Gospel Story Finder

On a recent trip to New Zealand, I met with a mission president who wore a beautiful tie tack with the inspiring CTR, or “Choose the Right,” emblem. “When I was a bishop,” he explained, “[I] had an interview with a good-looking young man who was to receive the Aaronic Priesthood. He told me a special story. He related to me how one day after school, he and some of his friends found a package of cigarettes. They decided to go down on the cliff alongside some large boulders and smoke them. They lit up, and the young man said that as he was looking down at the smoldering cigarette that he held between his fingers, he saw his CTR ring. He quickly put the cigarette out and made a very wise choice—to never, ever do such a thing again. He chose to choose the right, as he remembered what the emblem stood for. From this story I gained a special love for the CTR emblem.”

Love, Amalie
Love, Amalie
Love, Amalie
Love, Amalie
Illustrations by Dilleen Marsh
Christmas was almost here. Amalie was excited. Soon she could unwrap the presents under the tree!
At family home evening it was Mom’s turn to give the lesson.
“Why do we give presents at Christmas?” Mom asked.
“Because it’s Jesus’s birthday!” Amalie said.
“Then shouldn’t we give a present to Him?” Mom said.
Dad helped Amalie’s brother Noah read a scripture. It said that when we serve other people, we are serving God (see Mosiah 2:17).
“Is serving others giving a gift to Jesus?” Mom said.
Noah nodded.
“What else?”
“Keeping the commandments,” Amalie said.
“Being nice,” Noah said.
“Great ideas!” Mom said. “Now let’s play a game. I’ll say a gift someone gave to Jesus. Tell me if you know who it was. Here we go. This person gave out Christmas cards at the care center.”
Noah raised his hand. “Amalie did that!”
“This person went home teaching.”
“That’s Daddy,” Amalie said.
Soon they had named lots of gifts they had already given to the Savior.
“We can give gifts every day,” Mom said.
The next morning it was time to clean the house. “Oh no,” Amalie groaned. But then she remembered. Serving others is a gift! If she helped Mom, it was the same as helping Jesus. She found a cloth and wiped the counters until they shone.
The next day Amalie earned some money.
“Your tithing is eight cents,” Mom said.
Amalie remembered again. Tithing is a commandment, so paying it is a gift. She put eight cents in her tithing jar.
Later that week Amalie helped pick up pillows. Her baby brother had thrown them off the couch. “Another present for Jesus,” she said.
On Christmas Eve, Mom and Dad told Amalie they were proud of her. “You’ve been giving gifts to Jesus all week long,” Dad said. “That’s like having a little bit of Christmas every day.”

The final Saturday, having put the bikes on the train the day before, the weary travelers boarded to return home. There was plenty of room to stretch out and relax, and soon they were snoozers, not bikers.
Somehow, though, when the train finally halted in San Jose and they had to remount their cycles for another seven-mile jaunt to the chapel, they seemed almost eager to be riding once again. Soon they would be home recuperating, sharing a slice of their saga with their families.

Sacred hymns brought me peace even before I joined the Church. I was converted to the gospel long before I was actually baptized. My parents required me to wait until I was 18 years old and a legal adult. I appreciated their concern for me, but this was a difficult situation. I dreamed of having a Latter-day Saint family that studied the scriptures, held family home evening, and shared testimonies with each other. I wished my mother would ask me about my Young Women Personal Progress instead of ridiculing me for not drinking tea. I wished my father would understand that my desire to join God’s true Church was sincere, not fanatical. As I withstood the criticism, I realized that the tribulations were a test of my faith. Still, my heart was heavy.
Frustrated and exhausted, I attended stake conference just 43 days before I would turn 18. As I sat in the conference hall filled with friendly faces, I felt the Spirit instantly. Right then, I found my refuge. Between inspiring talks, the full-time missionaries sang “Love One Another” (Hymns, no. 308), first in English then in Chinese. I didn’t understand the English lyrics, and I hardly knew any of the missionaries, but I was deeply moved. The hymn seemed to describe The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, where members truly love and care about one another. When I was at church, I felt right at home; people loved and supported me.
Now I am a Church member and still face similar trials. However, when I feel down and lonely I sing hymns, and my heart is comforted. Hymns quench my thirsty heart and feed my hungry soul. They bring peace at times of weariness and give me courage to move forward. They make me realize that God knows who I am and that He loves me.
Wen Siuan Wei, Taiwan

It just took a little imagination and a good idea and Patricia Louderback ended up a winner. A member of the Moanalua Ward, Honolulu Hawaii West Stake, Pat was a top contributor to her state health fair. Pat won trophies for her poster urging drinking parents to “Go Home to Your Family” and another emphasizing “Alcohol Doesn’t Make Your Problems Go Away. It Adds to Them.” George R. Ariyoshi, Governor of Hawaii, presented the awards to Pat.
After graduating from Moanalua High School next year, Pat hopes to enroll as a sociology major at Ricks College in Rexburg, Idaho.

I remembered this experience as I taught my own daughter when she was very young. She regularly spoke to me about her day just before going to sleep. During this time, I helped her to understand that some of the feelings she was sharing with me were from the Holy Ghost guiding her in her life. I was grateful to know that she was already feeling the influence of the Holy Ghost and for the opportunity to help her understand that gift.

At 18, Wellington, New Zealand’s, Tony Fitisemanu can hardly wait for his next birthday, when he’ll finally be able to serve an official mission. He’s been doing missionary work for years now—going out with the full-time missionaries and talking to his friends at school about the gospel.
“I especially like to talk about the plan of salvation,” says Tony, “because my friends are always asking, ‘Where did I come from? Why am I here? Where am I going?’ Because I go to seminary, I’ve learned how to show them the answers in the scriptures. If I don’t know the answers to all their questions, I ask my parents.”
Tony, his parents, and his five brothers and sisters moved to New Zealand from Samoa eight years ago, and have introduced a number of their friends to the Church. Several have been baptized. Their family is very close, but there’s always room for others to join in and feel right at home.

“Talc, granite, feldspar with aphanitic crystals, obsidian.” I quickly examined each rock and tossed it aside.
“Hey, I think I ought to go up to my grandma’s house for a couple of days. I’ve been planning on going for a long time, but you know how it is—always something. I could leave after school Thursday and be back on Saturday,” I said to Bev.
“Have you gotten those rocks down yet, gals?” Mr. Davis, our science teacher, stood above us clearing his throat and pushing his thick, black glasses onto his nose.
“What’s this one?”
“Umm, magnetite?” I answered.
“Way to go,” he patted me on the shoulder. “Test on Friday, remember?”
“Oh, I forgot!” I guess I can’t go to Grandma’s next weekend, I thought, but it just seems important that I go now.
“Could I possibly make up the test? My grandma’s been sick, and I was thinking of going to stay with her for a few days.”
“Uh, yeah, Carole, don’t worry about the test. Rocks are here to stay, but grandmas aren’t always around,” he smiled.
“Thanks.”
I was 17 and feeling very independent when I walked into the bus station. I bought my ticket, sat down on a long green bench, and waited. The stench of cigarette smoke hung in the air. Two boys laughed wildly as they stooped over a pinball machine. The rhythm of balls hitting bells started my foot tapping.
I’d never gone anywhere on my own before, and although my grandma lived only 80 miles from Orem, I didn’t feel like I really knew her. Sure we visited her a lot, but with the family it’s different. I was excited. I boarded the silver, shiny bus and waited impatiently as it cruised along. The familiar rugged granite mountains flashed past my window, then Salt Lake City streaked by, then Lagoon. Soon the bus pulled into Ogden. I rode the city busline to the stop near Grandma’s home. By the time I carried my small brown suitcase the two blocks up the hill to her house, my arms ached. It was an older home, white frame with blue trim, surrounded by junipers and tams. My knuckles pounded on the solid door. I waited smiling. The door opened slowly. Her distinct laugh made me laugh too as I embraced her fragile body. She was wearing her white and black polka-dot dress.
“You sweet girl. You came to stay with me. How’s S.J.?”
“He’s doing pretty well.”
She was always worrying about my dad and his health. For the next couple of hours we talked about my plans, school, art, relatives, my brothers and why they weren’t married yet. We even talked about the weather and a little politics. I could see where my dad got his conservative ideas from. Then Nana (as we usually called her) told me about Grandpa. I sat across from her on the tan sofa and listened. She had met him at a dance.
“He told his boyfriends he wanted to marry me that first night, but it took many sleigh rides, schooner rides down college hill, and buggy rides with Dad’s Ol’ Dahl to convince me,” she laughed. “We had a wonderful marriage.”
I tried to imagine my grandma young with Grandpa riding in a buggy. I couldn’t. I never knew Grandpa well; he died of a heart attack when I was only five.
Nana also helped me with my crocheting. She seemed pleased that I was making things and that she could be helpful. She always kept her hands busy making afghans and other things for her grandchildren.
As evening came I sensed a strain in Nana’s breathing. She grew weak and was soon having a very bad asthma attack. My mind went back to many family gatherings. Nana was always reaching into her purse for her throat syringe. I’d never heard her complain much about her asthma; she just accepted it with all the rest of life’s ups and downs. I helped her into an orange cotton housecoat with snaps down the front, and then into her high double bed. I wondered if she’d ever fallen out of it onto the hardwood floor. Already her usual cheery personality was fading along with the healthy color of her face.
“Carole, I’m sorry I had to get sick and ruin your visit.”
“Don’t feel bad about me,” I told her.
Slumped in the living room corner, I tried to keep my mind off her by reading, but her heavy gasping could be heard throughout the house. I checked on her every few minutes. I got out her heavy genealogy book and flipped through the pages. I stopped at the photos. There were pictures of her from when she was a baby to when she was about 25; she was pretty. I was surprised to see how much my baby pictures resembled hers. I recognized one of my uncles—Bill—her son. He was dead; death frightened me.
I checked on her again. It must be something like drowning, I worried, only it just continues on and on and she never actually drowns. She lay still on her large bed; her wheezing and slight moaning continued. Her face was pale, and the wrinkles were now deep crevices. I couldn’t help but think she looked like a body in a casket. They always put so much makeup on them, but they can’t hide the look of death. I was worried, frightened and I didn’t know what to do.
“Are you awake?” I whispered, although I knew she was.
“Yes.”
“Do you think we should call someone to come and administer to you?”
She nodded. “Call Carol Garner; she’ll know what to do.”
I found her number in Nana’s little address book. Scribbled among the addresses and telephone numbers were little thoughts, reminders, and an occasional recipe. I recognized a familiar thought, “What ere thou art, act well thy part.” Nana always knew who she was and acted accordingly. I called Carol; she said she would send some priesthood holders over as soon as possible.
About an hour later a knock came at the door. With relief I opened it to the two men dressed in suits and ties.
“Hello, I’m your grandma’s bishop, Bishop Thompson, and this is my counselor Brother Wells.”
“I’m Carole,” I said as I showed them into my grandma’s room.
“How are you feeling, Sister Thayne?” the young bishop said and touched her hand.
“Oh,” she smiled weakly, “I haven’t had such a bad spell in years. My granddaughter, the sweet thing, came all the way up here to stay with me. She’s been taking good care of me.”
“It sure is lucky she came when she did.” Brother Wells glanced at me.
“Inspiration,” Nana whispered.
The two priesthood holders stood above her as she lay upon her bed. Brother Wells anointed her, and Bishop Thompson sealed the anointing and began the blessing.
“We, the elders of Israel, lay our hands upon one of thy fine servants, Irene Erickson Thayne, a dear lady who has given much of her time unto the service of others … and we ask that she might be comforted and might get the rest that is so badly needed for recovery. Thy will be done. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
“Amen,” I repeated.
I gave them each a cherry chocolate on Nana’s orders. Detecting my worry, they lingered a few minutes longer.
Bishop Thompson clasped my hand in a shake.” Call us if you need us.”
“I’m sure she’ll be all right,” Brother Wells assured.
“Thanks for everything.”
They left and I shut the door behind them, alone again, responsible for Nana’s life. The dark muffling still of the night continued. I read, prayed, worried, and listened, listened to the constant gasping for breath, not conscious of my own breath.
I glanced at the clock: 1:15. I tiptoed into Nana’s room. Her face was white, and her hair was matted.
“I hope,” her voice faltered, “my wheezing isn’t keeping you awake. Close your door so you can sleep.”
“Don’t worry about me; just try to get some sleep yourself,” my voice shook.
Leaving my door open I crept into bed and buried myself between the cool nylon knit sheets. My body was motionless, and my eyes fixed on the flowered drapes. My ears were alert, almost expecting the heavy breathing to falter and quit. I heard her struggle out of bed and her feet drag slowly into the hallway. She paused at my door and closed it; then the steps slowly returned.
At 2:35 I quietly slipped into her room again, her body lay sideways on the bed, and her feet hung over the edge. She had been too weak to pull herself back on the high mattress. I moved her so she would be lying straight and pulled the covers over her. Her shaking hand reached for mine. I clasped it.
“Thank-you, you’re sweet.”
I glanced at the baby photograph on her dresser of Dorothy, her first child. She was killed on her first New Year’s Eve. My grandpa was driving the car, and a drunk driver hit them head-on. Nana nearly died and was unconscious for eight days, waking up to find out her only daughter was dead.
Again I crept into bed and listened until fatigue overcame me.
Early that morning I awoke with the cold memory of where I was and what had happened during the night. I couldn’t hear her wheezing. I was scared and wondered if she was all right. Apprehensively I slithered out of bed and went into Nana’s room. She was still, but as I walked nearer I could hear her breathing softly in a deep rest. Grateful, I slipped out of the room. It was as if she had been immersed in water the night before but struggled to the top for air and had won, this time.
A couple of days later I again sat at the black desk in E-21, measuring with my fingernails the pink crystals in a piece of granite. Mr. Davis cleared his throat above me.
“Well, Carole, how’s Grandma?”
I held the rock tight in my hand and thought of her soft grasp. Like the rock, “she’s still around.”

In the summer after I graduated from high school, I left for China to teach English to young children in a boarding school. It was the first time I would be so far away from home.
As I first started teaching, all I could think about was missing my family. I was ready to leave my current adventure and go back to my comfort zone. Then, through prayer and scripture study, I started to gain a deeper appreciation for the gospel. I became more grateful for my family and for the Lord’s blessings in my life. I began to realize how much Heavenly Father loved me.
Suddenly my problems weren’t as big. I didn’t miss my family as much, and I wanted more than ever to see the students as Christ sees them. I began to realize what Christ said about children being pure of heart. They loved me, even with all my faults.
As I loved them with all of my heart, teaching became a little easier. I began to see all of their talents and wonderful qualities. My patience level was higher. For the first time I realized what they and I must mean to my Heavenly Father. I had more love for my students than I had even thought possible. I gained a deeper love for my family and all those around me. Loving the students made it easy to understand what they needed me to teach them, and my love for them made me a better person.

One morning my parents went somewhere, and my little brother’s friend and his mom came over to babysit. My little sister and brother went outside to play with them. I decided to stay inside and do chores. First, I set the table for lunch. Then I made two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and put them in the refrigerator. Then I mopped the floor with wet paper towels. Then I went upstairs to clean my room. When I was halfway done, I heard the front door open. My mom and dad were home! When I told them what I had done, they were very proud of me. I felt good inside that I was helping my parents.

When a teacher recommended me to help in the special needs seminary class, I accepted, but not without some serious doubts. My hesitations were purely selfish but were doubts nonetheless. Many questions ran through my mind: How would I interact with them? What if they didn’t like me? Why did they choose me when I had such a busy schedule and wanted to enjoy my time in seminary?
I would love to say that when I went to the class for the first time, all my doubts washed away and I opened my arms to these amazing youth. But I did not. I was standoffish and gave the smallest effort possible.
However, one experience I had in this class changed my perspective. One day, the teacher decided to sing hymns the entire class period. I sat next to a girl named Annie who was severely autistic. She couldn’t talk and could hardly even communicate through the very little sign language that she knew. The teacher told me that she loved it when people would pat out the beat of the music to her on her arm or leg, as well as sing to her. After an hour of patting her arm, my arm felt like it would soon fall off. Also, I have always known that I was not blessed with a wonderful singing voice. I get embarrassed to sing in front of other people, because I know I don’t sing well. But Annie didn’t care. She was so happy, just sitting there smiling and smiling. Whenever I would stop singing or patting, she would get very agitated and start shaking or moaning. But as soon as I would start singing again, she would be right back to smiling (even if I was noticeably off-key). I felt the Spirit so strong as we sang “The Spirit of God” (Hymns, no. 2), and Annie smiled up at me from her wheelchair.
I would often get discouraged in that class because I was not seeing the results of my efforts come out in the students. I am extremely goal-oriented, and I expect clear results from my hard work. But this one experience showed me that if I would just forget myself, I would make a difference for these incredible people. What I wasn’t aware of was that they were making a bigger impact on my life by their amazing spirits and the goodness that radiates from them.

Elder M. Russell Ballard asked Church members in Argentina to invite someone to come to church before this general conference. Eight-year-old Joshua listened and invited his best friend and his family to an open house at his ward.
That night he kept checking, but his friend did not come. Finally they came, and Joshua ran out to greet them and hugged his friend. They came into the church and met lots of new friends. Elder Ballard said, “It was great to see the faith of this little boy and to know that Primary children can be missionaries too.” (See “Following Up” from the Sunday morning session.)

Some members remained faithful despite years of isolation. Gunter Schulze, now bishop of the Dresden Ward, spent much of his time during that period finding and caring for isolated members—some in Poland, some in outlying areas of the German Democratic Republic. One of these was an elderly sister in Upper Silesia.
“We visited with her a long time,” recalls Brother Schulze. “Finally she went behind the stove and brought out a knotted stocking and began untying the knots, several knots. Then she held out her two hands like a scale and weighed money from the knotted stocking. She said, ‘This is my tithing. I have been saving it for over twenty-five years now. I knew the priesthood would come into my home again someday!’”

My seminary teacher used the article “Extra Strength” (Jan. ’02) in one of her lessons. That very day, a friend from school was asking me questions about the Church while we were in the weight room. I tried to answer him the best I could but didn’t feel my words were very influential. But I felt impressed to do as the young woman in the article did. The following day I gave my friend the new For the Strength of Youth and told him it contained the guidelines written for teenagers to follow. It felt good to have done this small missionary effort.
Marek de SavignyDunrobin, Ontario, Canada

A notation beside the death date of a great-uncle in our family record read, “Died on way to New Zealand, buried at sea.” It was sad, surely, but had connotations of adventure. Little did we dream, however, of the impact these few words were going to have so many years later.
We let him rest at the bottom of the ocean for over a hundred years.
Then a very old letter from my great-grandmother came to light, and in it was a reference to “Catherine” in New Zealand. This awoke in us the realization that even though George Perkins died and was buried at sea, his wife and family went on, and we felt impelled to learn more about that family.
So we began the search, first in old shipping records. We checked the embarkation records from Greenock, Scotland. There we found information that “George Perkins, Gentleman,” his wife Catherine and five children had set out in the sailing ship Mooltan to that idyllic land under the Southern Cross. The names of those five children were a great find. I thought of those wide-eyed, excited little children going with their parents to build a home in a new land halfway around the world.
Next, I wrote to the Alexander Turnbull Library, and the Public Library at Dunedin, New Zealand, the Old Settlers’ Association, and the National Archives at Wellington. All sent prompt and fruitful replies full of information about these kinfolk of mine—where they lived, what they did, who they married. We learned of a baby born after their arrival there, a little girl who must have brought joy to the young, widowed mother.
I learned of cousins, very far from me in distance and time, and of a relative “killed in the Maori Wars.” My New Zealand family had suffered perils, trials, and hardships similar to those of their kin in Utah who were “killed by the Indians.” All were pioneers who started out from the same British shores.
I found that these early settlers were the founders of cities and towns, of businesses and farms, of family dynasties. I learned more about that great-uncle who while still in England had bought a great deal of land in New Zealand and had then sailed away with such high hopes only to die and find a resting place in the vast and lonely ocean.
I knew there must be present-day kinfolk still living in New Zealand, so I researched and found many descendants of those early kinsmen of mine. I put an advertisement in the Otago Times asking for the descendants of George and Catherine Scott Perkins to correspond with me.
Again the response was overwhelming—grandchildren, great-grandchildren, cousins two and three times removed. I have found them so friendly, so helpful, so anxious to give me all the information they had, and they were even willing to find information they did not have. Bits of legend and lore, added to the store I already had, helped me in writing family histories. I found that those pioneers to New Zealand, who traveled there at the same time as my other pioneer forebears came to Utah, had taken very good ancestral records with them. They could furnish me with some additional names, places of birth, and dates a generation or two further back.
We have had some of the family come to visit us, and even their friends have come. We have found them to be warm and friendly and very British. When they came, they brought more records. One lady in particular sat with me as I typed for most of one day in order to copy a very large pedigree chart her cousin had made for me.
Can someone be homesick for a place they have never been? I am sure they can, because the feeling I have now toward New Zealand is so strong. This warm feeling I have for that land is not just because it is one of the islands in the exotic South Seas, nor because it awakens a yearning that most of us have to visit “faraway places with strange-sounding names.” It is a deeper something awakened in me by the notation at the side of my great-uncle’s name. It has been interesting to study, to read, to search the maps of New Zealand.
I would like to walk down the streets of Christchurch and Auckland, to call on folks in Dunedin, Invercargill, Greymouth, Timaru, Buckland’s Beach—names now recorded in my family history book. I feel that some day I must visit there, and if I knock on the doors of the homes of my kinfolk, I know I will find a welcome. They will not be strangers, because we have met on the family tree and through the world of letters. What an opportunity—what an adventure there is in hunting folks!

Though he was scheduled to complete his three-year mission in 1917, Elder Cowley had become so fluent in the Maori language that President Joseph F. Smith (1838–1918) asked him to remain in New Zealand an additional two years to translate the Doctrine and Covenants and Pearl of Great Price into Maori. Elder Cowley willingly complied. He later served as president of the New Zealand Mission and presiding General Authority over the entire Pacific area, never losing his fluency in Maori.

“I shared this story with some of our new elders just last week when I was driving them to their first assignment. I turned to Elder Bobby Yazzie in the seat next to mine and asked, ‘Did you ever happen to meet Elder Descheenie?’ A smile came on his face, and his eyes filled with tears. ‘President,’ he said, ‘He is the one that found me, taught me, and baptized me. If it wasn’t for him I wouldn’t be here today. I’m the only one in my entire family who is a member of the Church.’
“It’s hard to explain the thrill I felt when he told me this. Only a short two years before, Bobby had never heard of the Church, and here he was riding beside me: intelligent, handsome, clear-eyed, and anxious to go forth and share his testimony among his people. Bobby had only been out for a short time when he had his first baptisms, his own grandfather and grandmother, and since then many more.”

As an 11-year-old, Victor Penafiel was playing at a train station in Colombia near his home. School was out, and he decided to jump on a train. The train operators told him to get off, but when they weren’t looking, he jumped on again. Two more times they caught him and told him to get off. It was God’s way of warning him to get off the train, he recalled.
When the train started with a jerk, he lost his balance and fell with his legs under the train. His automatic reaction to the intense pain was to reach down with his left arm. Victor lost both legs at the hip and his arm just below the elbow.
He was rushed to a small hospital nearby because he wouldn’t have arrived alive if they had tried to reach a larger but more distant hospital. He needed a blood transfusion, but blood supplies were scarce. A petition went out to a nearby naval base for someone to donate blood.
“They asked for 1, and 11 came,” Victor recalled, noting that all 11 blood donors had his blood type.
The doctors treated him, and despite losing three limbs, he miraculously survived.
“Ever since, my life has been a series of miracles,” Victor said. “I’m certain the Lord works miracles.”

Their work is sometimes closer to home—literally. Elder Bednar was repairing the roof on his home one day and went to a local store to purchase some supplies. He was wearing work clothes: casual pants and shoes, a T-shirt, and a baseball hat.
“A man approached me as I was selecting my supplies and said, ‘Elder Bednar, the disguise is not working.’ We laughed, and then he inquired, ‘Do you mind if I ask you a question?’
“I responded, ‘Well, that is why I am here.’
“He replied quizzically, ‘What do you mean?’
“I said, ‘… I am here because God knew we were going to meet each other in this store and that you had something about which you wanted to ask. Please go ahead and share with me your question.’
“We talked in the aisle for about 15 minutes, and I tried to help him find the answer to his question. Was it merely a coincidence that I encountered this good man at the local store? Or was this episode divinely orchestrated by a loving Savior who … responded to the concerns of a faithful man—a one?
“I believe that in the work of the Lord there is no such thing as a coincidence. The worth of souls is great in the sight of God.”

Amy bounced up and down in her seat.
“What are you so excited about?” Mom asked, smiling at her from the front of the car.
“It’s England Day!” Amy squealed. Mrs. Harvey’s second-grade class had been learning about countries around the world. Amy had already learned to do the Mexican hat dance and sing a song in Japanese. Today her class was having a special party with lots of English food.
“Your ancestors joined the Church in England,” Mom reminded her. “They were very brave and stood up for what they believed in.”
“Today I’ll pretend to be just like them. It’ll be fun!” Amy said happily.
When she reached her classroom, Amy stared in awe. The school chairs were arranged in a circle around a table filled with warm crumpets, lemon custard, and raspberry jam. There was even a bowl of English toffee! Amy couldn’t wait for the party to start.
But then Amy noticed something. At the back of the table, a small, blue teapot was labeled TEA. Amy felt a knot form in her stomach.
Mrs. Harvey clapped her hands for the children to settle down. “Class, take a seat!” she sang out. “Today we’re having a very special party—a tea party! In England, people drink tea and eat crumpets as a snack. Who can tell me what a crumpet is?”
Amy’s classmates eagerly raised their hands, and one explained that a crumpet is a small cake. But Amy just sat in her seat feeling sick. Tea! She knew that tea and coffee were bad for her body. A commandment in the Word of Wisdom said not to drink them. The knot in her stomach kept growing. If she refused, what would her teacher and classmates think?
Then Amy thought of a better question. What would Jesus think? What would her ancestors think? Amy remembered Mom saying her ancestors were brave people who stood up for what they believed in. They followed Jesus Christ. They had been baptized in England, the same way Amy had been baptized. She still remembered that warm, clean feeling from her baptism, and how she always wanted to choose the right.
Slowly the knot loosened, and she knew what she had to do.
When Mrs. Harvey came to pour her some tea, Amy put her hand over the cup. “No, thank you,” she said. “I don’t drink tea. May I have a glass of water instead?”
“Of course you may,” Mrs. Harvey said, and she continued down the row.
As Amy drank her water and ate a crumpet dripping with jam, she felt warm inside. She had obeyed the Word of Wisdom, and—like her ancestors—she had been brave and stood up for what she believed.