Gospel Story Finder

“How are you doing, Matte?” Grandmother asked.
“I’m about finished, Mormor (Grandmother). It will be ready on time.” She held up the sweater she was knitting for her grandmother’s inspection.
“You’ve done a fine job,” Grandmother said. “I’m sure that Jenny will love it.”
Matte’s American cousin was coming to Norge (Norway) for a visit. She was going to stay for the whole month of August, and Matte had many things she wanted to share with her. This sweater was one of them.
In Norge everyone wore a svetter (sweater) knitted with wool in pretty patterns. Jenny’s sweater was navy blue with white diamonds and polar bears. Polar bears were very popular, and Jenny would look stylish in it.
Matte had many plans for her cousin. Ålesund, her town, was right between two of Matte’s favorite places. On one side were forested mountains; on the other was the fjord. She would take Jenny up on the ski lift so she could look down on the countryside. After a trip to the heights, they would swim in the crystal-clear water of the fjord.
Matte had been baptized in the fjord just two months before. She planned to share that day’s special memories with her cousin while they were swimming there. She wanted to introduce Jenny to this most important part of her life—The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Matte and Mormor had started talking to the missionaries after Christmas. The missionaries had taught them about Jesus Christ and the Prophet Joseph Smith. They learned that Joseph Smith was a prophet to people all over the world and that he’d translated a very important book, the Book of Mormon.
The book fascinated Matte. In school they sometimes studied about the American Indians, and she loved learning about these people who were so proud of their race and heritage. So when she’d heard that the Book of Mormon was about them, she was eager to read it.
She and Mormor had read it aloud to each other during the long winter evenings. When they finished the last sweet words of Moroni, they prayed about what they read. A calm assurance that it was true helped them decide to be baptized.
That had started a new life for Matte Pedersen. The very first Sunday after her baptism, Soster (Sister) Hansen introduced herself as the Lykkefroken (Merrie Miss) teacher. Matte was to be in her class. Although there was just one other girl, Solveig, they had a lot of fun. On Sundays, Soster Hansen taught them many important things from the scriptures.
On their activity days, they learned different kinds of things. Soster Hansen helped them make their own bunad (national costume). When May 17, Constitution Day, came around, the girls proudly wore the beautiful dresses and aprons that they had made.
The Lykkefroken class was going to Bror (Brother) Olsen’s farm next week. Matte, Jenny, and Solveig would cut the sweet-scented hay with scythes and hang it to dry on racks. They’d gather speckled eggs and help milk the cow. Oh, how delicious that warm milk would be! Then they’d help Soster Olsen churn the cream into butter. It would be so much fun. Jenny was sure to like it!
Matte finished the last stitch on the svetter and cut the yarn. Carefully she worked the end into the pattern so that it wouldn’t unravel. “There,” she said happily. “It’s finished. I hope she likes it.”
The next morning she and Mormor were up early. They wanted to have the house sparkling clean, with supper waiting, when Jenny and Aunt Louise arrived.
At the sound of a car horn, Matte ran to the window. They were here! Rushing to the door, she was swept into Aunt Louise’s arms for a big hug. Then she faced Jenny. It was like looking in a mirror! She had blond hair streaked by the sun, and apple-red cheeks. Blue eyes like her own looked shyly back at her.
“Welcome to Norge,” Matte said, hugging her cousin.
“Thank you, Matte.”
“Come to my room,” Matte said. “I have something for you.” In the bedroom, she handed the tissue-wrapped present to her cousin. “I made it myself!”
“It’s beautiful!” Jenny exclaimed as she unwrapped the sweater and admired the intricate pattern. “I can’t believe you knitted this yourself! Now I don’t know if I should give you the present I made. It’s not anything like this!”
“I’d love to have it. Please?”
Jenny ran into the other room and dragged a suitcase back with her. Opening the case, she pulled out a present. Matte admired the beautiful wrapping, then carefully opened it. Inside was a wooden embroidery hoop with a message cross-stitched on cloth: I can follow God’s plan for me.
Matte felt excitement build inside her. She understood English very well but wasn’t quite sure she interpreted the motto right. Finally she grinned at her cousin and gave her a hug. “You’re a Lykkefroken like me!” Seeing Jenny’s puzzled look, she added, “A Merrie Miss. You’re a Latter-day Saint too!”
Laughing and hugging, the girls eagerly told each other of their baptism days, one in Norway and one in America. It was a wonderful surprise to learn that they were both members of the Church.
“Since we can’t introduce the gospel to each other,” Matte said with a twinkle in her eye, “maybe we’ll find someone else to teach it to this summer!”

I was 17 years old and on top of the world. I had a university basketball scholarship, money in the bank from a hard summer’s work, a motorcycle and a pickup truck to drive, and all the aspirations of a typical teenager. Two months later I lay in a hospital bed with my body broken and my dreams shattered.
It was a motorcycle wreck—a head-on collision. No one was at fault. It was a stormy night. The driver of the car never saw my motorcycle coming. For two months I lay in bed. Then for six months I moved about on crutches. Weak and discouraged after months of inactivity and desperately needing money to continue my education, I began searching for summer employment.
I took a job with the railroad. Our crew was to patrol and repair a 15-mile stretch of track in a remote area called Little Warm River. Pine trees covered the mountains. Dozens of small streams meandered through the meadows. Large culverts had been placed under the railroad tracks to allow the streams to run freely, but beaver colonies would dam up each stream at the head of the culvert, creating a large reservoir with enough water pressure to wash out the tracks.
Volunteers were asked to crawl through the culvert and tear away the beaver dam, allowing the water to flow freely again. I always volunteered because no one else would, and, frankly, I rather enjoyed it. It was thrilling as I picked away at the dam, knowing that at any moment the water would break through and sweep me along with it head over heels, finally dumping me unceremoniously into the stream 15 yards away. There were times when I thought I would surely drown as I bumped along, submerged in that mighty flow of water and debris.
The next morning, as we would make our daily inspection, we could see that the beavers had already started to rebuild their dams. Within a short time, they would be totally reconstructed. It didn’t matter how many times we destroyed those dams, the beavers never seemed discouraged but steadily kept at their task. Those animals taught me a great lesson about never being discouraged, especially with things I could not control.
I loved that summer. The work was hard and sometimes I was homesick, but I recovered from the effects of that terrible motorcycle wreck. My body became strong once again. In the evening after work I walked those timbered mountains. I sat near those beaver dams with no other human being within miles to disturb my meditation. I had many solitary moments to think about the importance of being steady and constant.

Another of the great blessings of my life has been to feel the closeness of heaven during those moments when I sit at the bedside of people as they pass away. Early one morning some years ago, I entered the hospital room of a faithful Latter-day Saint widow who had cancer. Two of her daughters were sitting with her. As I went to her bedside, I quickly discovered that she was no longer suffering, because she had just died.

In that moment of death, the room was filled with peace. Her daughters had a sweet sadness, but their hearts were filled with faith. They knew that their mother was not gone but had returned home. Even in our moments of deepest grief, in the moments when time stands still and life seems so unfair, we can find comfort in our Savior because He suffered as well. It was a privilege for me to be in that room.

It was 9:30 at night, and all was quiet except for the sound of the quick “tap, tap, tap” of the keyboard as I was chatting on the Internet with a friend from school. Many people mistook him for a member of the Church, but he was not. Just for fun, I asked him, “Hey, would you ever consider being a Mormon?” His response was more than blunt as he described his feelings toward the Church. I was a little hurt, but I typed so as not to offend him, “Oh, I was just playing with you! I wasn’t serious.” Then, a thought came to my mind and I typed, “So, why wouldn’t you be LDS?”
That’s when he sent me some “facts” about the Church. He said he didn’t understand the dating “rule,” as he called it. I began to explain why the Church has standards and guidelines. He went on to say they were strict, harsh rules that only limited fun. I sighed as I thought what to write next.
“No, no, no, you have it all wrong! The Church doesn’t make rules to stop our fun or make life boring. Guidelines are set and we are taught to choose the right. We have a choice to either follow them or not.”
After I had typed this response, neither of us said anything for a couple of seconds. Then the screen on the computer showed that he was typing a message.
“But how do you know your church is true?” he asked. “The Jews have the Torah, the Muslims have the Koran, and the other religions have their own ancient records to prove their religion is true. What’s so different about your Book of Mormon?”
I took a minute or two to think about this question. Then the inspiration came to bear my testimony. I took a deep breath, put my fingers on the keys, and began typing.
“I know for myself that the Book of Mormon is true. I remember reading in a certain chapter and wondering if any of this was true. Then I read about this man named Moroni who was writing at the end of his life. He was witnessing the total destruction of his people, and he was in fear of dying. But guess what he wrote about? He wrote about his convictions of the gospel and of the scriptures. Then he gave a challenge. He said anyone can read the Book of Mormon and pray about it to know if it is true. So I took the challenge, and I felt the Spirit. I knew it was true. Heavenly Father answered my prayers and told me in so many ways that it was true. I love that feeling I got, and I get it more and more when I choose the right. It’s such an awesome feeling, like time stops and the world stops spinning. It’s like I’m being carried. It’s really a peaceful feeling.”
I finished typing, and my fear of sharing this with him was gone. I hit the send button and waited for him to respond.
I was anxious. I reread what I had written, hoping that it made sense. Then the computer screen lit up with his answer to my testimony. I sat up in my chair, held my breath, and allowed my eyes to scan the screen. I read aloud his response: “You are on drugs.”
My mouth hung open. I felt my heart drop down to my bent knees. My head lowered a bit from the force of what he wrote.
“But that was my testimony,” I whimpered.
I had just poured my heart out and described very sacred things in hopes of sharing the gospel, and he totally blew it off. Then, as I was thinking these things, the Spirit came to me saying, “It’s okay. You tried. He just doesn’t understand, but later he will.” I felt comforted, and I decided not to take it personally. Although my testimony was rejected, I still had a good feeling. I felt as though I had a burden lifted. I needed to share my testimony. A testimony is a light, and just like real light, you can’t just trap it inside forever; it has to come out.

As a young single woman in my late twenties, I had been reviewing the direction of my life and considering some major changes. An unwelcome birthday had left me feeling older than I wanted to be; and, like many single members of the Church, I felt I had failed to reach some important personal goals. It seemed that I needed some specific direction from the Lord. So, for the first time in my life, I asked my priesthood leader to give me a blessing. This good man prepared himself by fasting, and suggested that I do the same. We met early one radiant Sunday morning.
As he spoke the words of the blessing, I listened intently for answers and solutions. But in that I was disappointed; the Lord had wisely left me to find my own way. Instead, he blessed me with what I really needed: an undeniable personal witness of his love for me. The blessing spoke of God’s specific awareness of my life and my problems. As examples of his constant influence were called to my mind, the Spirit confirmed the truthfulness of each. My heart overflowed with love and gratitude, springing from some untouched place deep within me. For the first time I had really experienced God’s love, and I could respond to him not only with my loyalty, but with my own love in return.
I have often pondered the effects of that experience. How could a knowledge of God’s love for me endow my life with such permanent strength? To me, the wonder of it was that God was so near, that he was completely aware of my most secret sorrows and fears—even my troubled midnight thoughts. I was not alone! His was a love that enabled me to “let go,” and to realize that even though my goals had not been achieved exactly as I felt they should be, God’s plan, whatever it was, would be better than my own.

My first radio was a crystal set. It was hard to tune to the frequency of a particular radio station. I had to literally scratch the receiving wire whisker over the top of the rough crystal to find the right pinpoint, a little valley or peak on the crystal where the signal was received. Just a millimeter off on either side of that point and I would lose the signal and get scratchy static. Over time, with patience and perseverance, good eyesight, and a steady hand, I learned to find the signal point on the crystal without too much difficulty.

Another sister, after being home for many years, returned to work when her youngest son went on his mission. During the years that both she and her husband were working, they studied ways of managing their money more wisely, carefully saving what they could. They shopped sales to maintain their food storage and carefully budgeted their funds. After her husband died, this sister continued her excellent money management habits. She also taught her grandchildren principles of managing their savings and planning for retirement. Through her willingness to learn and her diligent application of the five principles of financial management, she has accumulated substantial savings and now uses her resources to enjoy life and bless her family.

A lonely young Persian student was in Munich, struggling to find meaning to life in postwar Europe. He heard a knock at the door one day, and two Mormon missionaries stood before him. He was not the least interested in religion. The only thing that interested him about these two young men was their accent. He had mastered four languages, but English was not one of them.

He invited them in, but as soon as they began their discussion, he cautioned, “I don’t want to hear about God, nor how your religion got started. I only want to know one thing: what do you people do for one another?”

He waited as the elders exchanged glances. Finally, one of them said softly, “We love one another.”

Nothing the missionary could have said would have been more electrifying than this simple utterance, for the Holy Ghost immediately bore witness that these missionaries were true servants of the Lord. Shortly thereafter, he was baptized into the Church.

Just as a simple picture allowed Christ to enter into one family’s Christmas traditions, a few notes of music have strengthened another family’s feelings about Christmas.
The Pikes, of Holladay, Utah, have made music an integral part of their lives, and of their Christmases, by producing an annual concert for friends and families in the East Millcreek (Utah) Eleventh Ward.
“Music has a very strong part in my life,” says 18-year-old Emily Pike, who has been helping her family put on the concert for two years. “We think of the Christmas program as a gift that shows the people in the ward how much we love them.”
Emily has found that singing and listening to the words of a hymn or choral music invite the Spirit to dwell inside her. She says that her family tries to bring this feeling into everyone’s heart as they prepare their Christmas program.
“I have always felt the Spirit more strongly when I sing,” Emily says. “I’m able to get into the music more when I’m thinking of the words and what they mean to me. It brings out the life of Christ and helps me to remember what Christmas is really about.”
“You learn to love the music, and you just feel so much happiness, and you feel Christ’s love with you [when you sing].”
As Emily joins her family this season to sing hymns about our Savior, she knows she will be blessed. She also knows that her Christmas will be more meaningful. Most of all, she knows that a short verse in the Doctrine and Covenants is true in her own life. “The song of the righteous is a prayer unto me, and it shall be answered with a blessing upon their heads” (D&C 25:12).

“If someone gives you a valentine, do you have to give one back?” I asked my mom. She was stirring some pudding for dinner.
“Well, Elizabeth, if you ‘have to give,’ you’re not talking about giving anyway—you’re talking about obligation or repayment. Giving means you do it because you want to, out of love.”
My mom never misses a chance to give a little lecture like that. “I guess I won’t, then, because for sure it wouldn’t be ‘out of love.’ I can’t stand Jeremy Rawlins.”
“But, Elizabeth, isn’t everyone in the class supposed to bring a valentine for everyone else?”
“Yes, but Jeremy told me that he’d made a special valentine for me in family home evening. He’s sure I’m just going to love it.” I couldn’t keep from adding sarcastically, “Sure I will.”
“Family home evening?”
“It’s something they do every week at his house. He’s always talking about what they did during family home evening—how they went to this place or that, how they made something, or how somebody special came over. I get pretty sick of hearing about it.”
“It sounds like fun. So why don’t you like him?”
I had to think about that. I didn’t really know exactly why I didn’t like him. “He’s just so annoying,” I said.
“In what way?” My mom never gives up.
“I don’t know. He’s just so nice, so cheerful all the time.”
Mom stopped stirring. “Cheerful and nice are annoying? We could use more annoying people like that around here.”
I didn’t know how else to explain it. “Well, anyway, I think he’ll just get a regular little dumb valentine from me.”
Mom gazed out the window. I knew she was hatching up something. “You know, we could do that,” she said.
“Do what?”
“Have a little family home evening and make some valentines. Not for Jeremy—for our grandparents and each other.”
“No we couldn’t. Family home evening is on Mondays, and this is Tuesday already.”
She looked at me sort of blankly. “Who says it has to be on Monday?”
“I think it’s a rule of his church.”
“Well, since we don’t belong to his church, we can have it whenever we want. Thursday night would be just right. Ask Jeremy a little more about it tomorrow, like what kinds of things they do and how they organize it.”
Great! Now I had to talk to Jeremy. Once my mom gets an idea, she never gives up on it.
By the next day after school, things were getting worse. When Mom walked in from work, I just kept watching the TV and didn’t speak to her.
“Well, let’s not get annoyingly cheerful like that awful Jeremy person,” she said. I think she meant to be funny, but I didn’t laugh. “Thanks to you, he’ll be here any minute,” I grumbled, still not looking at her.
“Jeremy is coming here?” She dropped a big shopping bag on the chair.
“He’s bringing over some book, something he called the Family Home Evening Resource Book.”
“Well, that’s nice.”
“Yeah, nice.”
Just then the doorbell rang. I let Mom answer it.
“You must be Jeremy. How very nice of you.” I couldn’t hear what he was saying. “Will you come in? Elizabeth is here.”
Oh great, I thought. But I guess Jeremy declined the invitation, because Mom came back by herself. “He has basketball practice,” she explained. “He’s a very pleasant boy.” She sat right down and started looking at the book.
After dinner the next night, she put out all this stuff on the kitchen table—red paper, lace doilies, glue, markers, old magazines, and seed catalogs. We cut and pasted great big valentines for my grandmas and grandpas and for each other. I have to admit, it was kind of fun.
Afterward I cut out a picture of a basketball star, glued it on some red paper, and wrote, “You’re a star!” I thought I might give it to Jeremy the next day. I mean if he gave me a really good one, at least I’d have something to give back and I wouldn’t have to feel stupid.
When I went to bed, my mom was still sitting in the kitchen, reading more in the Family Home Evening Resource Book.
I really had bad news for her when she got home the next night. I waited until she’d hung up her coat and kind of settled down to rest in her favorite chair before starting dinner. She was looking at me, kind of waiting. “I got lots of valentines,” I said.
“Good. I hope you didn’t eat so much candy that you won’t want dinner.”
“Not too much,” I said. “Jeremy gave me a valentine with a wrapped chocolate heart pasted on the front. I ate that.”
“Did you give him yours?”
“Well, yeah. I mean what else could I do? I stuck a few little candy hearts on his. I hope he likes glue.” I laughed.
“What else?” she asked. My mom always knows when you haven’t told her everything. I handed her Jeremy’s valentine. She opened it and read:
“You’re so smart and funny, and I like you a lot.
P.S. Would you and your mother come to our house for a special family home evening next Monday night at 7 P.M.?
P.P.S. If you can, bring a story about one of your ancestors—maybe a grandma or grandpa.”
“How nice,” my mom added. “I’d like to go and see how they do a family home evening.”
“Well, I told you he was annoying—but nice.” I sighed, and then I smiled at her. “I kind of want to go, too,” I confessed.

Rex watched the dust cloud around his bare feet as he walked up the path from the river in the summer sunshine. As he came within view of the farmhouse, he saw his mother tending the vegetable garden out back. She was a hard worker; her pantry was filled with canned beans, beets, tomatoes, and sweet fruit for the winter. She sewed and baked and took care of her family, but when she had a moment to spare, she spent it on her little flower garden in the front yard.
It wasn’t much to look at. With the list of chores she tackled each day, it was difficult to find time to weed and water her flower patch. Each year when the seed catalog came with the mail, she spent a week’s worth of evenings sitting by the fire, carefully turning through the pages to find just the right seeds for the coming year.
Suddenly, something flapping in the front yard caught Rex’s attention. His mother jumped up from the vegetable patch and ran toward her flowers. “Scat! Get out of here, you old turkeys!” There, in her flower garden, a flock of turkeys made a mess of her summer efforts. All the stems had been snapped, the flowers ruined.
Rex ran to help his mother, shooing the flock back to Mr. Lukin’s farm. Like many of the local farmers, Mr. Lukin had recently traded in his hens for a pack of turkeys. But the turkeys’ wings were stronger than hens’ wings, and they had escaped.
“Get on home!” Rex’s mother yelled, her face red. The turkeys waddled single file, demolishing every plant in their path. “Rex, chase those turkeys back where they belong.” She looked sadly at the trampled flowers.
Rex quickly herded the turkeys back down the road, yelling and flapping his arms to spur them on. As the turkeys entered Mr. Lukin’s yard, Rex decided to make one last attempt to make them stay. Looking down, he grabbed a rock lying on the ground. He yelled and threw the rock with all his might, intending to give them a good scare.
Thunk. Rex watched with horror as the largest of Mr. Lukin’s turkeys toppled over. Oh no. Thoughts of old Mr. Lukin raced through Rex’s mind. The man had never been kind to Rex or his brothers. Walking over to the turkey, Rex gave the bird a nudge with his foot, hoping for some sign of life. Nothing—the bird was dead.
What was he going to do? Mr. Lukin would be furious. Looking around, he realized no one had seen him throw the rock. No one would ever know what had happened. Maybe Mr. Lukin would think the bird had died of old age or eaten something bad. Maybe Mr. Lukin wouldn’t even notice the bird was gone. Without another thought, Rex grabbed the turkey and hid it in the bushes. He wouldn’t say a word. No one would ever know. He turned and ran home as fast as he could, fueled by uncertainty and guilt.
His mother praised him for his quick work with the turkeys, unaware of the turmoil in Rex’s belly. How could he tell her what he had done? What would she think of him? As the sickness welled inside him, tears filled his eyes.
“What’s wrong?” his mother asked.
He ran to her arms, sobbing as he unloaded the whole story, complete with his fears of Mr. Lukin’s anger. Finally, as his sobs quieted, she pulled back to look at him. “Rex, take the bird to Mr. Lukin. If you tell him what happened—”
“Oh no! I couldn’t do that!” Rex panicked as he imagined Mr. Lukin’s angry response.
“Rex, believe me,” his mother said. “You will never have peace if you don’t face him and confess. Mr. Lukin deserves to hear the truth.”
“Mr. Lukin will be so mad! He’s mean and he’ll yell at me.” Rex’s eyes filled with fresh tears as he looked at his mother’s tender face. Then he thought of Heavenly Father. Rex realized Heavenly Father expected him to tell the truth.
Finally, looking down, Rex asked quietly, “Will you go with me?”
The walk to Mr. Lukin’s house was torture. Leaving his mother in the yard, Rex stepped to the front porch with the dead turkey. He cautiously knocked, praying Mr. Lukin wouldn’t answer. The door opened.
“Hi, Mr. Lukin.” Rex handed him the bird. “He dug in Mama’s flower beds and I had to chase him out. I threw a rock and he fell. I … I guess I killed him. I’m sorry! Oh, please don’t be mad, Mr. Lukin!” Rex looked at the ground, too frightened to watch the reaction.
There was a moment’s pause, and then Mr. Lukin spoke. “That’s all right, that’s all right. We’ll eat him for dinner today.” A smile pulled at the corners of his mouth.
Rex couldn’t believe what he had heard. As he walked home with his mother, he felt as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He realized that doing the right thing was truly easier in the end. Facing his consequences had been far less painful than living with the guilt.

Recently our seven-year-old son, Wade, had his appendix rupture. The infection had spread throughout his abdomen, yet from outward appearances nothing seemed seriously wrong. Without proper medical care and attention he would have surely died. Like a person who has a serious physical illness, the spirit cannot heal itself after a major transgression without confession. The spirituality of a person can only remain weak, somewhat hesitant in fulfilling its immortal purpose, and could even wane and die.

Perhaps a point can also be made that as we do not visit a doctor for every little scratch, also we should not confess every “minor” sin to the bishop. President Brigham Young counseled, “Do not tell about your nonsensical conduct that nobody knows of but yourselves” (in Journal of Discourses, 8:362). The key is that we must be able to honestly differentiate between major transgressions and “nonsensical conduct.”

Recently, I had a phone call with one of my close friends. It went like most of our conversations do—we laughed, joked, and talked about our lives.
But my heart sunk as it became clear to me that this friend, one of my very favorite people in the whole world, was no longer living in accordance with the gospel of Jesus Christ. I remained neutral and kind during our call but hung up feeling disappointed. I was sad that this friend and I no longer shared the same values.
I wondered if I should have said more. Should I have stood up for what I still believed in? I didn’t agree with the decisions my friend was making, but I also didn’t want her to feel like I was trying to condemn her. And I certainly didn’t want to jeopardize our friendship.
Five different points have helped me as I’ve pondered this situation.
Standing for God’s law while still loving and supporting those who live differently from us can seem complicated. Sometimes it feels like remaining loyal to God and His commandments means appearing judgmental if we disagree with someone’s choices.
I’ve often felt confused about how to balance law and love.
President Dallin H. Oaks, First Counselor in the First Presidency, spoke on this very topic at a worldwide devotional for young adults, saying: “I have previously referred to our ‘continually [trying] to balance the dual commandments of love and law,’ but I now believe that goal to be better expressed as trying to live both of these commandments in a more complete way.”1
In other words, law and love are actually interconnected and inseparable. The apostle Paul wrote, “Love is the fulfilling of the law” (Romans 13:9–10).
And Heavenly Father expects us to love everyone—including those who disagree with us. In the New Testament, the Savior taught His followers to love even their enemies (see Luke 6:27–28).
Love is God’s law, not its opposite. We should never stop loving someone in the name of following Him.
This can be a hard pill to swallow, especially when our motives for “judging” seem to come from a good place—I want my friends and family to understand the peace and joy that come from living the gospel. I want them to feel gratitude for the Savior and for what He’s done for us.
But I have to remember that I can’t force anyone to believe in the gospel or practice a certain principle. Each person has their agency.
President Dieter F. Uchtdorf, then the Second Counselor in the First Presidency, provided clear counsel when he said: “We simply have to stop judging others and replace judgmental thoughts and feelings with a heart full of love for God and His children. … I will even quote a bumper sticker I recently saw. … It read, “Don’t judge me because I sin differently than you.”2
We are all imperfect and all in need of forgiveness (see Romans 3:23). I’m humbled when I remember this fact.
Jesus Christ taught that the first commandment is to love God and the second is to love our neighbor (see Matthew 22:37–39).
Like me, perhaps you know individuals who believe they must leave the Church to better love, respect, and include all people. This has sometimes made me wonder if it’s really possible to love God and love others simultaneously. The world certainly doesn’t think so.
Elder D. Todd Christofferson of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles offered a helpful perspective when he explained that “ignoring the first commandment, or reversing the order of the first and second commandments, risks a loss of balance in life and destructive deviations from the path of happiness and truth.”3
He provided four ways we can “put the first commandment first” so we can love others while remaining close to Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ:
Keep the commandments
Serve one another and help others come unto Christ
Pray and study the scriptures
Live with accountability to God4
It’s comforting to know that I can’t go wrong if I love God first. Following His law and staying close to Him and my Savior will forever help me love my neighbors, even when their beliefs and choices differ from mine.
Now, going back to the phone call with my friend. Should I have said something more to her?
President Oaks offered helpful counsel when he said: “Whenever possible we will refrain from judging people and only judge situations. … We can set and act upon high standards for ourselves or our homes without condemning those who do otherwise.”5
When I find myself in conversations over a situation I may not agree with, I’ve decided to seek the guidance of the Holy Ghost to know how to respond. Sometimes I may feel that the right thing is to share my opinion; sometimes I may feel guided to share less. But in all cases, it is important to follow the Savior and not judge unrighteously.
My friend and I still talk about the gospel, and our openness with one another has helped deepen our relationship. Even though I don’t try to convince her of my beliefs, I still try to be an example of a disciple of Christ. Elder Gary E. Stevenson of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles said, “Each time you bear vocal witness or demonstrate through your actions your commitment to follow Jesus Christ, you invite others to ‘come unto Christ.’”6
I know that it is possible to love those whose choices we don’t agree with—it’s one of the core principles of the gospel. By following the example of Jesus Christ, I know I can love God and His children, even when it’s difficult. And I believe these same things for you too.

Illustrations by Shauna Mooney Kawasaki
Matt: I don’t understand what he’s talking about.
Mom: It can be hard at your age. But if you listen carefully, you’ll understand something from each talk.
Dad: In every conference there seems to be at least one message just for me. Maybe there will be for you too.
Later—Matt: I did understand some things, but I don’t think any of it was just for me.
Mom: You know, when we listen to conference, the messages don’t come just from the speakers. The Spirit can speak to us too.
Dad: That’s right. It isn’t only what we understand that counts. It’s what we feel.
That evening—Matt: When I listened to President Hinckley, I didn’t understand everything he said. But I had a good feeling that he really is a prophet.
Dad: That was a conference message just for you—one you’ll remember your whole life.

The simple meetinghouse on Manila’s Buendia Avenue seems a little out of place next to its not-so-simple neighbors. Doubling as the Makati Philippines Stake center, it is surrounded by some of Manila’s highest skyscrapers, built on what was once considered worthless swampland.
But on its basketball court, ordinary activities like the stake youth sports festival can become extraordinary. For example, watch the Mandaluyong Third Ward basketball team. Suddenly your eyes focus on a young man wobbling and limping his way down the hard court.
A knee injury, perhaps?
A sprained wrist?
Not so, you find out. The young man is partially paralyzed.
For Alvin Martinez, rising against the odds is just like turning swampland into skyscrapers. Alvin was born healthy, and like other newborn Filipino babies he was given polio shots. But somehow, the vaccine attacked his nerves. His right leg and arm started turning immobile. The polio vaccine rendered his entire right side paralyzed.
Alvin was often the subject of jokes in school when classmates would see him limping his way to class.
“Hey, it’s Alvin,” somebody would shout.
“The way is straight,” another would jeer, “so how come you walk crooked?”
“Alvin, Alvin pilay!” Pilay means “cripple.” It was a jeer his straight-walking classmates loved to bestow on him.
But teasing wasn’t Alvin’s only trial. His father suddenly died of a stroke. Struggling with his family’s loss and his classmates’ snide comments, Alvin drifted from school and church activity and found another barkada, or group of buddies.
In Manila, a barkada can consist either of friends who build you up or of those who let you down. Alvin’s barkada was of the negative variety. Still, Alvin tried to maintain his LDS standards. “My friends would invite me to smoke,” he remembers, “but I told them I was a Mormon.”
Finally, Alvin resolved to rise up despite his limitations and, like David of old, conquer his personal Goliaths. He made a firm resolve to continue his schooling. His widowed mother, who now works as a seamstress, was delighted. She had patiently reminded him that his future would be brighter if he had a good education.
At school, Alvin found a new barkada, classmates who treated him with respect. “All my classmates are so kind and friendly,” he beams.
A little bit shy at first, but actually fun-loving and witty, Alvin also began to find church to be a home away from home. “I enjoyed being in church,” Alvin says, “and I liked being with my fellow young men.” Because of the influence of good Church friends and priesthood quorum members, Alvin’s testimony was strengthened and he found himself, with the help of his youth leaders, back in church. In visiting Alvin, they would often tell him not to be ashamed of his disability. “We wanted him to know that he was valued,” one youth leader recalls, “and he did feel appreciated eventually.” Alvin is grateful for the missionaries who taught his family, and he’s even more grateful for the youth leaders who helped him come back to church after going through some real struggles.
Today, Alvin is one of the most active young men in his ward. Being with his church friends is something he relishes. “They are not ashamed to be with me,” he says happily. “They don’t even joke about me.” Instead, it’s Alvin who cracks jokes with them.
And his dedication is exemplary. One Sunday, he was in a lively conversation with other young men.
“We’ve been asked to clean up the meetinghouse grounds this Saturday,” said one.
“But we have a better activity than that,” another replied.
“But let’s do what we’ve been told to do first,” Alvin said.
Well, Saturday came, and while the other young men were yet to arrive, Alvin was already there in his work clothes. And he brought his nonmember cousin, too.
Seeing this, you can’t help but make the connection between Alvin and his favorite scripture: “I will go and do the things which the Lord hath commanded” (1 Ne. 3:7).
Recently Alvin received a special award for perfect attendance at seminary. Seminary for Manila’s LDS youth is usually held during the afternoon or early evening when Manila’s heavy traffic congestion is at its peak. But Alvin comes right on time. “When it comes to actual application of the lesson, Alvin tries his best,” remarks Brother Nolan Caceres, his seminary teacher.
That same attitude spills into his other activities. The ward basketball team he plays on garnered second place in the stake sports festival. And in activity nights at the meetinghouse, “he doesn’t fail us,” Brother Caceres says. “He’ll be there.”
Just like the towers hovering over the stake center, Alvin’s hopes are high. He dreams of having his own business. But his number-one goal right now is to serve a mission. In school, Alvin has already, in his own unique way, attracted others to the Church because of his simple yet dedicated example.
When asked who his favorite scripture personality is, Alvin thinks for a moment, then answers, “I think Moses.” It seems to be an appropriate choice. Before Moses accepted the Lord’s call, he felt he couldn’t do it because he was “slow of speech.” (See Ex. 4:10.) But despite personal inadequacies, he did what the Lord expected of him, an example Alvin is following.
Many Filipinos with disabilities end up in institutions; some become social outcasts. Alvin is an exception. “He has learned to do useful things, even though other people thought he couldn’t,” Brother Caceres adds.
Yes, useful things like playing basketball, going to school, and sharing the gospel. Alvin Martinez knows you can rise up and, like the tall buildings in Manila, touch the sky.

Catharine Irving, 16, is a member of the Dumfries Ward, Edinburgh Scotland Stake, and has always been involved, especially at school and in her local community. In the first election for all 14- to 25-year-olds held along with the government elections, Catharine was elected to represent the Dumfries area. The Youth Parliament is run by youth, for youth. It doesn’t have the governing powers that Parliament has, of course, but it does allow the youth of Scotland to have a voice.
Catharine’s duties include visiting schools, youth groups, and other places in the area to listen to youth talk about the things they feel are important. She has a fund available to help with different community youth projects. Catharine hopes to go to university next year when she finishes high school, and although she doesn’t have any aspirations to become a politician, she is the sort of person to continue to be involved.

Sally Randall of Nauvoo, Illinois, whose 14-year-old son died, found great comfort in the promise of eternal families. After her husband was baptized for their son, she wrote to her relatives: “What a glorious thing it is that we … can be baptized for all of our dead [ancestors] and save them as far back as we can get any knowledge of them.” Then she asked her relatives to send her information on their ancestors, saying, “I intend to do what I can to save [our family].”4

Joseph F. Smith was called on a mission when he was fifteen years old. He served in the Hawaiian Islands for over three years.
After his mission, he was traveling through California with a small group of men while returning to the Salt Lake Valley.
One afternoon, a mob of drunken men on horses rode into their camp. They were swearing, shooting their guns, and yelling, “Kill the Mormons!”
The other men in the camp ran and hid in the bushes by the creek. Joseph F. was gathering firewood. Why should I run from those men? he thought.
The leader of the mob rode up to Joseph F. and aimed a gun at him. “It’s my duty to kill every Mormon. Are you a Mormon?” he yelled.
Joseph F. stood tall. He looked the mob leader in the eyes. “Yes, siree; dyed in the wool; true blue, through and through.”
The mob leader was surprised. “Well you are the … pleasantest man I ever met! Shake, young fellow. I am glad to see a man that stands up for his convictions.”
Then the mob rode off. Joseph F. and the other men were not harmed.

The shadows grew longer and finally disappeared as the sun sank behind the hazy mountains far to the west.
Our small western town had one of the better rodeo grounds in the area, and it was an ideal place for us four boys to play. On this sunny afternoon, my friends and I had come to the deserted grounds and let our imaginations run wild. We had fought and won many battles with cattle rustlers and other outlaws. We had ridden the hardest-bucking horses and wrestled the meanest steers.
Now the four of us were sitting quietly on the top steps of the grandstand, and Ray suggested, “It’ll soon be dark, so we’d better be getting home.”
“Yeah, my brothers will be looking for me,” I said, brushing wisps of hair out of my eyes.
“I’m still too tired to walk home. Let’s rest a few minutes more,” Bobby mumbled.
“Do you guys like honey?” Jack asked. He was gazing across the rodeo grounds into Mr. Sampson’s field, where there were a dozen white beehives, barely visible now in the near darkness.
“I do,” I said, “with peanut butter and bread.”
Ray and Bobby agreed.
“Honey is good fresh out of the honeycomb,” Jack said then. “Have you guys ever eaten honey fresh out of the comb?” None of us had. “Well, let’s go see if Mr. Sampson left any honey in the hives and get us each a comb.”
“Wouldn’t that be stealing?” asked Ray.
“Mr. Sampson probably already has all the honey out of the hives that he needs, so I don’t think he’d care if we took some,” answered Jack.
We were hungry as well as tired, so it didn’t take much argument to convince us that honeycomb would probably taste really good. We crossed the rodeo grounds, climbed over the board fence, and each took a honeycomb from a different hive.
As we sat back on the top seats of the grandstand, my conscience began to tell me there was something not exactly right with what I was doing. I should have been home before dark, and I had taken something that belonged to someone else. That first bite of honey didn’t taste as good as I had expected it to.
Just then we heard the crunch of footsteps in the gravel below us.
“Quick, hide your honeycombs,” Jack whispered.
The footsteps came slowly up the grandstand toward us. The large figure of a man loomed out of the darkness. “Good evening, boys.” It was Mr. Sampson. Everybody in our community respected him and liked him, and we were beginning to feel uncomfortable.
Jack shifted uneasily, trying to wipe the honey off his fingers onto the seat beside him.
“Good evening, Mr. Sampson.” Ray was the only one able to speak.
“Out rather late, aren’t you?” he asked.
“Yes sir. We were just going home,” Ray answered.
After a slight pause, Mr. Sampson asked, “Do you boys know anything about bees?”
This question made us uneasy. Finally Ray answered, “I don’t think we know very much.”
“I didn’t think that you did. Let me tell you a little bit about them. In each beehive there are three kinds of bees—the queen, the drones, and the workers. Each has a separate job to do, and each does its job well. The queen bee lays the eggs that hatch into young bees. The drones are male bees that fertilize the eggs laid by the queen.”
Mr. Sampson hesitated a few seconds to let what he had told us sink in. “Now I’ll tell you about the workers. As soon as it warms up in the spring and the plants and trees start blossoming, worker bees leave the hive and begin gathering nectar from the flowers. They fly from blossom to blossom until their pouches are full, then fly back to the hive and deposit the nectar in the comb. I extract the honey from the combs as they are filled throughout the summer. But in early fall when it gets cold and the blossoms are gone, the bees can no longer work, so I leave the combs full of honey for them to live on during the cold months. If someone took the combs away from the hives, the bees would starve to death and there would be no more bees or honey.”
Mr. Sampson stood up. “Well, boys, I guess that’s enough about bees for now. I’d better be getting on home.” He started down the grandstand, then stopped and turned back toward us. “You boys had better go on home too. But first I think there’s a little chore that you might want to do. Good night, boys.”
“Good night, Mr. Sampson,” we chorused.
For a minute we just sat there, stunned. Mr. Sampson knew that we had taken the honeycombs, yet there had been no anger, no scolding, no threats.
We knew what “little chore” we had to do. We retrieved our honeycombs and returned them to the hives.

A lovely young lady told the following story at a stake conference. She said, “I am a convert from upstate New York. My parents wanted their children to have eternal marriages.
“Our family moved to Utah, and eventually I found myself a husband. He was the president of the local motorcycle club and wore a black leather jacket and motorcycle boots. We rode motorcycles together—perhaps not what my mother had hoped—but by that time I had wandered from the Church.
“We moved into a house. Often our friends would gather there. I’m afraid our neighbors were quite uncomfortable with us. At least one neighbor took her children into her house when we were roaming about.
“But do you know what our neighbors did? They mowed our lawn because we didn’t have a mower. They brought flowers when one of us was sick, and quite often they brought food and fixed things around the house. Our little daughter was included in the neighborhood children’s activities and was even given a party on her birthday. When we tried to thank our neighbors, they just said, ‘Well, we all like to help each other.’ They made us feel welcome there.
“About 10 months later, we traded our black leather jackets and motorcycle boots for the white clothing of the temple. As we knelt across the altar from each other and looked around that room, there were our neighbors, those who had been mowing our lawn and making things better for us.”