Gospel Story Finder

Illustration by Michael J. Bingham
After World War II, my parents wanted to join the Saints in America. But first they had to escape with their five children from East Germany to West Germany.
My father, Walter, went by himself to determine where it was safest to cross the border. He traveled light but felt prompted to take his violin with him. An accomplished violinist, he had a spiritual impression that his violin would somehow aid him in his journey.
In February 1949, Dad took a train to a town still many miles from the border. After arriving, he ducked out of town, taking a path that led him into a wintry forest. Anyone caught heading toward the West German border was under suspicion of escaping and would be arrested.
Along the way, Dad saw another man trying to escape to West Germany. They decided to travel as a pair. Four watchful eyes would be better than two.
They proceeded cautiously as they passed a lookout tower. Suddenly, from behind a bush, a young Russian soldier jumped out and shouted, “Halt!”
My father and his new friend froze in horror as the soldier pointed a large rifle at them. The soldier said they were under arrest.
Slowly, my dad’s new friend opened his suitcase, revealing several fine food items. He motioned to the soldier that he could have them if he would let them go, but the soldier would not budge.
In broken Russian, my father told the soldier he loved Russian folk music. He pointed to his violin case and said he would like to play for him.
Dad took out his violin and started to play a sentimental Russian melody. After a short time, he saw tears forming in the young man’s eyes. When Dad finished the tune, the soldier asked him if he knew other Russian melodies.
Dad then played another melody. When he finished, the soldier was weeping. Hoisting his gun back onto his shoulder, the soldier said in Russian, “Travel with God.” Then he let both men continue their escape to the West.
My father soon returned safely to East Germany, thankful for inspiration that had led to his protection. Three years later, he escaped with his family by traveling to East Berlin and crossing the border there into West Berlin.

I met Megan when my family moved into our new house. She lived down the street, and we were both in Sister Crawford’s Primary class. We became friends and played together a lot. I watched Megan closely, trying to remember how she told a joke or how she fixed her hair or how she talked to other kids so easily. I thought Megan was perfect. I was shy. I wanted to be like Megan.
One day I called Megan to see if she wanted to play. She didn’t say anything at first.
“Caitlin is already over here,” she finally said.
Caitlin was in our Primary class too. I waited for Megan to invite me over, but she didn’t. Her end of the line was quiet.
“Oh. OK,” I stammered. Megan hung up without saying anything else.
That Sunday in Primary, Sister Crawford asked us, “What does it mean to be a good friend?”
I smiled at Megan, but she didn’t see me. She turned the other way and whispered to Caitlin. Suddenly Caitlin laughed out loud.
“Please quiet down, girls,” Sister Crawford said. They stopped whispering, but their shoulders trembled with giggles. Sister Crawford turned to me. “Angie, what do you think makes a good friend?”
“Well, someone who is nice and likes to play with you and—”
Megan and Caitlin giggled louder. My face got hot, and I looked at the floor. Were they laughing at me?
Sister Crawford frowned at them, then smiled at me. “That’s right, Angie,” she said. She looked around at the class. “How can you be a good friend?”
Adam raised his hand. “We can help people,” he said.
Sister Crawford nodded. “A good friend wants to help and serve others. Jesus Christ taught that when He lived on the earth. He also taught us that we should be kind to everyone.”
I looked at Megan and smiled at her. She didn’t smile back. I felt an empty spot in my chest. Didn’t Megan like me anymore?
At the end of the lesson, Sister Crawford held up a small basket. “I have something for you,” she said. She reached into the basket and showed us colorful strings that had been tied in small circles. “These are friendship bracelets. You wear it on your wrist, and whenever you look at it you can remember to be a good friend.”
Maybe friendship bracelets would help! Maybe Megan and I could get matching bracelets. As the basket went around the class, I leaned toward Megan. “What color are you going to get?” I asked her.
Megan shrugged. “Maybe a yellow one.”
“Me too,” I said.
Caitlin chose a blue bracelet. Then she passed the basket to Megan. Megan fingered a few bracelets, then pulled out a blue one too. I stared at her. Blue? She quickly handed me the basket. I stared into it, not knowing what to do. There were only yellow bracelets left. I slowly pulled one out.
Megan and Caitlin giggled and held out their arms side by side, admiring their matching blue bracelets. I felt a lump rise in my throat. Tears stung my eyes. I clenched my teeth together to keep from crying. I was not going to cry in front of them.
I threw myself into Mom’s arms as soon as we got home from church. “What’s wrong, honey?” Mom asked as I started to cry. Through my tears I told her what had happened. She sat next to me on my bed and held me close. “I’m sorry, Angie,” she said.
“Doesn’t Megan want to be my friend anymore?” I asked.
Mom stroked my hair. “Sometimes we don’t know why people do certain things,” she said. “I’m sorry that happened.”
“Sister Crawford said today that we should try to be kind to everyone, like Jesus was. But I don’t want to be kind to Megan.”
“I understand,” Mom said. “But I also agree with Sister Crawford. It might be hard, but we should try to be kind even if someone hurts our feelings. Jesus taught us to forgive others.”
“How can I do that?” I asked. I thought of the way Megan and Caitlin had laughed, and I felt that empty feeling again.
Mom pointed to a figurine of a girl kneeling in prayer that I kept on my nightstand. “Whenever someone hurts my feelings, I ask Heavenly Father to help me forgive that person. I ask Him to soften my heart and the other person’s heart.”
“Does it work?” I asked.
Mom smiled and kissed the top of my head. “I always feel better when I’ve talked to Heavenly Father,” she said.
When I said my prayers that night I thanked Heavenly Father for the friendship I had with Megan. Then I asked Him to help me forgive her. I scrunched up my eyes and thought hard. “Please help Megan and me be friends again,” I said.
I prayed for those things for the next few days. On Saturday I was swinging on our swing set when Megan came up our walk. I stopped swinging. We looked at each other but didn’t say anything. Finally Megan reached out and put something in my hand.
“This is for you,” she said. I opened my hand and saw a blue friendship bracelet.
“Do you want to play?” Megan asked. “Caitlin is coming over to my house. We’re going to pretend we’re princesses, and Noodle is going to be the queen.”
Noodle was Megan’s gray-striped cat. I giggled, picturing Noodle wearing a crown. I felt the empty spot inside shrinking. “Yes, I’d like to come over,” I said. “Thanks.”
I smiled at her, and this time Megan smiled back.

I am touched this evening to have in attendance a father of seven children whose sweetheart passed through the vale after a sudden illness just a few weeks ago—sweet Linda, thirty-two years of age, a devoted daughter, wife, and mother, taken home to our Father in Heaven for some inexplicable reason. The funeral was beautiful as Linda’s husband, daughter, and parents spoke of her love and talents. No one charged God foolishly. The testimonies and examples were powerful and strengthened our faith.

It was World War II, and in a crowded ship in the Pacific Ocean 3,000 soldiers sat listening to the chaplain. Tomorrow they would attack an enemy-held island, and the chances of many of them surviving the battle were slim. “One-half of you will be standing before your Maker tomorrow morning at 8:00,” the minister said seriously. “Are you ready?”
The next day the first six groups to approach the island were completely blown out of the water. Paul H. Dunn, in the seventh group, miraculously reached safety. He recounts his feelings: “I crawled ashore … dug a small foxhole … knelt down with my head bared … and asked my Heavenly Father very simply, ‘Do you live? Are you real? Is Jesus Christ really my Savior? Was Joseph Smith a prophet of the Church like I’ve heard all my life and can’t quite understand?’ And then it came, that sweet inner commitment and verification, spirit touching spirit, saying in a silent voice, ‘It is so.’” (P. 135.)
In You and Your World, Elder Dunn, member of the Presidency of the First Quorum of the Seventy, relates this story and many others, as he counsels Church members in five areas: Building Commitment, Strengthening the Home, Gathering Souls, Refining a Testimony, and Mastering Self. A selection of 24 addresses given by Elder Dunn, the book is a compilation of scripture, poetry, stories, and spiritual experiences that discusses gospel principles in an uplifting and inspiring manner.

I remember when, as a young deacon, I would cover a portion of the ward on fast Sunday morning, giving the small envelope to each family, waiting while a contribution was placed in the envelope and then returning it to the bishop. On one such occasion, an elderly member, Brother Wright, who lived alone, welcomed me at the door and, with aged hands, fumbled at the tie of the envelope and placed within it a small sum. His eyes fairly glistened as he made his contribution. He invited me to sit down and then told me of a time many years before when his cupboard had been empty of food. In his hunger, he had prayed to Heavenly Father for food to eat. Not long thereafter, he gazed out his front window and beheld someone approaching his door, pulling behind her a red-colored wagon. It was Sister Balmforth, the Relief Society president, who had pulled that wagon almost half a mile over the railroad tracks and to his door. The wagon overflowed with food collected from the sisters of the ward Relief Society, with which Sister Balmforth filled the empty shelves in Brother Wright’s kitchen. He described her to me as “an angel sent from heaven.”

I am so thankful for “All Is Not Well” in the November 1997 issue. I, too, at one time was the only active member of the Church in my family. I know of the pain and frustration of an upset home. I found the strength to endure when I immersed myself into the gospel. Life was not easy during those years, but it was more than worth it. The struggle is worth it because today I know my Savior is real. There is hope. It took three years for my family to come back, but when we did we brought my sister-in-law as well. I want to thank the New Era for this article. The scriptures were my guide then and today I know how to use them as my guide home.
Name WithheldUtah

About seven years ago, Sister Siphiwe Shongwe’s daughter, three grandchildren, and a friend of the grandchildren who often joined the family at church, were involved in a devastating car accident. All five occupants of the car died. As Sister Shongwe waded through her grief, she was able to find strength in the gospel and stayed true to its precepts. She shares here how attending the temple has helped her find strength and peace.
“When I first learnt about the Church, I had no idea of a temple. At church, they always talked about it but there were no regular temple visits, because the closest temple was in South Africa, about a four-hour drive away. Two years later, a missionary couple from Utah took the initiative of taking members to the temple every fortnight. I was the first one to attend, along with the Relief Society president.
“After my first temple visit, I was a little confused but at the same time I wanted to learn more. From that time the branch started to make regular visits to the temple, and I always made sure I went along with the group.
“As a single widowed mother, I learned that I could be sealed to my deceased spouse for time and eternity. That gave me peace and comfort and reminded me of what the missionaries had taught me—that families can be together forever.
“Being sealed to my deceased family members was one of the most memorable, comforting, and peaceful experiences I have ever had.
“Visiting the temple regularly has also helped motivate me to do family history work for my deceased family members. These things have strengthened my faith and given me a stronger testimony about our Heavenly Father and His compassionate love.
“In another experience, while I was preparing for a temple trip in November 2014, I had a conversation with my daughter about also going to temple. She promised to go with me the following year as she was still preparing herself. At the temple, I had a prayer in my heart for her to go to the house of God. I had no idea that the same month she would be involved in a fatal car accident.
“Knowing that my daughter had the desire to go to the temple helped me and gave me strength. Even before my daughter and I discussed it, God knew that she wouldn’t go to the temple physically but in the spirit.
“I know that temples give comfort and peace as we keep our Heavenly Father’s covenants, just as they did for Job of old. In the book of Alma, we read that the Saviour will ‘take upon him their infirmities, that His bowels may be filled with mercy, according to the flesh, that he may know according to the flesh how to succor His people according to their infirmities’ (Alma 7:12).
“I am grateful for the temple, which prepares and strengthens us even before painful things happen in our lives and humble us to stay closer to our Father in Heaven.”

The shouts and laughter of children on the playground filtered through the schoolroom windows. Mayela’s crayon made wide bands of red down her paper over and over again. Red made her feel happy and warm inside, even on snowy days like today.
Briiing! The bell rattled the windows. Mayela shoved the paper into her desk, flopping the lid down just as her classmates poured through the door.
Brittany wriggled into the seat across the aisle. She rubbed her cheeks vigorously. “I made a snow angel on the hill, but it’s no fun playing alone.”
Mayela scrunched down in her seat. She wanted very much to play with Brittany, but Miss Lynn had said that she couldn’t go out for recess until she remembered to wear snow boots to school. The truth was that she didn’t have any—but she was too proud to tell the teacher that. She hadn’t needed them last year in Texas, where she used to live.
The rest of the afternoon seemed to fly by—spelling, a science experiment, writing in their daily journal. When the bell rang again, school was over.
“Mayela, I want to speak to you.” Miss Lynn stopped her on her way out of the classroom. “I hate to see you staying in for recess every day. And I’m concerned about your walking to school and back home in the snow without boots. Please wear them tomorrow. If you don’t, I’ll have to call your mother.”
Mayela looked down and nodded quickly.
In the hall, Brittany grabbed her arm. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing—she’s after me to wear boots, that’s all.” Mayela fought to keep the tears from spilling down her cheeks.
As they struggled into their coats, Brittany said, “I have an idea—you wear one of my boots, and I’ll wear the other until we get to my house. It’ll be fun, and we can see how many times we can hop on our boot foot on the way.”
Mayela remembered this morning’s walk to school. Her feet had been so cold that she couldn’t feel her toes. She smiled gratefully.
She pulled Brittany’s boot onto her right foot. Her foot slid around in the big boot, but it felt warm.
The two girls left school, arm in arm. They struggled to hold each other up as they hopped. By the time they reached the crossing, they were giggling hard.
“What have we here”—the officer stopping traffic grinned— “a pair of frog twins sharing boots?”
The two girls laughed out loud. Blonde Brittany was the tallest girl in class; black-haired Mayela, the shortest.
When they reached the next corner, Brittany said, “Let’s trade boots—my hopping foot is tired.”
Mayela agreed.
Brittany leaned over. “Look at that. Your foot barely reaches my little toe.” She sighed. “It must be nice to have small feet.”
Mayela giggled. “Maybe, but I’ll never grow tall enough to be a model, either.”
“Do you think I will?”
“Sure! Papa says that people are like puppies—they grow to fit their feet.”
The girls parted in front of Brittany’s house, Mayela returning the boot with a heart-felt thank-you. She hurried the rest of the way home to the trailer court.
That night at supper she pushed her rice and beans around on the plate. “Miss Lynn said that I have to have snow boots by tomorrow or she’s going to call you.”
Papa looked sad. “There is no money, little one. You can’t buy things without money. Next payday, perhaps, but not by tomorrow morning. You’ll just have to explain to your teacher.”
Mayela swallowed and blinked her eyes quickly. She felt sobs building inside like black clouds in a thunderstorm.
She woke up the next morning, convinced that it would be the worst day of her life. The overcast sky and sharp wind seemed to confirm her feelings. She had to pick her way through the slushy sidewalk snow. One misstep and icy slush would soak her canvas shoes.
Up ahead, Brittany danced from one foot to another, clutching a brown paper bag. “Hurry up. I’m cold.”
“What’s in the bag? Something for show-and-tell?”
Brittany shook her head. She thrust the bag into Mayela’s hands. “This is for you. I think Miss Tiny Foot can fit into my last year’s snow boots.”
The boots were stained from last spring’s mud puddles, but they looked warm—and they were red!
Mayela hesitated.
“You don’t mind, do you?” Brittany asked. “Friends share.”
Mayela didn’t know if she minded or not. A glance at her friend’s anxious face helped her decide.
She steadied herself by leaning against Brittany who put her arm around Mayela while she took off one shoe at a time and shoved her feet into the pile-lined luxury of the red boots. “Ah, that feels so good!” She wiggled her toes. There was plenty of room inside. “Thank you, Brittany. Your heart’s as big as”—she grinned— “as big as your feet!”

After the death of our 18-year-old son, Jaxon, I reflected deeply on the quality and direction of my life. I had a child in the eternities, and I had an intense desire to live my life in a way so that someday we could again enjoy our family relationship. I also wanted to better understand the scriptures so that they would guide my life.
I am not quite sure when my interest in the heart began, but it was fueled by the hope of seeing our son again. As I read the Book of Mormon, I began to notice how the heart was used symbolically as the condition of a person’s life or a people’s direction or condition.
Every time the heart was mentioned, whether hard or soft, I would make a little red heart in the margin. I began to see patterns. When the hearts of the people were softened, they had strength to handle adversity, their love for others increased, and they became kinder and gentler. I learned that repentance is what changes hearts as we call upon the Savior and His atoning sacrifice.
I enjoyed a wonderful journey through the Book of Mormon. What I learned changed my heart, which has changed my life. What I learned has also helped me in my professional work as I assist couples through their challenges. I have come to understand that I can teach and remind couples about the common principles that bring marital satisfaction and true intimacy. But until they bring a soft heart to their marriage, change has little chance of occurring or enduring.
Since the time I made the hearts in the margins of my Book of Mormon, I have returned often to reread those passages and have continued to learn from those verses. I have even found new heart passages that I missed on the first reading, which reminds me that there will always be something new in the scriptures to learn, understand, and apply.
Most significant, I am reminded of the love of my Heavenly Father and my Savior. Because of that love, I will have my family forever. I know this with all of my heart, for which I am deeply grateful.

“It’s Christmas!” my sister and I screamed, running into our parents’ bedroom. Every Christmas we set an alarm and woke our parents up at 5:00 a.m. on the dot. That year, we tried to act like everything was normal, but Christmas felt very different. It was different because my grandpa was dying. He had been fighting brain cancer for two years, and in the last couple of days, he had gone downhill.
We were still opening presents when Grandma called to say that Grandpa wasn’t doing well. My mom and dad went to say goodbye to him, and my sister and I were taken to a relative’s house for the day. Later that Christmas evening, Grandpa died. We were heartbroken.
I was sad that Grandpa had died and upset that it was on Christmas. But his death helped me remember why Christmas is important in the first place. It is a day to remember Jesus Christ’s birth. He was born so that death could be overcome. And so, even though Christmas that year was a day of mourning, it was also a day of rejoicing because I knew that through Jesus Christ’s birth, life, and Atonement, I would see Grandpa again.
Jessica S., Utah, USA

President McKay had evidently seen the temple in vision and described it in such detail to Church architect Edward O. Anderson that he was able to reproduce it on paper. As the design process proceeded, the initial drawing was modified. Upon seeing the latest drawings, President McKay said, “Brother Anderson, that is not the temple that you and I saw together.” The final drawings, needless to say, reflected President McKay’s original description.

The branch in Ozark, Alabama, had a picnic. That’s not earth-shattering news, of course, and that’s just the point. It was so ordinary, and so typical, and so comfortable, and so Mormon, and so unobtrusively happy that ten years from now no one will quite be able to remember what they did or quite able to forget how they felt.
Already it’s hard to remember anything but the outlines; the details are fading. It’s becoming no more than a cameo of sunshine—old friends’ faces in relief against sun-filled grass.
There was softball, volleyball, a bake auction for the building fund, and the picnic, of course, with the usual casseroles, chicken, salads, watermelons, and wieners for starters, and some homemade root beer so good that it deserves a small memorial somewhere.
Afterwards there was a greased-pig contest and a tug o’ war. Perhaps that’s the part the young people will remember best, so that’s the part we photographed. Photos can’t compare with remembering, of course, because they can’t mellow and improve and take on perspective with age, but they’re all we’ve got, so they’ll have to do.
It was good that ordinary afternoon to be young and alive and LDS in the sunshine in Alabama.

Or take Manny. To those around him, Manny looks like a guy with a really easy life. He’s on the football team, he gets good grades, and he has many friends.
But Manny never invites his friends over to his house. He doesn’t want them to know that his father is an alcoholic. At age 15, Manny has to be both “big brother” and “dad” to his brothers and sisters. He has to be both oldest son and home repairman for his mother. Manny’s the one who puts the tricycles and toys together on Christmas Eve.

Many years ago my husband became very ill with a rare disease. As the weeks went by and the sicker he became, the more I became convinced that he was dying. I told no one of my fears. We had a large, young family and a loving, eternal marriage, and the thought of losing my husband and raising my children by myself filled me with loneliness, despair, and even anger. I am ashamed to say that I pulled away from my Heavenly Father. For days I quit praying; I quit planning; I cried. I finally came to the realization that I could not do this alone.

For the first time in many days, I knelt down and poured out my heart to my Father in Heaven, pleading for forgiveness for turning away from Him, telling Him all of my deepest feelings, and finally crying out that if this was what He really wanted me to do, I would do it. I knew He must have a plan for our lives.

As I continued on my knees to pour out my heart, the sweetest, most peaceful, loving feeling came over me. It was as if a blanket of love was flowing over me. It was as if I could feel Heavenly Father saying, “That was all I needed to know.” I determined never to turn away from Him again. Gradually and amazingly, my husband began to get better until he made a full recovery.

But they’ve also learned equally important lessons of spiritual survival and the blessings of family. For example, when they lived in Akiachuk, the stake presidency authorized the Fullers to conduct meetings in their own home.
At first that may sound great. But think about holding sacrament meeting in the same living room that contains your TV and VCR and video games, in the same home where you sometimes argue and quarrel. The spirit of your meetings would all be up to you.
Besides, who would give the talks in sacrament meeting? Who would teach Sunday School, Primary, and priesthood meeting? That’s right, your family.
How did the Fullers handle it? For one thing, they made it a point to dress in their Sunday clothes for their meetings, even if it was just at home. And they accepted their responsibility to teach each other. Lyle has taught both Stanley and Linnae in Primary. “I enjoyed it, and so did they,” he reports. Clark’s experience was similar. “I thought it was kind of fun teaching Owen and Stanley. And when Mark taught me, I thought that was great.”
Now that they are in Barrow, they have a small branch of the Church that meets in the local youth center. Each Sunday they clear away the pool tables and other recreation equipment before they can set up a few chairs, a sacrament table, and a portable podium. And while there are perhaps a half dozen other members who help, it is still often Fullers teaching Fullers.
How important is example in this family? Seated at the control panel of the small radio station where he works as a part-time deejay, Lyle talks about life in a big family with lots of boys: “I grew up with five older brothers. Their example has made it easy to make the right choices. Also, it’s put pressure on me to live up to the things they’ve accomplished.”
Now Lyle is the oldest at home. It’s an unspoken duty that he feels deeply: “I was kind of scared when my brother just older than me was ready to leave home, because I knew being the oldest brother was kind of a big responsibility.”
Every night at bedtime, Clark, the next oldest at home, challenges Lyle to a rough-and-tumble wrestling match. Then it’s Dad who has to break things up. Third-in-line Ron isn’t quite ready to take on Clark yet because, “He’s still a head taller and 30 pounds heavier.” But then he glances sideways at Clark in the next room. He can’t help raising his voice, throwing out a teasing challenge: “But I could still take him. You hear that, Clark?”
The teasing and banter continue until it’s time for daily scripture reading and evening prayer. Together, the family has read all of the standard works aloud, seriously, taking time to discuss the meaning of what they are reading. There’s a peaceful spirit here in this cozy home.
Outside, it’s dark and overcast, with snow flurries. The calendar says it’s still early September, but this far north the first snowfall took place weeks ago. The days are growing noticeably shorter: from Thanksgiving through the end of January the sun won’t even appear above the horizon.
Those long weeks of darkness can cause people to become depressed and sluggish. Doctors have discovered that it can be avoided if people are exposed to the right kind of bright light for a period of time each day. As Ron Fuller puts it, “I just spend some time soaking up light every day.”
You can’t escape the analogy. Here is a family that has learned to turn to the Light, no matter where they are. Sometimes the world inappropriately uses the word godforsaken to describe places like this. But the Fullers feel anything but forsaken. And that’s what really puts them on top of the world.

Cheery music plays on the radio. Colored lights twinkle on our Christmas tree, and lighted candles gleam in the kitchen. The smell of homemade pizza slowly fills the house.
I feel like jumping and squealing, but Mommy asks, “Will you please set the table?” So I set seven places—one each for me, Mommy, Daddy, Great-Grandma, Uncle Phil, Heather, and Stacie. Tonight they are coming for dinner. After we eat, I can play with my cousins until bedtime. I can’t wait to show them my favorite dolls!
Soon the doorbell rings. Uncle Phil helps Great-Grandma through the door. “What are you doing up so early?” he teases in his loud, jolly voice. I giggle. He always says this, even when it’s late. Great-Grandma kisses me on the cheek and says, “Hello, sweetheart.” She always says this too.
I sit between my cousins, and Daddy asks a blessing on the food. We eat and laugh, and I am happy that Mommy has saved me five whole olives. I put them on my fingertips, then eat each olive one by one.
After dinner, I tug Stacie’s arm. “Do you want to play dolls?” She shakes her head and follows Uncle Phil into the living room. “Will you play dolls with me?” I whisper to Heather. But she follows Stacie.
“Let’s sing Christmas carols!” Mommy says, pulling back the piano bench. Laughing and clapping, we sing “Jingle Bells” as loud as we can. We sing “Hark the Herald Angels Sing” and “Deck the Halls.” I don’t know all the words, so I hum and clap until I’m tired.
“Do you want to play dolls now?” I ask Stacie.
“No,” she says. “I want to keep singing with Great-Grandma.”
My throat feels tight. Soon big tears roll down my cheeks.
“What’s the matter?” Daddy asks, leading me away from the piano.
“I want to play with Heather and Stacie,” I cry. “I’m bored!”
“But, sweetie,” Daddy says, “Great-Grandma would be bored without you.”
I frown and wipe my eyes.
“See how happy she is,” Daddy says. “She loves you. She likes spending this special time with us, singing her favorite songs.”
I watch Great-Grandma sing. She smiles at me, her eyes shining like twinkling Christmas lights. I walk over to the couch and snuggle next to her. “Hello, sweetheart,” she whispers, putting her arm around me.
Mommy starts playing “Silent Night,” and I sing along.
I don’t want to jump and squeal anymore. But I don’t want to cry either. Playing dolls doesn’t sound as fun as I listen to our reverent voices. I feel calm, happy, and warm—like gleaming candles on a winter night.

In his autobiography, Parley P. Pratt told of his conversion and then of his compelling desire to share the gospel with others. Parley’s brother William, however, was more impressed by Parley’s material success and could not understand why he would give it all up to teach the gospel.

William asked Parley, “This is your all; you have toiled for years to obtain it, and why not now continue to enjoy it?”

Parley responded, “I see plainly you know but little of my circumstances—of the changes which have taken place with me since we parted five years ago, nor how vastly wealthy I have become within that time. Why, sir, I have bank bills enough, on the very best institutions in the world, to sustain myself and family while we live.”

Again William questioned, “Well, I should like to see some of them; I hope they are genuine.”

Parley replied, “There is no doubt of that. They are true bills and founded on capital that will never fail, though heaven and earth should pass away.”

Parley then unlocked his treasury and took out a large pocketbook full of promissory notes like the following: “Whosoever shall forsake father or mother, brethren or sisters, houses or lands, wife or children, for my sake and the gospel’s, shall receive an hundred fold in this life, and in the world to come life everlasting.” Parley explained to William that the words of Jesus Christ will not fail, and then he said, “I feel called upon by the Holy Ghost to forsake my house and home for the gospel’s sake; and I will do it, placing both feet firm on these promises with nothing else to rely upon.”

Still not fully convinced, William left to do his business, and Parley made preparations for a mission that would be lifelong. Parley was not “conformed to this world.” With all his heart he sought to both obtain and share those treasures that money cannot buy.

One week my mother told me that it was my turn to give a talk in the next Primary. I was kind of scared because I didn’t know what to talk about. She asked me a question. Had I ever tried to be like Jesus?
Me, like Jesus? I tried to think, but all I could remember was how I’d made my brother cry. Then I’d spilled my cereal all over the floor. And I’d stepped on Abua’s tail (she’s my cat). I don’t think Jesus stepped on cats’ tails.
I could tell that Mom wanted me to say that I tried to be like Jesus at least some of the time, but the truth is the truth. I looked at the floor and said that I’d never tried to be like Jesus.
I thought Mom might be mad, but instead she lifted up my head and reminded me of the way I helped our neighbor, Mrs. Overholt, with her baby, Macy. Just thinking about Macy’s fluffy curls and the way she screams “Kee” when she sees our cat made me giggle. I like to play with her and give her rides in the wagon. And sometimes I let her play with my dolls, even though she puts them in her mouth.
My mother said that Jesus loves children, too.
Then Mom asked me where my jelly beans were. My jelly beans! I slipped my hand into my pocket, but all I could find was one. A red and yellow one. I told her that my friends Aaron and Jonah and I had eaten all the rest. Aaron likes the yellow ones with white speckles best. He says they taste just like popcorn at the movies.
My mother smiled and told me that Jesus shared with his friends, too. Bread and fishes, not jelly beans.
Then, when my mother hugged me and reminded me about last Sunday, a nice, tingly feeling spread across my chest. Last Sunday, after the sacrament was passed, she’d let me sit next to my baby-sitter. I always look over everyone’s heads until I find where she’s sitting. This time I sat on her lap and gave her lots of big hugs. After church, her mother told my mother how much they love me and how grateful they are for me. Her daughter had been feeling sad, and she said that my hugs really helped.
My mother said that Jesus helped people feel better, too.
I was being like Jesus sometimes, after all. When next Sunday comes, I’ll stand up in front of everyone and give my talk. Jesus gave talks, too.

A few years ago, I was sitting on the fence between being active and inactive in the Church.
I spent one weekend with my friend Spencer, who was about to leave on his mission. He shared his conversion story with me and his desire to serve a mission. I felt the Spirit, and the words “Go on a mission” spoke to my soul. Never in my life had I had the desire to serve a mission. I pushed the feeling away and tried not to think about it.
The very next day, as Spencer and I were traveling, our driver began talking to us about her faith. As she shared, the same words came to my mind: “Go on a mission.” Once again, I buried the feeling.
As we sang the closing hymn at a fireside the following day, the Spirit poured over me and again prompted me to go on a mission. With tears uncontrollably streaming down my face, I thought, “Heavenly Father, if this is what you want, then I’ll do it, even though I don’t want to.” As soon as I made the decision, my desire and excitement to serve grew.
I started my mission papers two days later, and when I received my call, I was assigned to serve in the Philippines Quezon City North Mission. This experience always reminds me that if we have enough faith to follow the promptings of the Spirit, we will find happiness and peace.
Thomas A., South Australia, Australia

I met Karla my first semester at Snow College in the small town of Ephraim, Utah. We got along immediately, friends at first sight. We didn’t have any of the same classes, but we spent time together almost daily. We were walking back to her dorm one night, cutting in between the tall trees as we crossed campus. I was expressing my desire to go see a movie that was currently being shown in the local theater.
“Isn’t that rated R?” she asked.
I thought about it. “I think so, but I hear it’s only for a couple parts. No big deal really.”
She looked at me, “Do you smoke?” she asked.
“Of course not!” I laughed. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Why don’t you smoke?” she persisted.
That was an easy answer. “Word of Wisdom, bad for your health, smelly breath, yellow teeth, cancer, the General Authorities say not to.” I spouted off a list of reasons.
“The prophets say not to.”
“Right, I said that.”
“Well, they also say not to watch movies like that, right?”
A light clicked on in my mind. I couldn’t deny that. The long-term effects of submitting yourself to immoral entertainment could be just as detrimental to your spiritual health as smoking is to your physical health.
I decided I would not go see that movie.