Gospel Story Finder

Alison knew it was going to be a bad day. The world outside was gray and drizzly. Mommy told her she had to clean her room. And—worst of all—there was a big bowl of cold oatmeal on the table that she still had to eat.
“I wish it was tomorrow already,” she mumbled.
Mommy looked up from her work. “Oh, things aren’t that bad, are they?”
Alison nodded without saying anything more. “Well, then,” Mommy said, “why don’t we play the thank-you game? Find a reason to be grateful for everything you can. No complaining is allowed. If you can do it the whole day, I’ll give you a surprise.”
“That’s a funny game,” said Alison.
“I’ll help you begin. Why are you grateful for oatmeal?”
Alison thought a moment. “I guess it’s better than a bowl of bugs to eat.”
“Well, that’s a start,” Mommy chuckled.
Alison gobbled down her oatmeal, to get it over with. “I’m grateful I have orange juice to help wash the oatmeal down,” she said.
Then she went to her room. It was a mess! How can I be grateful for a messy room? she wondered. “I know—I’m grateful I have these toys to play with.” She hummed as she put them all away.
The drizzle outside turned into a freezing rain that tap-tap-tapped against the window. Alison pressed her nose against the frosty glass.
I’m grateful the rain comes so that the flowers don’t get thirsty, she thought.
When her room was tidy, she got out her modeling clay. She made funny shapes with it and squished it through her fingers. “I’m grateful for things that feel good in my hands,” she giggled.
Alison was having a busy day. Soon her eyelids began to grow heavy.
“I think it’s nap time,” Mommy said.
Alison was going to complain, but she remembered that it wasn’t allowed. She climbed onto her bed and reached for her stuffed rabbit. “I’m grateful I have Charlie to snuggle with,” she told Mommy.
The thank-you game got easier and easier. It wasn’t turning out to be such a bad day, after all!
That night Mommy looked pleased. “You played the game really well, Alison,” she said. “Here’s your surprise.” She gave Alison a pink ribbon for her hair, along with her usual hug and kiss.
Alison smiled. “It turned out to be a really nice day,” she said. “I’m grateful for surprises and hugs and kisses and you!”

The bond of trust that grew between my father and me was so strong that when my father asked me what I would think if he remarried, I was able to answer truthfully, “Do what you think is right.” Some of my older brothers and sisters didn’t agree with me, but I trusted him to do the right thing.
As the time grew closer, I grew excited to meet the woman my father loved and wanted to marry. But as I walked into the room, I saw a tall, slim, dark-haired woman who wasn’t my mother kissing my father. For a split second a door within me burst open, spilling all the hurt, jealousy, and anger that I felt for this woman. Then just as quickly, it closed without ever changing the smile on my face. That door was destroyed then, never to be opened again.
Many of our relatives and friends loved my mother and wouldn’t accept anyone else. They kept telling my father that he was wrong and was making a big mistake. But he wouldn’t listen, and neither would I. All I knew was that I had to trust my father. When I saw my two youngest sisters cuddled up to this woman while she sang them little songs she made up, I knew it was right. She was to be our new mother, and we all needed her, especially those two. As we grew to know her, we all eventually grew to love her.
My new mother left behind a big, beautiful house when she packed up her four children and moved into our little green house, a home in which she knew she wasn’t totally accepted. I admired how strong she was to be able to make a move like that, but I knew Heavenly Father, and maybe even my mother, helped her.
From then on it was more a matter of time. Slowly, with all of us pulling, we became closer, a family again. Together my father and new mother brought two more spirits into the world and into our family, making a grand total of 12 children. If nothing else made us a family, it was those two little spirits. Their presence created an unbreakable bond between two families that needed each other.
We were a family by our own special definition.

Allison crouched behind a bush and waited. Her bike lay behind her, just out of sight over the crest of the hill. Although she had been there for more than an hour, she waited patiently. She was sure they would come today, and she would be ready for them.
She had been ready all summer, ever since her family moved to the small town of Bethel shortly after school ended.
“Go out and ride your bike around the neighborhood,” her mother had urged her. “You’re sure to meet someone that way. There must be kids your age around here.”
So Allison had ridden her bike up and down the streets of Bethel. She saw older kids and younger kids but no one her own age. No one except a girl two streets over, and she was in a wheelchair.
“Well, get to know her,” Mother had encouraged her. “I’m sure she’s very nice, and there are a lot of things you could do together. Maybe she needs a friend too.”
“She can’t ride a bike,” Allison had pouted. Her bike had been just about the most important thing in life to her ever since she decided to train for the Tour de France international bike race.
“Well then, you’ll just have to wait until school starts in the fall,” Mother told her. “There will be kids your age in your class at school.”
So Allison continued to ride her bike around the neighborhood, feeling lonesome and sorry for herself.
Then she found the dirt track. She came upon it one day when she was riding along the country road on the edge of town. High weeds lined the sides of the road, and she almost rode right by the opening to the path.
Feeling the excitement of an explorer, she followed the path off the road. Insects flew from both sides of the weeds as she pedaled slowly along it. Several small mice and a rabbit scurried for cover as she passed.
She was about to turn around and go back, when she came upon a clearing surrounded by low, bush-covered hills. In the center of the clearing was an oval dirt track. Although it appeared to be abandoned, the track was still flat and smooth and ready for racing.
My very own race track! Allison thought as she started to ride around it. Then she noticed wheel tracks ahead of her in the soft dirt—two tracks, each about the same width as the impressions left by her own tires.
As she followed the tracks, she noticed that they were always the same distance apart. Here were two riders so in tune with one another that when one curved slightly to the left, the other followed in a perfect arc!
They must be best friends, Allison concluded, feeling the pangs of her recent isolation. They know each other well enough to ride together perfectly. I wish I had a friend like that.
Well why not? she wondered. Even if the mysterious riders weren’t her age, or even if they were boys, they still liked to ride bikes, and that was all that mattered.
So she waited. Two days in a row she sat just out of sight behind the bushes on the hill, anxious for the riders to come. She had it all planned. Once the two riders appeared, she’d walk her bike down the hill and meet them as if by accident. Then, if all went well, she’d have two new friends and they’d ride off together side by side.
Now, her third day of waiting, she heard a rustling in the weeds. They were coming at last! Allison caught her breath as she saw the girl in the wheelchair from two streets over wheel herself onto the track.
What’s she doing here? Allison thought angrily. What if the two bike riders who are supposed to become my best friends don’t come because she’s here?
She watched as the girl in the wheelchair picked up speed. By the time she was halfway around the track, her wheelchair was nearly flying as her muscled arms pumped furiously. Allison was impressed. Walking her bike, she hurried down to talk to the girl.
“Hi! My name’s Sandy,” the girl in the wheelchair offered as Allison approached. “That’s a nice bike you have.”
“Hi! I’m Allison.” Seeing a stopwatch fastened to Sandy’s chair, she blurted out, “How fast were you going?”
“Two seconds faster than last week,” Sandy answered proudly. “Don’t laugh, but I’m training for the Olympics. I’m sure wheelchair racing will be an official sport by the time I’m older.”
“Really? Good for you! Don’t you laugh, but I’m training for the Tour de France.”
“Well, let’s train together, OK?” Sandy motioned for Allison to come on as she took off down the track.
Allison grinned and hurried to catch up. When they’d almost completed a lap, she hit a rough spot and reached out to steady herself on Sandy’s wheelchair. Looking back, she noticed three perfectly parallel tracks in the dirt.

One of the most memorable lessons was learned by those who left the path. They felt disappointed as they had to wait in “spirit prison” and watch their brothers and sisters walk by them on the path.

Jackie Haws, 18, said: “Because I was on the youth committee, one of my jobs was to try to lead others astray. Because of this, I ended up going to ‘spirit prison’ and being separated from the others. I felt such shame in prison. But I’m so grateful for repentance. I need it every day.”

A few weeks ago someone gave me a gift. As I unwrapped the handsome package and discovered its contents, I was overcome with emotion. It was a precious item. I had seen it before in the office of the one who was now giving it to me. I had openly admired it for its unique capabilities and usefulness. It was finely crafted and very expensive. I was deeply touched as I received this generous gift—not because of its monetary value, but because I recognized the great love that the giving of this gift demonstrated to me. Here was an object I knew my benefactor could not afford to purchase for himself or for me. I knew that someone who loved him had bestowed that gift upon him. He was built up and made happy because of that gesture of love toward him. Now in his desire to bring me happiness, to express his love to me, he was sharing one of the finest material possessions he had.
How grateful I am for this example of Christlike love and for the many other gifts of love which I experience daily in my home and in my associations throughout this great church. These experiences lift me up and give me the desire to extend my love to others.

About halfway through my mission, my companion and I were struggling to work well with our ward mission leader. There had been various disagreements, so we decided to talk to the bishop to see what we should do. Deep down, I hoped that the bishop would just have a talk with him and fix our problems for us.
But instead, the bishop had told me that I was being prideful and overly critical of others. I went stomping home feeling misunderstood and frustrated—how could he say that about me? Did he even care about our struggles to share the gospel?
As we walked, I vented my feelings to my companion. But suddenly a phrase came into my head: “The guilty taketh the truth to be hard” (1 Nephi 16:2). It stopped me in my tracks. It was obvious to me that the thought came from the Spirit. My pride may have prevented me from accepting the bishop’s chastisement as truth—but could I really argue with the Holy Ghost?
I was guilty, and God was letting me know it.
In my case, I had convinced myself that I was complaining for the good of the missionary work in our area. And rather than accepting our ward mission leader’s faithful service—imperfect as it seemed to me—I suddenly saw that I was being ungrateful, impatient, and frankly, unkind. Because of the Spirit’s prompting, I could see my actions for what they truly were.
Receiving such direct chastisement from the Spirit was painful, but in the best way. It made me realize that I had to be honest with myself about my flaws.

Latter-day Saints also have a presence at West Point, the U.S. Army’s academy in upstate New York, and at the U.S. Naval Academy in Annapolis, Maryland. Consider this story about Midshipman Blake G. Jacobson:
One night while he was on watch, his upperclassman asked why the ring he wore bore the initials CTR instead of BGJ. Jacobson explained that the ring is often worn by members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and that CTR stands for Choose the Right. The upperclassman already knew Jacobson doesn’t smoke, drink, or swear.
A few days later, during a company inspection, the upperclassman suddenly yelled out, “Mr. Jacobson, what does it say on that ring you’re wearing?”
Jacobson was surprised, but barked out, “CTR, sir!”
“And what do those letters stand for, Mr. Jacobson?”
“Choose the Right, sir!”
“Correct. Men, from now on those letters are our company motto!”
From then on, the company chanted, “Choose the Right, left, Choose the Right, left,” as they marched around academy grounds. (Story submitted by Joe and Glo Jensen.)

It was also a time of spiritual tempering. When Lucy had been given up to die from consumption, she covenanted to serve God all her days and to seek “the religion that would enable [her] to serve him right,” even if “obtained from heaven by prayer and faith.” She was healed and faithfully sought that religion for the next two decades, not yet understanding that her own son would introduce her to it. “For days and months and years,” without ceasing, she “continued asking God … to reveal … the hidden treasures of his will.” Joseph Sr.’s mistrust of organized religion did not let him share her quest among the churches she had access to, but it did not become a source of contention between them. Rather, she prayed sincerely for consolation and was comforted by a dream that assured her Joseph Sr. would accept the truth when it was presented to him.

On my family’s ranch in Idaho, we have about 40 horses. We break some of our horses to ride, but most of them we use to raise colts to sell. I learned many things from working with those horses, but I never expected to learn something about the gospel from them.
On our ranch is a 60-acre hill that doesn’t receive much water. In early summer, we put the horses on this hill to eat the grass that grows after the spring rain. One summer, there was a severe drought in our valley, and our horses had picked the hill clean of all its grass. My dad decided it was time to move the horses down to the meadow, which was covered in lush green grass.
Under the direction of my father, I opened the gate to allow the horses into the new pasture. A few of the horses immediately ran through the gate and began to eat the untouched grass, but the rest of the horses stayed on the barren hill. I tried to herd them through the gate by chasing them, but they wouldn’t go. Then I broke a bale of hay in front of the gate to lure them through, but that didn’t work either. The horses seemed content to eat the few blades of grass on the hill instead of coming through the gate.
My dad asked me to drive his truck up the hill and herd the horses through the gate while he did some work on the irrigation ditches. I was excited because my dad didn’t give me permission to drive his truck very often. But my excitement turned to disappointment. Whenever I would get the horses headed in the right direction, one old mare would take off in the wrong direction, leading the herd away from the gate.
I drove the truck faster than before, trying to herd those stubborn horses off the hill. With all my yelling, the horn honking, and a cloud of dust rising up from the hill, my dad came over from the ditches to see what was going on. I was hot and frustrated, and explained to him that I couldn’t get the horses through the gate. We both tried to herd them through with no success. Finally, we decided to leave them, hoping they’d come through the gate on their own, sooner or later.
As I walked back to the truck, feeling frustrated, I thought, “I bet this is how God feels with us sometimes.” As I pondered that, the gospel really came alive to me. I realized that sometimes we become content with the things of this life and we forget that our real destination is a “greener pasture” in God’s kingdom. When we’re headed in the right direction, Satan, like the old mare, tries to tempt us away from the path. Jesus Christ is our gate to greener pastures. He is the only way we can return to our Heavenly Father and have everlasting life (see Mosiah 3:17).

Forty-six years ago I was called as an Assistant to the Quorum of the Twelve, and for the first time, I came to this pulpit. I was 37 years old. I found myself standing among the venerable and wise prophets and apostles, “whose names,” as the song proclaims, “we all revere” (“Oh, Holy Words of Truth and Love,” Hymns, no. 271). I felt how keenly inadequate I was.
About that time here in the Tabernacle I had a defining experience. It gave me assurance and courage.
In those days Primary conference was held here before the April conference. I came through a south door as the opening song was being sung by a large choir of Primary children. Sister Lue S. Groesbeck, a member of the Primary general board, was leading them. They sang:
Rev’rently, quietly, lovingly we think of thee;
Rev’rently, quietly, softly sing our melody.
Rev’rently, quietly, humbly now we pray,
Let thy Holy Spirit dwell in our hearts today.
(“Reverently, Quietly,” Children’s Songbook, 26)
As the children sang quietly, the organist, who understood that excellence does not call attention to itself, did not play a solo while they sang. He skillfully, almost invisibly blended the young voices into a melody of inspiration, of revelation. That was the defining moment. It fixed deeply and permanently in my soul that which I most needed to sustain me in the years to follow.
I felt perhaps that which Elijah the prophet had felt. He sealed the heavens against the wicked king Ahab and fled to a cave to seek the Lord:
“A great and strong wind rent the mountains, and brake in pieces the rocks … ; but the Lord was not in the wind: and after the wind an earthquake; but the Lord was not in the earthquake:
“And after the earthquake a fire; but the Lord was not in the fire: and after the fire [came] a still small voice.
“And it was so,” the record says, “when Elijah heard it, that he wrapped his face in his mantle, and went out, and stood in the entering in of the cave” to speak to the Lord (1 Kings 19:11–13).
I felt something of what the Nephites must have felt when the Lord appeared to them: “They heard a voice as if it came out of heaven; and they cast their eyes round about, for they understood not the voice which they heard; and it was not a harsh voice, neither was it a loud voice; nevertheless, and notwithstanding it being a small voice it did pierce them that did hear to the center, insomuch that there was no part of their frame that it did not cause to quake; yea, it did pierce them to the very soul, and did cause their hearts to burn” (3 Nephi 11:3).
It is this still, small voice which Elijah and the Nephites heard that the Prophet Joseph Smith understood when he wrote, “Thus saith the still small voice, which whispereth through and pierceth all things” (D&C 85:6).
In that defining moment, I understood that the still, small voice is felt more than heard. If I hearkened to it, I would be all right in my ministry.
After that I had the assurance that the Comforter, the Holy Ghost, is there for everyone who will respond to the invitation to ask, to seek, and to knock (see Matthew 7:7–8; Luke 11:9–10; 3 Nephi 14:7–8; D&C 88:63). I knew I would be all right. As the years have unfolded, so it has been.
I learned too what power there can be in music. When music is reverently presented, it can be akin to revelation. At times, I think, it cannot be separated from the voice of the Lord, the quiet, still voice of the Spirit.

I can’t think of a better example of helping someone gain understanding than the story of Helen Keller. She was blind and deaf and lived in a world that was dark and quiet. A teacher named Anne Sullivan came to help her. How would you teach a child who can’t even see or hear you?

For a long time, Anne struggled to connect with Helen. One day around noon, she took her out to the water pump. She put one of Helen’s hands under the waterspout and began to pump the water. Anne then spelled out the word W-A-T-E-R on Helen’s other hand. Nothing happened. So she tried again. W-A-T-E-R. Helen squeezed Anne’s hand because she began to understand. By nightfall, she had learned 30 words. Within a matter of months, she had learned 600 words and was able to read Braille. Helen Keller went on to earn a college degree and helped change the world for people who couldn’t see or hear. It was a miracle, and her teacher was the miracle worker, just like you will be, parents.

About four months into my mission, I began to experience pain—not only during physical activities like riding my bike or morning exercise but also when I was sleeping or doing personal study. I began rapidly losing weight. Even drinking water made me sick. Doctors’ tests could not determine what was wrong. I had no parasites or viruses. My mission president, my missionary companion, and I were all confused by my deteriorating health.

During the month that followed, I maintained faith that surprised even me. Although I felt frustrated, I was convinced that if I kept working harder, biking faster, and speaking my broken Chinese to everyone I saw, that God would miraculously heal me. I believed the stories of Christ’s healing the sick and raising the dead, and I believed wholeheartedly that He would do the same for me—a weak but enthusiastic missionary. Then one Sunday while my companion and I were biking to the Church meetinghouse to meet an investigator, the pain and convulsions throughout my body became unbearable. When we arrived at the meetinghouse, I asked the elders to give me a blessing, which helped. As the days passed, priesthood blessings became more frequent and so did prayers for healing.

It was the darkest day of my mission when I awoke one morning in the fiery Taiwanese heat and realized that I could not even move my body enough to get out of bed. At that moment I knew that I would not be able to be a missionary for much longer. My mission president came to visit me, and we counseled together. We talked of all the possibilities, and after much prayer and many tears, the Spirit confirmed that I needed to return home and focus on getting well.

In the book Daughters in My Kingdom, we read about Sister Hedwig Biereichel, a woman in Germany who suffered much sorrow and deprivation during World War II. Because of her love and charitable nature, and even in her own great need, she willingly shared her food with starving prisoners of war. Later, when asked how she was able to “keep a testimony during all [those] trials,” she replied in effect, “I didn’t keep a testimony through those times—the testimony kept me.”

I don’t suppose I will ever forget that dream. I had just turned five and was in my first year of school. I went to a private school in Yorkshire, England, where each day was filled with first attempts at reading and writing, punctuated with stories from the Bible.
Perhaps we had just heard the story of Jesus blessing the little children; I can’t remember. But one night I dreamt about my Heavenly Father. I remember seeing him sitting on a beautiful chair, wearing a glowing white robe. As I ran toward him, he smiled at me and took me into his arms.
At school the very next morning we again had a lesson on religion. The teacher walked up and down the aisles repeating a creed he said we should memorize. One sentence stuck in my mind. It said that God is a spirit. I wanted to raise my hand and tell everyone it wasn’t true. I had felt his arms around me the night before.
After 11 years of school I enrolled in a two-year technical college. I was 16, active in a singing group, and had lots of friends, but somehow I could never fit in. I wouldn’t smoke or drink with my friends, and their language upset me. I didn’t like to hear what they did late at night after their dates. They were my friends, but as I looked at them, I couldn’t help thinking, “What’s wrong? Why is the world this way?”
As if responding, my friends would ask me, “Why don’t you start living? It’s human nature to do what we do.” I told them the person in my dream could not have meant human nature to be that way. Their response was usually the same: “You’re crazy, Anna! You belong to another world!”
Often I prayed to my Heavenly Father, asking him to help me find people who thought as I thought or, as my friends put it, who were of “my world.”
Turning on the television one afternoon as a break from my studies, I saw a group of boys singing. I’m a serious-minded person and have never had a pop music “idol,” but something about these boys made me stay and listen. They were dressed in white, and as they sang, “Is the answer up above?” my heart responded, “Yes!” I learned they were the Osmonds and that they were Mormons. I decided to read some books about the Mormons, but I couldn’t find any.
One afternoon as I was upstairs studying, I heard a knock at the door. My mother answered it, and I could hear her talking to two young men. As I went downstairs, I heard mother try to give them some excuse and turn them away, but I said I wanted to talk with them. She let them in, closed the door, and went back to her work. The missionaries gave me the first discussion that very afternoon, and I began to get the same feeling I had experienced as a little girl as I ran into the arms of my Heavenly Father.
A week later they came to give me the second lesson, but my mother met them and told them they were not to come again. She told me later the missionaries were only after my money. That night I heard my parents arguing about the Church, and I decided I would not see the missionaries again.
Just before I turned 18 I finished school and decided to go visit one of my friends. She had married my uncle, and they had moved from England to Switzerland. The week I arrived in Switzerland, two Mormon missionaries knocked on their door.
I eagerly asked them to teach me and decided to be baptized after only three visits. Two weeks after my 18th birthday I was baptized. I had found my people, my world, and was in the arms of my Heavenly Father again.

The first Young Women camps in Mongolia were some of the most memorable experiences of my life. While serving a mission, my husband and I assisted the newly baptized leaders and young women. We had just one branch in Mongolia, and most of the people had been members less than one year. Acting as an adviser to the Young Women leaders, I knew camp would be a wonderful way for young women to recognize God’s love for them and appreciate His wonderful creations.
Quoting from my August 15, 1995, journal entry:
“Last week we went camping with the young women. It was fun … wet, but fun. It had rained the entire week before we left on Friday. That morning it was clear and warm, and we were excited to go. We got four small tents from the Boy Scouts here, and the girls brought two other tents. We had forty-three girls show up, seven leaders, and one other missionary couple.
“Overall, the camp was great. As soon as we pitched our tents, torrential rains came down on us. The Scout tents were less than ideal, and water drenched the heavy woolen blankets and clothes. We had to put 8–9 girls in 4-man tents. They didn’t seem to mind. They went hiking, picked baby strawberries by the handful, peeled potatoes in the creek … all in the rain. We didn’t hear a complaint.
“Friday night, we studied the Book of Mormon by candlelight. It was a great experience. The leaders led a discussion that would have gone on for hours if we hadn’t sent them to bed. They went to their wet tents and conducted testimony meetings. They loved every aspect of the evening. Everything is so new to these people. They have so few opportunities, and it is ever so rewarding to provide some worthwhile opportunities for them to learn and grow. I’m sure we have started a tradition of girls’ camp in Mongolia.”
The Church in Mongolia was in its infancy. They had no scriptures translated into Mongolian, no camp manual, nor even hymns in Mongolian. But for two days in the Mongolian steppe, they enjoyed God’s creations, studied the gospel together, became more united, and felt the Spirit as they shared their testimonies of their newfound religion.

The education Sri received while living with the queen enabled her not only to read the Book of Mormon in English, but also to play a key part in the translation of the book into Thai. The translation effort began in 1970, and Sri was asked to be the lead translator of the translating committee. The project was completed in 1974, and the Book of Mormon was published in Thai in 1976.
“Making this translation brought such spiritual strength to me,” says Sister Sri. “I love my Heavenly Father so much for pouring upon me this gift of tongues and language.”

Two years after his baptism, Gerard accepted a civil engineering position in Paris. Two months later, he was called to be the president of the Versailles Branch. While living in Paris, he became critically ill with meningitis, and his doctor explained to him the necessary plans to remove fluid from his spine. Gerard called on his home teachers for a priesthood blessing and was healed. The feared medical procedure became unnecessary.

Charlie dropped the soccer ball on the grass and looked at Alex. “First one to five wins!”
Alex grinned. He liked the challenge of playing against his older brother. “You’re on!” He picked up the ball and threw it to the middle of the yard. Charlie ran and kicked it between the two trees in the back.
“That’s one!” Charlie shouted.
Alex laughed and ran for the ball. He kicked it down the yard, sidestepped Charlie, dribbled left, then right, and kicked hard toward the net at the other end of the yard. “Score!” he shouted.
The boys kicked the ball around, running and laughing. Soon Charlie had four points and Alex had two.
“This is it,” Charlie said. “One more point and I win.” He raced around Alex, dribbled a few feet, and kicked the ball hard. It bounced off the fence and soared into the goal. “That’s five! I win!”
“Wait, hold on,” Alex said, running to catch up. “You hit the fence. That’s out of bounds. It doesn’t count.”
“Oh, come on! We never said that,” Charlie said, tossing the ball in his hands.
“But it’s out,” Alex repeated. “You can’t do that. You’re cheating.”
“You’re such a baby,” Charlie said. “I don’t even like playing with you.” He dropped the ball and walked in the back door to their house.
“Oh, yeah?” Alex called after him. “Well, sticks and stones can break my bones, but words will never hurt me!”
Alex sat down on the back steps and hung his head. Why had Charlie said that? They loved playing together outside. At least, Alex thought they did. He felt his stomach tighten as he remembered what Charlie had said. Words could hurt.
After a few minutes Alex tried to think about what Jesus would do. When people were unkind to Jesus, He was always kind to them. But it was hard! It was Charlie’s fault! Alex thought. I didn’t do anything wrong!
Alex kicked the ball around the yard by himself as he thought. Finally he glanced down at the ball, then looked at the house. It really wasn’t much fun playing on his own. He took a deep breath.
He opened the back door and walked upstairs to Charlie’s room. He peeked inside. Charlie was on his bed reading a book.
“Hey,” Alex said.
“Hey,” Charlie replied, staring at his book.
“Do you want to finish our game?”
Charlie looked up. “I guess so.” He set his book down and shrugged. “Maybe I could take back that last goal and not hit the fence again.”
Alex smiled. “OK.”
The two boys walked down the stairs and went back outside.
“I’m sorry I said what I did,” Charlie said. “I do like playing with you.”
“I know,” Alex said. “Thanks.” He smiled and kicked the ball down the yard. He had never realized what a little kindness could do.
Go to page 6 for an activity to go with this story!

There are some things that form a common bond between Santosh and other teenagers all over the world. One of those things is the gospel. Santosh was introduced to the gospel through his uncle, Dr. Edwin Dharma Raju, who joined the Church in Samoa when he was on assignment from the government of India.

When Dr. Raju returned to India, he wanted his family to hear the gospel message, and he wrote to Church headquarters for missionaries to be sent to his family. Instead, Dr. Raju and his wife were sent on a short-term mission to teach the family themselves.

Santosh was eight years old when he and several family members accepted the gospel. The water storage tank on the roof of his uncle Henry’s building was scrubbed and painted to serve as a baptismal font. The men and boys who attended the baptism were dressed in traditional white, loose-fitting Indian jackets and trousers. The women were dressed in white saris, the standard dress of Indian women, consisting of a long piece of cloth draped over the shoulder and wrapped around the body. The newly baptized family was to form the beginnings of the branch in Hyderabad.

Santosh is now a teacher in the Aaronic Priesthood in that branch. He and his brother Sanjay, 12, and sister Sunitha, 16, are the only youth there, but they take a very active part. Santosh arrives at the mission home, where church services are held, a half hour early each Sunday to prepare the sacrament. He is always ready to give a talk or teach a lesson to any age group. Sunitha is the branch chorister and teaches a Primary class, and Sanjay takes on various assignments and is often the first one to bear his testimony on fast Sunday.

Santosh is also preparing for a mission. “I have thought a lot about a mission,” he says. “I used to dream of going to a very remote island or a place where I could convert and baptize everyone. Now that they are calling Indian youth to serve in India, I would like to serve a mission here.”

His dreams also include medical school, which is extremely difficult to get into in his country. Of the 50,000 students who take examinations each year to apply, only 2,000 will be accepted. Only those with the highest grades can enter medical school.

Santosh, like many Indian children, has been going to school since he was three. He will graduate at 17. In the meantime, he carries a heavy academic load.

His day starts before 6 A.M., when he hurries off for an hour session with a tutor. Since his classes at the private Christian school contain anywhere from 40 to 70 students, the time he spends with his tutor and four or five other students is essential.

He then comes home, prepares for school, reads the newspaper to keep up with current affairs, and then takes the bus to school. Once there, he attends eight classes, among them mathematics, physics, biology, and three different language classes.

Santosh is in the 10th class, where it is crucial to be one of the best students. He has even had to give up most of the sports he likes so well, like cricket and badminton, in order to excel. He has to take major tests every month and exams every three months to determine his position in college.

After school, Santosh does homework and a little recreational reading until it’s time for the evening meal at 8:00 P.M. At 9:00 he meets with his tutor for another hour and a half.

Although school takes up a major portion of his day, he still finds time for the Church and for scripture study. “I have a very strong testimony,” he says. “I thank my Heavenly Father for it. I know that the Book of Mormon, the Holy Bible, the Doctrine and Covenants, and Pearl of Great Price are companion scriptures and the word of God.”

That knowledge, plus the support of his family, are enough to sustain him in his minority religious status. “I hope I will have the strength to resist temptations,” he says. “I love this church, and don’t ever want to go away from it.”

While serving in the Asia North Area Presidency with Elder Takashi Wada, I learned that his wife, Sister Naomi Wada, is an accomplished Japanese calligrapher. I asked Sister Wada if she would draw for me the Japanese characters for the word mui. I wanted to hang the calligraphy on my wall as a reminder to be still and to focus on the Savior. I was surprised when she did not readily agree to this seemingly simple request.

The next day, knowing that I had likely misunderstood her hesitance, Elder Wada explained that writing those characters would require a significant effort. She would need to ponder and meditate on the concept and the characters until she understood the meaning deeply in her soul and could give expression to these heartfelt impressions with each stroke of her brush. I was embarrassed that I had so casually asked her to do something so demanding. I asked him to convey my apologies to her for my ignorance and to let her know that I was withdrawing my request.

You can imagine my surprise and gratitude when upon my leaving Japan, Sister Wada, unsolicited, gifted to me this beautiful piece of calligraphy featuring the Japanese characters for the word mui. It now hangs prominently on the wall of my office, reminding me to be still and to seek the Lord every day with all my heart, might, mind, and strength. She had captured, in this selfless act, the meaning of mui, or stillness, better than any words could. Rather than mindlessly and dutifully drawing the characters, she approached her calligraphy with full purpose of heart and real intent.