Gospel Story Finder

After church was over, it seemed like everybody in the ward wanted to hang around and talk. The adults, in particular, kept coming up and congratulating Kitty. But all she wanted was to get away as fast as she could.
Without waiting for her mother, she slipped out the back door of the chapel and took the long way home so she wouldn’t run into any members walking in her direction.
She tried to get upstairs to her room without having her father hear, but just as she put her foot on the first step, he came out of the little room with the Sunday newspaper in his hand. Kitty and her father called the room his “hideaway,” pretending he would hide out from home teachers and the bishopric and other Church members. Actually, Kitty had thought more than once that he was pretty good about all the people who came and went on Church business, and he was very good to the missionaries. All the more reason she had to get away from him now before she exploded.
“Hello, dear!” he called. “How did things go? Your mother told me you were made Queen Bee or something today.”
“Oh, daddy! It was Beehive class president, not ‘Queen Bee’! Can’t you ever get anything right! Besides, I don’t want to hear any more about it!”
In her room, she flounced on her bed and let the hot tears come. But not more than a dozen had fallen when she heard a familiar voice on the front porch.
“Kitty? Hi, Kitty! Kitty!”
She went to her window, and sure enough, there was Tami, pushing herself in the porch swing and yelling for her.
“Tami, I can’t play now. Do you understand? Not now.” But her cousin continued to swing and smile and call, her large hands holding firmly to the swing, her stocky legs driving the swing back and forth. Exasperated, Kitty stamped downstairs and flung open the front door.
“Tami, I can’t play now. Go home. Go on home, and leave me alone, won’t you? Won’t anybody leave me alone?” The tears coming fast now, Kitty ran down the porch steps and into the yard. Turning, through the blur she saw Tami’s puzzled face. She ought to go back, but all she wanted was to get away. Then she saw her father come out onto the porch and put his arm around Tami, talking softly to her and patting her on the shoulder as he led her down the front walk and headed her home. Kitty turned and ran for the barn.
It was a barn in looks, at least from the outside. From the inside, it was clearly not a barn, and never had been. Her mother had a large studio on one end, with wonderful skylights, and along the west wall was a little gallery of paintings she was not ready to part with yet. Her dad had a neat workshop, smelling of cedar shavings and varnish. And best of all, Kitty had the loft. Her loft. Nobody ever had a better private place, a place to play house when she was little or to read marvelous books. A place to write in her journal and share secrets with her best friend. A place to be far away from everybody else and at the same time, at home.
Today, though, her loft didn’t seem to welcome her. She looked over at the old desk her dad had refinished for her. There was her journal, neglected for who knew how long. And there was that old copy of Don Quixote that she had made a solemn vow she would one day read. She walked up to one wall and squinted at a framed photograph. Four very skinny, little girls, wet hair straggling down their necks, stood beside a swimming pool, all four holding a small trophy. Under the photo, written in ink were the words The Tadpoles’ First Victory.
Somebody had come into the barn making a lot of noise by way of announcing his presence. Then Kitty heard the noise of a broom handle knocking politely on the door of the loft. Her father wouldn’t even put a foot on the Loft ladder without an invitation.
“Kitty, can I come up?”
“But I can’t talk to you about this. I’m … I’m sorry. Wish I could.” And she did, too. She had always been able to explain things to him, just as Jenny was able to talk about anything to their mother. But this was something she couldn’t—
His voice interrupted her thought.
“Listen, Kitty? You listening up there?” He waited for an answer.
“Well, of course!”
“Well, now, I don’t want to butt in or anything, but can we talk about it? May I please come up?”
“We can’t talk about it. You don’t understand!0”
“So make me understand. May I please come up?”
She knew he would stand there politely asking until the moon rose if she didn’t respond, so she jerked the loft door open and said, “All right! But I don’t know what good it will do.” She went over to a small sofa and sat down.
“Neither do I.” He sat down in the old rickety rocking chair, folded his hands over his stomach, and sighed.
Nobody said anything for a while. One of the best things about Kitty and her father was their silences. She figured they had the best silences any two people ever had, and she’d made up her mind years ago that she’d only marry a man with whom she could have those special silences.
Finally he spoke.
“It’s about church, isn’t it?”
She hesitated. “Well, not exact—
“It’s about church, isn’t it?”
“YES!”
And you don’t want to tell me because you don’t want to say anything bad about your church to your heretical old man, right?”
“Daddy, nobody thinks you’re a heretic, I’ve told—”
“Right?” He looked straight at her.
“Yes.” He rocked some more and smiled a little.
“Kitty, I’ve been married to your mother for 16 years. I’ve been your father for 13 and Jenny’s for 11. Your Uncle Ken and I have been as close as brothers, and he’s been a bishop twice. Don’t you think I know what fine things your church does for people? And don’t you think I also know that since people aren’t perfect, there will always be problems?”
There was another silence, not such a comfortable one this time, because Kitty knew it was up to her to break it.
“I just can’t do it all!” Her voice was louder than she meant it to be. “Listen to this. I’m 13, and I’m supposed to get good grades in school, and practice my cello so I can be in the school orchestra, and stay on the swim team, and spend time with Tami and help her get ready for the Special Olympics for the handicapped plus work in the garden, ‘cause we’re all supposed to have gardens, and keep writing my journal, ‘cause we’re all supposed to have journals—and I love all of it, don’t get me wrong—and we’ve been told to learn foreign languages so I’ve started Spanish this year, and I’m supposed to go to all my meetings and help needy people and support all the ward activities and stay close to my family and now they make me Beehive class president which will mean more meetings—
“Oh, daddy I want to do it all! I really do. It all makes sense and I know it’s right. But 13’s too young to have all my time taken up. And because it’s just going to get worse. High school will just mean more work. Then there’s college and work and marriage and a family—father, I don’t see any end to it till I’m an old, old woman sitting in that rocking chair between temple sessions!” Kitty flopped onto a pillow.
“The better job you do, the bigger job they give you the next time, hum?” said her father.
Kitty muffled something through the pillow.
“And the more you hurry the further behind you get?”
The pillow grunted again.
“And even though you want to do everything just right, you never seem to do anything quite the way you want it?”
Kitty turned her head and stared at her father.
Kitty’s father had said more than once that he was like Henry David Thoreau: he needed a “wide margin” to his life. He worked very hard at his job and at taking care of their house and yard. But beyond that he was not, as he said, a “joiner.” He was not involved in the hundred and one things she and her mother and Jenny were. So how did he know?
They sat for a long time, saying nothing. Finally, Kitty said, “Mom?”
“Of course. That’s why you really ought to ask her how to solve this problem. She could—”
“Oh but dad, that’s just IT! She does everything! Everybody’s always telling me what a marvel she is. ‘How does your mother do it? How does your mother do it?’” Kitty’s voice mimicked her questioners. “I can never begin to be as organized and as capable as she is. I don’t even want to try! They ask me all the time, but I don’t know. I don’t know how she does it!”
“Have you ever asked her?”
“Oh, she’d just say, ‘Do your best,’ or ‘Make a schedule’ or something. It’s easy for her.”
“If it’s easy for her, how do you think I know about all the thoughts that are in your mind, all those things I told you just a minute ago?”
“Well, tell me, then. Tell me how to do it.” Kitty sat up on the bed and folded her arms across her chest. “Mom does it all. Tell me how to do it all.”
“She does it all, hum? She does, hum?” Suddenly her dad jumped out of the rocker, clattered down the ladder from the Loft, and was heard rummaging around in the storage room between his workshop and the studio.
“Daddy? Daddy, what are you doing? What’s going on?”
“Just a minute. Know it’s here someplace …” came the muffled answer. More rummaging and opening and closing of trunk lids. Then he was bounding up the ladder again, with something in his hand.
“Come here, over by the light.” Kitty joined him by the window. “Do you remember this?”
He held out to her a piece of white cloth. When she took it in her hand, she saw it was a dress, a tiny frothy dress, all white, with many tucks and flounces; and across the yoke in front were red and blue marching figures. It was beautiful, and somehow, she knew it had been hers.
“You looked like an angel,” her father said softly. “Your hair was blonde then, and you were all dolled up in this dress and little white shoes and white socks with—I’m almost certain—red and blue stripes matching the whatsit on the dress. It was a Primary thing, Easter, I think, and you stood right in the front row and sang every song without missing a word—three years old and you didn’t miss a word—and me sitting on the back row blubbering when you sang that one about “I Am a Child of God.” l was embarrassed like the dickens until I noticed that both of the men beside me were sniffing and honking too. Oh, your mother was so proud of you, and that dress! I guess she took a whole roll of film of you in that dress. Still has ’em someplace.”
Kitty looked more closely at the dress. Tiny stitches, many of them handmade.
“Mother made this?” Her father nodded. “But she doesn’t sew.”
“She doesn’t now. Obviously, she couldn’t do it all. She loved sewing for you, Kitten. And for herself, and Jenny, and the house. But finally she said it took too much time from other things.” He took the dress from her and began folding it very carefully.
“But she didn’t give up painting.”
“Of course not. Didn’t give up breathing, either. Your mom’s like—well—like a well that people come to, to be refreshed. But she has to be filled herself, or she’ll have nothing to give. Her painting is one place she gets renewed. Those scriptures of yours are another place too. And have you ever heard your mother make an appointment for Saturday night?”
Kitty thought a long minute, then shook her head.
“Nope, because that’s our time, hers and mine. We go out, to a movie, or to dinner, or for a drive, or a walk, or sometimes she drags me to an art gallery and sometimes I drag her to a hockey game. But it’s strictly our time.”
“You think it’s okay for me to have some ‘me’ time, even though I’m not married?”
“Absolutely. You ought to be able to take off, oh, say after noon on Saturday and not answer to anybody. Lie up here and watch the dust motes dance in the sunlight. Take your bike out in the rain. Spend the whole long afternoon getting acquainted with just what it feels like to be 13, so’s you’ll never forget. To kind of help you along with that, I hereby relieve you of your Saturday garden chores.”
“I guess mom gave up a lot of stuff besides sewing, didn’t she? I just never thought about it before.” Kitty looked again at the red and blue figures marching across the white dress.
“Sure. But she kept a lot, too. That’s what I’ve been saying. She never considered giving up painting, and you mustn’t ever consider giving up your music.”
How did he know, Kitty wondered. How did he know that of swimming and chorus and reading and all the other things, her cello was the one set apart, different, in its own special world?
“Look, Kitten, all your life you’ll be called on to do things because you have the brains and the talents and the unselfishness to do them. But you’ll have to use some of those brains to figure out how to give to others and still have something left for yourself. Now take Tami, for instance. You’ve been great with her. You’ve done things for her that her own parents didn’t seem able to do. But she takes a lot of your time. Still, she is your cousin and she does need someone to love her and work with her, so she can be every bit as much as she possibly can be, whatever that is. Now what does that brain say about a solution to that?”
Kitty got up and walked over to the window. Down the street, she could see Tami’s house. She imagined Tami helping her mother set the table, and remembered how proud she’d been when, after hours of Kitty’s help, she’d managed to do it perfectly by herself. She didn’t want to desert Tami.
“Jenny!” she suddenly said “Jenny’s old enough now, and she’s good with Tami. In fact, it would be good for her to get her nose out of that TV and start working with Tami. I could coach her in the things she’d need to know—”
“Sure you could,” her dad said. “She’s ready for that job now, just like you’re ready to take on a different leadership job.”
“The Beehive class?”
“Yep. That’s a totally different challenge—a whole bunch of girls your own age, instead of one retarded cousin. But you’ll handle it. Kitty, I really think you ought to talk with your mom. She can tell you a dozen hints about juggling these things. But never think it’s easy. It’s not, not for her, not for you. Some things you give up, some you keep, some you compromise. And sometimes you move from one thing to another because you’ve learned what you needed to learn, or given what was most important for you to give, like with Tami.”
Suddenly, from the house, Kitty heard her mom’s voice.
“Carlyle? Kitty? Where are you two? Dinner’s ready!”
“Come on, Kitten. Let’s not keep her waiting.”
“Sure thing, dad. And then after dinner, I’ve got to have a long talk with that woman. Oh, but wait—” She ran over to the window seat and picked up the neatly folded little white dress.
“I think I’ll just hang on to this for a while,” and she clambered down the stairs after her father, whistling softly “I Am a Child of God.”

Live theater was my passion! As a young adult, I threw myself into acting and singing on the stage. I was blessed with talent and hoped to establish a career performing professionally. I won the most challenging roles I could get and always behaved professionally in order to win the respect of my fellow thespians.
I was thrilled when the most influential director in our area told me that he would be holding auditions for an operetta and that he wanted me to try out. The show would be performed in our area’s most prestigious venue, and it seemed that my director friend already had me in mind for the leading role.
The script was unavailable for perusal before the audition, but the operetta was based on a novel by an 18th-century philosopher, which I read. I also became familiar with the show’s music, which was exceptionally beautiful and challenging.
The audition went well, and I was soon informed that the leading role—the most important part—was mine! I believed that this role was a huge opportunity.
I walked on clouds of excitement—until the script arrived. As I read it, my elation rapidly floated away. While the novel and the music were worthy, the script was irreverent and contained suggestive and inappropriate stage directions. I knew that I shouldn’t be involved in this production. It was a terrible disappointment.
Suddenly I had a dilemma. Theater etiquette dictates that after accepting a role, an actor does not quit because the production schedule does not allow time for changes in cast. Backing out now would be considered very unprofessional. I feared losing the trust of the theater company, offending the director, and even losing the opportunity to continue performing elsewhere.
Of course, I was tempted to rationalize! A voice strutted across my mind, proclaiming, “You can’t quit now. The script isn’t so bad. The good in the show will make up for the naughty parts.” But the Holy Spirit was always in the wings of my heart—firmly, patiently, unwaveringly cuing me that I needed to exit the operetta.
I knew what I had to do. Trembling, I picked up the phone and dialed the director.
“Hello, sir,” I said when he answered. “This is Annie.”
“Annie! I’m so excited about the show. Did you get the script?”
“Yes, I did, and I … I …”
I burst into tears. Talk about unprofessional!
Somehow, between sobs, I managed to explain to the director why I could not be in his show. And then I waited for the world to end.
The dear man laughed. He respected my choice. At first he tried to talk me into staying with the show, but he relented. He said he would still adore me even if I didn’t want to be in his operetta. And he simply asked me to bring the script to him right away so that he could give it to somebody else. I hung up the phone, mortified at my weeping but grateful for the director’s affectionate, understanding response.
I wiped away my tears and then grabbed the script and jumped into my car. As the engine started, the radio also came to life. It was preset to the local classical music station, and to my amazement, the tune playing was the overture of the very same operetta. I had never ever heard it played on the radio before.
I felt like Heavenly Father was playing this music for me. He wanted me to understand that He loved me and that He approved of my choice. The music coming over the airwaves was one of God’s tender mercies. Through it I felt the comfort of His love.

Four years later, in 2002, my father and one of my sisters died just a week apart. I carried on, serving as a district missionary until I received my full-time mission call in July 2004 to serve in the South Africa Durban Mission. I was in the mission field just a few months when my brother called my mission president, informing him that my mother had died and had already been buried. Can you picture how it feels to lose such a mother? Four months later another sister died.
As a missionary, I had been teaching people about the restored gospel. Because of my testimony, I never worried about my losses. I had peace of mind and hope that in due time I would see my parents and sisters again. On the way home from my mission in July 2006, I went to the Johannesburg South Africa Temple and was baptized on behalf of my male family members who had passed on, and I had baptisms performed for my sisters who had died.

Once upon a time a husband and wife who loved each other very much wanted to have a child of their very own to hold and to cuddle and to love. As time passed and they had no children, they prayed to their Heavenly Father to send them a special child. Heavenly Father heard their prayers.
One day this husband and wife received a telephone call to go to a distant city to meet with some people who said they had a tiny baby that this man and his wife could adopt. Excited and filled with anticipation, they made the journey in their car. When they arrived at the city, they went to a certain home and there they were taken into a room where they saw a tiny baby lying in the middle of a big bed waiting for them. There really is such a thing as love at first sight, for when this husband and wife saw that little boy lying there all alone, they immediately loved him. They took him home with them and loved the baby so much that they talked about him as their own beloved son.
Yet in spite of great love for that little baby, they had a fear in their hearts that they might not be able to keep him as their very own child. They first had to see a judge and ask him if they could adopt this baby according to law. Because the judge wanted to make sure the little boy would be properly cared for, he first had to find out if the husband and his wife loved each other, if they had a good and happy home, and if they had enough money to feed and clothe the baby.
It took time for the judge to decide all these questions and all the while the love of the husband and his wife for the baby grew and grew. Finally, the judge gave legal consent for the couple to adopt the baby and this was done. Now the baby was their very own special child and their fear was gone that he would be taken away from them. Still, the judge could only give them permission to have the child during their lifetime on this earth. But they loved that baby more than that! They believed in Jesus and knew that Jesus had more power than the judge. Jesus could give them the child forever and ever and not just for this life only.
After the adoption papers had been signed and the baby had been given a name, the couple took their son with them to a temple of God. There they dressed in white clothes and dressed the little boy in white clothes too. Then they all knelt down at an altar in the temple. A man who held a special priesthood sealed that little boy to his new father and mother so that the family could be together forever. Now this boy really was their own special child, not only during this life, but even after death. If they all did what was right and loved one another, they could all live together with Jesus in heaven. Now that baby really was their special child!
I know that this story is true, because I am that father who loves his very own special child more every day and, as mothers do, my wife loves him even more. Every child who lives in such a family where love is can also feel he or she is a very special child.

Julius Caesar himself would have been proud of the costume.
A brass breastplate, red cape, centurion’s helmet, and pleated warrior’s toga made President A. Brent Brockbank, second counselor in the San Jose California Stake presidency, look like one of Rome’s conquering legionnaires. President Brockbank was participating in a weekend of games and service projects planned by the youth of the stake. The activities included a multi-stake dance and a fireside.
His outfit was in complete harmony with the final Saturday afternoon event—a chariot race pitting homemade vehicles from each ward in the stake against each other.
The stake’s teenagers, divided into six groups by wards, had labored on service projects since early Saturday morning. No wonder they were happy now to relish a well-earned lunch (organized by the Laurels), served from food-laden tables in the Del Mar High School stadium. Let the second counselor steal the spotlight—momentarily.
President Brockbank’s biceps bulged under the weight of a gold-painted plaster-of-paris statue of a charioteer cracking his whip over the heads of six galloping stallions. He explained to the crowd that the Ben Hur Memorial Traveling Award was destined for the ward whose team was fastest in a 440-yard dash around the track. One person was to ride in the chariot, six would pull. Turning first to those still heaping their plates with food, then to those in the stands basking in the west coast sunshine, President Brockbank raised the trophy in the air.
“Those who are about to die, we salute you!” he shouted to rivals in another ward, making fun of ancient Coliseum rites. Stake members, young and old alike, cheered the “emperor” on. The tone for the afternoon—a mood of happy excitement—was set.

When Winston was twelve, his father decided to send him to Harrow, a reputable public school (in the United States, it would be called a private school). However, on his entrance examination, Winston was not able to answer even one question on the Latin test. But because his father was one of the most brilliant and influential men in England, Winston was admitted. He spent the next four and a half years at Harrow, consistently finishing at the bottom of his class.

Because he kept failing Latin, Winston had to repeat the lowest form, or grade, again and again. This meant that he also got to retake the same English grammar class each time. He never did learn Latin very well, but he did become a great journalist and author—in 1953 he won the Nobel prize for literature—and an excellent speaker. Even though he was assigned to the form for the slowest learners, Churchill tried out for the school prize in recitation. He wrote to his father, proudly telling him that he was memorizing a thousand lines of Macaulay, a popular British writer. Then, the day before the recital, he found out that he needed to recite twelve hundred lines! He spent every spare moment memorizing the additional lines and won the top prize, to the amazement of the school.

When Hugo bears his testimony, he always thanks his mother and the teachers who have taught him to come to church, where he can learn. And he tells of a special prayer in his heart that his father will someday listen to the missionaries and come to church, where he can feel the love of all the ward members. Hugo feels very sad that his father and his brother are not interested in learning about the Church right now. He says: “My brother thinks that coming to church is a waste of time. But it’s not a waste of time—it is gaining eternal life!”
Hugo tries to set a good example at home, as well as at school. “I have a good relationship with my Dad. I know he has very sensitive feelings, and I try not to do anything to make him feel left out,” he says. “We sometimes go on walks together and just talk—these are our special times together.”

Illustrated by Mike Eagle
The McKay family loved music and learned to play instruments. President McKay’s son Lawrence played the violin beautifully.
President McKay: What a beautiful song.
Years later, when Lawrence became a husband and a father, he sold the violin to help make ends meet.
Lawrence: Mildred and I need the money, Father, but how I hated to give up my violin! Playing it often comforted me when I was far from home.
President McKay didn’t hesitate to solve the problem.
President McKay: I understand my son recently sold you this violin. I’m here to buy it back—I prize it too greatly to let it leave our family.
President McKay composed a poem about how much he valued his son’s musical talent and the memories they had made playing music together. A few months later, he put the violin and poem in the mail.
Lawrence: Look, Mildred, a package from my father. What do you think it is?
When Lawrence recognized his beloved violin, tears streamed down his face. He played all of his favorite songs late into the night and vowed never to part with his father’s precious gift again.

Prophet loved music. He especially loved Primary songs and Church hymns. He hummed the tunes all day long. He imagined himself sitting at a piano, playing his favorite songs. He also imagined himself teaching other people how to play.
There was just one problem. He didn’t have a piano.
One day Prophet had an interview with his bishop.
“Have you set any goals for the Children and Youth program?” the bishop asked.
“Yes,” Prophet said. “I want to learn to play the piano.”
“That is a good goal,” the bishop said.
“And when I reach that goal,” Prophet said, “then I have another goal. I want to teach 20 other people how to play.”
“You have two good goals,” the bishop said.
“And I have a problem,” Prophet said. “I don’t have a piano.”
“Well, let us see what we can do.”
At church the next Sunday, the bishop told Prophet that he had found a missionary couple who could teach him. They would bring piano keyboards for him and others to practice on. They wanted to teach lots of people how to play the piano.
The bishop talked to people. Prophet talked to people. Prophet’s family talked to people. Soon the whole ward was talking about piano lessons. So were others.
“Many of my friends who are not members also want to learn,” Prophet told the bishop.
“They are welcome, of course,” the bishop said. “The missionaries will give you a book and help you learn the lessons. And after you learn, you can help them teach everyone else.”
“That is my second goal!” Prophet said.
Soon Prophet was practicing with the missionaries. He loved learning what each of the notes meant and hearing them come together to make a song. Two of his friends from church, Kelvin and Alexander, were also learning. After a month, all three boys started teaching too.
Every day, the boys taught keyboard classes at the Church building. At first there were about 10 students, then 20, then 50!
“This is fun!” Kelvin said one day when class was over.
“I think Heavenly Father is happy because we are helping others to learn,” Alexander said.
Prophet nodded. His goal was already helping so many people.
But there was something else that made Prophet happy. As the other students practiced the Primary songs, they were also learning about Heavenly Father. Some of them asked Prophet if they could learn more about the Church.
And in fact, some of the people who first learned about the Church because of piano lessons ended up getting baptized.
“Now in meetings,” Prophet says, “we all join together and sing the songs we love.”
Watch a video about this story!

I was excited when Mom told me that Sean was coming for dinner.
He’s my big brother, but he doesn’t live at home anymore. He moved out when he finished high school. My other brother, Mike, went on a mission when he finished high school, but Sean doesn’t even go to church. He’s a great brother, though, and I love him. I especially love it when he teases me. When I was smaller, he let me take horsey rides on his back. He ran all over the yard with me hanging onto his neck and him holding onto my legs. I hollered, “Giddy-up!” and pretended to whip him, and he snorted and bucked around like a real horse.
I’m too big for that now, so, instead, he shows me wrestling moves. He won the city wrestling championship in the eleventh grade. I was really proud of him that night. Sometimes we throw the football around, and sometimes we just sit and talk. I was really looking forward to his coming over tonight because I wanted him to help me make my pinewood derby racer. Sean is good with his hands, and I like to work with him in the garage.
I helped Mom set the table to make the waiting go faster. As I put the knives and forks out, I noticed that something was wrong. “Hey, you have too many plates on the table,” I said.
“No, dear. Sean is coming tonight, remember, and so are the missionaries.”
“The missionaries!” I cried, slamming down the last fork. “Why do we have to have the missionaries when Sean is here? I wanted to have him to myself. I wanted it to be a special night.”
Mom looked at me in surprise. “It can still be a special night,” she replied gently. “The missionaries are nice young men. I’m sure you’ll like them.”
That’s all she knew about it. How could Sean play and work with me when the missionaries were there? I knew that he’d be polite and spend his time talking to them.
By the time Sean arrived, I had worked myself into a real lather. He could tell I wasn’t happy, but I knew better than to tell him why. Mom and Dad would be really disappointed if I ever complained about the missionaries to him. More than anything else in the world, they wanted him to come back to church. So did I, but I didn’t think talking all night to the missionaries would make it happen.
When the missionaries arrived, Mom had dinner all ready, so we sat right down to eat. Everyone had a good time. Mom was right—the missionaries were great guys. They cracked jokes with Sean, and both faked surprise when he told them he had wrestled in high school. Sean’s not my big brother just because he’s older, but also because he’s big. Not fat and flabby big, but muscle and bone big.
Dinner ended with everyone laughing and joking. Then it happened. Elder Blair asked if he could leave a message and a prayer before they went on to their next appointment. Well, this is the end of the night for me, I thought, my head sagging. Sean won’t be helping me with my racer tonight. He was going to escape before anyone could talk religion to him.
I waited for the scraping back of his chair, the excuse why he couldn’t stay. But nothing happened. Slowly I looked up, and he was still there, watching Elder Blair thumb through his Book of Mormon. When Elder Blair found what he wanted, he read a few verses. Then he started asking Sean questions. Mom and Dad just sat there looking worried and hopeful. Sean answered each question in a humorous kind of way. He had stayed because he enjoyed having fun with the missionaries, and now he was going to go on joking even though the elders were being serious.
Suddenly Elder Meeks, the skinny one, caught on to what Sean was doing. “Sean,” he said, looking him straight in the eye, “do you believe in Jesus Christ?”
The whole atmosphere in the room changed. Sean looked back at him, but instead of answering in an offhand way, he very softly said, “Yes.”
“Then why are you making fun of what we’re saying?”
I looked at Mom. She had tears in her eyes. Dad did, too. What’s the matter with them? I wondered. Were they upset with Sean or with the missionaries?
Sean and Elder Meeks continued talking, Elder Meeks asking questions and Sean giving him straight answers. Finally Elder Meeks said, “Sean, when was the last time you went to church?” Sean shrugged and looked at Mom and Dad for help, but they both shook their heads. They couldn’t remember, either.
I could remember—not the date, but how happy I had felt sitting beside him, feeling proud to be his brother, how glad I was to sing along with him, even though he couldn’t sing very well. I wanted to tell them all this, but suddenly there was a big lump in my throat, and I wasn’t sure I could speak.
“Sean,” Elder Meeks asked, “will you go to church with us on Sunday?”
Sean was looking at his hands. I couldn’t see his face, but we could all see his head slowly nod up and down. The lump in my throat grew bigger, and now I had tears in my eyes, too. Everyone in the room was crying, but we all had smiles on our faces.
As I looked from face to face, I paused at Sean and Elder Meeks. I didn’t see a scrawny elder and a wrestling champion. I saw David and Goliath. Once again David had saved the day because he had the Spirit of the Lord with him. That’s why we were all crying—we could feel that Spirit, and it felt good.
I love my brother Sean, but at that moment I wanted to be like Elder Meeks. I wanted to have the Lord on my side all the time, and I think Sean did, too. Mom was right. This had been a special evening. I had seen David, unafraid, go into battle with Goliath, and they had both won!

Dear Reed,
Do you still like your big model airplane—the one that you made with Grandpa? Well, it doesn’t fly anymore. Please don’t be mad at me, Reed. I’m really sorry.
I was on my bed, and Rusty had his head and one paw in my lap. We were thinking about you. I was holding your catcher’s mitt, and Rusty smelled it. His eyes looked sad. So I got your gym shoes from the closet and held them up to Rusty’s nose, and he started to wag his tail. I said, “Reed,” and Rusty barked. He barked every time he smelled your shoes and I said your name.
Then Scooter woke up from his nap, and Rachel came home from gymnastics. They wanted to play my game with Rusty. That was when things got a little wild. We played catch with your shoes, and Rusty chased us across the beds and all around the room. He got too excited. I guess we all got too excited.
Mom fixed the curtains, and Dad fixed the desk chair. They look as good as new. I tried to fix your airplane. But it doesn’t look as good as new. I think that some parts are in the wrong places. I saved the extra pieces in a box. Maybe you can fix it better when you get home.
I’m really sorry, Reed. Maybe Mom will let me make some cookies for you to make you feel better.
Love,Buddy

Watoy paused under the colorful Filipino flag outside his school before heading inside.
“Good morning, class,” his teacher said. “It’s time for our morning prayer.”
All around, Watoy’s friends each touched their foreheads, chests, and shoulders to form the shape of a cross. Then they recited the prayer they always said at the beginning of class. As usual, Watoy didn’t join them. Instead, he closed his eyes, bowed his head, and said his own silent prayer. He prayed about different things each time, the way he was taught to pray at home and in Primary.
When he finished and looked up, he saw that his teacher was watching him with a confused expression on her face.
“May I talk to you after school?” she said.
Watoy swallowed and nodded. Was he in trouble?
When classes had ended for the day, Watoy’s teacher walked over to him.
“I see that you never cross yourself or recite our morning prayer,” she said. “Will you please tell me why?”
Watoy breathed a sigh of relief. His teacher wasn’t upset, just curious! He thought about how to answer.
“Well,” he began, “in my church, when we pray, we talk to Heavenly Father about many different things. And the cross reminds us of when Jesus died. But Jesus is not dead. He lives!”
His teacher thought about this for a moment and then nodded slowly.
“Thank you for sharing this with me,” she said.
As Watoy walked to football practice, he felt warm and good inside. He liked teaching others about Jesus Christ.

When my little sister, Lillian, was born, I had just been baptized. My father told me that if I stayed worthy to the covenants I had just made, he would let me baptize Lillian when she turned eight. He said that it is a great honor to baptize someone and challenged me to always live worthy of that great privilege. Throughout the next eight years I would often think about my father’s promise and challenge and was careful to always make good choices.
Lillian and I spent a lot of time together growing up—I even taught her how to ride a bike! In coming to know Lillian more, I’ve learned that she has a kind heart and a Christlike spirit. My mom always reminded us how important family relationships are, and she encouraged me to be kind, helpful, and compassionate to all my siblings. That counsel, along with my goal to qualify to baptize my sister, helped Lillian and me to develop a special and unique bond.
On the day of Lillian’s baptism, our dad took us into an empty classroom in the church building. He went over the baptism prayer with me and showed Lillian where to put her hands on my arm. We were both so excited! When Lillian came out of the water, neither of us could stop smiling. As she exited the font, she turned back and said, “Thank you, Kent, for baptizing me!”
My dad confirmed her, and we drove to the temple, which was nearby, and took pictures—a family tradition at baptisms to remind us that we are an eternal family. I’m so thankful for the gospel in my life. Baptizing Lillian was testimony-building and has helped me in my preparations to serve a full-time mission. Just as my dad kept his promise to me, Heavenly Father keeps His promises to us. Honoring covenants brings great blessings, and I look forward to making my temple covenants in the future.

Last year I was on the school bus when some older kids asked me if I knew how to read. I told them that I did, and they said, “If you know how to read, read that word written on the bus.” So I did, and to my surprise it was a bad word! I felt so bad, because I want to make Jesus happy, and I know that saying bad words makes Him sad.
I talked to my mom, and now if someone asks me to read something, first I read it in my mind. Then if it is not a bad word, I read it out loud. I want to keep the commandments and follow Heavenly Father’s plan.

As a child, I was never taught to read the Bible. I went to church on Sundays, but I contributed nothing and felt nothing in return. I was disillusioned by my religion. I remember having serious arguments with my mother over a metal object called the Santísimo that my parents worshiped. They expected me to worship it as well. I could not. I searched for a better alternative, wanting to find God—wanting to know if He even existed. I thirsted to know Him and His words. But I could not seem to find what I sought.
There were moments when I felt close to quenching my thirst. When I held my first child, a daughter, in my arms for the first time, I had a feeling that God really did exist. Many years later, when her sister was born, I experienced the same feeling. Once I told my cousin that I felt in my heart I was somehow going to become a priest with real authority from God. She said that was impossible because I had a family to take care of.
Most of the time, however, an inexplicable tiredness weighed upon my soul. I was spiritually thirsty and could find no place to drink.
In April 1994 I was living in the city of Monterrey, México, earning a living as a taxi driver. One day it rained for hours, sending water cascading down the mountainsides. After driving around in the rain for hours, I found myself in a little town about eight kilometers from Monterrey. It was about 9:30 P.M., nearly time to go home. Suddenly I saw two young men on foot. They were wearing dark trousers and white shirts, and they were drenched from head to foot.
I opened the door of the taxi and called out, “Get in! I’m going to Monterrey.”
The taller one, who had a very fair complexion, replied, “We don’t have any money.”
“No charge,” I replied.
As I drove, we talked. They asked if they could share a message about Jesus Christ. I agreed and gave them my address.
When I got home, I woke my wife and told her about the two young men. “What a coincidence,” I said. “One is Mexican and the other American, and they are both named Elder.”
“Elder means missionary,” my wife answered, knowing just a little about the Church.
From deep within me, I felt something stir. These young men had left a feeling of exquisite wonder in my heart. I felt close to finding the water that would quench my thirst.
The missionaries came to our home, and I was happy to listen to them. Two weeks later, I was baptized. My wife was baptized four months later. Our oldest daughter had been receiving religious training at school. When she went to the LDS Church for the first time, she cried, “Papá, this is so much better than what I am learning at school!” She too was baptized.
In December 1995 we were sealed as a family in the México City México Temple for this life and for eternity. Now as a family we enjoy harmony, peace, and happiness. We know whom we worship. We know where we came from and where we are going. We love God’s holy word, especially the Book of Mormon, and we love His Church, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Through these gifts we have found that well of living water the Savior spoke of to the woman of Samaria: “Whosoever drinketh of the water that I shall give him shall never thirst; but the water that I shall give him shall be in him a well of water springing up into everlasting life” (John 4:14).

They became involved in this work in an unusual way.
“My friend and I were assigned to perform some vicarious ordinances in the Brisbane Australia Temple,” Michael said. “I had driven to the temple in my business van, and when I was returning to it after the completion of my assignment, a fellow approached me in the car park and said he was the facilities manager for the Church in the area.
“He asked if I would be interested in doing some work for the Church.”
Michael says, “We were asked if we would be willing to do some gilding (painting with special gold paint) on a statue of the angel Moroni. We told him that we were willing, submitted a bid, and we did that very interesting work and have since been fortunate enough to work on many other projects.”

The Book of Mormon is not just a history book, nor just a book of scripture, for the Wolfgramm kids, whose parents migrated from Tonga to Salt Lake City nearly 20 years ago. It’s the story of their family—their relatives. Its sacred pages help them trace their genealogy back to Adam, through their 88th great-grandfather, Nephi.
Their story parallels that of their ancestors in the Book of Mormon to some degree. Their parents, Mike and Vake, left their homeland and crossed the sea for religious reasons. Back then there were no temples in the South Pacific, and they came to Salt Lake City to be sealed together. They didn’t have the funds to make it back to Tonga, however, so they stayed in the States and began adding to their family.
Like the family of Lehi, the Wolfgramms had to work hard to carve a place for themselves in their new country. In addition to other jobs, the parents were involved in Polynesian performing groups in the Salt Lake area. As soon as the children were old enough to walk and talk, they were taught to play, sing, and dance in the Polynesian tradition. They eagerly took to the stage, and soon the family had a Polynesian group of their own.

“You have to tell Ba (Father), Loan (LoAnn).”
Loan looked up at her older brother as they walked home through the snowdrifts. “I … I know, Giang.” She buried her nose deeper into her scarf. “But what will he think when he finds out that I’m singing the solo tonight in our school’s Christmas play?”
Her brother’s answer came in frosty puffs. “I don’t know. It is a great honor that Miss Watson chose you out of all the third graders. But I’m afraid that Ba will not approve. After all, he is a leader in our Buddhist religion, and we do not celebrate Christmas.”
Loan felt tears stinging her eyes. “I wish Ba would understand. Sometimes it’s hard being different. If I was good at something, maybe I could make friends easier.”
“I know, Loan, and you are good at singing.” Her brother put his arm around her. “It’s just that Ba might not like your singing in a Christian program.”
“Loan? Giang?” Their mother called from the front porch.
“We’re coming, Ma (Mother).”
“Ooh, you are wet.” Ma bent to help with their coats, giving them each a kiss. Loan caught the comforting scent of almond shampoo as her mother’s hair swished against her silky aó-dài (long, side-split dress worn over pants). More good smells drifted from the kitchen.
“Mmmm. What’s for dinner?”
“I’m making something special tonight—fish, with your favorite nu’o’ c mam (fish sauce), and mangoes for Uncle Lan.”
“Uncle Lan?” Loan asked.
“Yes, remember? Têt Nguyên Dán (Vietnamese Lunar New Year) is early this year—at the end of January. Uncle Lan has offered to help us get ready for it by fixing our broken couch. Your Aunt Mai and I will sew new clothes.”
Tet, a day filled with fireworks and gifts of money, celebrates the renewal of body and spirit. Loan wondered how she could have forgotten her favorite Vietnamese holiday. She’d forgotten other things too—Buddhist relatives, neighbors, and friends. What would they think if they found out about her solo? Ba would be ashamed.
But it was too late. The play was only a few hours away. Loan stood in the middle of the room, her foot tracing a pattern in the rug. “Ba?”
“Yes?” He looked up from his book. Then, seeing something in her face, his voice turned deep and warm. “Come here, little one. What is it?”
She drew closer, and he put his big hands on her narrow shoulders. Suddenly she was not afraid. Her story poured out.
“Ahhhh.” Wise lines crinkled around her father’s eyes. “Loan, you are too young to remember our home in Vietnam. When you were born in Saigon, it was the season of the rains. Outside our window was a flowering bush where a thrush lived. All day long he sang. I think that that little bird of Saigon gave you his beautiful voice.”
“Then you do not mind?”
“No, my little bird. I am proud for you to be chosen. Go tonight and do your very best. Sing with all your heart and soul.”
“Oh, Ba, thank you.”
“How will you get to the school?”
“One of my classmates, Molly, and her parents will pick me up on the way. There will be a party afterward for my class members and their families in our classroom.”
“I see.” He nodded slowly. “But I wish you to come straight home after the performance. I will send Giang to walk with you.”
“Yes, Ba.”
Loan saw her mother standing in the doorway. “I’m sorry I won’t be here for your special dinner,” she said.
“Do not worry.” Her mother smiled softly. “Hurry, and I will have some food for you before you leave.”
A few hours later Loan climbed the platform in the school auditorium. It was time for her solo, “Silent Night,” the final song in the Christmas play. As she took her place by the nativity scene, the rest of her class filed onstage behind her, holding pinpoint flashlights.
“Shhhh,” Miss Watson signaled. The auditorium lights dimmed, and the curtain swept back to reveal a sea of faces. Loan could feel her knees begin to tremble nervously. Her mouth felt dry. Then Ba’s words floated into her memory: “Sing with all your heart and soul.” She pictured the thrush singing in his flowering bush, and her voice sailed out over the audience, high and pure. “… Sleep in heavenly peace.” On her closing notes, the lights went out. Only the children’s flashlights dotted the dark like a sprinkle of stars. The applause was thunderous.
As the curtains closed, Molly hugged Loan. “You were wonderful,” she whispered. Miss Watson and Loan’s classmates beamed at her.
Loan smiled, too, but her pleasure didn’t last long. Her classmates were already hurrying off the stage to join their families. They were getting ready for the party, and Loan knew that she must leave with Giang.
As the lights went up, Loan spotted Giang in the back of the auditorium. Then her eyes widened. Uncle Lan and Aunt Mai were beside her brother, and next to them, smiling proudly, were Ma and Ba!
They came to hear me sing! Loan realized. Tears blurred her vision.
Suddenly Molly was beside her on the stage. “I hope you’re coming to the Christmas party, Loan.”
“Yes, … I think I am.”
Molly waved to Loan’s mother and father. “Your house was so cheerful tonight when we picked you up. Were you celebrating something?”
“We’re getting ready for our new year—Tet.” Loan hesitated. “W-would you like to come over and see sometime?”
“Could I?” Molly linked her arm through Loan’s. “I’d like that very much.”
Together they ran toward the side of the stage. Loan felt her heart soar and sing like the little bird of Saigon.

Another one of my friends was an older man who owned a flower shop. I’d often go see him, and he’d let me use his microscope. When he died, I didn’t know where he went. I was afraid. I worried about it for almost two years. I came to the point where I had to know if Heavenly Father was really there.
One night, while sleeping outside, I knelt by my cot and poured my heart out to the Lord for a long time. I asked Heavenly Father, “Are You there and do You love me?” As I was kneeling there, I felt a warmth from the bottom of my feet to the top of my head. I heard and felt these words: “Yes, I’m here, and yes, I love you.” I know that if Heavenly Father knew and cared about a little boy in Wyoming, He knows and cares about all of us!

One of the president’s sons gives this poignant insight into his father’s character and to the source of President Smith’s great inner strength:
“As children, so frequently we would hear him say, ‘If only the people in the world would understand the trials, the tribulations, the sins our Lord took upon himself for our benefit.’ Whenever he would refer to this, tears would come into his eyes.
“A few years ago, as I sat alone with my father in his study, I observed that he had been in deep meditation. I hesitated to break the silence, but finally he spoke. ‘Oh, my son, I wish you could have been with me last Thursday as I met with my Brethren in the temple. Oh, if you could have heard them testify of their love for their Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ!’ And then he lowered his head, and tears streamed from his face and dropped to his shirt. Then, after many seconds, without as much as raising his head, but moving his head back and forth, he said, ‘Oh, how I love my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ!’”