Gospel Story Finder

“When I joined the Church, I didn’t have confidence to talk to people,” Shinnah says. “When I was given a calling to serve as a Young Women class president, I was so surprised. I had never been a leader before. I had to practice how to talk in front of other people and how to share my testimony. Then one day my bishop called me to his office. He told me that I am so loved and that Heavenly Father will strengthen me in everything I do.”

Corey had a plan. Not just an ordinary plan, but a terrific plan. His dad had put a platform on the biggest branches of their old sycamore tree, and now Corey was going to build a clubhouse on the platform. For weeks he’d gathered old boards and leftover wood scraps given to him from the construction site at the end of his street.
“It’s going to be a big job,” Mom told him after inspecting his woodpile. “How do you plan on making it?”
Corey just shrugged and smiled. “You’ll see,” he said.
That afternoon Corey got out the little red toolbox that was given to him for Christmas the year before. He frowned as he hefted the hammer. It was smaller than he remembered. He sighed, put the hammer back, and closed the toolbox lid. It would have to do.
Mom gave him a handful of nails from the large can on Dad’s workbench, and Corey went to work, being extra careful not to hammer his thumb. It was much harder than he had expected it to be. But while he arranged the boards and hammered the nails, he thought about what a great clubhouse it was going to be.
By the time Dad arrived home that evening, Corey had two walls finished. The boards teetered precariously, but Corey was sure that the branches would help keep them up. He imagined his friends and himself having very important meetings in the clubhouse.
Dad came out to inspect Corey’s work. “Hey, pal,” he commented, “that’s quite a project. What’s it going to be?”
Corey’s eyes sparkled. “A clubhouse! I’m going to start a club, and I’m only going to invite my very best buddies. No one can come into my clubhouse without an invitation.”
Dad nodded thoughtfully. He left for a few minutes, then came back with his big toolbox. “Need a hand?” he asked.
Corey grinned. “All right!”
Corey and Dad worked together, straightening the crooked spots and securing loose nails. They built the other two walls, a fine roof, and a sturdy, pull-up ladder. When they were finished, Corey looked proudly at their work. It was even better than he’d hoped—it was perfect!
“Now I’m going to make the invitations to my club,” he told Dad as they sat down for dinner.
“I want to be in your club,” Sara pleaded as she picked at the casserole on her plate.
Corey looked at his little sister. “This is a club for my closest friends,” he told her. “You can’t come without an invitation.”
As Corey lay in his warm bed that night, he thought about his clubhouse. All at once, he knew who he would give the first invitation to. He couldn’t have built such a terrific clubhouse without Dad. There probably wasn’t a better buddy in the whole world. He would be a super club member. Corey fell asleep wondering whom else to invite to join his club.
After school the next day Corey colored bright invitations and tucked them into envelopes. Mother set a plate of warm chocolate chip cookies on the counter where he was working, and she kissed him on the cheek.
In his very best handwriting, Corey spelled Dad on the first envelope. He picked up a cookie and took a big bite. He frowned a little, trying to decide which of his friends to invite. After all, the club was only for his best buddies.
Corey watched Mom folding clothes at the table. He looked at the delicious cookies she’d baked for him. It was pretty certain that nobody did more for him than Mom. He smiled as he thought, I’ll invite Mom to my club too. And as he left the invitations on their pillows, Corey imagined how happy Mom and Dad would feel to be invited to his club. He felt happy himself, just thinking about it.
While Corey was doing his chores that night, he was still trying to decide whom else to invite to his club. As he rinsed the dinner dishes and placed them in the dishwasher, Sara came in the kitchen. “Can I help?” she asked.
Corey pulled a stool to the counter so that Sara could hand the dishes to him. They laughed together when warm water splashed across a plate and sprayed both their faces. Sara was a pretty good pal. Later that night, after she had gone to bed, he wrote Sara’s name on the third envelope and left it in her shoe.
Little Benny, Corey’s baby brother, was doing a funny dance when Corey realized that his club just wouldn’t be complete without Benny. He left Benny’s invitation next to his stuffed lamb.
The next evening the family began arriving at the clubhouse. First Dad, then Sara, then Mom and Benny. They brought their invitations with them and showed them to Corey at the bottom of the ladder.
Sitting in a circle on the floor, they laughed and sang and munched on popcorn that Mom had brought from the house. It was probably the best family night ever. And Corey was certain that his club was the greatest club in the universe because he had the best buddies a guy could ask for.

It was the spring of 1864, and the fruit trees and fields were promising an abundant yield to the Navajos living in the Canyon de Chelly. Bright Morning was herding her mother’s sheep on the mesa above their village when a sudden change came into her life.
The story Bright Morning tells of the Spanish slavers, the army soldiers, Indian family life, and her friendship with Tall Boy, who is strong and proud, makes fascinating reading. Many changes come to Bright Morning and her people. Many spirits are broken. Bright Morning is one of the few who possess an inner strength based on hope. She will survive.
Scott O’Dell won the coveted Newbery Award in 1961 for Island of the Blue Dolphins. His Sing Down the Moon was the runner-up for the Newbery Award in 1971.

We had a large LDS population in my hometown. I played in our high school band, but my band teacher did not like the Church and was always trying to discredit the Book of Mormon.
When we went on band trips, he would bring ideas from his church meetings with him and confront me. He found it entertaining to bash the Church, and I felt like I was the only one who would defend it.
At first I wanted to prove to him that he was wrong. He would tell me that every sin is equally as bad—murder and lying alike—and that there is really no repentance. Instead, we go through this life and as long as we acknowledge Christ as our Savior we will go to heaven.
I felt like the plan of salvation had suddenly been turned into a game of Monopoly. There are no free rides, I tried to explain. But he was not there to learn about my beliefs.
Since he was there in the spirit of contention (and I followed somewhat ignorantly), we just went around in circles. No matter what explanation I could offer, he would come up with something else to debate. It wasn’t until a year later that I realized what it was I was doing.
I had thought I was doing missionary work, but I was not. After studying the scriptures, talks, and lectures on the subject, I now know that if people are there with the intention to debate beliefs, they are not ready to hear the gospel. This seems so obvious to me now, but at the time I had no idea. People must open their hearts to receive the gospel message.
If we learn to share the gospel with those who truly want to learn, we can share the truth with them.
We need not contend, but instead we need to proclaim the gospel. It brings happiness to all who partake of it.

Joseph was most sad and lonely when he was separated from his family for any length of time. How distressed he must have been to so frequently have to hide or live in seclusion for fear mobocrats would take his life. On one occasion, his friends were transferring him to another hiding place when Joseph insisted that they drive past his home. Upon seeing that there were no enemies nearby, Joseph rushed into the house, knelt beside the beds of his children, and uttered a brief prayer for them. He kissed each child and his beloved Emma, then rushed out the door on his way to a new hiding place (E. Cecil McGavin, The Family of Joseph Smith, Salt Lake City: Bookcraft, 1963, page 138).

I grew up in an environment where many men smoked, drank, and lived unchaste lives. I saw this kind of example in my own family and in most of the men in the vicinity, so I came to believe it was normal. At the early age of 20, I got married. Four years later, after we had three children, we divorced. But I later met a wonderful woman, who not only accepted me with three children but gave us five more. We have been married for more than 30 years.

President Uchtdorf learned the value of working hard at a young age. The Uchtdorfs owned a laundry, and Dieter rode a heavy-duty bicycle, pulling a heavy laundry cart before and after school. Years later, when he joined the air force, he learned that he had had a lung disease when he was younger. Because he had worked hard through his childhood, his body had healed itself and built up a resistance to the disease.

Didiya sat on the bank of the rising river, looking down into the murky water. It was the rainy season in Kenya, Africa, and the eight-year-old girl waited and watched for the danger she knew would come—danger to the women who came to dip water into their earthen jars and danger to the cattle the herd boys brought here to drink.
The valley people passing saw her and said, “Ah, Didiya is watching today. She’ll let us know when the danger comes.”
Now, as Didiya bent forward, watching the water intently, she thought of her father and the days when they had watched the water together.
The girl’s thoughts were interrupted when a neighbor came by with a bowl of hot gruel. “Morning greeting, Didiya. I’ve brought you some food. You must be hungry, for you’ve been watching since daybreak.”
“Morning greeting, Auntie,” she said. “Yes, I am hungry. Thank you. I’ll let you know when the danger comes.”
“Yes, I know you will,” the neighbor said and returned to her home.
A sudden shadow moved swiftly below the water’s surface. Didiya leaned over to look more closely. A second shadow followed, then a third.
One shadow rose to the surface and a snout appeared, then a scaly head. The danger was here!
Didiya scrambled to her feet and ran shouting, “The crocodiles have come! The crocodiles have come!”
A woman had started toward the river, carrying an empty water jar on her head. “Stop!” a neighbor called. “The crocodiles have come.”
The woman, a newcomer in the valley, shouted back, “How do you know?”
“Didiya has warned us. She saw them in the stream,” the neighbor said. “They come every year when the water is high.”
“Who’s Didiya?” the newcomer asked, ignoring the warning and continuing on toward the river, but more slowly.
“She’s the girl who has been watching for the crocodiles since daybreak,” the neighbor said, walking toward the woman. “Didn’t you hear her shout a warning as she ran by us?”
The newcomer stopped now and put her water jar on the ground. “If I can’t dip water here, where can I fill my jar?”
“You’ll have to go up the valley to the nearest well.”
“But that’s a mile from here,” she objected. “How long will I have to carry water from there?”
“Until Didiya tells us that the crocodiles have gone. They won’t stay after the water goes down,” the neighbor explained.
“Why does Didiya watch for the crocodiles?” the woman asked.
“Her father began watching years ago, after crocodiles had dragged most of his cattle into the water. He didn’t want to lose any more cattle, and he wanted to protect his neighbors’ herds too. When Didiya was big enough, she sat with him to watch. Two years ago he went to Lagos, Nigeria, to find work, hoping to save enough money to come home and buy more cattle. When her father left, Didiya took over the job of watching for the crocodiles.”
While the women talked, Didiya ran upstream as far as the district school, calling out the danger to the valley people. At the school she asked the teacher to tell the pupils.
“You’re a good girl to watch every year and warn us,” he said. “Don’t you want to come to school? You’re old enough now.”
“Oh, I’d love to! But who would watch for the crocodiles?” she asked. “Besides, Grandfather doesn’t have the money to pay the school fee and buy a school uniform for me.”
“Your father wants you to go to school,” the teacher said. “He talked to me about it before he left, and he has been sending me a little money toward your schooling every month. It isn’t enough yet, but maybe we can think of some way for you to come to school.”
Didiya smiled her appreciation, then turned and ran toward the more distant pastures, shouting her warning, “The crocodiles have come!”
“Morning greeting, Didiya,” the herders called. “You’re a good girl to warn us.”
When the people of her part of the valley had been warned, Didiya sat down under a baobab tree to rest. Now there was time to think about what the teacher had said. She looked down at her bead-trimmed dress and thought with longing of the uniforms the girls at school wore, the lovely blue jumpers and white blouses. With pockets!
Because she was tired and felt so comfortable between two high roots of the tree, Didiya fell asleep. Later the sound of rain falling on the tree’s leaves awakened her. She looked up into the branches, thinking about this curious tree with wrinkled bark that looked like the skin of an old elephant and its branches that looked like roots sticking up in the air.
Suddenly she heard shouts coming from the direction of the watering place. A herd boy from another part of the valley had brought his cattle to drink there, and his biggest, strongest steer had waded out into the stream and had started to drink. A crocodile had grabbed the steer by the mouth and nose and tried to pull it into the water. But the steer had pulled harder than the crocodile, which was now slowly being pulled onto the shore.
People came with heavy sticks and hit the crocodile, but their blows didn’t hurt its scale-covered back. However, the dry land was not as pleasing to the reptile as the water, so it released its hold on the steer and crawled back into the river. The steer shook his head and bellowed with pain. Gathering his thirsty cattle together, the herd boy drove them farther up the valley to water at a shallow, safe place.
The day after the crocodiles appeared, all the pupils at the school were asked to gather on the playground. They brought their mats, which they had made of yellow grass in the handwork class, and sat on the ground. After a prayer, the teacher read to them the Apostle Paul’s words about bearing one another’s burdens. Then he said, “I chose these words because of Didiya, who warns us every year of the crocodiles. She, and her father before her, have borne a burden for us when they have watched the river for danger and have warned us. Nobody told them to do it, and nobody pays them for their efforts. Who can say how many cattle have been saved or what injuries our people have been spared by heeding their warnings?
“Yesterday I asked Didiya if she would like to come to school. She said, ‘But who would warn the people of the crocodiles?’ I told her that a plan could be worked out for that. Then she said that her grandfather couldn’t pay her school fee or buy her a uniform.
“Didiya’s father has sent me some money toward her school expenses, but it isn’t enough. It seems to me that we’ve let Didiya bear our burden long enough and that it’s time for us to bear hers. Two things have come to my mind: One is that we work out a plan for taking turns watching the river during the rainy seasons. The other is that we give the people of the valley a chance to repay Didiya by contributing enough money so that she can come to school. Will you talk this over with your families and neighbors, and let me know how they feel?”
The villagers enthusiastically agreed to the teacher’s plan. Soon there was enough money to pay the rest of the school fee and to buy the uniform. Didiya went to the valley store and bought the blue and white fabrics. Then she took them to the tailor, who sat at his sewing machine on the store porch.
“Don’t forget the pockets,” she said to the tailor.
“You don’t need to tell me how to do my work,” the tailor said teasingly. “I’ve been making uniforms ever since the school started. I’d never forget the pockets!”
The next time the school drum sounded from up the valley, Didiya was ready, dressed in her new uniform. For her lunch she carried a boiled sweet potato wrapped in a banana leaf in one pocket. In another pocket she had a small wooden deer that her grandfather had carved as a present for the teacher. The happy girl beamed as all along the way her friends called out, “Morning greeting, Didiya.”

Today was Lillian’s last day in Primary. Lillian would miss the other Primary kids. There were just three of them—two younger girls and her little brother, Michael.
“How are you feeling about moving up to Young Women?” her Primary teacher asked.
“I can’t wait to go to class with the older girls!” Lillian said.
“I’m glad you’re excited,” her teacher said. “Who else will be in Young Women with you?”
Lillian thought of the older girls in the ward. Summer and Cova had just finished high school. And Melvina’s family had moved away. Wait. That left . . . just Lillian.
What would her Young Women class be like? Just the teachers and her? That sounded awkward—and lonely. Thinking about it made Lillian nervous. She frowned. She didn’t want to be the only one in Young Women.
For the rest of the day, Lillian thought about being the only young woman. At dinner, she moved the food around on her plate without eating it. She mumbled when it was her turn to read at family scripture study.
Mum set her scriptures down. “What’s wrong?” she asked.
Lillian sighed. “I’m going to be all alone in Young Women!”
Mum moved to sit by Lillian. She gave her a hug. “That won’t be easy,” she said. “What can we do to help you?”
Lillian thought for a moment. “Maybe we could pray that another girl will move into the ward. And maybe Dad could give me a blessing.”
Dad smiled. “Those are great ideas.”
The family knelt to pray. “Heavenly Father,” Lillian began, “I’m glad I get to move to Young Women. I don’t want to be alone, but if that is Thy will, that’s all right. Please help me know what I can do to feel better. And if You want to inspire a family with a girl my age to move into our ward, that would be great too.”
After the prayer, Dad put his hands on her head. “I bless you to feel peaceful about moving to Young Women,” he said. “Heavenly Father will bless you as you ask for His help.”
Lillian did feel peaceful. She wasn’t sure yet what she could do to make moving to Young Women easier. But she also knew Heavenly Father would help her.
On Sunday, Lillian was still a little nervous. But she remembered the peace she felt after Dad’s blessing. She knew she would be OK.
In sacrament meeting, the bishop announced that Sister Barns would be the new Young Women president. Sister Barns stood up when her name was called. Lillian didn’t really know her, but she looked friendly.
Mum had said that when she was Lillian’s age, her Young Women leader became one of her best friends. Maybe Lillian and Sister Barns could be friends! That was an answer to her prayer.
After sacrament meeting, Lillian went to her new classroom. An older girl was standing in the hall.
“Hi,” Lillian said. “Are you visiting our ward?”
The girl shook her head. “No. Our family just moved here.”
Lillian smiled. “Welcome to our ward. This is my first day in Young Women.” She and the girl sat down in the classroom. “By the way, my name is Lillian.”
“No way!” the new girl said. “My name is Lillian too!”
Lillian laughed. Heavenly Father had answered her prayer again! Maybe being in Young Women wouldn’t be so lonely after all.
This story took place in Australia.
Illustrations by Sue Teodoro

A few years ago, an impressive experience helped me realize how important this mental image is to my spiritual development.
All my life I had heard about the rewards of daily scripture study, but had never successfully formed the habit. Then one day I found myself on a committee working with five people who had each firmly established the habit of scripture study in their lives. I noticed their command of the scriptures in solving problems and teaching others. I marvelled at the way they used the scriptures to avoid personal discouragement and to receive counsel. As I watched them I began to imagine how much better my life would be if I had the scripture habit. The next thing I knew, I was studying the scriptures daily.
Forming a good mental image of who we are and what our values are can help determine who we become and how we live. Our self-image helps us define ourselves—and leads us to act accordingly. Mental pictures and ideas precede our every action. They can help or hinder our righteous progression.
Satan, for example, uses the principle to lead people to bondage. If he can lead us to imagine ourselves as innately sinful, we become uncomfortable in church or near righteous people and we withdraw from the ways of the Lord. Having defined ourselves as sinful, without hope or desire for redemption, we seek ways that are comfortable to our perception and persist in sin until we are “bound down by the chains of hell.” (Alma 13:30.)
On the other hand, if we think of ourselves as children of God, we are more likely to act accordingly. As this mental image of ourselves grows and matures, we find ourselves striving for the qualities and traits that are our inheritance from God—gentleness, love, honesty, consideration, and cheerfulness. Liberty, rather than bondage, is the result.
Alma encouraged his people to develop and maintain a righteous self-image. “Have ye received his [Christ’s] image in your countenances?” he asked them. “… Do you look forward with an eye of faith, and view this mortal body raised in immortality, and this corruption raised in incorruption, to stand before God to be judged according to the deeds which have been done in the mortal body? …
“Can you imagine to yourselves that ye hear the voice of the Lord, saying unto you, in that day: Come unto me ye blessed, for behold, your works have been the works of righteousness upon the face of the earth?” (Alma 5:14–16; italics added.)
Alma knew that an important step to helping people try the ways of the Lord is to help them form the mental picture of themselves performing the works of the Lord.
As parents, it is our responsibility to plant these mental images while our children are young, so the images can help guide their behavior.
One of the most profound means of instilling a righteous image in our children is through the use of scripture and family stories. My own image of what I wanted to be began with stories of my great-grandfather, Robert D. Young. He lived to be ninety-five years old and died when I was fourteen years old. But I love the man as much as if he had walked with me and taught me every step I was to take.
I have few recollections of my own concerning him, but I was raised on stories about him. One of my favorites told of how as a young teenager he had hired on with a group of cowboys to run a herd of cattle from Colorado to Texas. During the first few days of the journey, the owner of the herd, a very wealthy man with no family of his own, rode with the group, but then left to attend to other business. As the cowboys made their way to Texas, the other men, all older than grandfather, spent their free time in pursuits that grandfather didn’t consider worthwhile. Instead of joining them, he would find a quiet spot and study mathematics and engineering.
The night before they arrived at their destination, the other cowboys decided they wanted to go into a nearby town and celebrate their safe arrival. They tried to get grandfather to go, but grandfather insisted that he had been hired to tend the cattle, and he would do just that. Later that night, the owner returned to find grandfather alone with his cattle. He was so impressed that he offered grandfather one-half of all he owned if he would become his business partner. Grandfather would have never again wanted for anything, but he refused. He said he just didn’t feel like that was what the Lord wanted him to do.
Many times during my youth I remember thinking, “I want to be just like my grandfather!” Other times I would ask myself, “Now what would grandfather do?” and then act accordingly.
Uplifting stories from family history can help children develop the image of their divine potential. We can further guide them to identify with good examples through phrases such as, “You’re a lot like that,” or “That sounds like something you’d do.” But we must avoid the temptation to preach, or we may lose the effectiveness of the stories.
I’ve come to realize that my grandfather, being human, must have had faults and shortcomings. But no one has ever told me what they were, so I’ve been free to think only of the good. That is one of the secrets of instilling a righteous image in our children. Dwelling on the negative, unless there is an important lesson to be learned, helps no one. But relating the positive creates a mental image that the child can cling to and identify with.
In this same way, our extended family members, or neighbors, teachers, leaders, and others can serve as good examples to the children. A great deal of good is accomplished by verbally identifying the virtues of these individuals and using opportunities for these people to share their faith-promoting stories and testimonies when our children are present.
One evening I watched my daughters’ reactions as a beautiful friend visiting in our home told the story of meeting her husband. Her eyes sparkled as she explained that if she had disobeyed her father as she had been tempted to on that occasion, she would not have been present to meet the man she later married. Like thirsty sponges my daughters drank in her words. The story made a great impression on them. If I had tried to explain the same principle, they might have labeled it “preachy.” But my friend’s enthusiasm, spirit, and love made the experience memorable and helpful.
On another occasion, I shared a hospital room with a delightful woman in her eighties who had broken her hip. Despite her intense pain, she was determined to walk again and was full of faith and optimism. A few weeks after the hospital stay, I took my daughters to meet this good woman and her husband. We had a wonderful visit. They told us many stories of faith and love for the gospel. Now, four years later, the girls still retain an impression of the faith, joy, and love that comes from growing old in the gospel.
While exposing our children to as many positive role models as possible, we realized that two of their strongest examples should be us—their parents. However, like most parents, I often find myself discouraged because my children so easily pick up my faults despite my efforts to preach against them. I know that the very best way to give my children the proper image is to be what I want them to be. One of the greatest helps to doing this is for each marriage partner to use every opportunity possible to build up the other in the eyes of the children.
A wise man once told me that early in his marriage he and his wife realized that bad habits and character traits make themselves prominent because of their unpleasant consequences, while good traits go largely unnoticed, especially by a child who has had little experience with the world. To help their children identify the proper images, this couple determined to point out each other’s virtues to their children at every opportunity.
This little piece of advice is worth gold! For example, as the children and I wait in the car while my husband goes into a gas station to pay for gas, I take the opportunity to say, “Just look at that special man. He’s a man who loves God and tries so hard to keep the commandments.” Other times I am more specific. “Do you know one of the things I love about your father?” I’ll ask as I serve lunch. “I like his tenderness. Did you notice the tears in his eyes yesterday when Sister Jones bore her testimony?”
Not only does this build an image, but in effect I am also saying to the children, “This is what I value; this is what is important to me. These are traits that will make me proud of you, too.”
Another way to define a righteous image for children is to help them understand their patriarchal blessings. These blessings speak of the inheritance that can be theirs, the lineage they are a part of, and some of their promised blessings. Usually there are also phrases which tell of righteous characteristics and traits they possess. As we stress these traits and use them as living descriptions of the child, they can actually become part of the child’s self-image.
Phrases such as “Your Father in Heaven is pleased with you” help the child define himself as being good and accepted.
We needn’t wait until the child gets a patriarchal blessing to stress virtues, however. Nor do we need to limit ourselves to the particular virtues mentioned in a blessing. Parley P. Pratt has said, “An intelligent being, in the image of God, possesses every organ, attribute, sense, sympathy, affection, of will, wisdom, love, power and gift, which is possessed by God Himself.
“But these are possessed by man, in his rudimental state, in a subordinate sense of the word. Or, in other words, these attributes are in embryo; and are to be gradually developed.” (Key to the Science of Theology, 4th edition, Liverpool, England: Albert Carrington, 1877, p. 101.)
Since our children already possess virtuous character traits, our job is to help the child recognize them, allow them to grow, and keep them from being overlooked.
About the time she entered school, our daughter Anissa, who is nick-named Niss, began greeting each day with a negative attitude that affected the entire family. So I started calling her “Happy Niss.” That may seem strange, but it wasn’t a lie because I knew that happiness was and is an innate quality of her spirit.
“Good morning, Happy Niss,” I’d call in my most cheerful voice; and she’d call back, “I’m not happy. I’m just Niss.”
But I persisted in calling her Happy Niss. Things began to ease, but she still had grumpy mornings. Then one night as I tucked her into bed I said, “Do you know what I love, Happy Niss?”
“What?” she asked.
“I love to see that beautiful, bright, big smile of yours first thing in the morning. My whole day goes better when your smile is the first thing I see.”
She didn’t say a word. The next morning I was preparing breakfast when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to see straggly haired, sleepy-eyed Anissa with the strangest forced grin stretched across her face.
“What is the matt—” I started, then stopped, remembering my words of the night before. “Oh, that smile!” I cried, and threw my arms around her. “I just know it’s going to be a good day now!” And it was.
The real climax to that experience came in a recent home evening when each of us was asked to describe one trait that made us unique or special. Anissa’s immediate response was, “I’m always happy.” The idea had now become part of her self-image.
Giving our children a righteous image to follow is perhaps one of the most important things we can do for them. If they can imagine themselves as righteous people, their actions commonly follow accordingly.
Ultimately, the image we use to determine our actions must be the image of Christ. As Alma said, “Have ye received his image in your countenances? Have ye experienced this mighty change in your hearts?” (Alma 5:14.) Before we can lead our children to receive his image, we must adopt that image ourselves. To do this we must read and study the life and teachings of the Savior, sharing what we learn with our children. We must become so familiar with these things that they are not just words—but concepts, ideas, images in our minds of who and what we are.

Some years ago, while visiting the members and missionaries in Australia, I witnessed a sublime example depicting how a treasury of testimony can bless and sanctify a home. The mission president, Horace D. Ensign, and I were traveling by plane the long distance from Sydney to Darwin, where I was to break ground for our first chapel in that city. En route we had a scheduled fueling stop at a remote mining community named Mt. Isa. As we entered the small airport, a woman and her two young children approached. She said, “I am Judith Louden, a member of the Church, and these are my children. We thought you might be on this flight, so we have come to visit with you during your brief stopover.” She explained that her husband was not a member of the Church and that she and the children were indeed the only members in the entire area. We shared experiences and bore testimony.
Time passed. As we prepared to reboard, Sister Louden looked so forlorn, so alone. She pleaded, “You can’t go yet; I have so missed the Church.” Suddenly, over the loudspeaker there was announced a 30-minute mechanical delay of our flight. Sister Louden whispered, “My prayer has been answered.” She then asked how she might influence her husband to show an interest in the gospel. We counseled her to include him in their home Primary lesson each week and be to him a living testimony of the gospel. I mentioned we would send to her a subscription to the Children’s Friend and additional helps for her family teaching. We urged that she never give up on her husband.
We departed Mt. Isa, a city to which I have never returned. I shall, however, always hold dear in memory that sweet mother and those precious children extending a tear-filled expression and a fond wave of gratitude and good-bye.
Several years later, while speaking at a priesthood leadership meeting in Brisbane, Australia, I emphasized the significance of gospel scholarship in the home and the importance of living the gospel and being examples of the truth. I shared with the men assembled the account of Sister Louden and the impact her faith and determination had had on me. As I concluded, I said, “I suppose I’ll never know if Sister Louden’s husband ever joined the Church, but he couldn’t have found a better model to follow than his wife.”
One of the leaders raised his hand, then stood and declared, “Brother Monson, I am Richard Louden. The woman of whom you speak is my wife. The children [his voice quavered] are our children. We are a forever family now, thanks in part to the persistence and the patience of my dear wife. She did it all.” Not a word was spoken. The silence was broken only by sniffles and marked by the sight of tears.

At school that morning, Marcus noticed a new boy walk into the classroom.
“Good morning, everyone,” Mrs. Becker said as everyone quieted down. “This is Halim. He is new to our school. In fact, he is new to our country.”
Halim kept looking at the floor as he said hello. Marcus thought his voice sounded kind of different. Mrs. Becker kept talking.
“We are so glad he is here and that he is going to be part of our class. I hope we can all help him feel welcome.”
As Mrs. Becker showed Halim where to sit, Marcus thought about how nervous he would feel if he had to move to a new country and a new school.
After their morning snack, Mrs. Becker told everyone she had a surprise for them. Marcus sat up really straight so he could see what she was pulling out of her bag. They were small buckets. She started passing them out to everyone in the class.
“Each one of us has an imaginary bucket inside of ourselves,” she said as she handed Marcus a yellow bucket. “People fill our buckets when they do nice things for us. And we can fill others’ buckets by being nice to them. For example, when your mom gives you a hug, she is filling your bucket. When you say something nice to someone, you are filling their bucket.”
Marcus looked at his best friend, Caleb. He got a yellow bucket too!
“This week, we’ll keep these buckets on our desks so we can write nice notes for each other,” Mrs. Becker said. She folded up a little piece of paper and dropped it in a bucket. “And that will help us remember the imaginary buckets everyone has inside. We want to be kind so that we are bucket fillers.”
Marcus pulled out a piece of paper and thought of the things he could write to Caleb, like that he was good at sports. But then he looked at Halim. His shoulders were kind of bent over, like he was sad.
Marcus wondered if Halim had a best friend where he used to live. It must have been hard to say goodbye and scary to move so far away.
Marcus looked down at the blank piece of paper on his desk. He had an idea, then he wrote,
“Dear Halim,
Welcome to our school. If you want, we can play at recess. I will be your friend. And I bet Caleb will be your friend too.
From, Marcus.”
Then he carefully folded the paper up and dropped it in Halim’s bucket. Halim smiled. Marcus felt warm and happy inside. He liked being a bucket filler!

I feel that I have been inspired to share with New Era readers an experience that has made a great impression on my mind and my heart. After I had turned on the radio that we had borrowed from one of our investigators, we, a group of elders, sat motionless, waiting for the broadcast to come on. We had some difficulty finding the station, but after a short but sincere prayer we heard the message we had all been waiting for. We listened to the words being spoken, and as the interpreter paused, we heard, loud and distinct, the voice of the living prophet of God speaking in the background. As I looked at the smiles on the faces of the elders and the warm glow in their eyes, I couldn’t help but feel the love and companionship of our Lord Jesus Christ. To hear the words of God through his mouthpiece, President Spencer W. Kimball, has been a great strength to my testimony. I’m very grateful for the opportunity I have to be a member of this Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Elder Hal V. ProbstBrazil Porto Allegre Mission

Upon return from her mission, Yamikani encouraged her friend Peter Kidian Chinyumba to listen to the missionaries. He was baptized in the year 2004, and—a year later—Peter received his temple endowment. When Peter returned to Malawi from the temple, Yamikani realized that he was as committed to the gospel as she was. “That’s when I fell in love with him, I wanted him to be committed first to the gospel before he commits to me,” she said.
Shortly afterward, Peter and Yamikani were married—and later sealed in the Johannesburg Temple. Peter was called as the first district president in Malawi and as such, the couple welcomed and hosted Elder Russell M. Nelson on October 25, 2011 when he came to dedicate the country of Malawi for the preaching of the gospel.

When I was in eighth grade and stood six feet tall, Aunt Ruth, who was visiting us from Baltimore, said one evening, “Well, dear, perhaps you’ll be a high-fashion model. They’re all tall.” Then she looked at my bony knees and elbows that jutted out. “And extremely thin,” she added. That night my mother tried to comfort me.
“There are worse things than being tall,” she said. “If only you’d stand up straight. You’ve just got to stop slumping. You’d look so much better with good posture.” The look on her face added, “Please, please stop growing.”
“If only I could be as short as you are,” I often said to Angie, my older sister. Angie had only grown to be five feet nine inches, and she did look like a model. She was leading a normal life in college and had lots of dates. I was sure if I could only be her height, all my problems would be solved.
“Be proud of your height,” Angie would say. “It’s great to be tall!” But I didn’t listen.
By the time I started at Jackson High School, I stood six feet one inch. Everyday I walked to seventh period with Mary Beth Johnson who was under five feet tall. We caused stares and smiles. I slumped even more when I walked with her, but I didn’t think our height difference was a good reason to tell her I couldn’t walk with her anymore. That sounded so adolescent.
My only comfort at Jackson was that there were several tall basketball players I’d see in the hall once in a while. Whenever I’d see one, I’d try to move as close to him as possible without being conspicuous. It felt wonderful to be small for a change. Bret Price (six feet six inches) had a fourth period class right next to mine, and I often had the chance to walk right behind him to class. I didn’t really have a crush on him, it just made me feel great to walk behind him. One day I guess I was walking a little too closely, because when he stopped I almost bumped into him. In fact, I couldn’t have stopped much closer. Another two inches and there would have been a crash.
“Sorry,” I mumbled.
“S’okay,” he said.
The rest of the way to my history class, I walked several yards behind him. But, I wasn’t far enough behind him because I heard his friend Bill Wallops, the senior vice-president of the school, say, “That jolly green giant is still following you, Bret.”
“Yeah,” Scott Williams said, “you’d better watch out. She’s your size.” Bret turned to look at me, and I ducked my head and walked into history.
“Watch it, guys!” I heard him say. “She heard you.”
I slid into my seat in the back of the room and slumped down. Jolly green giant. My dark green outfit had always been my favorite. I thought it looked good with my light hair and brown eyes. Now I hated it. I hated myself. I hated being a giant, a jolly green giant. I’ll never wear this awful thing again, I thought. No, never! All my old inadequacies came back—not that they had ever left. I thought of all the names I’d been called in elementary school: Shorty, Shrimp, Skyscraper Susan. They all seemed to flood my mind at once, and I could feel my face getting warm. But, I wouldn’t cry. No, I wouldn’t.
It was a miserable 40 minutes, and I was sure that if Mr. Randolf called on me, my voice would sound choked, and then everyone would know I felt miserable. I tried to hide behind Will Smith, the boy who sat in front of me. That was hard to do because he was only five feet eight.
If the class saw me cry, I was sure it would be passed around the school. “The Jolly Green Giant cried in history class,” they’d say. Then the school clown would be an even bigger joke. I sat in class a few minutes after the bell, partly to copy down the assignment, but mostly to make sure I wouldn’t run into Bret and his friends again. After I was sure they would be way down the hall, I picked up my books and walked toward the back door of the classroom. I hurried faster when I saw Bret looking in the front door.
“Hey,” he called, “wait!” Had he been looking for me? “A little green man asked me to give this to you,” he said as he caught up with me.
“What is it?”
“Read it,” he said, his dark eyes smiling. He tucked a folded piece of paper into my hand. His large, warm hand that had shot all those winning baskets touched mine.
“Okay.” I must have looked puzzled. He hurried down the hall, and I stood staring after him, stunned. He had spoken to me.
What would the note say? Some other cruel joke about my height? Maybe I should throw it in the trash before I read it. I had, after all, been hurt enough. But curiosity made me take the note to the restroom where I opened it.
There were just three words scrawled on the paper in an easy masculine handwriting. I looked up into the mirror. Girls, all shorter than I, were around me, primping, humming, giggling, gossiping, and making faces as they combed their hair and applied their makeup. I looked back at the note and read it again. “Tall is terrific.”
“Tall is terrific,” I whispered. “Terrific, oh sure.” I looked in the mirror again. Me, terrific? The image smiling back at me was not really as bad as I had expected.
Had I perhaps filled out a little? Was I really a little prettier? I held my shoulders back. I did look better when I stood up straight. And yes, I was rather pretty. It was true I stood many inches taller than the rest of the chattering, giggling girls, but if tall was terrific, that didn’t matter.
I kept my shoulders pulled back and my back straight as I walked into the cafeteria to my regular lunch table where I always ate with my friend Cindy. Before I got to the table, however, I saw Bret Price sitting three tables away with all the “big men” of the school. He was looking right at me and smiling. Bret Price, star basketball player of Jackson, was smiling at me as if to say, “We have a secret. We know you’re terrific!”

Eighty-three-year-old Luella Boyd, a widow, would leave her home in Basin, Wyoming, at five o’clock in the morning, drive seven hours to the temple in Idaho Falls, arriving about noon, and then participate in four endowment sessions. The next morning she would be at the temple as it opened and attend eight more sessions, going without lunch. On the third day she would start at 5:00 a.m., and complete four endowments by noon—then drive home to Basin, Wyoming, arriving at 8:00 p.m. Sixteen sessions—six hundred miles—three days—eighty-three years old! One year she did this eleven times, missing only one month because of bad weather. The most exceptional part of this story is that she currently is serving as a Family History missionary right here in Salt Lake City. Remember, Sister Boyd is eighty-three years old. And you and I think we are busy! What a marvelous spirit and dedication! She is one of 365 full-time Family History missionaries serving in Salt Lake having a remarkable spiritual experience.

Years ago, President Boyd K. Packer told of a herd of deer that, because of heavy snowfall, was trapped outside its natural habitat and faced possible starvation. Some well-meaning people, in an effort to save the deer, dumped truckloads of hay around the area—it wasn’t what deer would normally eat, but they hoped it would at least get the deer through the winter. Sadly, most of the deer were later found dead. They had eaten the hay, but it did not nourish them, and they starved to death with their stomachs full.

Our youngest daughter, Jen, had to have surgery at age four. She listened as we explained why the surgery was needed. She knew she would have to spend several days in a hospital. We told her Heavenly Father would bless her. We prayed with Jen, and she prayed too.
When the day came, we took her to the hospital. A doctor came and offered his hand to lead her to the operating room. With the simple faith of a child, she took his hand and walked ahead, unafraid and never looking back.
The operation was a success, and Jen surprised us two days later by singing happily in her hospital bed.

When I was a small boy in the first grade, I experienced what I thought was a rather tough day at school. I came home, walked in the house, threw my book on the kitchen table, and let forth an expletive that included the name of the Lord.

My mother was shocked. She told me quietly, but firmly, how wrong I was. She told me that I could not have words of that kind coming out of my mouth. She led me by the hand into the bathroom, where she took from the shelf a clean washcloth, put it under the faucet, and then generously coated it with soap. She said, “We’ll have to wash out your mouth.” She told me to open it, and I did so reluctantly. Then she rubbed the soapy washcloth around my tongue and teeth. I sputtered and fumed and felt like swearing again, but I didn’t. I rinsed and rinsed my mouth, but it was a long while before the soapy taste was gone. In fact, whenever I think of that experience, I can still taste the soap. The lesson was worthwhile. I think I can say that I have tried to avoid using the name of the Lord in vain since that day. I am grateful for that lesson.

Other Activities. Wendy Bybee and her son James, of West Valley City, Utah, both blind from birth, have found that a helpful Church leader can make a great difference. “James used to have trouble in Scouting, but his current Blazer Scout leader is exceptional! She has spent extra time helping him learn to tie knots; she also prints up materials in larger print for him and always makes sure the announcements she sends home are in dark enough print for me to read. She has helped me find ways to help James earn merit badges so that it’s fair to him but doesn’t make the other boys think he’s getting off easy.”