Gospel Story Finder

The revelation in Doctrine and Covenants 71 tells Joseph Smith and Sidney Rigdon to go and preach in an effort to ease unfriendly feelings that had arisen against the Church due to criticisms from members who had lost their faith. Over 100 years later, Elder Spencer W. Kimball of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles had a similar experience preaching in defense of the Church.
During a visit to Otavalo, Ecuador, in 1965, Elder Kimball told the missionaries to present the Book of Mormon to the native Otavalans. However, the missionaries met resistance when Otavalans began spreading lies about them in the nearby villages, and the missionaries struggled to overcome the falsehoods.
Two years later, Elder Kimball joined a few members and missionaries in a meeting near a local bus stop. As local residents got off buses, missionaries invited them to hear from a living Apostle of Jesus Christ. Soon, about 20 people gathered. As the missionaries started their meeting, the crowd grew to more than 100.
Then Elder Kimball spoke. He told of the coming of Jesus Christ in the Americas. He pointed to the sky and spoke of the still, small voice from the heavens that announced the appearance of the Son of God, as found in the Book of Mormon. Elder Kimball recalled, “Every eye followed my motion to the sky as though the Savior were actually there coming through the thin clouds.”1
After this, missionaries kept trying to teach Otavalans. Sister missionaries taught a man named Rafael Tabango, who was baptized on July 14, 1968—the first native Otavalo Latter-day Saint. His wife, Teresa, also joined the Church. Less than 15 years later, a stake was organized in Otavalo, with Brother Tabango called as its first patriarch.

One of those members was Jorge Leaño, who had been invited by a fellow employee to listen to the message of two North American missionaries. Jorge was so impressed with the account of Joseph Smith’s First Vision that he wanted his wife, Zorka, to hear it. Zorka’s sister had listened to the missionaries a year earlier in the central Bolivian city of Cochabamba, so Jorge and Zorka welcomed them into their home.

When the missionaries finished the discussions and challenged the family to be baptized, the Leaños told them that they could not be ready so soon. The missionaries again challenged the family to read the Book of Mormon and pray about the things they had heard. Until then, Jorge and Zorka had prayed only at the end of each discussion with the missionaries.

That night, for the first time in their marriage, Jorge and Zorka knelt together and prayed to Heavenly Father. They did so with sincere hearts, intending to do their Heavenly Father’s will as he revealed it to them. Both felt an overpowering witness that the message of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ was true and that the Book of Mormon was the word of God. The following day they told the missionaries they were ready to be baptized, and on 19 September 1965 they became members of the Church.

As he grew in the gospel, Jorge became convinced that God had indeed spoken to man again. “All my questions were answered as to where we came from, why we are here on earth, and what our eternal future will be,” he said.

Dear Buddy,
Today was a Thanksgiving Day that I’ll never forget! We spent the morning tracting without much success. It was cold, and everyone was busy and didn’t want to talk. Then we spent the afternoon with some members who had invited us for Thanksgiving dinner. And did they ever put on a feast! The food was so good that I kept eating and eating until my belt yelled for mercy. Sister Marshall seemed to enjoy watching us eat, and she kept passing the food around. Then when we left, she gave us each a big package of leftovers wrapped in aluminum foil. It’s great to have members like the Marshalls who help the missionaries.
But it was what happened as we were riding our bikes home that made this an unforgettable Thanksgiving Day. Even though it was cold and windy and almost dark, we took the long way home to help work off some of our dinner. On a lonely road on the outskirts of town, we came upon a girl with long black hair who looked about your age. She was gathering sticks at the side of the road, and she was wearing a long-sleeve blouse, a shawl around her shoulders, a skirt, and sandals.
Elder Butler and I stopped, concerned about her being out in the bitter cold. Her name is Rosita. She didn’t know much English, but she took us to her mother, who was also gathering wood not far away. We helped them gather broken branches and old sticks until everyone’s arms were full. Then they took us to their home.
They live in a small shack with a woodburning stove in the middle. The only one who speaks much English is the father, and he was on a mattress in the corner, sick with a fever.
Their name is Morales. They recently came from Central America. Mr. Morales said that he brought his family to the United States to have a better life. He had a job here, but he lost it when he got sick.
There was hardly any furniture, and the room was smoky and drafty. They need so much—even simple things, like clothes for winter. All they had was what they’d brought in three suitcases. And each other. As I looked into their faces, I felt that I was in the presence of modern Pilgrims. Suddenly Thanksgiving became much more real to me. It is more than parades and football games on TV and tight belts from eating too much turkey and yams and pumpkin pie. Thanksgiving means hope and freedom.
Elder Butler and I gave Mr. Morales a blessing, and we gave our leftovers from dinner at the Marshalls to the Morales. They thanked us again and again and asked us to come back to visit them. We will.
Riding home, I no longer felt the cold wind blowing in my face and up the sleeves of my coat. All I could feel was the warmth of gratitude for all the blessings that we enjoy.
Love,Reed

I will always remember my straight-arrow friend that I met here in Provo who told me he took his fiancée to the bishop for a recommend to be married before they had ever experienced any physical dimension to their relationship—and I mean any!

After the regular interview, the wise bishop asked them, “Well, do you feel the spark when you hold each other close?”

My friend was perplexed. “The spark?”

The bishop tried to explain, but my friend was having trouble catching on. So the bishop assigned them to take one week to see if they had “the spark” in their relationship. He knew they’d figure it out and still remain worthy.

As my friend told me this story, I couldn’t help asking, “Well, what did you find out?”

He blushed a little bit, and then he said, “Well, we finally fulfilled the assignment.”

They learned the same thing that I have learned, about being sweethearts on the foundation of everlasting friendship and love.

I lay there, feeling disgusted with my family’s lack of consideration for my feelings. I had told them that I didn’t want those young men coming into our home and talking about God. I was bitter about religion and had pushed God out of my life. I blamed him for striking me with multiple sclerosis at age thirty-three and then taking my father a few years later, when I needed him most.
When two young men offered to talk to my family about their religion, I wanted nothing to do with them. But I was unable to walk out of the room, so I pretended to be asleep as they taught my family about Christ and a book called the Book of Mormon. When they finished, one young man said a prayer, and then my mother gave them permission to return in a few days. As soon as they left, I told her that I wanted no part of religion, and if my family wanted to hear such nonsense, then I wanted to remain in my bedroom while the young men were there.
The missionaries returned three days later. Despite my request, my family left me propped up in a chair in the living room. Once again I closed my eyes and pretended to be asleep. The young men came in, asked if they could begin with a word of prayer, then started to teach. Although I tried, it was very hard to shut their words out of my bitter world. They talked about where we came from, why we are on earth, what happens when we die, and where we will go after this life. They also mentioned three kingdoms—not the heaven and hell I’d heard about all my life.
The entire discussion fascinated me. And at the same time, it made sense—I knew it was true. Even in my bitter and unforgiving state, I could tell right from wrong, truth from fiction.
I opened my eyes and began to ask questions. Each time the missionaries answered, their faces seemed to glow as they taught me what they knew concerning life and death. I began asking them every question I ever had about religion.
Before they left, they placed a Book of Mormon on my lap. I wanted so much to read it, but because the multiple sclerosis had stolen most of my vision, I had to wait impatiently for my niece to find time to read it to me.
When the missionaries returned a few days later, I was excited about what I had read, but I had a very important question. The missionaries were Caucasian. I wondered if all members of the Church were white and how they felt about black people joining. The missionaries explained that it was Christ’s church and all were welcome. When they said that three black families were active in the ward, I couldn’t wait to be baptized.
A year after my baptism, after much prayer and a lot of effort on the part of faithful ward members, I was able to go to the Atlanta Temple to receive my endowment. Doctors advised me not to make the five-hour trip, but I knew I had to try.
Eleven years ago, when the doctors diagnosed me with multiple sclerosis, they gave me two years to live. Today, I am still alive, although I am totally paralyzed from the neck down. But now that I have the gospel, I am no longer bitter about my illness or my father’s death. I look forward to God’s promise of eternal life if I faithfully endure to the end.

My mother works every evening from 3:00 p.m. until 11:00 p.m. Even though she couldn’t be home on Monday nights, my older brother and I decided to hold family home evening by ourselves—just the two of us. My brother was inactive for eight years, but he had been attending institute recently and decided to give the message one Monday night. He shared a spiritual thought from the Book of Mormon that I had never considered, even though I had taken four years of seminary and had worked on my Personal Progress. The spirit I felt was just as I had hoped it would be when the time came that I would have a worthy priesthood holder in my home.
I’m grateful Heavenly Father gives me the opportunity to strengthen my family every week through family home evening. I love the gospel of Jesus Christ, and I’m glad that I had this humbling family home evening experience with my brother.

Evan Payne owned and operated a gasoline and auto repair station in Thousand Oaks, California. He was quick with a smile and even quicker to remember people’s names. He knew his customers, their children, and their cars. Evan worked long hours, six days a week, and was genuinely interested in helping people. He gave jobs to teenagers who had family problems or who were preparing for or returning from missions. He would stay late or arrive early to accommodate a customer. Nearly everyone in town knew Evan Payne and liked him.
Evan was also busy at home and at church. He and his wife, Becky, had five children, ages 7 to 13. He had served twice as a counselor in the bishopric, as bishop, and now as a counselor in our stake presidency.
Evan was young, athletic, happy, and outgoing. He had dark hair and a handsome face. He loved to ski and play Church softball and basketball. So it didn’t seem possible when I heard that Evan had leukemia.
In the months following his diagnosis there were family, ward, and stake fasts. Evan went through chemotherapy and radiation. When Evan’s illness did not go into remission, his brothers were tested to determine if they could be bone marrow donors. None matched. He and Becky got their affairs in order and prepared for the worst, but in spite of the pain Evan remained upbeat and positive. He continued to work nearly every day, although he was clearly suffering.
One day my office phone rang. “Joel,” Evan said, “what are you doing tonight? I want you to come with me to give a blessing to someone in your ward. Can you do it?”
“Sure,” I said. “Who are we going to bless?”
“Sally Carlisle (names have been changed). She is an elderly lady from San Diego. She is in town visiting her daughter, Joan Wilson, who isn’t active. I should be taking the Wilsons’ home teacher, but I don’t know who it is, and she needs a blessing right away. Can you pick me up?”
I had a sudden sinking feeling, and a wave of guilt flooded over me. For many months I had been assigned to home teach the Wilson family, but I had not even called them. Numerous times I had intended to call or stop by, but each time I rationalized my way out. I had not done my duty. I told Evan I would pick him up at 7:00.
As we drove Evan explained that the Wilsons had been customers at his service station for many years. Joan had been raised in the Church but had drifted into inactivity as a young adult. She had married Mike Wilson, who was not a member of the Church, and they had raised their four boys in Mike’s religion. Evan explained that we would be giving a blessing to Joan’s mother, who had the flu. Joan had called Evan at the station and asked him to come. He was the only member of the Church she knew.
When we arrived at the Wilson home, Joan greeted us at the door but excused herself while we visited with her mother. Sally explained how much she wanted her daughter to come back to the Church and how she prayed for Mike and Joan to be able to receive the blessings of the gospel. After we visited for a few minutes, I anointed Sally and Evan blessed her. It was a simple blessing of comfort and good health.
As I drove Evan home, I felt grateful to have witnessed that priesthood blessing. I was also grateful for the introduction to the Wilson family and for spending those moments with Evan Payne, who passed away just a few months later.
In the following years I visited the Wilson home regularly. They welcomed me and remembered me as Evan’s friend. At first we just talked about Evan and what a great power for good he had been in our community. I remained the Wilsons’ home teacher for 15 years, and I tried to be like Evan and help whenever I could. Mike and Joan became my good friends and blessed my life in return.
Although Joan did not return to activity and Mike did not join the Church, I will always treasure their love and friendship. I was serving as bishop when Joan passed away. At the time of her death, Mike donated a large sum to the ward missionary fund. That money supported a missionary from our ward who joined the Church as a teenager and had no family resources to allow him to serve. Mike’s contribution indirectly touched the lives of the many converts that young elder taught.
Although I am certain Evan Payne did not intend to teach me any lessons that night many years ago, I learned that it is no burden to be about the Lord’s business. I try to be, as Evan was, truly interested in and concerned for our Heavenly Father’s children. And as a home teacher I try to be as faithful as Evan was and as the Savior would want me to be.

On a snowy Friday night, I was driving home from a friend’s house. As I was driving, I was prompted to pull over to the side of the road, and without much thought, I did. But after a moment, I began to wonder why—I didn’t see any danger ahead.
At church I had been taught about recognizing promptings from the Holy Ghost, and I never felt a prompting as strong as this, but I still wasn’t sure if the feeling came from me or from the Spirit.
After sitting in my car for about 10 seconds, I decided to continue home. The streets looked clear. Then, out of nowhere, a group of deer jumped into the road ahead of me—about 10 seconds away at my previous speed. If I had not stopped when prompted, I believe I would have hit the deer, totaled my car, and probably been hurt.
After this experience, I realized what a blessing it is to have the constant companionship of the Holy Ghost. I am grateful that the Holy Ghost not only warns us but also comforts and teaches us.

One young woman from Haiti in the Caribbean showed her desire to be a disciple of Christ by inviting her friend who was not a member of the Church to come with her to an FSY conference. At first her friend’s father did not want to give his daughter permission to go. Church leaders explained about the positive experiences that awaited her and the wonderful young adult counselors who would be watching over her. The father gave permission for his daughter to attend, and after seeing the difference it made in her life, he also gave her permission to attend Church meetings and—six months later—be baptized.

But even on a winning team, there are lessons to be learned about defeat. Angie Harris, the team center, hyperextended her knee during the second quarter of the first game of the record-breaking season, and was sidelined for the rest of the year. At least two surgeries have been necessary to get her back on her feet, and she’ll probably never play school ball again. Many players might be bitter over this, but not Angie. She reads the scriptures faithfully every day, and from them she’s learned that “the Lord isn’t going to give you challenges that you can’t handle. This injury wasn’t that bad. I played on the state championship team last year. This keeps it from going to my head.”

A story told by President Steve Studdert at a session of the Mount Timpanogos Temple dedication dramatically illustrates this. I repeat it with his permission. Before the temple dedication, the First Presidency invited the residents of the Utah State Developmental Center to a special open house of the temple. This center houses severely mentally and physically disabled sons and daughters of our Heavenly Father. I now quote from President Studdert’s account:

There was a man in his mid-sixties in the center. He had been there since age eight, and it had been 15 years since any family members had been to visit him. They had understandably quit coming because he never spoke to them, never showed any indication of recognition, and never expressed anything whatsoever to them. But on that morning the Spirit worked on this man’s brother, also in his mid-sixties, that today was the day for that overdue visit.

Together with his wife, somewhat apprehensively the brother walked into the room of his handicapped younger brother, not knowing what to expect. The brother, who we will respectfully call Fred, was dressed in his best clothes and waiting somewhat impatiently in his wheelchair. Seeing his older brother, Fred immediately broke into a wide smile, stood up, and embraced him with a not-so-gentle bear hug. There was sweet recognition for the first time ever.

So with a happy eye toward the temple, they ventured out. As Fred’s wheelchair was pushed across the street, he began to become increasingly unsettled. His brother became concerned, recognizing that Fred had not left his residence for many years and that maybe this unusual experience or the crowds were too much for him. They considered returning Fred to his residence, but the Spirit whispered, “Carry on.” As they entered the temple, Fred seemingly grew even more agitated. But they felt impressed to continue.

About 50 feet behind the temple recommend desk is a beautiful painting of the Savior depicted as a shepherd lovingly holding in His protective arms a small black lamb, symbolic of a tender lost lamb. This particular [Minerva Teichert] painting had never before been displayed in any temple.

As the three of them approached this powerful painting, Fred stopped his wheelchair and looked upward at the painting. And then in a voice as clear as any voice ever heard, [he] spoke one simple word: “Jesus.” This was the first understandable word anyone had ever heard him speak in his entire life, and he did so with certainty, clarity, and knowledge. He then folded his arms in the same manner as the Savior’s arms in the painting.

In that moment he grew silent and calm; peace flooded over his anxious mind and nervous body. His arms relaxed and remained firmly folded as were the Savior’s. They proceeded on the tour of the temple, quiet and reverential.

On the wide sidewalls of the magnificent celestial room are large mirrors. As they reached that point in the tour, Fred stopped the wheelchair and stood. Without movement or speech, he looked for several minutes into those mirrors. It was as if he were looking into an unseen eternity. [And, if I might interject, possibly seeing a time in the future when the Resurrection will make him whole.] Then he sat in his wheelchair, again folded his arms as did the Savior in the painting, and remained quiet all the way back to his room. . . .

Since that day in the Lord’s house, Fred has never again spoken an understandable word. The only word he has ever spoken is “Jesus.” [Stephen M. Studdert, personal account]

1 In April 1832 Joseph Smith went to Jackson County a second time. A general council of the Church was called, and Joseph was sustained as President of the High Priesthood.
2 The Prophet received a revelation in which the Lord said that the Saints were to work hard and share all that they had with each other.
3 Goods of all kinds were to be taken to the Church storehouse to be distributed according to the bishop’s orders.
4 Four days later Joseph received another revelation: If widows, orphans, or any other members were needy, they were to be provided for through the Church storehouse.
5 The revelation also said that husbands are to love and care for their wives, and parents are to love and care for their children.
6 In May, Sidney Rigdon, Newel K. Whitney, and the Prophet Joseph started back to Kirtland, Ohio. Near New Albany, Indiana, the horses pulling their wagon became frightened and bolted.
7 Joseph jumped out of the wagon unhurt, but Bishop Whitney caught his foot in a wheel and broke his leg and foot in several places.
8 Sidney Rigdon went on to Kirtland, but the Prophet stayed with Bishop Whitney for four weeks while he recuperated.
9 One day during that time, Joseph Smith ate something poisonous. When Bishop Whitney gave him a blessing of health, the Prophet was instantly healed. Soon they, too, continued on to Kirtland.

That night at home I told Mom that the whole team would be going to Baltimore to see the Orioles’ doubleheader the following Saturday. That was our reward.
“Oh, Billy. I’m sorry. We’re going to your grandmother’s next weekend.” Gran was getting ready to move to the retirement community near our home. “I know you’re disappointed,” Mom went on, “but she called and asked if we’d help by cleaning out her attic.”
Well, I slumped off to my room and thought about how rotten it was to miss out on the Orioles games. I mean, people call me Billy-O because I’m such an O’s—that’s what we call the Orioles—fan. I couldn’t believe this was happening to me.
But happen it did, and the next Saturday I was where I didn’t want to be—at Grandma’s old house in the country.
When I went up into the attic with Mom to go through old boxes, I found some neat stuff. I was so busy looking at things that I almost forgot about the Orioles game. Then I found the box.
“Hey, Mom, look at this! It’s scrapbooks full of news clippings about the Orioles! Sherm Lollar, Stan Benjamin, Howie Moss, Kenny Braun. I’ve never even heard of these guys. They aren’t on any of my baseball cards.”
Mom said, “Let me see, Billy.”
“Wow! This stuff is from the 1940s, Mom. And everything’s written by the same person, Stats McGillicudhay.”
Mom looked at the scrapbooks, opening each book in turn. She smiled as she ran her fingers up and down the yellowed newspaper clippings. “I think you’d better ask Gran about this later.”
I wasn’t sure what Gran would know about baseball, but it was her house, so maybe she’d know something about where it all came from. I set the box aside, and we kept on sorting things—old clothes over there, books over here, and so on. Every now and then Dad came up and carried another box away. I held on to the baseball box.
Finally we finished and went down to one of Gran’s great dinners—fried chicken, potato salad, apple pie—the works!
After dark, Gran and I sat on the porch, watching fireflies.
“Gran, who was Stats McGillicudhay?”
“What? Where’d you hear that name, Billy?”
I told her about the scrapbooks in the attic, and she laughed softly. She was quiet for a long time before she said, “I lived in Baltimore when I was a girl. My grandfather took me to many baseball games every summer. The Orioles were in the old International League then. I loved baseball—the heat, the sounds, the smells, the hot dogs, the soda pop, and, of course, the game itself. Most of all, I loved the special time I spent with my grandfather.
“In high school I wrote for the school paper, but it wasn’t fashionable for girls to write about sports. That was a boy’s-domain-only in those days. So I wrote articles about books, records, and dances under my name, and slipped in baseball articles under the pen name of Stats McGillicudhay.
“I used the same pen name to write baseball stories for the local paper, too, and kept on writing them clear through college. Then I married your grandfather and, what with the farm and my kids, I never got around to even going to another baseball game, much less writing anything. In fact, living so far out in the country, I hardly ever even saw a game on TV.”
I could hardly believe it. My grandmother had been a sports writer! I told her all about our Little League season, and she really listened and understood everything.
“Billy,” she said, “next summer when I’m in the retirement community, maybe they’ll let me write about the Little League games for the Bridgeville Times. I’d like that. It would make this move easier for me if I had something to look forward to.”
That was two weeks ago. Today I got a letter from Gran. In it were tickets to the Orioles’ three-game series with the Blue Jays next week. She said that she had the seats next to mine and that if Mom or Dad would take us, I could explain to her any changes in the game since she last saw one.
Yeah, I can do that.

Every day we make choices. Some aren’t a big deal—what color backpack we carry, for example. Other choices are a big deal—for instance, how we treat other people or whether we obey a commandment. Read the story below and pretend that you are the main character. What choices would you make?
Your mom says that you may invite two friends over after school tomorrow. First you call Julie, who lives a few miles away. She is in your Primary class as well as in your class at school. Her parents say yes! She will walk home with you; her parents will pick her up before supper.
Next you call Tasha, a nonmember who lives just a few houses away. She can come too. Before she hangs up the phone, though, she asks if anyone else is coming. When you tell her that Julie is also coming, Tasha says, “Yuk! Then I don’t want to come, after all.”
If you say, “Julie is my friend too. Why don’t you come and get to know her better?” go to A. If you say, “OK, I’ll tell Julie that something came up with my mom and that I can’t have anybody over,” go to F.
A. Tasha says, “Well, I guess I’ll still come, but don’t expect me to make friends with Julie.” After school, Tasha and Julie walk home with you. When Julie stoops to tie her shoelace, Tasha makes an ugly face at her behind her back.
If you say, “Julie, Tasha’s making faces at you. She didn’t want you to come,” go to J. If you say nothing but give Tasha a look of disappointment, go to E.
B. When Tasha is out of earshot, you whisper to Julie that Tasha didn’t want her to come and had made faces at her behind her back. Julie gets very quiet. Your get-together is no fun after that.
Surely you didn’t mean to do that! Won’t you reconsider and choose I?
C. You all three go back to the tire swing and have a lot of fun. After a while, Julie’s mom picks her up and Tasha walks home. You’re glad that she and Julie have become friends too.
This is the end of the story—unless you want to do a little more missionary work. If you do, go to G.
D. Tasha hides the cigarette as her mother drives past, then starts to put it in her mouth. You yell, “Stop! It really is bad for you.” She says, “Once won’t hurt. I want to know what it tastes like.” She takes a puff and starts to cough. When she throws the cigarette down, you stomp on it and say, “I wish you hadn’t done that. Heavenly Father doesn’t want us to hurt our bodies.” Tasha asks, “Is Heavenly Father the same person as God? How do you know that He doesn’t want us to smoke?”
If you say, “I just do, that’s all. Come on—it’s Julie’s turn on the swing,” go to C. If you say, “Because he told us so in a scripture we call the Word of Wisdom,” go to G.
E. When you get to your house, punch and cookies are on the table. They turn out to be the favorite treats of both Tasha and Julie. As the afternoon goes on, you see that Tasha is actually being friendly with Julie. Tasha says, “Hey, Julie, I didn’t know you were such fun! You never say anything in school.”
If you suddenly feel jealous and try to discourage their growing friendship, go to B. If you try to help them become better friends, go to I.
F. Julie doesn’t come, because she thinks that your mom changed her mind about your having friends over. You and Tasha have a good time, except that you feel guilty about lying to Julie. Later, Julie finds out that Tasha was at your house, and her feelings are really hurt. Your friendship is never the same. You are sad that you lost a good friend.
You can’t make such a bad decision so soon—repent and go to A.
G. “What’s the Word of Wisdom?” Tasha asks. “It’s kind of like a health code,” you say. “It teaches us to not smoke, drink coffee, tea, beer, or wine—stuff like that. And to not do drugs.”
Julie pipes up, “It teaches us to eat fruits and vegetables and grains—you know, healthy things.”
“So do you two go to the same church?” Tasha asks. When you both nod, she looks down. “I don’t go to church, except when I visit my grandma. What do you do at your church?”
“Well,” you answer, “we have Primary every Sunday. It’s kind of like Sunday School in other churches. We have a lesson and learn about Jesus Christ. We sing songs, too, and have a lot of fun. Oh, and we have special activity days every so often.”
“Yeah,” Julie chimes in, “it’s all really neat! Would you like to come with us this Sunday?”
“Do I have to wear a dress?”
“We always do,” you tell her. “I’m always glad I do—it just feels right, somehow.”
Tasha shrugs. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt me to dress up. Sure—I’ll ask Mom if I can go.” (The End)
H. You put the cigarette to your mouth. You don’t breathe it in deeply, but even so, it tastes yucky. You are still holding it when Tasha’s mom drives by. She stops the car, hollers at Tasha to get in, and says to you, “Don’t expect Tasha to be coming over anymore.”
You feel awful. When your eyes meet Julie’s, you see that she is very disappointed in you. You promise that you’ll never do anything like that again. Julie gives you a weak smile and says, “I believe you, but I don’t think that Tasha’s mom ever will.”
This is your last chance in this story to get on the “right-choice” track. Hurry to D!
I. You suggest that you all play on the tire swing. Tasha has the first turn swinging. As Julie climbs on the tire for her turn, a car full of teenagers zips by. One of them flips a cigarette on the curb. Tasha runs to pick it up. “It’s still lit!” She turns to you and says, “I dare you to try it!”
If you say, “No, I don’t do that kind of stuff, and I hope you don’t either, ‘cause it’s bad for you,” go to D. If you say, “Well, maybe just one puff—but you’d better not tell anyone!” go to H.
J. Julie gets tears in her eyes and doesn’t say anything. Tasha says, “Thanks a lot, Big Mouth,” and goes home. You and Julie have fun playing, but you get a knot in your stomach when you think about Tasha’s angry eyes. The next day in school, Tasha won’t even speak to you.
Not again! Aren’t you glad that this is just a story? Change your choice to E.

Set an example of service. The shining moment of the conference came in the form of service. Except for one very rainy morning, the youth spent several hours each day cleaning different areas of the island—picking up trash, cutting weeds and bushes, removing rocks, hauling away garbage. During the conference, they cleaned beaches along the dock area and tidied up the village cemetery, the church grounds and building, and the local soccer field, which had become little more than a garbage dump and an eyesore.
Mani Terooatea is a Laurel from Takaroa home on vacation from Japan, where she has been studying the technique of pearl grafting (placing tiny pieces of mussel shells inside oysters in order to cultivate pearls). Mani said, “It was super to clean up the field, to see everyone working side by side. It didn’t take long, and I’m glad we could leave the place cleaner than we found it.” Mani brought along a friend who is a member of another faith. The friend, Hina Dexter, developed a new appreciation for Latter-day Saints, as did several other non-LDS participants.

One day I sat with a handsome, young, prospective missionary as he poured out his sad story through sobs of sorrow, anguish, and remorse. I wanted to cry with him. Pressured by his so-called friends, he found himself at a mixed party where liquor was served. Against everything he knew to be right, he succumbed to the taunts and jeers of all those present, became drunk, and before the evening was over, lost his virtue.
Unable to resist the peer pressure he faced, his resolution to stay chaste being dissipated by the circumstances he found himself in, he had seen his lifelong dream of a mission and a temple marriage change to a nightmare—and now he felt ashamed, unclean, unworthy.
“Have I forfeited my opportunity for a mission, for marriage in the temple?” he asked. “How can my Father in Heaven forgive me for what I have done? I wish the earth would open up and swallow me!” My heart ached for him.
Almost overriding my sympathy for him was the anger I felt toward those who had led him down that “primrose path,” seemingly oblivious to the pain they had caused, listening to Satan’s siren song that chastity is outdated.
“Thou shalt not commit adultery,” Jehovah commanded, “and he that committeth adultery, and repenteth not, shall be cast out.” (D&C 42:24.)
My beloved young brethren, despite what the world would have us believe, God has never changed that law.
The First Presidency of the Church, in another time of moral crisis, declared:
“To the youth of the Church we … plead with you to live clean, for the unclean life leads only to suffering, misery, and woe physically,—and spiritually it is the path to destruction. How glorious and near to the angels is youth that is clean. … Sexual purity is youth’s most precious possession; it is the foundation of all righteousness. …
“Times approach when we shall need all the health, strength, and spiritual power we can get to bear the afflictions that will come upon us.” (In James R. Clark, comp., Messages of the First Presidency of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, 6 vols., Salt Lake City: Bookcraft, 1965–75, 6:150.)
“You youths of Zion, you cannot associate in non-marital, illicit sex relationships, which is fornication, and escape the punishments and the judgments which the Lord has declared against this sin. The day of reckoning will come just as certainly as night follows day.” (In Messages of the First Presidency, 6:176.)
The full force of his actions was obvious to my tearful friend, who understood, at last, the reality of Alma’s words: “Wickedness never was happiness.” (Alma 41:10.)
As I shared those sad moments with that sorrowing young man, I could not help contrasting his feelings with those of another whose sealing I had performed in the house of the Lord.
There, in the presence of their families, the happy couple expressed their joy at the solemn covenants they had made with God and with each other as they knelt at that sacred altar, looking into each other’s souls with complete trust and confidence, approaching their marriage clean and worthy of the celestial blessings pronounced on their heads.
Their happiness was unrestrained.

I was born and raised in El Progreso, a small town in Guatemala. When I was about 10 years old, an unusual pamphlet came into my hands. It contained the story of Joseph Smith, a young boy who saw a vision of God the Eternal Father and His Son, Jesus Christ.
I was deeply impressed by this story. Unsatisfied with the training I was receiving in the religion of my parents, I wanted to know more about the boy in the pamphlet. But I didn’t know where to get information. In time I lost the pamphlet, but I never forgot about it. I wondered if I would ever find another like it.
As a teenager and young adult, I investigated several religious denominations. I even took classes in their doctrine and received diplomas. But there were aspects of these religions that troubled me, and I felt uncomfortable with the criticism that clergy of different faiths sometimes directed at one another. By this time I had started reading the Bible, and as I compared the Bible with what I saw in the religions I had studied, I became convinced those religions lacked God’s authority.
I knelt many times in prayer, pleading with God to guide me to His true Church. I promised that if He did, I would be faithful in keeping His commandments and I would always serve Him.
I had dreams, too, in which I told God I was willing to do anything to receive forgiveness for my sins. I would wake up and find my pillow wet with tears. I also asked God to help me find the pamphlet about Joseph Smith again.
By 1968 I had a wife and a son. We moved to Guatemala City so I could find better employment. On 20 November 1975, two young American women, simply dressed, knocked on our door. They said they had a message for my family. We made an appointment for them to come back at a later time.
I remember the first discussion clearly. One of the young women said a prayer, and then the other one began to talk about Joseph Smith. In her hands was a copy of the pamphlet I had read as a boy! My search for the truth had come to an end in my own living room.
No words can express what I felt at that moment. I wanted to snatch the pamphlet out of her hands. The sisters noticed the way I was looking at it and said they would leave it with me. When they gave me that precious pamphlet, I could hardly believe it. I put it in my shirt pocket to keep it near my heart.
Two days later the missionaries returned. When they saw the pamphlet in my pocket, they asked if I had read it. I told them they didn’t realize what it meant to me. I explained I had read it as a boy and had prayed to find it again.
On Sunday our family went to church. We arrived very early, and the sisters were surprised to see us. They hadn’t really invited us, just told us where the building was.
The sisters continued to teach us. Although they didn’t speak Spanish very well, they taught by the Holy Ghost. When they taught us about repentance, I felt something I had never felt before and started to cry. Then I realized we were all crying. I was convinced I had found the true Church.
My wife, Rosa Élida, had a similar experience. It happened when the sisters invited us to be baptized. “Sister Salguero,” they asked, “do you want to follow the Savior?” She realized right then that she did.
When I asked the Lord to help me find His Church, I promised I would serve Him. From the first time I went to church, I have faithfully attended and have tried to serve diligently. I have had many wonderful Church callings, including serving twice as bishop. My wife has served in the Primary and Relief Society and in the family history program. My eldest son served a full-time mission, and now his younger brother is preparing to serve. We have two daughters who are also active in the Church.
Whenever I am asked to speak in church, I try to communicate the joy I feel as a member of the Lord’s Church. I know that God lives and that through the Prophet Joseph Smith He has restored to us His gospel, His Church, and the authority of His priesthood.

Hannah sat under the kitchen table, crying softly.
“What’s wrong, Hannah?” Mama asked.
“I can’t do anything right.”
Mama got under the table with her and held her close. “That’s not true.”
“Yes it is. I’m always making mistakes and having accidents.”
Mama thought a moment. Then she helped Hannah out from under the table. “Come with me,” she said. They went to the hallway mirror and looked at their reflections. “Do you know what I see, Hannah?”
Hannah stared at her reflection. “What?” she asked, still sniffling.
“A very important person who’s loved very much.”
Hannah smiled a little.
“And I see a beautiful smile, too. Daddy and I love you because you are special just the way you are.”
“But I can’t do anything right,” Hannah protested. “I spill my milk. I can’t tie my own shoes or button my shirt. I can’t even write all of my ABCs.”
“Hannah, you do a lot of things really well,” Mama reassured her. “You draw beautiful pictures of flowers and animals. You always talk kindly to our neighbor, Mrs. Green. And how could I hang the laundry on the clothesline without you there to hand me the clothespins? You’re my helper.”
When Hannah still didn’t look convinced, Mama went to the closet and got out a picture album. She led Hannah to the sofa and opened the album. “Do you know who this baby is?” Mama asked.
Hannah smiled. “That’s me.” She loved looking at these pictures.
“And what a good baby you were! You couldn’t do anything for yourself yet, so Daddy and I fed you when you were hungry, washed you when you were dirty, and loved you with all our hearts.”
Hannah studied the picture.
Mama turned several pages. “This photo was taken when you were about one. You were just beginning to walk.”
“Did I fall a lot?” Hannah asked.
“Yes, you did. But you always got up and tried again. Now you can run and jump and dance beautiful dances.”
They browsed on through the book and saw many pictures of Hannah. In each photo, she was a little older and able to do more things by herself.
“Everything we learn to do must be practiced over and over before we can do it well,” Mama said. “But remember that we will always love you, no matter what you can or can’t do.”
“Just like Heavenly Father loves us—just the way we are.” Hannah remembered learning this in Primary.
“That’s right. Heavenly Father loves us even when we’re not perfect. But He also helps us grow,” she added, hugging her special Hannah.

The first thing Zayne Callahan can remember is living in the basement of an orphanage in China. He had been there since he was a baby. Zayne later learned that he was kept in the basement so people who came to the orphanage to adopt children wouldn’t see him.

“I was considered an embarrassment because I was born with spina bifida,” Zayne says. Spina bifida is a birth defect that made his legs weak and prevented him from walking normally. “I wasn’t able to go to school or hardly even learn the Chinese language because the people at the orphanage didn’t think it was important to teach a child with a disability.”

Zayne was seven years old when John and Wendy Callahan—his future parents—first saw him on a videotape of Chinese children waiting to be adopted. When the photographer passed the camera over Zayne briefly, he smiled and waved. That action won the hearts of his future parents who recognized his brave, strong, intelligent spirit.

That was five years ago. Now, Zayne is a deacon in the Lolo Ward of the Stevensville Montana Stake. When he turned 12, he wanted to fulfill his priesthood responsibilities by passing the sacrament. That was a big challenge for a boy who must use crutches to walk.

Originally, Zayne tried to pass the sacrament while balancing on his crutches. When that didn’t work, he decided to use his wheelchair instead. Now Zayne passes the sacrament by placing the trays on his lap and wheeling down the aisles.

Zayne works hard to fulfill his other priesthood duties too. An older member in his ward says she was impressed when the young men went to her home to pick up rocks as a service project. She found Zayne sitting on the ground putting rocks into a wheelbarrow. He had laid his crutches down because they were in the way, but his disability didn’t stop him from serving just like the other boys.

According to his father, Zayne doesn’t waste time feeling sorry for himself. If he wants to do something, he figures out a way to do it. He played a lead part in the school production of Red Riding Hood. He was the head wolf and led a pack of wolves onstage, his crutches keeping time to the music. He is also an accomplished violinist and pianist. While playing his violin, he has to sit on a high stool rather than stand like most violinists, but that doesn’t distract from the beauty of his music.

No matter where Zayne goes or what he does, people notice his good example. One classmate summed it up by saying, “He’s that boy with the big smile.”

Stephen rolled his cookie dough carefully, trying for just the right thickness for his angel cookies. His mother, with flour on her hands and a smudge of it on her nose, helped his little sister, Carolyn, roll hers out nice and even. Pale, wintry sunlight sifted through the kitchen curtains onto the table.
“What did you say your cousin’s name is?” Stephen asked, remembering the conversation that they’d had last night at family home evening.
“Everene, and she’s really my grandmother’s cousin.”
“That’s a funny name,” Stephen said.
“It’s just old-fashioned,” his mother explained.
“She must be awfully old. Your grandmother is already dead.”
“She is old, almost ninety, but she can still talk and laugh just like you. I’m glad that she’s been moved to a rest home near us. Now you children can get to know her.”
Stephen placed his cookie cutter on the dough and pressed firmly. “Some old people act very strange,” he said, “like Mrs. Anderson down the street. She talks to herself when she works in her roses, and her head always bobs up and down. Will Cousin Everene be like that?”
Mother looked at him and smiled. “When we get old, Stephen, our bodies don’t work as well; they don’t always do what we want them to. But inside we’re still the same person we always were. You’ll be old someday too.”
Stephen looked up at his mother. “I don’t think so,” he said firmly.
His mother laughed. “It doesn’t seem possible to you now, when you’re eight, does it? But unless you die because of an accident or disease, you will be old one day. And,” his mother added, “it seems to me that I’ve heard you talking to yourself when you’re playing alone.”
Stephen smiled sheepishly.
“I like Mrs. Anderson,” Carolyn said. “She gave me a flower once.”
“Will Cousin Everene be deaf like Mrs. Simmons?” Stephen asked. “Will we have to shout?”
“No,” Mother replied. “Her hearing’s not bad. Just don’t mumble or look away when you talk.”
Stephen sat for a minute with his chin in his hands. “We’ve always had just our family on Christmas Eve. It’s kind of special with only the four of us when we read the Christmas story.”
“Don’t you want Cousin Everene to come, Stephen?” his mother asked.
“I’m glad she’s coming,” Carolyn piped up. “I’m going to give her some of these cookies that I’m making.”
“Well, I’m glad too,” Stephen said. “It’s just that sometimes I don’t know what to say to old people.”
“Why not ask her a question?” Mother suggested.
“What kind of a question?”
“Oh, like where she lived as a child or what Christmas was like then. People like to tell things about their lives.”
On Christmas Eve, Stephen and Carolyn knelt on the couch and watched out the window for Dad to bring their special guest.
“They’re here!” Carolyn shouted as the station wagon pulled into the driveway. Dad helped Cousin Everene out of the car. When she stood up, Stephen couldn’t believe how tiny she was. And she was so stooped that her face was toward the ground.
“Is she a dwarf?” Carolyn asked.
“I don’t think so, just small. Mom says that old people sometimes shrink a little.”
“From too much washing?” Carolyn asked.
“Of course not. It’s from … well, just from getting old—like apples that shrivel up after a while.”
“Oh.” Carolyn jumped off the couch and ran to open the door.
Cousin Everene came in leaning on Dad’s arm. She stood for a moment, looking around the brightly decorated room. Stephen ran and plugged in the tree lights, and they glowed softly in the dim afternoon.
“How lovely!” she said. “Let me sit down and enjoy all this.”
Dad took her coat and hung it up while she eased herself onto a straightbacked chair. “I like a chair that I can get out of,” she said. “Now, let me look at you two.”
Stephen and Carolyn went and stood in front of her. Stephen saw that her skin was deeply wrinkled. The skin of her neck hung like a turtle’s, and stiff gray hairs stuck out from her chin. But when Stephen looked into her eyes, they were a soft gray like pussy willows and made her look very kind.
“Stephen and Carolyn …” she said thoughtfully. “Carolyn, you look a lot like my little cousin, Emily, your great-grandmother, did at your age.”
“My great-grandmother was your little cousin?” Carolyn asked.
“That’s right.”
Stephen blurted out, “If you were older, why did Great-Grandma die before you?”
Cousin Everene laughed and put her hand on Stephen’s shoulder. “That’s one of life’s little surprises,” she answered. “We never know how long we’ll live. That’s why it’s important to live every day the best that we can—and enjoy it.”
When dinner was over and the dishes were washed and put away, everyone gathered in the living room around the tree. Mom let the children put on their pajamas and slippers, and they sat on big cushions on the floor. Stephen felt warm and cozy. The fire in the fireplace crackled and hissed behind the glass, and the room glowed with soft light from the lights and the candles and the fire.
When they knelt for family prayer, Cousin Everene stayed on her chair. She said that her knees didn’t obey her anymore but that her heart was kneeling. Then, while Dad read the story of Jesus’ birth, Cousin Everene learned forward in her chair, listening intently, her eyes shining in the firelight. Somehow the story seemed more wonderful to Stephen than he had remembered it.
Afterward, Stephen asked, “What were Christmases like when you were little?”
Cousin Everene learned forward again, smiled, and said, “Well, I’ll tell you about my favorite one. …”
Stephen moved his cushion closer to her chair. He had a feeling that this would be one of the special Christmases that he would tell about when he was old.