for your honesty and your help, Katie Cooper.”
“Mr. Logan, if I hadn’t told you about Jolly and helped you fix the yard, would you have arrested me?”
Mr. Logan started to laugh, then became serious. “Katie, police officers don’t arrest children—or big shaggy dogs, either. At least not unless they’ve done something really bad. I’m just a regular neighbor, and I want to be a good one—like you were for me today. Promise me that you’ll come back soon. I want you to meet my wife and our new son.”
Katie smiled. “OK.”
“Good.” He turned and started to sprinkle grass seeds on the newly raked areas.
Suddenly Katie had a good idea. “Mr. Logan,” she called. “I’ll help keep the kids off your yard until the seed grows.”
He turned and gave her a thumbs-up sign.
She waved, then slung the rake over her shoulder and headed for home, feeling great. Jolly was waiting for her at the gate.
“Guess what, Jolly? That sign does belong on Cranberry Lane. And I don’t have to be afraid of Mr. Logan. He’s just like everybody else on this street—one of the nicest neighbors in the whole wide world!”

My friend Jorge reached across the table, offering me a sip from his glass of champagne. I was surprised by his offer. He knew I was a Latter-day Saint and drinking alcohol was against my beliefs. I politely shook my head, indicating that this time, like all previous times, I would pass.
He brought his hand to his forehead and exclaimed, “¡Pero es nuestra graduación!” (But it’s graduation night!)
Yes, it was graduation night. And in Ecuador, this was our night to celebrate. The evening had begun with a formal dinner for our entire families. A bottle of champagne had been placed in the center of each table, and well-mannered waiters had served an excellent meal. After dinner, those of us who had just graduated danced a waltz with our father or mother.
Eventually all the parents left, and only the graduates and our friends remained. It was around midnight when Jorge approached me and offered me some of his drink. Jorge felt that just this once wouldn’t do me any harm, especially considering the event was a once-in-a-lifetime occasion and everyone was expected to have a drink.
I simply replied, “I know it’s graduation night. That doesn’t matter.”
All through high school, I had been invited to drink and smoke, but I had always refused, explaining that my religion taught me drinking and smoking were harmful. My friends usually did not persist after the explanation, but I never knew how they really felt about my turning them down.
To my surprise, Jorge smiled, extended his right hand, and shook mine. All he said was “I really admire this about you,” and he walked away.
Later, while reflecting on what happened that night, I remembered the counsel President Gordon B. Hinckley has given us to “stand for something” (see “True to the Faith,” Liahona, Sept. 1996, 4). To Jorge and my other friends, I had stood for something. I realized that often we may think our efforts to do the right thing make us unpopular. While that may be true in some instances, for the most part, people take note and see Latter-day Saints as people who stand for something worthy of admiration.

Amelia liked visiting Grandma. She liked playing with the toy animals, especially with Grandma’s soft stuffed bunny. But today wasn’t for playing. Today was for helping.
On the way to Grandma’s house, Amelia’s sisters talked about which jobs they wanted to do.
Sarah wanted to sweep. Emily wanted to mop. And Mom asked Alyssa to clean the windows.
“What about me?” Amelia asked. “Should I help dust?”
“I have a special job for you,” Mom said. “I need you to listen.”
Amelia waited. “OK, I’m listening. What is it?”
“That’s the job!” Mom said with a laugh. “Just listen. Sit with Grandma and listen while she talks. It might be the most important job we do all day.”
How could listening be the most important job? Amelia wondered. It seemed like dusting would be more of a real job! But Amelia was willing to try.
Grandma was glad to see them. Everyone else got started on their jobs. Amelia went and sat next to Grandma on the couch. Amelia noticed the stuffed bunny in the corner. “I like your rabbit,” she said.
Grandma smiled. “Did I ever tell you about my brother Mel and the baby bunny?”
Amelia was surprised. “A real bunny?”
Grandma nodded. “It was an orphan he found. He snuggled it inside his shirt so it would be safe.” Grandma told Amelia about the rabbit pen Mel built.
That story reminded Grandma of other stories. She told about a pet calf she named Star. She used to ride on Star’s back! Amelia giggled as she pictured Grandma riding a baby cow. It wasn’t easy imagining her as a little girl.
Grandma talked and talked. She told the rabbit story again. Another time, she even stopped in the middle of a story and started over.
Amelia tried to keep listening, but she was getting tired. Mom and the other girls were still working.
It was hard to sit and listen! But Grandma smiled. She seemed happy to be sharing her stories.
A few minutes later, Mom came in. “All done! We’re ready go.”
“That was so nice,” Grandma told Amelia. “I love visiting with you!”
Amelia gave her grandma a big hug. She saw tears in Grandma’s eyes.
“What’s wrong?” Amelia asked.
“Nothing’s wrong,” Grandma said. “Thank you for talking with me. I love you.”
Amelia felt warm all the way inside. “I love you too,” she said. “I’ll come again soon.”
On the way home, Alyssa asked, “How was listening, Amelia?”
“It was harder than I thought. I think I was done listening before Grandma was done talking!”
“You were terrific!” Mom said.
“Thanks,” said Amelia. “Some of the stories she told were fun. Did you know Grandma had a pet calf?”
“Like a baby cow?” Sarah asked.
“Yeah! Grandma used to ride it,” Amelia said, nodding. “Her name was Star.”
Amelia told them all of Grandma’s other stories. It was pretty cool to learn so much about her.
Emily grinned. “Maybe you could trade me jobs next time. I want a chance to listen!”

A young person who “just loves music” or is “simply wild about acting” can easily mistake a hunger for applause as the presence of talent. Recently a young man came to my office and said that he was going to organize a rock band, make a hit record, and acquire fame and fortune within the next year. I asked him what success he had already achieved in other people’s bands. “None.” How expert was he on an instrument? “I’m just learning the guitar.” I advised him not to risk the savings of friends or parents on a rock-band venture but to learn basic musical skills, join someone else’s band, and when he felt that he could surpass his mentor, then embark on a solo career. As he left, I suggested that he return in a year with his bank book, and we could compare notes, receivable and payable.

After hearing the stake patriarch speak in sacrament meeting, I felt inspired to ask my bishop for a recommend. Then the patriarch and I set a date. As I entered his house that morning, I knew I was on the right path. We told each other a little about our lives. After that, the patriarch laid his hands upon my head and began to prophesy about my life. I could feel that it was all true and that it was really God that was speaking through the patriarch. I wept. I learned many things about myself that day.
Jared Edge, 18Layton, Utah