Gospel Story Finder

The day after Mother’s Day, Eric and his mom went to the local pharmacy to fill a prescription. Eric walked around the pharmacy while his mother purchased the medication. When they got back in the car, Eric asked if he could talk to his mom for a minute.
“Sure, Son,” Mom said, reaching for the ignition.
Eric grabbed her hand and said, “Don’t go. Can we talk right here?” Mom turned off the ignition and shifted in her seat to listen.
Eric then told her about a boy in his school class named Josh.* His mother had died of cancer during the previous Christmas holidays. He said that ever since then, Josh was often very sad at school. Sometimes his dad even had to come and take him home from school because he couldn’t stop crying.
Mother’s Day had been very hard for Josh. He had brought a stuffed bear to school that next day and had hugged it for comfort all the time. During recess, he had taken the bear out onto the playground. Some of the bigger kids took Josh’s bear away from him. While they teased him by throwing it back and forth, the bear had ripped apart. Eric felt bad because he knew that Josh’s family didn’t have a lot of money and that they might not be able to buy him another bear. While in the pharmacy, Eric had seen a bear just like Josh’s. He wanted permission to spend his allowance money to buy it for him.
Eric and his mom went back into the pharmacy and bought the bear. Eric took it to school in his backpack the next day. Mom told Eric not to give the bear to Josh until she’d made sure it was OK with their teacher. The teacher said that she would be glad to arrange for Eric to give the bear to Josh.
That evening, Mom asked Eric how it went. He said that their teacher had asked the two of them to stay in for a few minutes while the rest of the class went to recess. She’d asked Josh what had happened to his bear the day before. Josh’s first words were “Eric didn’t do it.”
She said that wasn’t the reason she’d had them stay in and then explained that Eric wanted to give him another bear. The bear went from backpack to backpack for safe keeping. Eric said that Josh almost cried when he gave it to him. Eric said that the best feeling of all was to see Josh smile, and, as he left for the day, Josh gave him a big high-five.

When Wilhelm Michael Dithmer was a boy, a serious case of the measles left him blind. Soon after that he was orphaned. The only thing he owned was his father’s clarinet. He sat on street corners in Copenhagen, Denmark, and played the clarinet, hoping to stay alive from the money that people would give him. One generous person decided to send Wilhelm to school, and after that, Wilhelm converted to the gospel and immigrated to America. He settled in Utah and gave free music lessons to generations of boys. Wilhelm died in 1916, and at his funeral it was said of him, “There was neither father, mother, sister, brother, wife, nor child to mourn Wilhelm’s passing. However, no man ever had more friends.”

The Nativity set is my favorite part of Christmas!
See, Lizzy? It’s the shepherds, the Wise Men, and …
Baby Jesus!
You can play with baby Jesus, but you have to be really careful.
OK!
A few days later …
Where is baby Jesus?
What are you looking for?
Baby Jesus!
We can’t find Him.
He’s lost!
Christmas isn’t ruined, and Jesus isn’t lost. He is always with us.
How?
I think I know …
He’s with us in here.
That’s right! The Nativity set is just a model. The real Jesus lives and loves us. We can feel His love in our hearts. Especially when we show love to others.
See, Jesus is with us for Christmas after all!

At Christmastime in 1996, I was serving a mission in southern Spain. My companion, Sister Noel,* was filled with enthusiasm and had a gift for loving everyone. Many times I saw the love of Christ reflected in her countenance.
Sister Noel and I were working with all our hearts in a little Andalusian town where the members loved us and seemed happy to have missionaries in their midst. It was a special time, and we could feel the spirit of Christmas in the streets and from the people of the ward. Sister Noel and I had both received little Christmas gifts from our families, friends, and home wards, so we had lots of goodies.
Almost everyone we knew seemed happy, except the Fernández family. The father was out of work and had no money to buy gifts for the children. When my companion learned about their situation, she felt we needed to help them in some way. Together we started talking about how we could help.
With the assistance of a member of the ward, we gathered together the goodies our families had sent. With the money we had received, we bought toys for the children.
The Fernández family was thrilled and astonished. But the little miracle did not end there. Thanks to this small act of service, my companion and I were also blessed with greater feelings of love for all the members.
Because of my companion, I learned that it is better to give than to receive. It gave me great joy to give something to a family who needed it more than I did. I’ll always be thankful for Sister Noel, who taught me that every day can be Christmas when we share the love of the Savior with others.

Leaders of the Church have counseled us to cultivate a garden at our homes. Recently, members from the Mountain View Ward in Nairobi, Kenya heeded that counsel, and following their bishop’s assignment and worked hard to create a ward shamba (the word ‘shamba’ means ‘garden’ in Swahili). Ward members joined hands and applied their knowledge in transforming the thickets and shrubs into a bountiful harvest.
Brother Michael Bahati mentioned he had always wanted to apply his farming skills on the shamba, saying that it had been neglected for as long as he could remember. Brother Bahati made sure that he had reserved enough time to dig, dung, graft and prune. It would have grieved him if he had lost the harvest, which was not only for himself but was stored up for the benefit of all the ward members.
The words from Jacob 5:62, “Wherefore let us go to and labor with our might” described Bishop Musaka’s efforts as well. He drove to the Church on the weekends, rolled up his sleeves and labored diligently. He knew his members, understood their needs, and worked alongside them. As the bishop is also president of the priests quorum, he made sure that the priests were not left behind, and he invited them to work.
Brother Bonabol was among those who took heed of the bishop’s call. He took the responsibility to ensure there was food enough to provide for the members. He saw it as his priesthood duty, and he fulfilled it with honor.
Sister Omondi used to exercise every morning, running from her home to Uthiru. Then she thought there was something more she could do. She contacted Brother Vidonyi, who informed her there was work to be done in the shamba. That is how her morning run was alternated with work at the shamba.
Ward members who previously worked there had little training in planting, so Sister Omondi taught them how to dig and plough. She explained her experience this way: “I doubted if the groundnuts (peanuts) would grow, but they did and despite growing the potatoes in the wrong format, they caught root.” Sister Omondi’s main responsibility was to water the plants and she learned her duty and acted in her appointed office with strict obedience.
As much as it was a learning opportunity for Brother Omondi, he also taught others. The soil at the church was not foreign to him and he understood what would flourish best in the shamba.
Sister Mahindi was concerned about her daughter’s illness but she trusted that she could take her mind off of that. She felt that by busily working at the shamba, things would get better—and they did. She gained comfort and peace as her daughter recovered.
Bishop Mukasa made it possible for the members to irrigate the plants. He made sure there were enough pipes to use as they still waited for the water sprinklers. He described, “As the plants need water to be nourished, the members also need nourishment from the holy scriptures.” The plants couldn’t go a day without water, just as members shouldn’t go a day without studying their scriptures.
Missionaries also managed to bring investigators to come work in the shamba. What a privilege those investigators were given to receive the restored gospel at the same time they received food from the garden in which they had worked.
Finally, the day came when the rewards were quite visible and abundant. The Mountain View Ward members’ hard work proved itself. There was an abundance of food, ranging from bananas to mboga to beans and they are about to harvest the maize. It was clear that the members’ aim wasn’t for instant gratification. They understood that in all harvests, some blessings don’t come until later, so they chose to be patient with the sweet potatoes and cassava.
As I worked in the shamba and saw it progress, I noted the change in myself. If the plant tamed by the Master came out as He desired, can I also involve the Lord and allow Him to guide me to reach my potential and live within my privileges? My lesson from the shamba is a resounding, “Yes!”
Marc Otieno is ward mission leader in the Mountain View Ward, Nairobi West Stake.

This story happened in the USA.
Bjorn looked around at all the big cardboard boxes in his new home. His family had just moved from Argentina to the United States.
It was scary to move so far away. Everything was unfamiliar. But he knew that if he was with his family, everything would be OK.
As Bjorn helped his family unpack, Mami picked up a big box and smiled. “This one has our Christmas ornaments in it!” she said.
Bjorn smiled. He loved Christmas and was excited to celebrate it with his family. He was still nervous about living in a new place, but knowing that it was almost Christmas cheered him up.
A few days later, Bjorn’s family sat down together for a home evening lesson about Christmas. Papi explained that it is a season for giving gifts.
“Yay! Presents!” Bjorn said.
“Yes, getting presents is fun,” Mami said. “But it’s even more important to give gifts to the Savior.”
“How do we give presents to Jesus?” asked Bjorn.
“When we serve others like Jesus did, it makes Him happy,” said Mami.
The next morning Bjorn heard a knock at the front door. He jumped out of bed and ran to see who it was. But when Papi and Mami opened the door, nobody was there. Instead, Mami picked up a small, shiny gift from the doorstep.
“Where did it come from?” Bjorn asked.
“I’m not sure,” Mami said. “Maybe an angel!”
Bjorn’s eyes got wide. “Like an angel from heaven?”
Papi smiled. “No. Sometimes we call people angels when they do kind things for us. It’s like they are Heavenly Father’s helpers here on earth.”
Bjorn jumped in the air. “I want to be an angel too! I want to do kind things for others. That will be my Christmas gift to Jesus.”
“Great idea!” Papi said. “Jesus will love your gift.”
For the rest of the week, Bjorn woke up every morning to find a new gift on the doorstep. He felt so loved when the angels left gifts for his family. He wanted to show his family that he loved them too.
So Bjorn got to work. He secretly prepared gifts for his parents and siblings. He shined Papi’s shoes while he was at work and drew a heart for Mami. Then he wrapped one of his favorite toy cars for his brother. He got bubble gum for his sister.
Carefully, Bjorn wrote the names on each present and placed them under the Christmas tree. He couldn’t wait to see their happy faces! He felt warm inside just thinking about it.
On Christmas Day, Bjorn gave each family member their gift. He was so excited he could hardly sit still.
When Papi saw his shiny shoes, he said, “Wow, thank you, Bjorn! These look wonderful.”
Bjorn’s brother and sister opened their presents, then jumped up to give Bjorn hugs. “Thanks!” they said.
Mami smiled when she unwrapped the picture Bjorn had drawn for her. “You’ve helped make this Christmas so special, Bjorn. Thank you for being our little angel,” she said.
Bjorn felt happy inside. He knew that showing love to his family was the perfect present to give Jesus!

I didn’t fully appreciate how great Tanya was and how much I depended on her until she was gone. But we had knelt at an altar in a holy temple, and someone having the sealing power had pronounced blessings upon us. I have clung to the promise of those blessings. I trust in those promised blessings.
Tanya’s death was a crisis of faith for me. I had to decide, “Do I really believe?” Faith is called a gift of God, but it’s also a choice we make—a choice to believe. I chose to believe, and I found out that Moroni was correct when he wrote that we receive no witness until after the trial of our faith (see Ether 12:6). After the trial, the witness did come. My faith was rewarded with a confirming peace of mind. That’s what has enabled me to go forward.
As my second wife, Becky, says: “We need faith the most when we face a crisis. Going to the Lord really is the only answer. It is the way to cope and hope.”

While visiting a sacrament meeting on Okinawa, I was so impressed with the manner in which the Aaronic Priesthood prepared and passed the sacrament that, when my turn came to speak, I invited two of the deacons to join me at the pulpit. Of one I asked, “What are your goals in life?” His prompt reply: “To become like my Savior!” Of the other I asked, “What does it mean to you to know that you hold the Aaronic priesthood?” He drew himself to his full height and looked out over that pulpit, and proudly said, “It is the greatest honor in my life!”

My mother died when I was fifteen years old. That was twenty years ago. I have experienced all the feelings you have—the anger (at my mom and Heavenly Father), the frustration, the loneliness, the shock. All of these feelings are very real.
When my mom died, we did not talk about it. I think it took me years to work through her death because of that. Hopefully, your family can talk about your feelings and losses. Your mother still exists; that doesn’t end with death. Your mother is simply living somewhere else. She loves you very much.
If your family can’t talk about your mom, you need to find someone who can. Pray to Heavenly Father so that he can help you find a support group, a counselor, or a friend who will listen to you.
Something that helped me very much (although I didn’t realize it until years later) was staying close to the gospel, praying, and keeping the commandments. I allowed myself to be angry at Heavenly Father. I said so in my prayers. I think he probably expected that and allowed me to work through my feelings. In looking back, I can see that Heavenly Father surrounded me with his love. He protected me from myself and my grief.
You will always miss your mom. And finding peace might take a long time. For me, it took years. But I promise you that if you desire it, it will come. When you’re at peace, you feel watched over and warm.
I may never understand why my mother died when she did. But it doesn’t matter anymore. It’s okay. I wish you success.
Stephanie Ransom, 35West Valley City, Utah

An adventurous three-year-old, one day I wandered out to visit my father in the fields. We lived on a farm in Kaysville, Utah, and I walked about a quarter mile down the road past our neighbor’s house and then headed out to find Dad.
I didn’t know it, but my dad was already headed home another way. So there I was, out in the middle of the field, surrounded by oats taller than I was. I had no idea how to get home.
I don’t remember being scared. I don’t even remember trying to find my way home. I just played in the fields until I got tired, then lay down and went to sleep. I didn’t know that I was lost at all.
Of course, my parents were not so calm. They began frantically searching for me, and when they couldn’t find me, they called others for help. The whole town of Kaysville spent the entire night looking for me. People drained the ponds and tramped down the crops and waded through the ditches. I had no idea I’d created such a stir!
The next morning, Ben Webster, a friend of my father’s, visited my folks. “I’ll find your boy,” he promised them. Then he headed out into the fields and walked right to where I was! I remember him picking me up and carrying me home to my mother. I learned at that young age that the Savior cares about little children—even when you’re three years old and not sticking very close to home!
The Savior knows each one of you individually. He loves you and watches over you. He knows where you are and what you need. There is no doubt in my mind that He knew where I was in that field. He also knew Ben Webster and how to guide him to where I was.
Children, know that your Heavenly Father loves you. So does Jesus Christ. They are there for you, and They will take care of you. Just as They sent Ben Webster out in the field to find a lost three-year-old, They will send you the help you need!

The military experience is like other forays into secularism that LDS youth are facing today. They are away from home with carnal options on every hand—gambling, profanity, pornography, immorality, and bug-out-ism. Such crass enticements successfully ensnare the uncommitted, but thousands of others choose to swim against the current. One young priest, during his first week away from home, confronted some returned missionaries in his barracks who appeared more sophisticated. Why weren’t they saying their prayers, he queried. His challenge encouraged them all to overcome their smoothly disguised fears of censure. They joined after lights out for a family prayer each night. Soon they discovered that their Mormon compatriots throughout the post were doing the same in small scattered groups; they even included their fellow nonmember squad members. The result was a brotherhood—blessing when sick, counseling when troubled, and bolstering each other during competition—instead of the harassing, cutting, and undermining that are so common in basic training. This higher life occurs without leaders or instructions; it emerges from being “anxiously engaged in a good cause,” from conviction, from feeling the power of God within. All over the globe, many Mormon youth seek out each other. Their spiritual adventures are legion. They often reach out to friends who have followed the carnal path into deprivation. Their example, caring, and persistence have supported many through a transformation that has led them into the Melchizedek Priesthood, the temple, sometimes mission calls—in other words, into their eternal potential.

Faith is thriving among the Saints of Guatemala. Following are just a few examples:

Carlos Santíz, president of the Mazatenango Guatemala Stake, refers to notes made on a whiteboard during a meeting with bishops, explaining how they followed the direction of Church leaders to meet in council and plan to serve the needs of less-active members. “I’m grateful to the Lord for putting me in this stake presidency because it is a challenge—but a challenge I needed—and it has brought growth,” he says.
Nery Eduardo Marroquín, a counselor in the bishopric of a ward in the Retalhuleu Guatemala Stake, was an evangelical Christian before joining the Church five years ago through the influence of his wife, Ada. He grew up in a home where he learned the importance of personal prayer, the Bible, and worship of Jesus Christ as the Savior, but he felt there was something more. He found it in gospel ordinances that could allow him and his wife to have an eternal family. “Christ said no one will come to the Father ‘but by me’ [John 14:6],” he explains. “And the ordinances are through Him. That’s why it’s such a blessing to have a temple in Guatemala.”
Hector González of the Villa Nueva Guatemala Stake says the gospel has given him strength to face the cancer that cost him a leg and nearly took his life. At one point, he wondered why this should happen to him. His wife brought his patriarchal blessing to him in the hospital, and he found hope in its promise of a long life of service. When it became obvious that he would lose his right leg, he received a spiritual witness that all would be well. After the surgery, he recalls, “It was incredible the support I found in reading the Book of Mormon. It gave me the strength to go on.” Now back at work, he says, “I know the Lord has been watching over me. I know He has cared for me through all of this.”
Jorge Popá, a member of the Quetzaltenango Guatemala Stake, originally invited the sister missionaries to his home to help his wife understand the English instructions that came with the bread maker he had bought her. The sisters agreed—if they could also share the gospel message with the family. After the missionary lessons, Jorge and his wife, Mirna, told the missionaries they weren’t interested in baptism. But that night neither Jorge nor Mirna could sleep. At the same time, each felt moved to get out of bed and pray about what they had been taught, and each received the same manifestation of the truth. They sought out the sister missionaries at church on Sunday and asked to be baptized. After their baptism, the Popás faced the problem many converts face: how to tell their family they had broken with the traditional religion. Their four-year-old son (who is now a deacon) solved that problem at a family gathering. When someone served tea, he stood and announced, “We don’t drink that! We’re Mormons.”
Udine Falabella was president of the first stake organized in Guatemala, in 1967. In 1965, as district president in Guatemala City, he organized the first temple trip from the area, by bus across México to Mesa, Arizona, in the United States. It was a great blessing to Guatemala when the temple was dedicated in Guatemala City in 1984, he says. It was a blessing for him to serve later as its president; he was released in 2000 after more than four years in that position.
He recalls that, in dedicating the temple, President Gordon B. Hinckley pronounced a blessing of peace on the country. Not long afterward, the country’s long period of civil strife came to an end. Perhaps more important, though, was the fact that Guatemalan members could now enjoy the peace of the temple without having to travel so far from home.
Brother Falabella’s granddaughter Evelyn was married in that temple in December 2000. She says many young Guatemalans who see unhappy or failing marriages around them have lost faith in the institution of marriage and may feel it is better to put time into developing their careers, marrying later if at all. “I believe if I didn’t have the gospel in my life, I wouldn’t have dared get married right now,” she says. But through the gospel, she continues, there is peace in facing the challenges because we can know the eternal reasons for marriage and the everlasting blessings it can bring.
And that, says Brother Falabella, is indicative of the change that has come to the Church in Guatemala in his lifetime: thousands of strong Latter-day Saints now have all the means to implement full gospel programs and enjoy their blessings.
José Sazo agrees that the gospel blessings available in his country and his generation are rich—for those who strive to receive them. José, who was not yet born when that first stake was created in Guatemala, is now president of the Guatemala City Guatemala Florida Stake.
It takes constant, consistent effort to maintain strong families and marriages, President Sazo says. He and his wife, Claudia, both served missions in their country, and they agree that much of the secret to maintaining strong marriages can be found in two good habits learned by missionaries: frequent, loving companionship evaluations (conversations about how their marriage is going) and regular gospel study. “If I had a prescription for happiness,” President Sazo says, “it would be to study the scriptures together always.”
President Sazo adds that he and his wife “are agreed on this: we want to do everything we can for our children so they will become strong leaders and the Lord will be able to call them to do whatever He wants, without reservation.”
So it was with those strong Church members in this country more than half a century ago who were willing to persevere in the gospel no matter what challenges they faced. And so it is now with the heirs of this spiritual legacy: the future of the Church in Guatemala will be in the hands of those ready to answer the call of the Lord without reservation.

Diagnosed with bone cancer at age 14, Mason met the challenge with faith. His mother relates, “Mason still battled with fear, but he chose to not let it limit his faith and love.”
In August of 2021 my wife and I met a dear couple whose friendship we have come to cherish. Their son, Mason, had just been diagnosed with a rare bone cancer known as osteosarcoma. Prior to the diagnosis, he was by all appearances a healthy 14-year-old with a sore leg and stained baseball uniform from sliding into home plate.
Soon, however, Mason’s life seemed to capsize. He was abruptly launched into daunting discussions with medical professionals about chemotherapy, radiation, surgery, possible amputation, and life expectancy. His mom describes what happened when doctors asked if he would like to know the probability of survival: “After a long silence of processing new and overwhelming emotion, tears silently fell to the floor. He boldly answered, ‘No, thank you! I’m good!’ With those few words, he resolutely began choosing how he would face his trial.”
Mason’s cancer was aggressive. His body rebelled against each life-extending treatment. His mother shares, “We felt an overwhelming desire to freeze time, but time moved forward and we experienced the loss of everything we had known as normal.” She continues, “Alongside the crushing fear of the future, we also witnessed the creation of strength, power, and peace beyond our earthly capabilities. We had no other explanation than this: God amplified our capacities. We received miracles, though different than those we wanted at the onset.”
Mason’s mother recounts, “One night Mason walked by the bedroom where I was saying prayers with his eight-year-old sister. Through her tears she voiced her worries about her brother. I held her tightly, and we cried together. Mason kneeled beside us and wrapped us both in his weakening arms. He chose to wade deep into uncomfortable emotions and set aside his personal fear so he could help his sister and me. He strengthened us to face our sorrow by joining us in our sorrow.”
“Mason realized he didn’t need to wait to be cured before his faith was strengthened,” his mother says. “He was able to trust in God, and this enabled him to loosen his grip on his own vulnerability. I watched miracles unfold within our family and even within the community as God helped us see that love was—and is—more powerful than fear. Mason still battled with fear, but he chose to not let it limit his faith and love.”
Just six months after his initial diagnosis, Mason courageously graduated from mortality. He repeatedly chose to let God prevail and was delivered from all his fears.

I’d like to say I made a great impression when I met Janette Burhold, but that would be a lie. I had just turned ten, and for my coming of age, my older brother Dan and his friends took me horseback riding. Dan even let me put on my own saddle for the first time.
“Don’t cinch the saddle up too tight,” said Dan. “It might bother the horse.”
“Okay, thanks,” I said. Dan and his friends all began to snicker. I didn’t know what was funny so I just smiled back.
We trotted out of our drive and started down the lane of our small Canadian town. There was a new girl, about my age, living in the house on the end of our road. I’d seen her in church the week before, and there she was waving to us as we rode up. We all waved back.
Well, to be honest, I didn’t wave. I was too petrified of girls to move, but I thought the impressive sight of me atop our black mare would set her heart to fluttering.
“Nice horses,” she called out. I grinned back, gaining confidence. “Where are you going?” she asked.
“We’re just riding up to the old barn,” said Dan, pointing up the hill.
“Wish I knew how to ride,” she said. “My mom said we might get a horse.”
I was going to say something at that moment. Something profound and impressive. But instead, my world collapsed around me. I shifted my weight a little and my horse let out a great breath. Before I knew what was happening, the saddle and me had slipped underneath the horse. I was still in the saddle, but I was upside down.
Dan and his friends were wailing with laughter. Even the new girl was laughing. I was humiliated.
“Shut up,” I said as I let go and tumbled to the ground.
“Didn’t you cinch your saddle up tight?” asked the girl. “Even I know you’re supposed to do that.”
That’s how I met Janette Burhold.
Over the next few years I gradually overcame my fear of girls, but never my fear of Janette. I saw her every school day, and every Sunday. But on those rare occasions I’d finally get enough courage to say something to her, I’d end up doing something really embarrassing before I got my first word out.
One time I sat down next to her in the cafeteria, and before starting in on my carefully rehearsed, spontaneous conversation, I opened a can of soda that exploded. It sprayed my head making my hair stand straight up all afternoon. Another time I walked into school determined to break the ice with Janette. Of course, after I’d been told I had a line of toothpaste drool down the front of my green T-shirt, I lost my nerve. By about 14, I gave up the idea of ever talking to Janette.
When we turned 16, Janette went to work after school in the only cafe in our small town. On my way home after wrestling practice each day, I would walk slowly by the cafe hoping to catch a glimpse of her. Dan told me I was crazy not to ask Janette out. Everyone at school knew I had a crush on her. Still, I couldn’t bring myself to do anything about it.
In Sunday School I was taught to have self-confidence. Unfortunately I couldn’t convince my tongue or my sweat glands to believe that. When I saw Janette, all I could think was how skinny I was, why my face wouldn’t clear up, or why my voice sounded like the noise a saxophone makes when you blow it wrong.
And then, Woody McCrae moved to town and I knew all hope was lost. He was tall, athletic, good looking, rich, and he even had his own pickup. Janette and her friends stood in the halls and giggled in admiration as he walked by.
To the female population of my high school, Woody was Aristotle, Hercules, and Steve Martin rolled into one. He’d pepper his conversations with phrases like “Cold out, ain’t it?” and any girl around him would laugh and grin like she’d just discovered teeth.
On a Tuesday night in December, Dan and I were doing homework upstairs. After a short chuckle, Dan looked up from basic algebra.
“What?” I asked.
“Guess who’s been giving Janette a ride home from the cafe every night?”
“What do I care?” I said, as nonchalantly as possible.
He shrugged and turned back to his book.
“Okay, who?”
“Woody McCrae,” said Dan.
My heart stopped. I pictured Janette riding in Woody’s yellow truck. They’d probably be married by the weekend.
“You waited too long,” said Dan, grinning. “Woody got to her first.”
“You don’t get to a girl like Janette,” I said back.
“Well, you didn’t.”
“What I mean is, just because he’s taken her home a few times doesn’t mean they’re going out … does it?”
Dan shook his head. “I’d still ask her out if I were you,” he said. “You’ve got nothing to lose. Plus, if you don’t you’ll regret it.”
“You don’t just ask a girl like Janette out,” I said. “It’s not that easy.”
Dan sat on the edge of his bed. “Look, chucklehead. You’re just going to walk the girl home, maybe ask her to a movie. You’re not going to get married. It’s just for fun. You’ve got a lot to talk about—you’re both Church members, you’re both in the same grade at school. And if you run out of stuff to say just talk about me. I’m a great conversation topic.”
What Dan said actually made sense. I’d worried about dating Janette for years ahead of time, and then, when I could date her, I was petrified. Dating wasn’t supposed to be stressful; it was supposed to be fun.
“So, how would you do it?” I asked. “How would you ask her out? I can’t compete with Woody’s vehicle … or his looks.”
“I don’t know,” said Dan. “But I wouldn’t look at everything that was wrong with the situation. I’d look at everything that was right. I’d think about what I have to offer and not what I didn’t have.”
After wrestling practice the next afternoon, I passed the cafe again. I walked back and forth a dozen times before getting the nerve to walk in. Finally I took a deep breath, made sure my shirt was tucked in, and walked through the door. I took a seat at the counter and when Janette said hi and asked what I needed, I mumbled that I wanted a chocolate milk shake. I looked around at the few people in the cafe and was sure they were all watching me.
“Kinda cold out there for a milk shake,” Janette said. She was wiping off the counter in front of me. I looked out the window at the falling snow.
“Oh, I like the cold,” I said, instantly regretting it. Why hadn’t I said something really cool? Then I looked into her green eyes, and she smiled and went off to make the shake. I took her smile as encouragement. The other customers were still watching me. I couldn’t get comfortable with them in there. I wished they would leave.
A minute or so later, Janette placed the shake on the counter and left the bill.
“Thanks,” I said, trying a deep voice and instantly regretting that too.
Janette turned back to me. “Are you okay, Andrew? You’re acting kind of weird.”
“Whatdoyoumean?” I blurted out.
“Oh, nothing.”
“No, no, no. Iwannaknowwhatyoumeant.” I couldn’t slow down. I was on a runaway train to embarrassment.
“I don’t know,” Janette said. “I shouldn’t say anything. I mean, even though we’ve known each other for years, we’ve never really talked. So I guess I don’t know if something’s wrong.”
“Nothing’s wrong,” I said, as slowly as my mouth would let me. “Nothing’s wrong.”
“Okay,” she said, smiling. She turned to leave.
“There is something right, though.”
Janette was looking at me with the sweetest expression on her face. The world was a good place, and I was going to make it even better.
“I came in today to ask if you would …”
And then the door opened and a bolt of lightning flashed. In an instant, my brave notions were burned to a crisp. It was Woody McCrae. Janette looked up and smiled even brighter.
“Hi, Woody.”
Woody nodded at her and slid onto the seat beside me. Then they both looked at me.
“Go on, Andrew,” said Janette. “What were you going to say?”
This was all like the kind of dream you have where you walk into class late and realize you’re wearing Spiderman pajamas.
“Andrew?” she said.
I had to do it. Dan was right. It wasn’t the end of the world if she said no or yes. I had to do it.
“Janette, I’d like to know if I could give you a ride home tonight?”
Woody looked at me really mean—his face was tensed up so tight we could have used his forehead as a bicycle rack.
“Okay,” said Janette, with just enough enthusiasm. “I get off at 6:30.”
I mumbled that I’d be back, dropped two dollars on the counter, and left. I looked back as I walked down the snow-covered road. Woody McCrae was watching me and he didn’t look happy.
At half past six, Janette was standing on the cafe’s front step. It was cold, and she was breathing out small puffs of warm air as I walked up. I could feel my heart beating in my throat.
“Hi, Andrew. Where’s your car?” she asked.
“I need you to close your eyes,” I said. She shrugged and closed them.
From around the corner of the building I dragged my Rosewood Glider. It was a long, wooden sled, as old as me, with room enough for two. There were foot-high railings all around, and a heavy metal steering bar at the front. On the side I had bolted the broken end of a hockey stick so if I ever lost control I could pull back on it and drag the sled to a stop.
I told Janette to step up and I helped her in the Glider. Then I put one of my dad’s big parkas around her shoulders.
“I thought we could take the scenic way,” I said.
She opened her eyes and took it all in for a moment. “You’re going to pull me home?” she asked. She didn’t seem too happy.
“No, just to the corner. It’s downhill most of the way from there, and the road is covered in snow.”
She didn’t say anything; just sat there looking kind of stunned for a long time. My newfound confidence was slipping away with every silent second. I could already hear them at school. They’d probably be talking about this for months. “Hey, Andrew, where’s your sled? In the shop?”
But I couldn’t just stand there with Janette in the sled. I took a breath and began pulling her to the corner. Ahead of us, the sun was shooting long red ribbons across the darkening sky. We had about 30 minutes of light, more than enough to glide home. That’s if my plan actually worked, and we didn’t crash, or break a ski, or encounter any one of a number of other catastrophes.
Why wasn’t she saying anything?
At the top I swallowed hard, scanned the descent for oncoming cars, sat myself in the front of the sled, checked behind me, and then pushed us off. My life was over anyway.
The glider moved slowly at first, rumbling over a half-exposed patch of pavement. But then we hit powder and began an effortless glide through the new snow. Suddenly we were going fast—faster than I had planned. Snow began to sting my eyes. We passed the Wimmer place and took a stomach-jarring dip in the road. I heard a shout from behind me and turned around.
“You watch the road,” called out Janette.
She was laughing! I turned around just in time to see us heading toward a ditch. I tried to correct our track but the sled fishtailed one way, then another before finally landing in a snow pile.
Poooofff!
Janette’s face and hair were covered in snow. She opened her mouth, which was full of snow too. I figured all was lost.
“I’m sorry,” I said, pathetically.
“You should be!” she said, wiping off her face. “Why didn’t we ever do this before?” She pulled at my coat collar and dumped a handful of snow down my back.
“Now,” she said, getting to her feet and brushing the snow off, “I bet we can get another run in before dark. This time, keep your eyes on the road.”
She started pulling the sled up the hill. “If you keep to the middle and quit sightseeing, I bet we can get all the way to your house.”
Janette pushed us off this time, and the slide and the wind took our white breath in clouds from our mouths. We were both laughing! And that’s when I began to realize that it wasn’t so tough after all. Not the glide on the snow-covered road, but being with Janette—talking, laughing, being myself.
We slid down the hill, racing faster and faster into the coming night. And for a while, all my fears were suspended.

Upholding the standards of the Church is a daily goal for Sister Hermin of the Djakarta Selatan Branch, who has had to support her three boys alone. She was an inactive member of a Protestant church when a Latter-day Saint relative asked her if she would like to hear the gospel message.

“Her question reminded me of something that had happened ten years earlier when I was twenty years old,” says Sister Hermin. “I had asked my mother then where I could learn of the gospel of Jesus Christ. My mother had told me to be patient because the day would come, she said, when one or two people would come to my home to teach me the gospel.

“I was baptized a member of the Church in December 1985, three months after I first met the missionaries. I was married by then and had one son, Mindo. He and my husband later joined the Church.”

Eventually, a second son, Nando, was born, who joined the Church when he was old enough. Their third child, a daughter, died when she was a year old.

Losing a struggle with alcohol, Sister Hermin’s husband was unable to support his family and fell away from the Church. Sister Hermin became the family provider by selling watermelon from a street cart—something she still does. Her husband died in 1989, while she was expecting their third son, Martin.

With her three boys, she lives in a small, two-room shack sandwiched between some dilapidated shops at the edge of a busy road. She supplements her income by renting out her small home in another part of the neighborhood.

Striving to make the shack livable and a haven from the noisy world outside is a challenge. Once, a section of the shack collapsed, but her branch president helped her make repairs.

“The branch members are always available to help me if I need it,” she says. “But my greatest help comes from being active in the Church. I enjoy the lesson material, and I appreciate the spiritual education that the boys receive. My boys have been through some hard times, but their attitude toward life is good because of our activity in the Church. And family home evening isn’t just one day a week with us. We get together almost every night and read the scriptures and sing together.

“I know from experience that whenever I feel sad or troubled, if I read the scriptures and sing some hymns, my burden will be lifted, and I will be happy again.”

When Ofelia Trejo de Cárdenas was called to teach young adults in her Mexico City ward, she felt that having a close relationship with each of her Sunday School students would increase her ability to teach and strengthen them.
“If I don’t have a close relationship with my students and if they don’t feel my love, they may not believe me when I’m teaching a class or bearing my testimony,” she says. “They may feel that I’m just a Sunday School teacher.”
But how could Sister Cárdenas develop such a relationship if she taught only once every two weeks? She found the answer through technology. Using the mobile phone application WhatsApp, she and her students were soon connecting daily through text and voice messages. Now, every day before the next Sunday School lesson, a class volunteer sends to other class members a verse of scripture from that next lesson with a related personal thought. After reading the verse and the thought, class members respond with their own thoughts.
“When they read the scripture, they send a happy face so I know they have read or studied the scripture and that they have thought about it,” says Sister Cárdenas. When it’s time for the next Sunday lesson, the students are prepared to participate.
This daily connection recently blessed one young adult whose parents are not active in the Church.
“I love it when I see him come to church because I know that to get there, he had to go through several challenges,” says Sister Cárdenas. “I’m sure that the scriptures and thoughts his classmates have sent out and the scriptures and thoughts he has sent out when it was his turn have strengthened him a lot.”
Sister Cárdenas says ministering through the scriptures doesn’t stop with her Sunday lesson and her class’s daily scriptural connection.
“My preparation includes praying for my students,” she says. “I think of them not only on Sunday but every day of the week as well. Each of them has specific and different needs. Each is a child of God. I think about them while I’m preparing my lessons.”
And when she teaches, she listens—both to her students and to the Holy Ghost.
“The teacher is the Spirit,” which she often hears in the voices of her students. “I have to pay attention because what they say is the revelation that the Spirit is giving to them.”

When I was diagnosed with breast cancer, I was serving as Relief Society president and running for reelection to our city council. My husband had lost his job, and we were hit with many other serious trials during this time. My counselors took to heart “bearing one another’s burdens” and helped spread the load I was carrying. My bishop took on some of my responsibilities. My husband took over many duties of cooking and homemaking. It was truly humbling to see that my burdens were not taken away but instead were shared by many, many people who exercised the healer’s art.

When Elder Henry D. Taylor was a little boy living in Provo, Utah, he often walked across the lane from his home to his grandmother’s house. Whenever he visited her, she would offer him crackers, raisins, or other delicacies. “One day, however,” Elder Taylor recounts, “without waiting to be offered a treat, I reached into the box where the crackers were stored and, much to my amazement and anguish, put my hand into a mousetrap that had been set. This remains as one of my earliest recollections.”

I surely enjoy the New Era. I just finished reading “LDS Women on the Arizona Frontier” in the April issue and enjoyed it particularly. I’m writing especially, however, to comment about two backpacks I just made from instructions given in the May 1973 issue. I know that’s an old issue, but when a magazine is good enough to be kept around for years for reference, it never really gets old. The second pack went smoothly because, like so many things, it’s easy once you know how. The first pack, however, was very, very frustrating due to the poor instructions in the article. I found the instructions misleading and unclear, and I was only able to finish the pack by guessing what was meant.
It was billed as something anyone who could sew straight seams could sew in three hours. I consider myself an accomplished seamstress, but it took me six hours to figure it out. When I finished, my pack didn’t look like the one in the picture, because neither the picture nor the pattern was drawn to scale. For example, the front pouch is pictured as occupying about two-thirds of the front of the pack, when in reality it is so large it overlaps onto the bottom of the pack. I think more emphasis should have been placed on having clear 1-2-3-type instructions rather than on being interesting reading. I think similar articles should be checked more thoroughly in the future to make sure they aren’t some of those “it’s easy if you know how” kind.

In 1982, we moved to Hemel Hempstead (Hertfordshire). The meetings were now consolidated, and I stayed for the whole three hours. I was called as the elders quorum president. An elderly missionary couple were assigned to visit my home, and for the first time Rajinder said a prayer and felt the Spirit. I subsequently baptised her. We were later sealed in the London England Temple with our children.