Gospel Story Finder

He was always tall. “By the time I was 13, I was already 182 cm (six feet). But my real growth spurt didn’t begin until my sophomore year in high school.” He reached his full height by his senior year, and, as with most tall kids, it was assumed he would play basketball. That was not to be.
““I never really liked basketball,” he noted. “The other kids and the coaches always kind of made fun of me, telling me I couldn’t jump.”
His mother urged him, instead, to try a local recreation league volleyball team. “I had never had so much fun in any sport before,” Chambers says. “I was hooked! Even though I wasn’t very good, I went home and told Mom that volleyball was the sport for me!”
Great club coaching helped him find his footing in the game, and because of his prodigious height, they made him a middle blocker. Finally, the burden of being tall began to pay-off. After a season of club volleyball, he was anxious to join his high school team and test his new skills. But disaster struck in his very first scrimmage.
““I jumped and extended myself to try and block a ball, and when I came down, I landed on the foot of the guy on the other side of the net and broke my ankle,” Chambers recounted. “I had to wear a boot everywhere after that and I didn’t get to play at all my freshman season.”
““It was frustrating to have made progress in this new sport I really liked, then lose that whole season.”
But from the ashes of that setback rose the phoenix of an all-star career. Over the next three years, Chambers became a feared opponent on the court, drawing the attention of college volleyball teams throughout the US. He turned down scholarships offered by top schools—Stanford and UCLA among them—in favour of what he truly wanted: to play for the nationally-ranked Brigham Young University in Provo, Utah (USA).
Chambers’ youth career culminated in the summer of 2022, with the victory of his Orange Coast Volleyball Club at the under-18 national club volleyball championship. Chambers was named first-team all-American by the American Volleyball Coaches Association. The kid who couldn’t jump had proven all of those early naysayers wrong.

Now I add this does not represent the surrender of his free agency. Brother Maeser in spite of his obedience was very vigorous in the expression of his feelings. Another incident will illustrate.

During his labors in England he met a very wealthy and well-educated man who became very much interested and impressed with Brother Maeser and invited him to bring some of the missionaries to have dinner with him at the hotel. The table manners of the elders were so annoying to Brother Maeser that he said later: “I will go through poverty, I will suffer persecution, I will go to hell with the elders, but I will not go to dinner with them again.”

Michelle pushed her hair from her face and quickened her pace into the biting wind. Her shoes tapped lightly on the sidewalk and echoed faintly through the night air. Every now and again a car passed by, but other than that she was alone. Alone … at last. How strange—wasn’t aloneness what she was fighting? No, she thought, aloneness and loneliness are two entirely different things.
Michelle couldn’t help but think of the contrast between this deepening silence and the boisterous laughter that was probably going on in her apartment with her five roommates and their friends all talking at once about their plans for the weekend. She loved visitors, but once in awhile, like tonight, she felt an overwhelming need to be by herself.
Just where was she headed, Michelle wondered? Oh, sure, she had goals. Right now she was an art major, and eventually she wanted to do artwork for a living. She had always enjoyed recreating those things she thought beautiful. But somehow, at this moment, she wasn’t completely satisfied. A deepening sense of isolation and loneliness had been taking hold of her, despite the fact that she was constantly around other people. It was as if she were an outsider, or perhaps a cameraman, watching everyone else laugh and joke with one another, but she herself was unable to take an active part in the fun. And since nobody seemed to notice, she was finding it harder and harder to step outside her own mind into the world next to her.
And she had her long-term goals, too. Yet there were times when she resented the emphasis on marriage that was almost unconsciously a part of every conversation. Perhaps if she were nearer that goal, she wouldn’t be so sensitive about the subject. But as it was, the constant discussion of boyfriends and engagements only served to bring her to a more painful awareness of the fact that she rarely dated. Even going home for spring break was not as exciting as it should be. How was she supposed to explain her lack of social triumphs to her family and old friends?
It wasn’t only that, though. She could have endured the dateless weekends—because after all, she was just a plain, freckle-faced redhead—but it was the friendless weekdays that were getting her down. Of the six in her apartment, she was the only one who never received phone calls or visitors. Janice, the bubbly blond, had a knack for making new friends, so she never had a lack of attention. Bobbi and Kay were members of the ballroom dance team, and their dance partners were with them day in and day out. And Pauline, a curly headed brunette with winning dimples, was active in two singing groups on campus, so she had no trouble in meeting new people. Even Kerri, her best friend and special roommate who was not quite as active and outgoing as the others, still had the warmth of personality that attracted many close companions.
It was hard for her not to feel sorry for herself when the only phone calls she ever got were from either her mother or a ward officer asking her to give a talk or help out in the ward nursery.
Michelle shivered suddenly. Her hair was wet from the snow that had melted on it, and now the wind was beginning to blow again. She decided to turn around and start back. Being alone was getting her nowhere but further along the road to self-pity. She shivered again, but this time it felt as if she had swallowed an ice cube and the cold was coming from the pit of her stomach rather than from the icy wind. A hopelessness even greater than before settled over her, and she leaned forward at a hurried gait to reach the warmth of her apartment.
Finally she was among the old familiar homes and apartment buildings that lined the street she lived on. A glance around told her that it must be late since fewer cars than usual were driving by and lights in many apartments were out. She looked ahead at the white brick complex that was now her second home. Almost half of the 16 apartments looked dark, including her own. She cut across the snow-covered lawn and tried the door. It was locked, but immediately Kerri’s face appeared peeping through the curtains in the living room.
“Where have you been?” she asked, throwing open the door. Her face was covered with her special weekly oatmeal facial and her short, brown hair was half up in rollers. Michelle couldn’t help laughing faintly.
“Just been out walking and thinking. Nothing serious.”
“Oh yeah? Since when is thinking not serious around this place? The truth now. Who were you following? He must have been a real winner to keep you out in a storm like this.”
Michelle closed the door and followed Kerri through the living room down the hall to their bedroom.
“Yes, but I lost him after a few blocks. He just disappeared like all the rest of the men around this campus.”
“Can’t win ’em all. But seriously, Michelle, is anything wrong?” She looked at her through the mirror as she finished her hair.
“Nothing dramatic.”
“All right. Tell me, though, if you need anything.”
Michelle hung up her coat and pulled a towel out of her drawer to dry her hair.
“Is everyone else in bed?”
“Unusual, huh? We ran out of gossip early tonight. Oops, there’s the phone. I’ll get it—maybe it’s my prince charming.”
Michelle sat down on the side of the bed and closed her eyes. Thank goodness she had fun-loving, easy-going Kerri for a friend.
A shout from the other room made her open her eyes.
“Hey, Michelle, it’s for you! And it’s a man!”
Michelle groaned inwardly. What tact! If by some miracle a guy had called to ask her out, he’d have been scared away by now. Who could it be, she wondered? She stepped lightly down the hall to the kitchen and took the receiver from Kerri who winked mischievously.
“Hello …”
“Hello, Michelle?”
“Yes.”
“Michelle, this is Gary Feldman, the ward chairman for service projects. Listen, I know this is late notice, but the girl who was asked to go visit an elderly member lady at the nursing home tomorrow had an emergency, and I heard you were dependable so … well, I was wondering if you would mind going instead?”
“Oh … oh, well I’d be glad to.” Despite her struggle to sound cheerful, she knew her voice had betrayed a little of the disappointment she had felt. She should have known—it hadn’t been her mother so she should have expected the obvious alternative. How could she pretend interest in an old lady when nobody cared a nickel for her?
“Do you or one of your roommates have a car so you can get there all right?”
“Sure. What time shall I be there?”
“As soon as you’re through with classes, if possible. The home is in the center of town and the room is 313. I think the lady is Sister Zwindli. Hey, I really do appreciate this on such short notice.”
“Well, you’re very welcome. Bye now.”
Michelle slowly put down the receiver and sank into a nearby kitchen chair.
“Well, who was it?” came a shout from the next room.
“Only someone calling to ask a favor.”
“How dull and boring!”
“At least it was a phone call.” This time her voice sounded more cheerful than she felt, and an uncontrollable tear slipped down her cheek. She brushed it away impatiently and got up to go get ready for bed.
Pauline dropped Michelle off at the rest home at 5:00 the next afternoon. The sun had been shining brightly all day, and as she climbed from the car, she was almost blinded by its glaring reflection on the snow that had fallen the night before. The stabbing pain at the back of her eyes made her stop and wait a minute before they adjusted to the brightness. After a moment she looked up to read the “Friendship Gardens” sign above the glass doors of the red brick building.
As she stepped in through the doors, she was almost immediately overcome by the sickeningly sweet odors of medicine and sickness. She tried to calm her nausea as she haltingly walked up to the reception desk. A smiling, robot-type nurse in a starchy white uniform gazed at her through businesslike eyes.
“What can I help you with?”
Suddenly Michelle felt very self-conscious and out of place. After all, what did she have to say to a sick old lady whose entire life probably consisted of watching TV and getting shots to go to sleep? She stared back at the receptionist.
“Well … uh, I … that is, is it all right if I see the lady in 313? I think the name is Zwindli.”
“Mmmmmm. Let me check.” She leafed through her records and brought one out of the pile. “Oh yes. She’s down the hall on your left. Just go right on in.”
Now that she was here, she was frightened. What had they expected of her anyway? She hadn’t had time to make anything for Sister Zwindli, and surely anything she might have to say wouldn’t be of any interest to this lady. She had grabbed her sketchbook on her way out of the apartment as an afterthought, thinking that this woman might enjoy watching her draw, but now she felt unsure of herself. Maybe Sister Zwindli had poor eyesight and didn’t want to do anything but lie in bed and be left alone.
309, 311, and there it was—313. She stepped slowly through the door and looked cautiously around. There was a bed up against the wall in the near left corner. Michelle could see a thin form beneath the white sheets, but as she drew nearer, she could tell that Sister Zwindli was asleep.
Not sure of what to do next, she decided to sit on the chair near the bed and wait a few minutes to see if she would wake up on her own. Michelle let her eyes roam around the room. It was just like a hospital on a smaller scale. White walls, white curtains, white bed covers, a white metal nightstand, and even the gray-white tile floor that is so common in hospitals.
Then she took her first good look at Sister Zwindli. She was lying on her side so her features were clearly visible. On a sudden impulse Michelle got out her sketchbook and began to draw a rough outline of Sister Zwindli’s face. It was a thin face and looked taut and drawn, despite the fact that it was deeply lined above the brows and beneath the eyes as if she had suffered through many trials. Her wispy, gray hair looked like curls of smoke that might disappear at any moment. It gathered softly above her delicately high forehead and down around the temples and back to the ears. Her eyes were widely set above a thin, yet beautifully proportioned nose. Tiny creases radiated from the corners of the eyes, telling Michelle that in spite of her suffering, she had smiled often enough to leave the traces. In her mind Michelle imagined that Sister Zwindli had once been very vivacious, with delicate features set in a peaches-and-cream complexion to add to her dainty build and warm personality. But now sickness and pain had yellowed that skin and set down its story in the wrinkled brow that seemed too much for the weary eyes to bear.
Just as she was about to sketch in the mouth and begin the shading, a nurse walked in. This one did not look as inhuman as the one out at the desk. She was in her mid-50s and had a warm, congenial glow about her. As she caught sight of Michelle, she slowed and smiled gradually as if she were remembering something.
“You wouldn’t happen to be here on a service project, would you?”
“Why, yes I am.” She wondered vaguely how this nurse knew because she hadn’t mentioned that to the receptionist.
“Oh, I’m so glad you’re finally here. You see, I was the one who called and asked to have someone take time out to come and see her once in a while. I knew Miss Zwindli was a Mormon, so I just called her church. But I’m afraid now just happens to be a bad time. She was in a great deal of pain earlier, so we had to give her a pain shot, and now she won’t be awake for at least another hour or so.”
“Would it be better for me to come another day?” She felt let down, for after having studied Sister Zwindli’s face, she had imagined she had recognized a sort of strength there—something she wanted to know more about.
“If you like—but it upsets me that she missed you because after I told her that she might be getting company, she talked of nothing else. Poor dear, she never has visitors other than the doctors and nurses.”
A guilty feeling swept through Michelle. Here was someone who truly had no one. She at least had a family and five wonderful roommates; and she had been feeling sorry for herself.
“Doesn’t she have any brothers or sisters?”
“Oh, I have heard her mention an older brother and two younger sisters. But they’re all back in Switzerland. You see Miss Zwindli joined the Mormon church when she was about 14, and consequently her parents disowned her, so she came over alone to America. An uncle from Boston paid her way and met her when she arrived in New York. But for some reason or other he tried to dissuade her from continuing in her church. Said he’d even pay for a college education in music and vocal lessons, which was what she had always wanted, but she refused, so he disowned her, too.”
“How did she manage all alone?” Michelle found herself wishing that she had been there to befriend that little girl who had been so brave and yet probably so frightened.
“She said she took whatever work was available at the time—housework or factory work. It took her a whole year to scrape together enough money to ride the train from Boston to Salt Lake—course that was back in 1920.
“After she got there, it was like a dream come true, being with people who believed as she did. From what she’s told me, it seems like she had a good life there—working, teaching in her church, singing in choirs.”
“Why didn’t she ever marry? She looks like she was once a very beautiful lady.”
“Oh, she had opportunities, but she never found the one she wanted to marry. That didn’t stop her, though. She kept right on working and serving.”
“Why is she here now?”
“She came to Boston a few months ago hoping she could locate some of her cousins. Seems they’ve all moved away. Then she got sick. Her doctor brought her in after he discovered she had stomach cancer. She’s been here now for a month, but the doctor didn’t expect her to last more than a few weeks. She was so resigned and accepting that it just about broke my heart. She never complains but instead is always going around in her wheelchair seeing if there is anything she can do for anyone else. She hardly has strength to do anything for herself.
“But for the last week she’s been unable to get out of bed. I’m glad you made an effort to come talk to her. She’ll appreciate the thought.”
Michelle looked over at the tired, worn face with the sunken eyes. She felt as if she had known this woman for a long time, although she had not even spoken to her. She couldn’t force herself to leave immediately, and as she gazed on silently, the nurse left the room to go help another patient who was crying out down the hall.
Tears burned in her eyes as she contemplated the great loneliness and suffering that this unselfish lady had lived through. She looked down at the drawing in her lap and realized how little of the inner struggle that must have taken place was evident in that sketch. She closed the pad and got up to leave, but as she glanced over once again at the bed, she saw that those sunken eyes were looking up questioningly at her.
“Oh, Sister Zwindli, I’m so glad that you’re awake. You don’t know me, but my name is Michelle. I know this may sound unusual, but I came over to visit with you because I needed a friend. I think God led me to you.”
The deep brown eyes widened and then seemed to take on a new depth of understanding. Suddenly she was crying, the tears streaming down her lined face.
“My dear child. He sent you just in time. We both need a friend.”
She took a thin, veiny hand from beneath the blankets and reached for Michelle’s. For half an hour Michelle did nothing but sit by the bed and hold that hand. Her heart was still heavy, but the despondency that had so long been there was gone. Finally she laid the hand gently on the edge of the bed.
“I’ll be back,” she whispered, “I’ll be back soon.”

On the eve of my wife’s and my baptism in 1996, family members and friends tried to prevent it. We endured persecution from relatives who severely criticized our family, saying we had traded our family for the Church and they no longer loved us. Eventually our friends completely abandoned us. Then came difficulties associated with unemployment and with illness.
On the other hand, my family and I felt better with each visit to church. At each class the Spirit was stronger. The members were supportive, and the bishop visited and encouraged our family. We knew from our own experience that people who criticized the Church were wrong. The Church was doing us much good. We learned about Jesus Christ. We learned to love and serve. We gained an eternal perspective. In spite of the appearance that everything had turned against us, nothing could change the fact that we had asked the Lord about the truthfulness of the gospel and He had answered our prayers.

Growing up in Brazil, my father always told me stories about my grandfather—how he immigrated from Germany to Brazil at a very early age and did not have the opportunity to study. My grandfather worked as a painter in the local community. He took a lot of pride in his work and would always do his best to exceed his customers’ expectations. As a result, he always had a lot of work available to him. Through his work, he was able to provide a good living for his wife and their five children. They were not rich. Life was still challenging, but they had their own house and covered the basic needs of life. They were happy.

These qualities of personal independence and a determined seeking for spiritual guidance were to characterize John Taylor’s entire life. At the age of 15, he became an apprentice to a carpenter in the town of Penrith, some 30 miles north of Milnthorpe. Here he continued to pray and here he was converted to the Methodist Church. He was a zealous convert and spent much of his time studying the Bible and encouraging others in the practice of his new faith. One year after joining the church, he became an exhorter, a sort of local preacher who assisted the minister in visiting the outlying circuits and working with those in need of spiritual guidance.
It was while on one of these circuits that young John received what he later recognized as a revelation that would profoundly affect his life. As he walked toward his destination, he turned to a companion and said, “I have a strong impression on my mind that I have to go to America to preach the gospel” (B. H. Roberts, Life of John Taylor, p. 28). This impression never left him and played an important part in his later decision to join his family in Canada in 1832. It was there in the city of Toronto that he was contacted by Elder Parley P. Pratt. Elder Pratt was instrumental in converting John Taylor and most of the Methodist study group John had formed in the city. When John joined the body of the Church in Kirtland, Ohio, in 1837, the revelation received on that country lane in northern England was fulfilled, for he was to spend the remainder of his life preaching the gospel, both in America and abroad.

Playing Santa to the Henrys was Dad’s idea. At home evening two weeks earlier he asked if the family wanted to do a Christmas project again this year. We did our first project about six years ago; I was Nickie’s age. We took some toys to the Sub-for-Santa program, and I remember that I wasn’t very excited about giving away my toys, except for a few old broken ones that I thought I could part with. Then at school I heard a man talk about how much some gifts had meant to his family. He cried, and I barely managed not to. I went right home and wrapped up my biggest Tonka truck. It was only two years old and still in great shape.
Every year since, our family has contributed to Sub-for-Santa. When Dad asked about this year’s project, I thought that he intended to do the same. “There’s a family in our neighborhood who could use some help,” he said. I was surprised; I never thought that there were people in our own neighborhood who would not have a good Christmas.
“Who?” the family asked, almost in unison.
“Well, you know the Arnold Henry family, don’t you?” Dad started.
I knew the Henrys only slightly. They had moved into the ward in September or October. There were three or four kids, all young. The oldest boy was about eight or nine. That’s all I knew about them, but some of my little brothers and sisters were acquainted with the Henry children.
“Brother Henry had a job at the steel plant, but they had a cutback,” Dad continued. “The bishop mentioned last Sunday that Brother Henry hasn’t yet found work.” Dad paused long enough for us to get his message, and unanimously we adopted the Henry family as our Christmas project.
The grass was damp, but Nickie and I continued to peer through the hedge at the house. “Why don’t they come to the door?” Nickie whispered impatiently.
“Did you hear the bell ring?” I asked.
“I’m not sure,” he said.
“The first rule of successfully rousing people,” I sermonized, “is to listen for the ring. You were in too much of a hurry.”
“I’ll do it again,” Nickie said.
I guessed that he wasn’t sorry to have to repeat his dramatic approach. I watched him go again. This time he crawled to the locust tree like an infantryman under fire. Too much TV, I figured, had programmed him against simply walking up to the door, ringing the bell, and then running. I thought how silly he would look to the Henrys if they opened their door and saw this ten-year-old boy elbowing his way across their lawn. And I thought again about the change I’d seen in Nickie in the last hour.
From the time that we had decided as a family to assist the Henrys, the bulk of the work had fallen on Mom. She’s a good organizer—or maybe prodder is a better word. Every day she’d ask, “Who has an idea for the Henry’s three-year-old girl?” or “What should we do about a tree? Will they have one or shall we take one?” She kept us interested and excited.
On the first day my littlest brother, Tommy, age four, ran to his room and came back with a toy car he wanted to give. I suggested that we take a small decorated tree, whether or not they already had one. Since I had an after-school job and was earning a little money, I offered to buy it as my contribution. My two sisters, Ann, 13, and Tricia, 7, started working together to make presents.
Everyone got involved except Nickie. I don’t know why, unless ten is a selfish age or something, but he just wasn’t very interested. When Mom pressed him for a commitment, he said he’d put in a “quarter or something” on a present. I could tell that she was disappointed because he wasn’t catching the spirit of the project. But I remembered how I felt at his age on our first Sub-for-Santa, and I couldn’t be too hard on him.
It wasn’t that Nickie wasn’t a good kid. Once when he was about three, a neighborhood friend complained to Nickie that he was hungry. Nickie went to the refrigerator, stuck his hand into a bottle of home-canned fruit, and carried a dripping peach half to his buddy. He can be generous all right. So Mom didn’t push him; I think she knows that sometimes good deeds just can’t be forced.
Finally, the big night arrived. The excitement mounted as we gathered the things together to take to the Henrys. Even Nickie seemed a little more interested, but I don’t think he felt as much a part of it because he hadn’t really contributed.
The Henrys live only four blocks away; and we thought it would be fun to walk. But because we had quite a few things to carry, including a decorated tree, we loaded the station wagon instead. As the holder of the family’s newest driver’s license—only—six months old—I took my now-unquestioned place behind the wheel and drove past the Henry’s house. Only the porch light was lit. “Great,” said Dad, who was facing backwards in the third seat, holding the tree out the rear window. “They’re not home. We can take our time.”
I made a U-turn and drove past the house from the other direction. Still no sign of life, so I coasted to the curb two houses away, and we unloaded. We must have looked comical strolling down the sidewalk like a Christmas parade in the dark. We were quiet, so as not to draw attention from the neighbors, and we kept an eye out for cars, hoping the Henrys wouldn’t return too soon.
After everything was positioned on the front step, right under the porch light, we went to the neighbor’s yard to watch through the hedge, but we weren’t very well hidden. It was cold enough that it wasn’t fun staring at the porch, and we were just about to leave when a car turned in the Henry’s driveway.
“Come on,” Mom said. “They’ll see us when they get out of the car.” We tried to look casual as we strolled down the walk to the car. But Nickie, his spying instincts aroused, insisted on staying.
“Dad, can I stay?” he pleaded. “I won’t let them see me. I just want to watch while they find all that stuff. Then I’ll run home. Okay?” Dad consented, so Nickie crawled back to the hedge while the rest of us got in the car and drove home.
We’d been home about ten minutes and were sitting around the Christmas tree talking about our adventure when the front door flew open. In ran Nickie, all out of breath. It was obvious that he was excited about something. Without saying a word he went straight to the tree and pulled out a square box wrapped in shiny red paper.
“What’s up, son?” Dad asked.
“I want to take this present to the Henrys, Dad. I … didn’t give very much,” he said.
I couldn’t believe it! Everyone knew what was in that package. Nickie’s Little League baseball mitt, which he had inherited from me and which had already snared more than its share of fly balls, had seen its day. Since the end of last season Nickie had been talking about getting a new one. “And if I happen to get it at Christmas,” he had hinted with ten-year-old subtlety, “I’ll have plenty of time to break it in before spring.”
When Dad and I handed Nickie the wrapped mitt for him to put under the tree until Christmas morning, we could tell from the grin on his face that he knew what it was. And now he was going to give it to a family he hardly knew! Up until ten minutes ago he was only willing to give them a quarter! It didn’t make sense.
“They’ve got a nine-year-old boy, Dad,” Nickie said quietly. Dad swallowed and looked at Mom. She had a strange expression on her face. I wanted to say, “Hey, man, you can’t give away your new mitt!” but Mom just said, “Are you sure that’s what you want to do, Nickie?”
“Yea, Mom, I’m sure,” he replied as he ran out the door.
No one said anything for a minute, and then Dad asked if I would go with Nickie. It was a little late for him to be out alone, and I knew that Dad wanted me to find out what was going on—if I could. By the time I grabbed a coat and ran outside, Nickie was already a block away. I couldn’t catch him, and by the time I reached the hedge, he was doing that Indian scout thing across the lawn.
Nickie was now back with me behind the hedge after his second dash to the door. This time, results. Brother Henry opened the door, saw the red package, and shouted, “There’s more!”
Suddenly the doorway was filled with little faces, all wearing expressions of disbelief at finding yet another gift on the doorstep. We watched them pick up the package, shake it, and pass it around. They even came down the steps and looked around the yard and down the street. Then they went in and turned off the porch light, and we started home.
Nickie wasn’t running this time; he was quiet. After walking half a block I asked him what had changed his mind.
“Well, after you left for home,” he began, “I sneaked up to the hedge and watched while the Henrys started into their house. They stopped dead when they saw the stuff on their step. Then the kids ran up the steps. They shook every present, walked around the tree, and looked up and down the street. Finally, they gathered up everything and went inside.”
Nickie stopped talking, and we walked a while without saying anything. It was getting colder.
“Then what?” I finally asked. What I really wanted to say was, “What changed you? What made you give away your baseball mitt that you’ve wanted for so long?” but I refrained.
“They’d all gone in except the oldest boy and his dad,” Nickie continued. “They were starting to bring in the tree when I heard the boy say, ‘Dad, do you think the Lord blessed us with these things?’ His dad said, ‘I’m sure he did, son, but what do you mean?’ Then the boy—his name’s David—said the funniest thing. He said, ‘Well, it’s just that these things were brought to our house while we were taking Christmas to some poor people.’”
My feet stopped. I looked at Nickie.
“They were what?” I gasped. “Taking Christmas presents to other people? Why … why, they don’t even have a job! I mean, they’re supposed to be the poor people!”
“That’s what he said,” Nickie went on. “Then his dad said that even though they didn’t have much money right now, they wanted to share what they had, and that these presents must have come from people who felt that same way.”
“Right then I decided,” Nickie continued,” and I’m glad I did. I’ll bet David Henry never had a you-know-what before.”
He grinned at me, and I knew the secret was out. It was all right to talk about it.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s run.”
I could have beat him home, but instead I kept an even pace. As we turned in our driveway and leaped up the front steps together, I noticed that it was just beginning to snow.

Because I live in Shanghai, China, I had the opportunity to go with a school group to Sichuan Province in southwestern China to help build houses for victims of the earthquake that devastated the area a few years ago. We worked hard laying bricks, shoveling mortar, pushing wheelbarrows full of bricks, and handing bricks down “assembly lines” of people. By the second day my back ached, and my gloves were filled with holes. However, the trip was an unforgettable experience for me and strengthened my testimony of my own and each person’s individual worth, one of the Young Women values.
As I worked hard each day, I noticed that my belief in my own worth grew. I felt good about myself because I was doing things to improve the living situation of those less fortunate than I am.

1 While Joseph Smith was living in Fayette, New York, Jesus Christ told him that it was time for the true church to be on the earth again. On April 6, 1830, Joseph held a meeting. Oliver Cowdery, Hyrum Smith, Samuel H. Smith, David Whitmer, and Peter Whitmer, Jr., came to the meeting to help Joseph organize the Church. Other people were at the meeting too.
2 After an opening prayer Joseph was ordained as the first elder in the Church, and Oliver was ordained as the second elder.
3 Joseph and Oliver administered the sacrament to the men, then confirmed them members of the Church of Jesus Christ and gave them the gift of the Holy Ghost.
4 Joseph and Oliver ordained some of the other men at the meeting to the priesthood. The Spirit of the Lord came upon them, and they joyfully testified of how much God had blessed them.
5 During the meeting Joseph Smith received a revelation in which Jesus said that Joseph was a prophet and that when a prophet speaks, he speaks for Jesus. Therefore, the members of the Church should listen to and obey the words of the prophet.
6 After the meeting several people were baptized, including Joseph Smith’s mother and father. April 6, 1830, was a wonderful day. The Church of Jesus Christ was again on the earth.

While serving in the United States Navy in World War II, I learned of brave deeds, instances of valor, and examples of courage. One which I shall never forget was the quiet courage of an 18-year-old seaman—not of our faith—who was not too proud to pray. Of 250 men in the company, he was the only one who each night knelt down by the side of his bunk, at times amidst the jeers of bullies and the jests of unbelievers. With bowed head, he prayed to God. He never wavered. He never faltered. He had courage.

Three Christmas trees stand out in the memory of Elder Gary B. Sabin.
The first was a beautiful Christmas tree of his youth. When Gary scaled the tree trying to reach a candy cane, the entire tree crashed to the ground.
The second was an evergreen branch he found as a missionary while serving in Belgium and the Netherlands from 1973 to 1975. Elder Sabin and his companion took the branch home to their apartment and propped it up around the Christmas cards they had received from home.
The third was a tree made of Christmas lights strung on the IV stand next to his daughter’s hospital bed. One of three Sabin children to suffer from cystic fibrosis, his daughter had received a double-lung transplant one year after the death of her brother from the same disease.
“We have learned a lot more from our children than they have learned from us,” says Elder Sabin.
As a General Authority he will remember the Christmas trees and the lessons he learned from them. Each tree highlights portions of his journey—from a young boy wanting a candy cane to a missionary teaching the plan of salvation to a father who relied on the plan and the Savior’s love to sustain his family through mortal trials.
Gary Byron Sabin was born in Provo, Utah, USA, on April 7, 1954, to Marvin E. and Sylvia W. Sabin. He married Valerie Purdy in August 1976. They are the parents of five children; a sixth child was stillborn.
After graduating from Brigham Young University in Provo, Elder Sabin earned a master’s degree in management from Stanford University.
Elder Sabin has served in numerous Church callings, including as bishop, stake president, and Area Seventy. He has worked as a founder, chairman, and CEO of several companies, including Excel Realty Trust, Price Legacy, Excel Realty Holdings, and Excel Trust.
In 1993, Elder and Sister Sabin formed Sabin Children’s Foundation, an organization dedicated to addressing the medical needs of children.

As stated in the beginning that with children we so often see the negative before the positive, a little boy was almost squelched in his attempt to express his feelings because an adult didn’t understand. A special friend of mine, Dr. Thomas Myers, shared this tender experience:
A small boy accompanied his father and grandparents into his medical office. The old man was leaning on the boy’s two upstretched hands as he moved. The child encouraged him with: “Come on, Grandpa, you can make it! … Only a little farther, Grandpa. … The doctor will make your leg better.” A sweet grandmother walked behind.
After the visit, the three exited the same way. The little boy was given a helium balloon on his way out. He helped his grandfather to the car, then ran back in and, pulling himself up to the counter, asked the receptionist, “Please, may I have another balloon?”
His grandmother, still standing there, scolded him, “Of course you can’t. I warned you not to let that balloon go!” She apologized to the receptionist. “He did this last week—went right outside and let his balloon go. I really did warn him this time.”
The little boy was trying to tell her something. She bent down to listen. Then, with tears showing on her thin, wrinkled face, the grandmother asked, “Could he please have another balloon? You see, his little sister died a few months ago, and he wanted her to have a balloon to play with, too!”

Twelve-year-old Elizabeth watched Carol’s long fingers glide smoothly over the black and white piano keys.
“Excellent, Carol!” Mrs. Brown exclaimed for the second time in a matter of minutes. “You’ll do beautifully in Saturday’s competition. I’m expecting you to win that trophy again this year.”
Elizabeth squirmed uneasily and rubbed her moist palms together. The grandfather clock against the wall seemed to stare at her. It wasn’t easy following Mrs. Brown’s best student at piano lessons every week. No matter how hard Elizabeth practiced, she always felt a bit inadequate compared to Carol.
“The competition begins promptly at two o’clock Saturday,” Mrs. Brown told Carol.
“I’ll be here,” Carol replied. “I want to add this year’s trophy to my collection. See you Saturday, Mrs. Brown.” Carol walked confidently across the room to the door, ignoring Elizabeth.
“Let’s get started, Elizabeth,” the teacher said, motioning her toward the piano. The bench felt hard and unfriendly as Elizabeth sat down and slid to the center. In a way, Mrs. Brown still frightened her, even after two years of lessons.
“Arch those fingers, and wrists down,” Mrs. Brown began. “And please count out loud.”
Elizabeth began her scales. “One, two, and three and four and one,” she repeated again and again. Her fingers were loose and steady. Those extra hours of practicing were making a difference.
“Sounds good, Elizabeth.” Mrs. Brown’s voice sounded a little surprised. “Now let’s try your piece for the competition Saturday.”
Elizabeth took the teacher’s request as a challenge. Her fingers were like the smoothly moving parts of a machine as they glided almost effortlessly over the keys. The music was soft, then loud; sweet, then proud. She turned the last page and finished the piece boldly.
“Good, Elizabeth!” Mrs. Brown exclaimed. “Very good. In fact, Elizabeth, that performance deserves a bravo!”
Elizabeth smiled, her eyes glistening happily. She knew that she had to be good to receive comments like those from Mrs. Brown.
“Those judges are going to have quite a decision to make on Saturday if you play this well then, Elizabeth,” her teacher praised her at the end of the lesson. “The best of luck to you. Remember, the competition starts at two o’clock.”
Elizabeth walked outside in a daze and waited for her ride. Bravo! she thought, recalling Mrs. Brown’s words. She sat down on the grass and began imagining herself in a large, dark concert hall, bowing to thunderous applause. Hot theater lights made her perspire as she curtsied proudly.
The out-of-tune honk of her mother’s car horn startled Elizabeth and brought her back to reality. “Mother!” Elizabeth cried. She grabbed her books, jumped up, and ran excitedly to the car. “Mrs. Brown liked my playing today. She said I even have a chance for the trophy at the competition on—“
“Slow down, Elizabeth,” her mother interrupted. But there was a pleased look on her face. “Tell me all about it from the beginning.” She pulled the car slowly into the street.
“Oh, Mother,” Elizabeth began, “after I listened to Carol play today, I was really discouraged. She never makes a mistake, and she’s won the trophy the past three years.”
“Carol is a good player,” her mother responded honestly.
“But when I played my piece for Mrs. Brown, she liked it. She said ‘Bravo,’ Mother. And she said that the judges would have a hard time choosing a winner on Saturday.”
“All those hours at the piano are really beginning to pay off,” her mother replied encouragingly. “I always believed that you had a real talent for the piano.”
Elizabeth spent many hours the next three days seated at the upright piano in the corner of the living room. Her fingers worked endlessly. All she could think about was winning the trophy.
Autumn turned annoyingly into winter the Saturday of the competition. Gray black clouds filled the sky, and before noon large snowflakes were falling.
Elizabeth practiced playing her piece for what seemed to be the thousandth time. Nervously she put on her favorite blue dress. Her shining dark brown hair lay clean on her shoulders.
“I’m ready to go,” she told her father. Her little brothers wore their white shirts and dress pants.
“Let’s get started then,” Dad said. “This storm has turned into a blizzard. We’ll need extra time to get to the competition.”
The windshield wipers on the car slapped noisily from side to side, sweeping the snowflakes aside as they accumulated. As the car wound slowly toward the studio, the storm worsened, and cars began sliding on the road.
“What if we’re too late, Dad?” Elizabeth asked anxiously.
“I think we’ll make it, if we’re careful,” her father reassured her.
Elizabeth relaxed momentarily, leaned back in her seat, and closed her eyes. We just have to make it! she thought. I’ve worked too hard to miss the competition.
The monotony of the windshield wipers was interrupted by a slushy, skidding sound. Elizabeth opened her eyes to see a large sedan slide off the road.
“Looks like they’re in trouble,” her father said grimly.
Elizabeth stared out the window at the struggling vehicle as their own car crept slowly by. The sedan seemed to be hopelessly stuck.
Suddenly Elizabeth recognized it. It was the one always parked in front of the piano studio when she arrived for her lesson. Carol was inside that car! Mrs. Brown’s best piano student was agonizing, no doubt, as she listened to the car’s wheels whine desperately.
A triumphant smile spread over Elizabeth’s face as she imagined the trophy on her dresser. After all, it was not her fault that Carol’s car had slipped off the road.
The big sedan was not much more than a spot in the distance now, and Mrs. Brown’s studio was just a few minutes away. But Elizabeth felt uneasy. Her earlier enthusiasm for an easy victory had disappeared. Several times she squinted out the back window at the stalled car. It had not moved.
“We’re going to make it, Elizabeth!” her father said happily. “We’ll be there in no time.”
“Dad, you have to turn back,” Elizabeth declared firmly.
Elizabeth’s mother and brothers stared at her.
“Carol was in that car back there that slid off the road. If we don’t go back and help, she’ll never make it in time to play.”
“I’ll do whatever you want, Elizabeth, but we’re sure to be late.”
“Then stop and turn around, Dad. Now. We can both still make it if we play last.” Elizabeth sounded sure about her decision.
Slowly her father brought the car to a halt. He turned it around carefully and drove back to the car that was stuck.
Later the audience clapped enthusiastically as Carol stood and walked to the judges’ stand. She had performed flawlessly. Her hands grasped the tall trophy.
Behind Carol, out of the bright lights, Elizabeth stood with the other contenders. She had not won the trophy, but she knew that her parents were equally proud of her. A feeling of contentment came over her as she realized that some things were even more important than winning a trophy.

While her mom and dad were out of town, Aliza H., 18, was taking care of her younger siblings. It was a clear day at first, but soon the sky started getting darker and darker, the wind picked up, and small whirlwinds filled with ashes started spinning.
“I had a really strong feeling, like, ‘Don’t drop them off,’” she says. So she went back and checked her eight-year-old brother out of school. While she was waiting for him, she heard one of the office staff on the phone with the police. “When she hung up, she said, ‘You’d better call your parents and figure out where to go, because the whole town’s being evacuated.’”
Because of that spiritual prompting, her brother was the first one checked out of school, Aliza was able to avoid traffic jams, and with the support of Church neighbors, she was able to get herself and her siblings to safety. “I will always remember what the Spirit told me that day,” she says.

Sitting at the computer desk, I deftly steered through the colorful world of the video game I was playing. My character was in a battleground, and I was on my way to reclaim a base that the enemy had just captured.
From the kitchen, I heard my mother’s voice. “Weren’t you going to clean up in here?”
I broke my concentration long enough to respond, “In a minute.” But a minute turned to 10, and then 30. When the match was finally over, I logged off, surprised that my mother hadn’t bothered me again. I shuffled into the kitchen, expecting to find a pile of dirty dishes waiting for me.
Instead I found the sink empty, the counters wiped clear—the whole kitchen spotless. I felt guilty, knowing that my mom had cleaned it herself when I failed to appear. But I shrugged it off, telling myself I would help Mom later, and went to bed.
I can’t recall if I ever made up for that broken promise, but I can remember similar instances when I chose a virtual world over the real. I played video games throughout adolescence but became very involved with a multiplayer online game from the age of 16 until I started college at 18. I devoted hundreds of hours to boosting my character and my virtual skill set. I spent less time with my family, opting to complete quests with my in-game friends instead.
And it wasn’t just the game; I spent hours online watching videos, checking blogs or social networks, often running across or choosing to view material that I knew was below my standards.
As my virtual stature grew, my spiritual strength was shriveling. I became desensitized to living in the real world. I didn’t feel good about myself, and my priorities became unfocused. The virtual world had a grip on me, and I wouldn’t force myself to get real. I could sense the weakness within me but was unwilling to stop spending “money for that which is of no worth, [and my] labor for that which cannot satisfy” (2 Nephi 9:51).
I wish I could say that I eventually came to my senses and threw the game out, realizing how much of my time it wasted. Sadly, this was not the case. I stopped playing only because the Internet filter at my college dorms blocked it.
But I saw this as a chance to change. As I started my first semester, my focus shifted from building up my virtual character to realizing my true potential. Without the fantasy world distracting me, I tuned back in to the Spirit as it spoke to me of “things as they really are, and of things as they really will be” (Jacob 4:13).
In the six months or so that followed, I had the time and focus to do some incredible things. Instead of spending hours acquiring better armor, I studied my scriptures and learned to put on the armor of God (see Ephesians 6:10–17). Instead of honing skills that did me no good outside of a video game, I unearthed practical talents that allowed me to better serve others (see Matthew 25:14–29). I magnified Church callings, studied hard, and earned grades I felt good about. I made many new friends and (gasp!) even dated some.
Sometimes I missed that animated world, the competition and challenges, the in-game experience, the online friends I had made and played with. But as I thought about the changes I had seen in my life and myself, I knew I was fuller, happier, and more at peace with the things giving up the game had allowed me to gain.
When I later listened to Elder David A. Bednar give his fireside address “Things as They Really Are,” I thought back to that moment in the kitchen and other times I had disconnected from things as they really are. I had nothing of value to show for the time spent passively plugged in or logged on. What if? I asked myself. What if I had spent more time practicing musical instruments instead? or helping my mom? or laughing with my younger sister? I regretted wasting so much time.

MonicaWhen Keoni and I got married, we hoped to have children right away, but things didn’t go as planned. It took us three and a half years to have our first child. During those years, we had many tearful nights, but we got through it together by talking openly, leaning on each other, and offering constant support. Eventually, we were blessed with Sai, and then four more healthy and wonderful children. We love them and are so grateful to be their parents.

On a cool, misty morning in northeastern Tongatapu, the main island in Tonga, Filimone Tufui Pasi dresses for a day “in the bush”—the Tongan expression referring to working on his farming plot. To get there he will pass through the swampy land surrounding his cinder-block home and then walk beneath the tall coconut trees and among the broad-leaf taro plants.
On this day, however, President Pasi, a counselor in the stake presidency, never makes it to the bush. Members of the Church have come seeking his assistance. A humble man of few words, President Pasi nods quietly, walks back inside his home, and explains the situation to his wife, Ana Malina. She and their daughter will spend this day making tapa cloth to raise money for school and sending the Pasis’ children on missions.
Within a few minutes President Pasi returns to the group, now dressed in a white shirt and tie, prepared to help. The decision will cost him a full day of his livelihood. But the smile of satisfaction on his face, knowing he is doing the Lord’s work, makes up the difference. “I’ve tried to live my life this way,” he says. “I think that’s why the Lord has blessed me so much.”

A true story from the USA.
Savannah pulled the blankets over her head. Today had been a really bad day.
During school today, Savannah couldn’t focus on anything. She had felt tired, frustrated, and sad. There was a heavy weight in her stomach that wouldn’t go away. By the end of the day, all she wanted to do was crawl under her desk and hide.
Lately, Savannah felt sad almost all of the time. Her friends had tried to cheer her up, but sometimes Savannah didn’t want to be with them. They always seemed so happy. Sometimes she thought they would be happier without her.
What’s wrong with me? Savannah wondered. Why can’t I be happy like everyone else?
She felt as cold and lonely as the gray clouds outside. And now she just wanted to sleep.
Savannah heard her bedroom door open.
“Savannah,” Mom said, sitting on the edge of the bed, “what’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Savannah said. “I’m just tired.”
“Are you sure?” Mom asked. “I’m worried about you.”
“I’m OK,” Savannah said.
“All right.” Mom stood up. “Just remember that you can talk to me about anything. I love you.”
Savannah stayed in bed until dinner. That night, she couldn’t fall asleep. Her brain wouldn’t stop thinking about everything.
The next day she still felt worn out. It was another long day. Savannah got home from school and sat at the kitchen table. She sighed and looked out the window. It was snowing again.
“Savannah?”
Savannah turned and was surprised to see Grandma come into the room.
“Hi, Grandma,” Savannah said. “What are you doing here?”
Grandma sat down. “Your mom wanted me to come,” she said. “She’s worried about you.”
“I’ve just been really tired. I’m fine, though,” Savannah said.
Grandma smiled gently. “Did I ever tell you about the summer Grandpa and I moved?”
“I don’t think so,” Savannah said.
“I was sad all the time,” Grandma said. “I wanted to be happy, but I just didn’t care about anything. I felt so lonely.”
“But you had Grandpa and my mom.” Savannah looked down at her shoes. “Why would you feel lonely?”
“I couldn’t figure out what was happening,” Grandma said. “I had never felt that way before. I eventually went to the doctor.”
“What happened?”
Grandma put an arm around her. “I learned I have depression.”
“Oh, so you just felt sad?” Savannah asked.
“No, depression is more than just feeling sad,” Grandma explained. “My sadness didn’t seem to go away. I struggled to do all the things I normally did. And I had a hard time connecting with other people, even my own family. I really needed help.”
Savannah looked up. “What kind of help?”
“The doctor explained what was wrong, and we made a plan together to help me feel better,” Grandma said. “But sometimes I still felt sad. I spent a lot of time praying. When I was lonely, I imagined the Savior sitting beside me. I felt better thinking about Him.”
Savannah looked at the snow outside and shivered. “I feel sad a lot too. I try to feel happy, but sometimes I just can’t, and then I’m mad at myself for feeling that way.”
“I know, honey.” Grandma gave Savannah a hug. “That’s how I feel sometimes too. But you’re not alone. I love you, your parents love you, and Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ love you. They understand your pain and will never leave you.”
Maybe Grandma is right, Savannah thought. I’m not alone. The weight in Savannah’s stomach didn’t feel quite as heavy.
“I think I should talk to Mom,” Savannah said. “She wants to help me too.”
“That’s a great idea.” Grandma took Savannah’s hand.
Savannah smiled and leaned on Grandma’s shoulder. She didn’t feel quite so cold and lonely anymore.

I met Natalie on the first day of sixth grade. I noticed that she wouldn’t hang out on Sundays and that she carried her scriptures around at school. One day I was at a carnival with Natalie, and I said, “I want to join your Church.” I’m not sure what Natalie was thinking at the time, because it came out of nowhere. But from that point on she began sharing more of her faith with me.
Later that year, I went with Natalie to a youth conference. One of the last activities at the youth conference was a testimony meeting. Natalie shared a special testimony that motivated me to want to learn more.
As I studied the gospel, I prayed to Heavenly Father to gain a testimony. Soon, I knew what I had been learning was true. That summer, I became a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

Last year was a scary time for me. I had just entered Young Women, and I was going to attend a new ward. I worried that I wouldn’t make any friends, and since I was a new member of the Church, I didn’t understand much about Young Women.
I remember the first day I went to Young Women in my new ward. I went to opening exercises and sat down by myself because I didn’t know anyone. This made me feel uneasy and alone. Then I looked up, and there was a young woman standing in front of me. She said, “Hello, Cecilia” and sat down next to me. This made me feel great, and I wasn’t scared anymore.
It was from her example that I learned what fellowshipping is all about. This has helped me to reach out to other new or lonely people who need their spirits lifted.