Gospel Story Finder

I was too slow for football, too short for basketball, and too weak for wrestling. I played freshman and JV baseball, but by the time I reached my junior year in high school, the other guys going out for the varsity team were faster, taller, and stronger.
Three strikes and I was out.
I wasn’t popular enough to run for student government, talented enough to pursue the performing arts, or courageous enough to try debate.
Game over at 17, right? Not necessarily.
In English class, I could write essays the night before they were due—and still get a decent grade. I had no problem ordering a burrito in Spanish or asking for directions to the bathroom in German—thanks to my foreign language classes. Somehow, I made the honor roll despite my grades in math. And I could make people laugh.
But did I really have any talents? I wasn’t sure until I got older.
Back in high school, I had no way of knowing that the fun I had—and the time I spent—studying Spanish and German would help me learn three languages as a full-time missionary. Nor did I know that my latent talent as a writer would lead me to my livelihood. But perhaps the Lord did.

The mission home became the organizing point for many of the Saints. By mid-morning the Pacific elders arrived there and found the structure relatively undamaged but waterless due to severed water mains. After consuming sandwiches and bottled fruit (to quench their thirst), they went two by two with local elders to survey the condition of branch members. By noon, reports on all the Saints were in: to the joy and gratitude of the group, not one branch member was missing or seriously hurt.

Green Bay, Wisconsin, is cold this time of year, but young women in the Green Bay Second Ward work hard to spread the warmth of the gospel. Using the theme of the Young Women Values, the girls designed a tree covered in angels made from paper bags in the Value colors. The tree was featured as part of a local YWCA event. The tree was a great missionary tool in getting out the message of what the Young Women program is all about.

Seminary also serves as a great preparation for the missionary work you will do—as a member missionary today and also if you serve as a full-time missionary in the future. Franco Huamán Curinuqui of Peru knows that his scripture study in seminary has been helping him prepare for his mission.

He says this preparation is worth getting up for seminary at 4:00 a.m., riding canoes when months of flooding hit the area, and then wading through mud to get to class. He says, “I want to finish seminary and start institute classes in order to be prepared for a mission. I am going to keep growing in the Church.” Seminary is important to him because he learns about the scriptures and memorizes important verses, which will help him be a better missionary.

Ever since I started running track, it has been a dream of mine to break the school record in the mile run. Then towards the end of this season I ran the mile in five minutes flat, breaking the record by more than three seconds.
The next day, though, we found out that my mile had not counted. The officials explained that I’d taken three steps on the inside of the track, which disqualified me from the race. My coach argued that I only stepped out because I was pushed by another runner. The official said, “It may not have been her fault that she was pushed out, but it was her fault she was so close to the line.” I walked away feeling like my accomplishment had been wrongly ripped from me.
The next Sunday in Young Women class, we watched a video that compared staying in the lines in sports to keeping the commandments.1 Throughout the lesson I sat there, angry at the reminder that I had failed.
The next day as I ran around the track, I looked down and noticed I was running right on the inside line. And every once in a while, I would step inside, just as the official had said. I immediately stopped running, humbled. I had become so comfortable with where I was running that I didn’t see the dangers in it anymore.
Luckily, I was given a second chance a few weeks later. I distanced myself from the center line and broke the school record, this time while staying in bounds.
That experience made me think about how close to the line I was running with some of the commandments. But because of Jesus Christ and His Atonement, I am always given another chance as I repent.
When it comes to the commandments, we should distance ourselves from the line and do our best to stay inbounds. But I’m grateful that when we do make mistakes, the Savior allows us to repent and try again.
Raygan P., Utah, USA

Tyler loved having visitors. His family had signed up to help feed the missionaries, and tonight they were coming to dinner. Mom had promised that he could sit next to them.
At the table, Tyler felt shy and didn’t know what to say. He wanted to be a missionary someday, so he listened and watched carefully. He wanted to remember how missionaries act. He looked at their shiny shoes, white shirts, and straight ties. Then he noticed something on their shirt pockets. “What’s that?” he asked, pointing to Elder Snow’s pocket.
“My name tag,” Elder Snow replied, holding it up a little.
“‘Elder Snow,’” Tyler read. “‘The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.’ Do all the missionaries have name tags?”
“I think so,” the other missionary, Elder Millburn, replied. “We want everyone to know that we are missionaries for the Church.”
“I always make sure to put my name tag on,” Elder Snow added. “I want everybody to know that I believe in Jesus Christ.”
After the missionaries left, Tyler told Mom, “I’m going to make a name tag. I want to wear one so that people will know that I believe in Jesus Christ.”

“She’s just a better version of me.”
Months after coming home from my mission in California, this thought was still tormenting my mind. There hadn’t been a day that went by without me thinking about my mission and who I was while I was serving. “Mission-me,” as I called this past version of myself, was better than my current self. Mission-me prioritized the gospel over everything else. She was kind, selfless, and acted on what she knew was right.
The current me?
She was different.
My scripture study habits had all but gone out the window. My prayers were sporadic at best, and though I was still attending the temple and church weekly, I knew I could be doing better at inviting the Spirit into my life.
But no matter how many times I tried, it seemed I could only keep up my spiritual habits for a couple of days—a week at most—before failing. I knew how much I loved the gospel and my Savior, but for some reason, I just couldn’t grow into the person I wanted to be.
I finally felt relief after nine months of being home. I was attending an institute class, trying desperately to learn from The Divine Gift of Forgiveness, a book by Elder Neil L. Andersen of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles.
Just then, a paragraph jumped out at me.
It reads, “If we find ourselves temporarily facing setbacks, we don’t become discouraged. We focus on our love of the Savior and His love for us, and we move forward. Week by week, year by year, our repentance and resolve draw us closer to Him.”
I froze—his words felt like they were meant specifically for me.
I knew that through His Atonement, Jesus Christ could help me. I had faith that He was cheering me on, but I’d been missing one key detail: timing.
See, God wasn’t expecting me to be perfect right then. That’s the whole reason Christ atoned for us. God knows that we will never be perfect in this life, and He loves us so much that He sent His Only Begotten Son to save us.
Instead of trying to become perfect right then, the Savior’s enabling power could help me continue to grow over the course of a lifetime. Week by week, year by year. The best version of myself was going to take my whole life to develop—that’s how it’s supposed to be, as we learn to walk with Him.
I started looking at life with this new perspective and tried again to build spiritual habits. I set goals to pray twice a day and to read my scriptures for 15 minutes at least once a day. These goals seemed small to me, but I told myself I was growing—and that’s what mattered.
One morning, I realized that I had missed my scripture study the day before. I initially felt disappointed in myself, but upon remembering Elder Andersen’s words, I was filled with assurance that I still had time to open the scriptures that day and try again.
I could feel my relationship with Heavenly Father growing. I had a stronger desire to put the gospel above other enticing things. There were days I forgot to pray before going to bed or I didn’t get a full 15-minute study. But there were also days that I prayed more, chose to spend extra time studying the scriptures, and created new goals, like journaling.
I’m continuing to grow, keeping in mind the perspective that every day I’m slowly growing into the woman God knows I can become. As our beloved prophet, President Russell M. Nelson, has said, “perfection is pending.”
As a returned missionary, I’m grateful for the shift in my perspective and for the knowledge that I can grow over time. Even though I slipped from my mission habits before, I know the Lord is pleased with my efforts today—however small they may be. I know that one day I’ll look back as a completely changed person and be grateful for the days that I chose to try again, read a little more, pray with more sincerity, and focus on Jesus Christ.
I hope you’ll do the same.

When our youngest daughter was about four years of age, I came home from hospital duties quite late one evening. I found my dear wife to be very weary. I don’t know why. She only had nine children underfoot all day. So I offered to get our four-year-old ready for bed. I began to give the orders: “Take off your clothes; hang them up; put on your pajamas; brush your teeth; say your prayers” and so on, commanding in a manner befitting a tough sergeant in the army. Suddenly she cocked her head to one side, looked at me with a wistful eye, and said, “Daddy, do you own me?”

She taught me an important lesson. I was using coercive methods on this sweet soul. To rule children by force is the technique of Satan, not of the Savior. No, we don’t own our children. Our parental privilege is to love them, to lead them, and to let them go.

Each new convert should be provided a calling in the Church. Such brings interest, stability, and growth. The task may be somewhat simple, such as that given to Jacob de Jager when he and his family became members in Toronto. He held lofty posts in business, but his first calling in the Church was to put the hymnbooks in place along the pews. He took his assignment seriously. In recollecting this first calling, he said, “I had to be present each week, or the hymnbooks would remain undistributed.” As you know, Elder de Jager later served many years as a member of the First Quorum of the Seventy. Though he had many demanding responsibilities as a General Authority, he never forgot his first calling in the Church.

I offer this as profound conviction born in the fiery crucible of life’s experience. Our second son, Adam, entered our lives when I was far away in the jungles and rice paddies of Vietnam. I still have the joyful telegram announcing his birth. Adam was a blue-eyed, blond-haired little fellow with an impish personality. As he turned five years old, Adam eagerly looked forward to starting school. Then a common childhood illness blanketed our southern California community, and Adam contracted the disease. Aside from concern for his comfort, we were not worried. He even seemed to have a light case. Suddenly one morning he did not arise from his bed; he was in a deep coma. We rushed him to the hospital, where he was placed in intensive care. A constant cadre of devoted doctors and nurses attended him. His mother and I maintained a ceaseless vigil in the waiting room nearby.

I telephoned our dear stake president—a childhood friend and now a beloved colleague in the Seventy, Elder Douglas L. Callister—and asked if he would come to the hospital and join me in giving Adam a priesthood blessing. Within minutes he was there. As we entered the small, cramped space where Adam’s lifeless little body lay, his bed surrounded by a bewildering maze of monitoring devices and other medical paraphernalia, the kind doctors and nurses reverently stepped back and folded their arms. As the familiar and comforting words of a priesthood blessing were spoken in faith and earnest pleading, I was overcome by a profound sense that Someone else was present. I was overwhelmed by the thought that if I should open my eyes, I would see the Savior standing there! I was not the only one in that room who felt that Spirit. We learned quite by chance some months later that one of the nurses who was present that day was so touched that she sought out the missionaries and was baptized.

But notwithstanding, Adam made no improvement. He lingered between this life and the next for several more days as we pleaded with the Lord to return him to us. Finally, one morning after a fitful night, I walked alone down a deserted hospital corridor. I spoke to the Lord and told Him that we wanted our little boy to return so very much, but nevertheless what we wanted most was for His will to be done and that we—Pat and I—would accept that. Adam crossed the threshold into the eternities a short time later.

Frankly, we still grieve for our little boy, although the tender ministering of the Spirit and the passage of the years have softened our sadness. His small picture graces the mantel of our living room beside a more current family portrait of children and grandchildren. But Pat and I know that his path through mortality was intended by a kind Heavenly Father to be shorter and easier than ours and that he has now hurried on ahead to be a welcoming presence when we likewise eventually cross that same fateful threshold.

It seems like we’re always asking people in our ward (Centerville Fifth, Centerville Utah South Stake) to contribute something to the youth.
For example, as a Mia Maid, I’ve been to practically every home in the ward to see if we could wash their windows, or sell them pizza, or get the whole family to come to a fund-raising dinner. The Aaronic Priesthood does the same thing—they’ve tried power raking lawns, selling light bulbs, even holding “slave auctions.”
And the people in the ward do try to support us as much as they can. So our leaders suggested that it was about time we said thanks. What’s more, they even suggested a way—a car wash.
I can hear you already. A car wash. That’s not a way of saying thanks. That’s another fund-raising idea, and not a very original one at that. But this car wash wasn’t to make money. We were going to clean every car in the ward—for free.
“Think of it as our way of saying thanks to everybody who’s helped the youth,” said Nadine Taylor, our Young Women president. “It’ll make them happier the next time they see you at their door,” said Corey Stahle, the Young Men president at the time.
Our group response was about zero.
But our leaders persisted, and after distributing flyers, getting announcements in the ward bulletin and the ward paper, and making arrangements for water, soap, towels, vacuums, and buckets, we started making suds, and something magic happened.
One by one, cars pulled up, the cars of the same people who had purchased our pizzas or driven us to girls’ camp or coached our ball teams. One by one, we were able to tell them, “Thanks. No charge. This one’s for you.” And we even washed a couple of cars for people who happened by and thought it was a fund-raiser, people who aren’t even members of the ward. You can imagine how they reacted when we told them the service was free.
Oh yes, we had the usual water fights and chasing around. And granted, we didn’t wash every car in the ward. But we washed enough of them that people were talking about it for weeks. I guess we did something pretty good.

I love sports. In grade school and junior high school, I dreamed of completing a pass with time running out and winning the state football championship. I had similar fantasies regarding a last-second shot in basketball and a home run in the bottom of the ninth.
As a sophomore in high school, because I had a small frame, I decided basketball was my game. I was quick and had a good two-handed set shot (ask your father or grandfather what that was). Tryouts were held in October. I played hard, stole the ball on several occasions, and made a few long outside set shots; however, when the coach posted the names of the team members, mine was not on the list. I was crushed. My dream of having the cheerleaders swarm all over me after my game-winning shot was lost forever.
I regrouped by summer and decided maybe football was my game after all. At tryouts I put on the helmet, shoulder pads, and other gear. On my way out to the practice field, I remember looking in the mirror and thinking to myself, “Hey, you look taller! And when you turn sideways, you don’t disappear!” But then I noticed the big guys looked bigger too.
In the first few drills, I felt fine. My speed allowed me to come in near the first in the sprints, and my confidence soared. Then came scrimmage. I was given the ball and told to run straight up the middle. As I got to the line, I was met by the biggest defensive lineman on the team. He planted his helmet in the pit of my stomach, wrapped his arms around my thighs, picked me up, threw me on the ground, and jumped on top of me. The only reason I didn’t fumble is that the ball was implanted permanently in my rib cage. As my friends carried my limp, breathless body off the field, I heard the coach say to the tackle, “Ooh! Wow! Nice hit, Kimber!”
Once again, my dreams were shattered—not to mention my ribs and ego. In the weeks that followed, I began to look around to see what else life had to offer. It took a while, but I made a marvelous discovery: there is a lot more to life than sports.
I looked at my classmates in a different light. In addition to the respect I already had for good athletes, I began to appreciate the individual talents of each person. I marveled at those gifted with artistic ability. I looked at their paintings and thrilled at their talent. Others had developed their talents in music. I watched in amazement as a pianist played classical music. A dancer fascinated me with her grace and creativity. I read things written by a poetic pen. I laughed and cried as I watched our thespians perform. They actually made me forget who they were and convinced me they had become the characters on the stage. Some of my friends excelled in academics.
In short, a whole new world began to appear. I remember thinking how sad it was that these talents didn’t receive the publicity and glory afforded our athletic heroes. I thought of the hours, days, weeks, months, and years of practice, study, and meditation it took to develop these talents without having the encouragement of a cheering crowd or being elected homecoming queen.
I wish I could propel each of you into the 25th reunion of your high school class; for those of you who are seniors, that will be in the year 2013. You would gain a perspective which would prove invaluable. You would find yourself much more interested in what your classmates were than in what they wore. If you could observe your classmates 25 years from now, and then return with that knowledge to your present situation, there would be quite an adjustment in your thinking.
With this perspective you would realize that the shy boy sitting behind you is to become a medical doctor and, besides, that his acne will clear up. You would realize that the bookworm blonde to the left of you will become a journalist, and with contact lenses she is quite attractive at that.
You would be able to look inside your classmates and see their spiritual qualities, the qualities they will take with them into the next life and throughout eternity. You would be proud of their accomplishments and rejoice in each other’s successes.
One of my favorite examples of this genuine appreciation we can have for others was recorded by Alma. He had been on a mission and was separated from Ammon and his brethren, who were on a mission of their own. When they finally got back together after many years, Alma said, “God hath called me by a holy calling, to preach the word unto this people, and hath given me much success, in the which my joy is full.
“But I do not joy in my own success alone, but my joy is more full because of the success of my brethren. …
“Now, when I think of the success of these my brethren my soul is carried away, even to the separation of it from the body, as it were, so great is my joy” (Alma 29:13–14, 16).
Our Father in Heaven blessed us with variety. He gave us water and dry land, he gave us various forms of plant and animal life, and he gave us individual personalities and talents. Life is more interesting because we have variety. We will have more joy and be more successful as individuals if we are aware of the people around us, our family, and our friends, as individuals and appreciate them for who and what they are. You will have won a great personal battle when the successes of your classmates become a joy in your life rather than a jealousy.
Our quest for exaltation is our own. Entrance into the celestial kingdom isn’t determined by competition or popularity; we don’t have to “beat anyone out” to get there. And when we greet each other in the celestial kingdom, we will know what Alma meant by “my joy is more full because of the success of my brethren.”

There was no moon, and it seemed extra dark to Nellie Kunz as she sat by the fire. She stared into the darkness toward the trees that she knew were there. She wished she had never heard all the stories of mountain lions and wolves that her father and brothers had told.
Nellie was twelve years old, and this was the first time she had come to the sheep camp to cook for her father and brothers and the hired men. They were up in the mountains and over fifty miles from home.
Zina, Nellie’s younger sister, sat beside her and poked a stick at the burning embers. She had come to be Nellie’s assistant and companion while the men took care of the sheep. Besides being sisters, the girls were best friends.
“We’d better get to bed now,” their dad said. “The sheep are all settled down for the night, and we have a lot of work ahead of us in the morning.”
“I’m tired anyway,” said Zina. “And Nellie and I have made a comfortable bed in the wagon.”
“Good night, Daddy,” Nellie said as she gave him a hug. “Good night!” she called to the others.
Zina climbed into the wagon first and Nellie followed her. The wagon was covered with canvas and all their food supplies were stored inside. The girls had made a bed of straw topped with their favorite quilts and pillows from home.
The men slept under the stars near the campfire. Nellie didn’t envy them at all. She liked the idea of sleeping in something enclosed and comfortable. It seemed a little safer and more like being at home.
“It’s so quiet,” whispered Zina.
“Yes,” agreed Nellie. “It’s far more quiet than when Sister Jenkins dropped a pin for us to hear in Primary last week.”
“Don’t forget your prayers,” said Nellie. As she knelt on her soft down quilt, she thanked Heavenly Father for her family and for her many blessings. She asked him to watch over and protect all of them.
“Are you scared?” whispered Zina.
“Sure. Are you?” answered Nellie.
“Yes,” said Zina and they squeezed each other’s hand before they snuggled down into their quilts.
Zina became more and more quiet and Nellie knew she was falling asleep. But Nellie couldn’t sleep. She lay wide awake, staring at the darkness.
After a while she heard a noise. At first, Nellie thought it was the wind blowing the tree branches, but then she felt sure something was moving outside. The sound came closer and closer, and soon Nellie could hear another sound—a heavy breathing sound.
“Zina!” she whispered. “Zina!” She gently shook her sister’s arm.
“What’s the matter?” answered Zina.
“I don’t know,” whispered Nellie, “but when I count to three, scream as loud as you can. One … two … three!” Both girls screamed.
There was a crashing sound beside the wagon as something bounded away. Dad and all the men jumped up from their bedrolls, grabbed their guns, and raced for the wagon.
Everyone was shouting and talking at once for a few minutes as Nellie and Zina tried to tell what they had heard. The men started the fire up again and, holding their torches high, they looked around the wagon. “Looks like the tracks of a mighty big mountain lion,” said Nellie’s oldest brother when he came back from his search. “Took off through the woods.”
“There’s no use trying to track him down,” said Dad. “He’s clear over the mountain by now, with the scare these two girls gave him. I’ve never heard such a row.”
Nellie smiled at her dad, though she was still shaking. “Come on, Zina,” she said as they climbed back into the wagon. “Let’s kneel down again. We need two prayers tonight—another one to say thank you.”

A woman I know was struggling with anger toward someone who had hurt her and her family. Though she told her children not to become embittered and resentful, she fought those feelings herself. After weeks of entreating her Father in Heaven, she finally felt a change. She related: “One day, in the midst of my nearly constant prayers, the healing came. I felt a physical sensation spread through my body. After, I felt a sense of security and peace. I knew that regardless of what happened, my family and I would be all right. The anger left me and so did my desire for retaliation.”

The living water is the gospel of Jesus Christ; its communicator is the Holy Ghost. My friend knew what was right. She had said the appropriate words to her family. But only when she humbled herself enough to drink of the water—to feel the Holy Spirit—could she begin to heal.

A fortnight ago I received an interesting letter from a member of the Church who grew up in a country located high in the Himalaya Mountains of southern Asia. He wrote: “I was brought up in a royal, aristocratic, Hindu priest family. I was taught to work but not to hope for a reward. I thought, Why should I work if there is no reward? Am I following the right way? I was offended with polytheistic and pantheistic philosophy. I wanted to know the real truth and the [right] way.” He told how he had found the truth and the only right way through the Mormon missionaries in Seoul, Korea. He bore a powerful testimony of the divinity of Jesus Christ that brought tears to my eyes.
My friend from the Himalayas will have his trials and tribulations as he returns to his homeland to share this important message with his people: that Jesus Christ is our Redeemer and our Savior and our Exemplar who will direct them along the right path that leads to exaltation; that there is a reward, but it must be earned; and that the reward is glorious beyond description. He tasted of that reward when he asked the Lord, “Is it true?” and the Holy Spirit bore witness to him that truly it is.

Most days my bus arrived right on time, but one day—11 October 1993—it was late. I was a young university student in Caen, France, and I needed to get to class. Looking around, I noticed I was not the only one waiting for the bus. Two young men standing nearby caught my eye. They looked different. Each had a name tag. Who were they? They were obviously not high school students. But anxious about getting to class on time, I quickly turned my thoughts back to worrying about the late bus.
Then, unexpectedly, I heard a voice behind me, saying, “May I ask you a question?”
I turned and found myself facing one of the young men. He spoke French with an unusual accent. “Do you believe in God?” he asked.
I was surprised and hesitated to reply. I had asked myself that very question many times. I had finally decided I was an atheist. There was no reason to continue talking with these young men, but something about their demeanor was so remarkable I found myself wanting to continue our conversation. They radiated a feeling of peace and, surprisingly, an outpouring of love and intelligence. Their name tags said they were missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
The three of us conversed for about 10 minutes. I knew nothing about their church, and I was amazed when they said they were prepared to teach me everything I needed to know about God, including the meaning of life. Before my bus arrived—15 minutes late—we set an appointment to meet.
During our discussions, the two elders introduced me to the Book of Mormon: Another Testament of Jesus Christ, and they taught me about the restored gospel. Little by little, I learned the principles of the gospel and came to believe they are true.
My entire life began to change. My parents were the first to notice the difference. Communication with my family improved, and my relationships with everyone became happier. I made friends more easily than ever before. I attended church and saw no pretense there, only expressions of love and acceptance unlike anything I had experienced before. The members seemed to know the difference between what was true and what was false. It was a place of wonderful opportunities.
But before joining the Church, I wanted to be absolutely certain it was the right thing to do. I took my time making up my mind. The missionary discussions helped me come to the conviction that I would not be making a mistake, that I had indeed found the truth. I was baptized on 24 July 1994.
It was the best decision I have ever made. Since then, I have enjoyed the blessings of the gospel and the fellowship of wonderful ward members. I have received the priesthood. I have taught Sunday School and participated in the conversion of others. Life has taken on new meaning.
Thanks to the elders, I found the answers to my questions and the solutions to my problems. Meeting them was the most fortunate encounter of my life. When people ask me how I came to join the Church, I grin and tell them, “The bus was late—thank heavens!”

Chauncey was a demon for self-improvement. To make time for study, he rigged up an electric alarm system that aroused him in the morning around 5:00 or 5:30. Then he would usually work out for about 15 minutes swinging Indian clubs. He was especially motivated to go through these exercises in the cold winter months: getting the circulation stimulated helped to compensate for the two hours he was studying without heat. On January 10 the following scene occurred:
“This morning at 6:30 I was awakened very suddenly by my electric clock and bells. I made one jump and landed out of bed on the floor. Then my understanding was clear and I, knowing that if I did not in a minute shut my electric bells off from the strong current that the batteries would be run down and the neighbors would turn out thinking there was a fire, I jumped spryly in the direction of my electric clock, but I had barely got started toward it in the blind darkness than I ran against some living thing and turned a somersault the air and fell all in a heap, and the noise of the gong sounded louder and louder. After I got my understanding, I made another attempt, shutting off the electric current and lighting the lamp looking for the person that I had fallen over. It was a chair.”

“Me?” I asked, looking at the Young Women president in utter shock.
“Yes,” she said. “You’d only have to play one hymn each week for opening exercises. You can tell us ahead of time which one you choose, and practice during the week. Besides, it’s only for Young Women. You’re all friends anyway.”
“Well, I guess so. But I’m not making any promises,” was my response.
For as long as I could remember, my mother had been teaching me how to play the piano. But I was only to the point where I could study a piece of music one measure at a time and eventually memorize it.
For that first Sunday, I chose a piece in the key of C that looked fairly simple. I began practicing it, and it turned out to be quite a chore. But by the end of the week I had memorized the hymn and felt ready for Sunday. Unfortunately, with 20 girls singing and a director setting the pace, I was lost within the first three measures. I tried with all my might to catch up, but the song dragged on—a capella.
When the song ended, I buried my head into my folded arms through the opening prayer. At its conclusion I took a seat by my best friend who greeted me with a sympathetic pat on the back. I also received an affirmative thumbs up and a smile of encouragement from our Young Women president.
After class, she came over to talk to me. I figured she had realized her mistake and was going to let me sing each week rather than play. “So, what song will it be next week?” she asked. Silent groan.
The next week I spent every free second playing “Come Follow Me.” I was not going to make a fool of myself again. All this practicing did was slowly cause me to dislike the piano and dread the quickly approaching Sunday. However, I managed to master the hymn, and even practiced with my mom leading and my little sister singing. I was prepared.
Sunday came, and by the time we got to the part of the song “… the Savior said,” I was lost. Tears were forming in my eyes. I tried with all my might to blink them away, but couldn’t. It wasn’t fair. I had worked so hard—and for what? More embarrassment.
I finally decided there was only one thing to do. I looked very closely at the final measure through my tears. I wanted to play the last chord of the song, and I carefully placed my shaking fingers on each key while the young women warbled on without me. “With God’s own loved, begotten Son.” I attacked that last chord with all the power I could muster, then confidently bowed my head for the prayer.
Unfortunately, the prayer was delayed until everyone stopped laughing. I can see the humor in it now, but at the time I decided to never touch another piano key for the rest of my life.
Thankfully, I stuck with the weekly chore. As the Sundays went by, playing became easier. I used most of my free time to practice the piano, which helped me learn how to play without having to memorize the piece.
I still play a hymn each week and usually hit a few sour chords. Every day I sit down at the old piano and play all sorts of music. I have gained a talent that I love, but almost missed.
I’m so thankful that after my first catastrophic experience, I was convinced to stick with it and not give up. I think about the friendly smile from my supportive president, and realize my assignment to play each week was a blessing in disguise.

I wanted to read the Bible from the time I was about 11 years old. But in the home where I was raised, the Bible was considered so sacred it was kept in a closet under lock and key. When I was 13 and my brother was 12, we went to live in the beautiful country of Canada. Between the ages of 16 and 20, I attended two Christian churches. They used the Bible to teach correct principles, but as I was investigating, I learned something about the members—that they didn’t get along with each other very well. I stopped going to these churches for three years.
When I was 23, I met a young man at a discotheque. A few months later I married him, and shortly afterwards we had our first baby. Everything was going well in our home. He worked hard, always came home from work early, and helped me with the housework. I was very happy and peaceful in my home, and I completely forgot about God.
But without any warning, one day my husband started going out to discotheques with his friends. These friends also wanted to go to bars. So in just a few months my husband had become a drunk and a carouser. Eventually I resigned from my job and left him. Soon after our separation I learned that I was expecting my second child. I felt so sad and distressed I couldn’t find peace. I would go to sleep crying and wake up crying. But thanks to a woman who was a great friend to me, I started attending a Christian church again.
This time I took the things of God more seriously. I even set a goal to investigate more churches. Before I would go to church, I would kneel down and ask Heavenly Father to give me more wisdom so that I would be able to choose good and reject evil.
I began to visit other churches in addition to the Christian church I attended, but I often felt confused by their different doctrines. The more confused I got, the more I prayed. It seemed that every time I visited a church, I felt something was missing, but I didn’t realize what it was. That’s why I set a goal to keep investigating other churches and not rest until I found the truth.
One day I was visiting my brother and sister-in-law, and it got dark before I left. I had quite a distance to walk to reach the bus stop. This was March 1992, and it was very cold with a strong wind. My baby was squirming as I carried him. I walked backwards many times so the wind would hit me and not my baby.
I became sad as I thought about how I was freezing, walking with my baby, while my ex-husband had our car. I started thinking about how cruel life had been to me and felt a great weight in my heart. I started to cry like a child. I looked around and saw I was alone, so I cried to God out loud, “Heavenly Father, help me find the light.”
Finally I arrived at the bus stop, and when the bus came I sat in the front seat as I always did. When I looked to my left, I saw two young men in white shirts and ties. One of them came up to me and said to me in Spanish that was quite limited, “You too speak Spanish?”
“Yes, of course,” I replied.
“You desire to receive the gospel of Jesus Christ?” he asked.
These words were wonderful to me. The gospel of Jesus Christ. I had investigated several churches, and in none of them had I heard this beautiful turn of phrase. I had always heard the word, the gospel, or the good news. So I very happily gave them my address and phone number.
I started taking the discussions from the missionaries, and in June 1992 I was baptized and confirmed. I will never forget that very special day. Before entering the waters of baptism I could feel a great weight, as if I were walking with feet of lead. But when I came out of the water, I felt like I was flying in the air. And when the missionaries placed their hands on my head and gave me the gift of the Holy Ghost, a warm feeling entered my body, and I was filled with a peace I had never felt before. The tears began to roll down my cheeks. To my surprise I realized I was crying not from pain or sadness but for the great joy and peace in my heart.
Some months after my baptism I was called to serve in the nursery and then as a Primary teacher. A year later I received my endowment. I also met a great man at church. In September 1994 we were sealed in the Toronto Canada Temple. Three years later we were blessed with a beautiful son.
I continue to serve in Church callings, and I share my testimony of the gospel with all my loved ones. I know that the gospel of Jesus Christ comes from the heavens in all its glory and that through this gospel we can be transformed if we are obedient to the Lord’s commandments.

Allison Bowman of Chandler, Arizona, explains her way of saying no. “I don’t preach; I just say no. You can’t be rude or they’ll think you’re stuck up. I just let them know what my standards are, and that’s the way I am. They can’t change me.

“When I moved to Arizona, there were some older guys in my debate class who wanted me to ditch class and go out to lunch with them. I told them, ‘No, I don’t do that.’

“They used to ask me to go on dates too. Every time they’d ask me, I’d tell them, ‘No, I can’t date until I’m 16.’ I must have explained it 100 times. But now they kind of look out for me. We’re all still good friends.”