Gospel Story Finder

Years ago, I was asked to meet with a man who, long before our visit, had had a period of riotous living. As a result of his bad choices, he lost his membership in the Church. He had long since returned to the Church and was faithfully keeping the commandments, but his previous actions haunted him. Meeting with him, I felt his shame and his deep remorse at having set his covenants aside. Following our interview, I placed my hands upon his head to give him a priesthood blessing. Before speaking a word, I felt an overpowering sense of the Savior’s love and forgiveness for him. Following the blessing, we embraced and the man wept openly.

I am amazed at the Savior’s encircling arms of mercy and love for the repentant, no matter how selfish the forsaken sin. I testify that the Savior is able and eager to forgive our sins. Except for the sins of those few who choose perdition after having known a fulness, there is no sin that cannot be forgiven. What a marvelous privilege for each of us to turn away from our sins and to come unto Christ. Divine forgiveness is one of the sweetest fruits of the gospel, removing guilt and pain from our hearts and replacing them with joy and peace of conscience. Jesus declares, “Will ye not now return unto me, and repent of your sins, and be converted, that I may heal you?”

“Two or three nights a week I would wake up, frightened, unable to go back to sleep. Eventually, I began to fear sleep itself,” says Jan Sara of South Jordan, Utah. “Well-meaning friends offered suggestions, but nothing helped. Every night I asked Heavenly Father to help me have a good night’s sleep, but every night I would awaken in fear. I began to wonder what was wrong with me.
“One night as I knelt to pray, instead of asking Heavenly Father to help me sleep, I asked him what I could do to get rid of my terrible dreams. A strong feeling came to me to read the scriptures before I went to sleep. I got out my Book of Mormon and turned to Alma 37:37: ‘Counsel with the Lord in all thy doings … ; yea, when thou liest down at night lie down unto the Lord, that he may watch over you in your sleep.’ Since that night, I have changed my scripture reading time from morning to just before I go to bed. The peaceful feelings that come to me as I ponder the Book of Mormon help me to sleep, and the nightmares have ended.”

When I was single, it seemed like engaged girls with sparkly diamond rings loved to show them off so everyone would know how much their husband paid for them. It’s like in the film Johnny Lingo, where islanders are shocked when Johnny buys his wife with eight cows instead of the typical three or four. I couldn’t wait until I got the chance to wave around an “eight cow” ring of my own.

But if you judge me by the plain, thin, silver-colored ring I currently wear, you’d think my husband was a cheapskate. Actually my husband worked for months so I could have a beautiful ring. Unfortunately, it was an uninsured beautiful eight-cow ring … and I flushed it down the toilet.

We’d only been married for two weeks, and I’d already formed the habit of carefully pulling off my ring and placing it safely in a little box above the sink each time I washed my hands. I didn’t want to run the risk of tainting my ring’s sparkle with soap scum buildup. As I pulled it off one Saturday morning, the pressure built, and it popped right off my knuckle. I watched in disbelief as my lovely ring sailed straight for the toilet and hit the open bowl dead center, just as it finished flushing.

I screamed. I cried. I tried to jump in after it, but grown women just don’t fit in toilet bowls no matter how desperate the circumstances. My poor husband took the toilet apart for me, stuck his whole arm down the sludge hole, and felt around for the ring. We called every person in town that had anything to do with the sewer system and pleaded our case.

“Lady, your line is connected to the largest high pressure pipe in the city. Your ring is long gone,” I was told. In one swift swirl of water, my ring was gone forever.

Over the next few days, I became understandably depressed. My marriage preparation classes hadn’t covered crises of the flushing variety. I worried I’d ruined my chances for a happy marital relationship. After all, my husband had insisted on buying me a nice ring because the sacrifice it would take for him to be able to buy it would represent his love for me. Now I’d flushed the symbol of his love down the toilet.

I was telling my husband for the 42nd time how oafish I was and how sorry I was that he’d worked so hard for something I’d clumsily lost. He took me by the shoulders, looked me in the eyes, and said, “Please stop, Arianne. I don’t care about the ring. I didn’t do all that work for some sparkly rock. I did it for you, and I’d do it all over again a hundred times if you wanted me to. You’re worth more than all the diamonds in the world. I love you.”

My husband’s comforting words and warm embrace that day made me realize how silly I’d been acting. The ring was gone, but everything it symbolized still exists.

So even though I still punish the toilet with a hard kick from time to time, I’ve learned to focus on what’s most important. And that’s not how much my husband spent on me but how much he loves me. My husband insists he’ll get me a new ring someday. But I’m not sure I want one. Every time I look at my thin little ring, I remember what real love is. It doesn’t sparkle, it can’t be shown off, and thank goodness, it can’t be flushed down a toilet.

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

Though only moments remained in Franklin High’s last preseason scrimmage, several players were still fighting for their basketball survival. Final cuts were tomorrow, and the intense action on the court reflected the athletes’ anxiety. It was now or never to make that one last good impression.
Jeff Anderson, on the other hand, was as confident as they come. A slim six-foot-one senior with aspirations of a college scholarship, Jeff had made the varsity team three years running. He had even been named an all-star twice. The competition was a little tougher this year, the team had a new coach, and Jeff hadn’t exactly found the top of his game yet, but that was nothing to worry about. His position was sure.
When the buzzer finally sounded, the exhausted contenders headed for the showers. On the way off the court, Jeff found himself next to Mark, a freshman who had been giving his all to make the varsity squad. Poor Mark probably didn’t have a chance, Jeff thought.
“Think you’ll make the cut?” Jeff asked him anyway.
“I don’t know,” Mark replied cautiously. “I hope so.”
“Well, since this is your first year, don’t take it so hard if you don’t land a spot. Good luck, though.”
“Thanks,” Mark said as the two split to go to their separate lockers. “I guess we’ll find out tomorrow.”
The next day when Jeff reported to practice, the final team roster was posted outside the coach’s door. Jeff almost didn’t bother to read it, but curiosity made him stop.
Mark had made the cut, as had a few other underclassmen. But when Jeff got to the end of the list, a terrible realization hit him like a right hook to the jaw—his own name was missing.
Jeff went white with shock. For five minutes he stood there dazed, frantically scanning the paper over and over. This can’t be happening, he thought. In desperation, he opened the door and asked the coach if there had been a mistake. There hadn’t.
“But why?” asked Jeff in disbelief. “I’m a senior and a two-time all-star. Doesn’t that count for anything?”
The coach sat down. “Yes, Jeff, it does,” he began, “but I have to go with my best players. This year there were a lot of younger guys who were better. I could have kept you on the team and let you sit on the bench, but didn’t think that would be fair to you. I’m sorry, Jeff.”
It’s still not fair, Jeff thought as he walked away. You just don’t cut an all-star. He could feel the anger and frustration swelling within him. Even if your younger guys were better, seniors should have priority. But right now it didn’t matter what he thought. That morning he had been a star basketball player and a member of a real team, but now he was nobody, and when people found out, his life would be over for sure.
That afternoon, Jeff’s mom was quick with her usual greeting.
“Hi, Jeff. How was your day?” she asked cheerfully, unaware of the day’s events.
“Bad,” Jeff retorted bluntly. Avoiding eye contact, he threw down his backpack and stomped into the kitchen. His mom followed.
“How bad?” she asked. “What happened?”
Silence. He didn’t want to talk, but he guessed it would have to come out sometime.
“It’s so stupid,” he finally confessed, banging his fist on the counter.
“What’s stupid?”
“The basketball team,” Jeff started. “The new coach thinks the sophomores and juniors are better than me and today he cut me from the team—just like that.”
Jeff’s mother knew how much basketball meant to him. “Oh, Jeff, I’m sorry, but it’s not the end …” she stopped abruptly, knowing this was not the time for a lecture.
“End, nothing,” he replied angrily. “My life is ruined.” And with that he tromped upstairs to his room and slammed the door.
By dinnertime, word of Jeff’s catastrophe had spread through the entire family, and as expected, everyone had questions and advice he didn’t want to hear.
“Are you still going to be on the basketball team?” Jeff’s ten-year-old brother, Doug, wanted to know. As younger brothers often do, Doug idolized Jeff and wanted to know every detail of his athletic affairs.
“No,” Jeff snapped, still mad at the world. “I got cut, okay? Now leave me alone.”
Jeff’s dad tried to offer some sympathy. “Well, I think the coach made a poor decision,” he said. “But even if we could make him take you back, you know he wouldn’t play you. Just don’t let it get you down. When I was a freshman in high school I wanted to be a star baseball player, but I didn’t make the cut either. I was angry and disappointed like you, but instead of letting it eat at me, I got involved in other things and still had a fun four years. Just look at this as a kind of intermission,” Dad continued. “With the right attitude, you could still have a great second half.”
“But Dad,” Jeff countered, “I’ve already made the team three years in a row. You hadn’t put as much into it as I have. You still had plenty of time to start over. I don’t.”
“There are still plenty of activities you could try,” his mom interjected. “Maybe you could audition for the drama club or join the school choir.”
“Ha ha,” Jeff said dryly. “You couldn’t get me into those things if you paid me. Besides, I’m an athlete.”
“How about baseball?” Doug suggested. “You could be the pitcher!” Any sport was fine for Doug.
“Baseball is different than basketball,” Jeff explained, brushing Doug aside. “Now could everyone please just let me eat in peace?”
The room immediately fell silent. Except for the occasional clink of knives and forks, no one spoke for several minutes. Finally, someone dared to try again.
“I hear there’s an opening for a sports reporter on the school paper,” suggested Cindy, a year younger than Jeff. “You’ve always been a good writer, and that might be right up your alley.”
“Thanks, but no thanks,” Jeff said, getting up from the table. He couldn’t stand it anymore. “If none of you mind, I’ll just run my own life.” He stomped from the room, and with a loud clatter he dropped his plate in the kitchen sink and disappeared. It looked to be a long basketball season for the Andersons.
Several days passed, and Jeff refused to cheer up for anyone. He avoided his family whenever possible, and at school he distanced himself from friends. At lunch he sat alone, far from anyone who might dare talk to him, until one day he had a surprise visitor.
“Hi, Jeff,” she said as she sat down across from him. Her name was Kristy Campbell, and Jeff knew her from a few classes they had taken together. She had also been in his sixth period study hall at the beginning of this year but had disappeared after only a few weeks.
“Lately you look like you could use a friend,” she announced, “so I’ve come to apply for the position. What’s up?”
“Nothing,” Jeff shot back. It was a nice gesture on her part, but it looked to him like she only wanted to be his psychiatrist, and the last thing he needed was one more self-styled shrink to analyze his plight.
“I heard about the basketball team,” Kristy revealed. “That’s really too bad.”
“Yeah, what else is new?” Jeff asked sarcastically. He wasn’t in the mood for this.
Kristy chuckled. “What are you doing with your spare time now that you’re not playing basketball?” she asked.
“Not a lot,” Jeff answered evasively, looking down at his tray.
Kristy didn’t give up. “Say, don’t you have a free hour sixth period?” she remembered.
“It’s my study hall hour,” he said. “Why do you want to know?”
“Well, since you’ve got a little time on your hands, I thought you might be able to come down to the gym sixth period and help me out with something.”
“Like what?”
Kristy got up from the table. “It’s a surprise,” she said with a smile, “but it has to do with basketball, and you’re just the person I need. I’ll see you there.”
She turned and bolted for the door. By the time Jeff could say anything, she was yards away and out of earshot. Oh well, he thought, she’ll be disappointed when I’m not there.
By the end of fifth period, however, Jeff’s curiosity was piqued. What kind of favor could Kristy possibly need that involved basketball? And why him? His homework was light today, so maybe he would at least go see what it was. If it didn’t look interesting, he could always go back to the library and study.
When the bell sounded, he walked slowly down the hall, still imagining what might lie ahead. As he neared the gym, he heard basketballs bouncing. He racked his brain again for possible explanations. Nothing could have prepared him for what he was about to find.
When he entered the gym he saw several students dribbling or shooting basketballs, but they weren’t in any of his classes and they weren’t on the basketball team. They were members of Franklin High’s special education class, and all of them had some kind of mental disability. Some were physically handicapped as well.
Jeff instantly felt out of place and turned to make a quick exit, but an excited Kristy Campbell stood between him and the door.
“You came!” she nearly shouted. “I’m so glad you’re here.” Then she explained. “You see, I’ve been using my study period to help out with the special ed P.E. class, and today we’re playing basketball. I thought I could use a little help, and with your expertise, you’re the perfect person to be my assistant. Come and let me introduce you.”
This was awkward. Jeff had seen the special ed class in the halls and in their own corner of the cafeteria, but he had never felt comfortable enough to talk to them and didn’t feel like starting now. He didn’t know them, and they were, well, different.
“Attention everyone. This is Jeff Anderson,” Kristy announced to the group. “He was on the school basketball team last year and today he’s going to watch and give us a little advice.”
Great, Jeff thought. Now I’m stuck.
“And since he’s such a hotshot superstar,” Kristy continued, shooting Jeff a grin, “we should all be pros by the end of the period.”
As soon as Kristy finished, Jeff was immediately mobbed by his new fan club. One boy in particular was eager to get close to him.
“My name is Joseph,” he shouted above the clamor. He was Jeff’s age, and he shared Jeff’s love for basketball, but he also suffered from Down’s syndrome. Jeff didn’t know what to say.
“I went to five games last year and you played great,” Joseph said. “In the last game against Jefferson you scored 18 points and Franklin won, 55–40. Can you teach us to shoot baskets like you? Please?”
Jeff was flattered by Joseph’s compliments, but more than that, he was astounded at Joseph’s amazing memory of scores and statistics. He hadn’t thought anyone like Joseph could be capable of such a feat, but now he realized that he was wrong. More than that, he was intrigued.
“Sure, I can show you,” Jeff finally agreed, his face now sporting a visible grin. The small crowd erupted in cheers, and Jeff began to notice that for them this was an exciting day.
From there Kristy basically ran the show, naming the drills and organizing the students. Jeff, meanwhile, demonstrated each move and offered pointers and assistance wherever he could. All the participants loved his attention, and no one was the least bit annoyed with his suggestions. If only everyone could respond this well to coaching, he thought.
At one point during a shooting exercise, Joseph became discouraged because he couldn’t get the ball in the basket. He had tried several times from the same spot and hadn’t come close to hitting anything.
“I give up!” he shouted in disgust. “I’m never going to make it from here.”
“Hey, relax,” Jeff broke in. “Let’s try it again. Bend your knees a little bit, and push off with your feet when you shoot. Focus on the front of the rim and try to shoot the ball just over the rim.” He gave the ball back to Joseph, who followed his instructions carefully. The shot still didn’t fall, but this time it went high enough and far enough and banked off the rim.
“The most important thing to remember is to never give up,” Jeff told Joseph. Then almost as a joke he added, “And if that doesn’t work, try a different shot.”
“Thanks,” Joseph said. “You’re awesome. That’s good advice.”
“You bet,” Jeff replied without thinking. But as he passed the ball on, it suddenly hit him. These students were the embodiment of perseverance and improvisation. If anybody needed that advice, he did.
When the bell rang, the regular instructor returned and Kristy asked the students to gather up all the equipment. While they were busy, she ran to grab Jeff before he left the gym.
“Thanks a lot, Jeff,” she said. “I know you didn’t have to stay or even show up in the first place.”
“You really didn’t need me here,” Jeff pointed out. “You could have done all this yourself.”
“Maybe,” she answered, “but they needed you. You gave them your attention, along with a shot of inspiration, and they won’t soon forget that. Besides, I think you needed them.”
Jeff didn’t admit it, but he knew exactly what Kristy meant. Just being there to actively help her students had forced him out of his shell. It had even been fun. What’s more, Joseph’s astute observation had made him realize that he shouldn’t let anything keep him down for too long—not even getting cut from the basketball team.
“We don’t play basketball every time,” Kristy continued, “but we could sure use you again if you have the time. Our next class is Wednesday, same period.”
Jeff hesitated. Although the hour had gone well, he wasn’t sure he wanted to make a habit out of it. “Well …” he started.
“Hey, Jeff!” a voice suddenly bellowed from behind. It was Joseph, on his way out the door with the rest of the class. “Are you coming back Wednesday?”
Instantly all Jeff’s excuses seemed to vanish. “Sure,” he answered. “You can count on it.”
Joseph grinned and waved good-bye. Jeff waved back and then turned to look at Kristy. “Thanks,” she said as she hoisted the equipment bag over her shoulder. “You’re a real hero.”
On the walk home that afternoon, Jeff thought about the day’s developments. He wasn’t any closer to regaining his spot on the varsity basketball squad, but now he had a new team, and for the first time in weeks, he felt important. He had only coached Kristy’s students in small ways, but they had managed to teach him a lot more. He still had a lot to give, no matter what uniform he was wearing.
As for Kristy’s class, Jeff would see them Wednesday, and maybe more Wednesdays if Kristy asked. In the meantime, he might even check into that reporting job with the paper. If he couldn’t play the games, at least he could write about them. The second half was about to begin.

One morning when I was serving as a young missionary in Beaumont, Texas, my companion became ill and needed to rest. Following the counsel of our mission president for such situations, I pulled a chair up by the open window in our fourth-story apartment and began to read in the Book of Mormon.
Soon I became immersed in the scriptures, and after a time I came to Alma chapter 29, verses 1 and 2:
“O that I were an angel, and could have the wish of mine heart, that I might go forth and speak with the trump of God, with a voice to shake the earth, and cry repentance unto every people!
“Yea, I would declare unto every soul, as with the voice of thunder, repentance and the plan of redemption, that they should repent and come unto our God, that there might not be more sorrow upon all the face of the earth.”
As I pondered on Alma’s words, they became deeply personal. My companion and I had knocked on hundreds of doors in Beaumont, offering to share our message, but with limited success. In my mind’s eye, I began to imagine what it might be like if I were an angel and could cry repentance with a voice to shake the earth. I looked out the window at the people coming and going on the street below. I imagined what it would be like if I were standing there shining like an angel, with my hands raised, speaking with a voice of thunder. I envisioned the buildings shaking and people falling to the earth. Under the circumstances I imagined, they might have a sudden desire to listen to what I had to say!
But then I read the next verse: “But behold, I am a man, and do sin in my wish; for I ought to be content with the things which the Lord hath allotted unto me” (v. 3).
I was humbled to realize the Lord loves all His children and has a plan for His work. My job was to do my part.
I was also humbled to realize something else. In that moment, I knew that what I was reading was not fiction—it was real. Quietly and peacefully while I was reading, I had been filled with light and with the realization that this Alma was an actual person, that he had lived, and that he too had deeply desired to share the gospel message with others.
If you had asked me in that moment, “Do you know this is true?” I would have replied, “Absolutely!” At that point, it became clear to me that I was receiving a spiritual witness of the truth of the Book of Mormon.
As I have reflected on that experience—and many such witnesses since—I have come to better understand how vitally important it is to receive by the Spirit. We often focus, appropriately, on the importance of teaching by the Spirit. But we need to remember that the Lord has placed equal, if not greater, importance on receiving by the Spirit. (See D&C 50:17–22.)
As I have read back over my journal entry to understand and learn more from the experience I had as a missionary, I have realized that although I had read in the Book of Mormon before, what happened in Beaumont that morning was different because I was different. As inexperienced as I was, at least on that occasion I was sincerely trying to seek and to feel, and my intent was to act in faith on what I learned. I know now that such witnesses are available to each of us on a regular basis if we will receive them.

“Oh, Sarah, that’s a beautiful sweater!”
As usual there was a crowd of girls clustered around Sarah Dunlap. This time they were admiring a pink sweater, soft and luxurious.
“It’s such a beautiful color!” one girl exclaimed.
“Where did you get it?” another asked.
“At the Mainline—yesterday.” Sarah smiled smugly. “Dad gave me the money and told me to get whatever I wanted.”
Janie Meyers stood on the fringe of the group. How she would love to have the girls crowd around her like that! If I could buy beautiful clothes like Sarah does, I’d be popular, too, Janie thought. She wished for the hundredth time that they had never moved here to Yarborough. Why did her Dad have to lose his job in Macetown? His job in Yarborough didn’t pay nearly the money that his old job did, and everything here was much more expensive. Having things seemed important to these girls at Janie’s new school. She longed for her old, comfortable, Macetown friends as she turned and started down the street by herself.
Janie heard the group giggling and talking as they left the school. She walked as slowly as she could, hoping that they would catch up with her and include her in their group.
But the girls passed her without a word. Janie blinked quickly to keep from crying. She stared down at her blue cotton dress. No wonder none of the girls will talk to me or make friends with me. My dress is two years old and looks a little worn. If we could afford to have nice things, I’d make a lot of friends, she told herself resentfully.
Janie felt guilty about her thoughts. She knew that her parents were trying as hard as they could to make things comfortable for her and her sister, Susie. Living here wasn’t easy on them either.
“Hey, Janie, wait up!” Monica Lewis ran up and swung her arm through Janie’s. “I was wondering if you could come over to my place this afternoon, Janie.”
Janie couldn’t believe it! Monica dressed even better than Sarah, and Janie knew that she lived in one of the nicest houses in town. Janie stammered in her eagerness to accept. “S-sure.” Then she remembered and added, “I’ll have to call my mom and let her know.”
Although Janie had never seen anything as large and grand as Monica’s house, she was surprised that Monica’s mother wasn’t there.
Monica shrugged it off. “Mother’s probably at some committee meeting or something. She’s never here when I get home.”
Janie couldn’t remember a time that her mom hadn’t been home when she got there after school, but she didn’t say anything.
Monica’s room almost made Janie gasp. Monica had her own record player, her own phone, even her own TV! Janie thought ruefully of the small room she shared with her sister.
About a half hour later Mrs. Lewis came home. The girls were playing records and dancing when the door burst open. …
“Monica, turn that thing off!” Monica’s mother was a small woman, but her voice was loud and harsh. “I have a splitting headache, and I certainly don’t need to hear that noise.”
“You always have a headache,” Monica muttered.
“It’s no wonder, listening to your racket. And keep a civil tongue, miss. Who’s this?”
Monica mumbled the introductions.
Mrs. Lewis acted as if she didn’t even hear. “Your friend can’t stay long. I have to leave again in a half hour, and you’ll have to fix supper for your father and brother. There’re some TV dinners in the freezer. All you have to do is heat them up and make a salad. Hurry up now, Monica.” Rubbing her head, Monica’s mother left the room.
There was dead silence. Monica looked as if she were going to cry. After a moment Janie suggested, “I guess I’d better be going.”
Monica clutched her arm. “Wait a sec, Janie. I was wondering … You’re doing pretty well in geography, aren’t you?”
Janie nodded.
“Do you think we could study together sometime? I don’t understand what we’re doing.”
Was that why Monica invited me over? Janie wondered. Just so I could help her with her studies? It was all Janie could do to agree to get together for a study session sometime soon. She left Monica’s house as quickly as she could and started for home.
The minute that Janie opened the door to her own house, she heard Mrs. Saunder’s voice in the living room. Mrs. Saunders had come over as part of the welcoming committee soon after Janie and her family had moved to Yarborough. She had a booming voice and expensive tastes. It seemed to Janie that Mrs. Saunders looked down on her mother because she didn’t live in a big house or wear expensive clothes.
“Then we can expect you to help with the charity rummage sale, dear?” Mrs. Saunder’s voice came out to the hall where Janie stood. Janie closed the door quietly and tiptoed up the stairs.
“Yes, I’d love to help.” Her mother’s quiet voice floated up to Janie. “Thank you for thinking of me.”
How can Mother be so nice to that woman? Janie wondered. She heard the rustle of movement as Mrs. Saunders rose to leave.
“Perhaps you could pick up a few things for yourself while you’re tending the booth.”
Janie stopped abruptly as Mrs. Saunders’ comments rose up to her. How dare Mrs. Saunders say such a thing!
Then she heard her mother’s voice: “Oh, I don’t think that we’ll be buying anything right now. There really isn’t that much that we need.”
“But, my dear”—Mrs. Saunders wouldn’t leave the subject alone—“it must be so hard for you. I think that you are just marvelous. You’re coping so well.”
“Hard for me?”
“Why, yes. To have to do without so much!”
“But I have the best things of all, the greatest things that anyone could have: I have my health, my family’s health, the love and companionship of a good and gentle man, and two good, happy, kind, loving daughters. What could possibly be more valuable than that?”
“Oh, well, of course,” Mrs. Saunders murmured. Janie could tell that Mrs. Saunders hadn’t understood a word that Mother had said.
Mrs. Saunders didn’t see Janie on the stairs as she said good-bye and left. In a rush Janie was down the stairs and in her mom’s arms. “Did you really mean it, Mom?” Janie whispered. “Are Daddy and Susie and I really that important to you?”
Mom gently stroked Janie’s hair. “Of course, dear. Oh, I get tired of scrimping, of not being able to get you and Susie pretty things, of worrying about paying the bills, and of all the rest of it. But, darling, when I get very discouraged, I just remember the three of you and how much I love you. You are everything that is really important to me. So whenever I get blue, I remember how blessed I am, and I try even harder.”
Janie thought about the girls at school. She remembered how hurt she’d been that none of the other girls had paid attention to her. But I didn’t really try to make friends. I was so worried that I didn’t have everything that they all had that I didn’t give them a chance, she decided. Maybe all Monica wanted right now was a tutor for geography, but it looked like she needed a friend as much as Janie did. She moved toward the phone.
“Where are you going?” Mother asked.
“To see if Monica wants to come over and study after dinner,” Janie replied. “I think she’s going to like it here almost as much as I do!”

By the time Annapurna graduated from college at age 20, her parents had begun planning a traditional arranged marriage for their beloved daughter. But Annapurna never considered her dreams to be unattainable because she felt that they were not hers alone. “I had big dreams,” she says, “but actually God had His own plans for me.”
When Annapurna was 21, those divine plans started to become reality—miracle by miracle. First, she met Santosh Murala, a faithful Latter-day Saint visiting his family in Hyderabad. A medical student, Santosh was doing a surgical residency in Chandigarh, two days away by train. When they met, Annapurna and Santosh talked for half an hour. After that brief conversation, Santosh called his friend Neil Twitchell, who was then serving as India Bangalore Mission president, and confided, “She’s gold!” Santosh felt quite clearly that this was the woman he had been looking for. Annapurna felt that Santosh—the first Latter-day Saint young man she had ever met—was the man she had been praying to find.
The two exchanged a few letters, confirming their feelings. Several months later they married. Understandably, Annapurna’s family was upset at first, as was Santosh’s. But Annapurna was legally old enough to marry a man of her choosing.
Annapurna viewed this situation through the eyes of faith. “If I had married to please my parents and other people,” she says, “then my children might never have known about the Church and the whole responsibility for that would have been on my head. This one step has changed life for me and my posterity. For this life my parents may be upset with me, but for eternity they will be happy and proud of me.” In fact, Annapurna’s parents are already more accepting of her marriage. They like Santosh and even get together socially with Santosh’s parents.

A ward member told me that one day she saw a car driving by and, thinking I was the driver, she waved. A moment later, she thought, “How silly! Laurie’s blind; she can’t see me wave.” Her mind didn’t find it at all odd that I could be driving the car. “I felt so silly when I thought of it later,” she told me. “But then, I always forget you are blind.” Perhaps that is the greatest compliment I am ever paid—when people think of me as they would any other individual. “I forget you’re blind”—that’s one of the nicest things I could hear.

We are friends with a family who goes to another church. I asked my mom if we could give them a Book of Mormon. I gave it to their mom and asked if she would read it. She said yes. A few weeks later, she had read half of it! A few months later, I fasted that they would come to church with us. They did come to church! I know Heavenly Father answers our prayers, and I love being a missionary!
Logan A., age 6, Iowa, USA

The family’s next stop was Norway. The fjords along Norway’s jagged coast were magnificent. Milo learned that scientists believed the coastal valleys sank and were flooded by the ocean during the ice age more than one million years ago. The steep cliffs went straight down into the cold blue water. The inlets looked like long slim lakes even though one end opened into the sea.
The rocky islands called skerries interested Milo too. They jutted out of the sea along the shore, taking the brunt of the wind whipped up on stormy seas.
Milo read the old Viking tales about their ships, and he saw them come to life at the harbor in Trondheim.
One day Milo went skiing with his father, a sport that originated in the Telemark region of Norway.
“Come along, Milo,” said Father. “Let’s try the Norwegian ski slopes.”
Milo checked his gear, pushed off, and called, “See you later, Dad.”
It was clear and crisp as he went skiing down the mountain. What a great sport! “Hooray for Norway!” he sang out. “Hooray for Norway!”
Suddenly he saw two dark figures against the white snow on the trail ahead of him. But Milo tried to turn too sharply and found himself upended in the snow. A man and a boy came over to see if he was all right.
“I’m Chris,” said the boy, helping Milo up. “Why didn’t you call out?”
“Call out?” Milo said, rather puzzled. “What do you mean? Should I have said, get out of my way?”
“No,” said Chris, “but if you had called av vei (clear of the course) when you left the hill, the echo would have carried down here. We would have been prepared for you and could have made room for you to go by.”
“Is this a custom like calling ‘fore’ in golf?” asked Milo’s father, who had followed his son down the hill.
“Something like that,” the man answered.
“Well,” said Milo’s father on the way home. “You have learned something new today.”
“I have learned two new words,” said Milo.
“You’ve not only learned the words,” said his father, “but when to use them.”

Marny agreed. “They can have so much more fun without those things. A group of kids came over to my house after a football game. It was near Christmastime, and I was the only Latter-day Saint in the group. I think it was the best time I ever had. There were about eight of us, and we sat around the Christmas tree and sang Christmas carols. We stayed up till one o’clock. These were people who would normally go out partying. If they hadn’t been there they would have gone out to the levee and gotten drunk. Later I talked to this guy who had been to the party, and he said, ‘That was one of the best times I’ve ever had.’”

For example, when I was younger, I really wanted to play school basketball. I practiced and practiced. One day the coach pointed to our 6-foot-4-inch (1.93 m) all-state center and our 6-foot-2-inch (1.88 m) all-star forward and said to me, “I can put you on the team, but you’ll likely never play.” I remember how kindly he then encouraged, “Why not try out for soccer? You’d be good.” My family cheered when I scored my first goal.

There are two main experiences that led to my testimony of Christ. The first happened the day my big brother died. He passed away on a Scout outing in eastern Arizona. I was 14 years old. When my parents and I found out, we were heartbroken.
At first, it was hard to imagine that I would be living the rest of my life without my big brother. But I was wrong. From the moment I heard of his death, I felt peace. I was at peace because Christ was there to mourn with me when I mourned and comfort me when I needed comfort. Never for one minute did I feel alone.
More than a year later, I participated in the Mesa Temple Easter Pageant. It depicts Christ’s life on the earth and plays six nights during the week of Easter. The best part was that it took place on the temple grounds. I was just one of the crowd in a cast of 300. For several weeks, I was able to spend hours near a house of the Lord.
As I watched Christ’s life portrayed to thousands of people, I was able to witness a representation of His birth. I was feet away when He was shown healing the sick and raising the dead. I watched when He was portrayed suffering and atoning for the sins of the world, and I was there when He was depicted dying on the cross for all. I was there and saw the portrayal of Him rising from the dead three days later, and I saw the representation of Him ascending to His Father.
The feelings I had at that time are indescribable. It seemed so real to me. I was able to testify of Christ’s message many times to those who had never heard it—that He lives!
I know that Jesus Christ is our Savior and Redeemer. He is the King of Kings and the Lord of Lords. He is the way, the truth, and the life. Because of Him I can be with my brother again. Because of Him, I can be with Heavenly Father. This message is what will save the world in the last days. If we have faith in Him, we can receive blessings beyond measure. If we follow Him, we can become like Him.

For their leadership meeting, the youth of the Tulsa Oklahoma Stake gathered Saturday morning at the stake house. From there they went to Woodward Park, with its 12,000 rose plants and other exotic flowers. They stopped at the fairgrounds and said a personal hello to the Golden Driller. They toured the Gilcrease Museum and sampled its displays of 58 paintings and bronzes by Frederic Remington; 88 paintings by Charles Russell; major works by Winslow Homer and John James Audubon; rare documents and books, including the original certified copy of the Declaration of Independence; and 41,000 Indian artifacts. After the tour, the presidents of quorums and classes, their counselors, secretaries, and leaders swarmed a local hamburger stand and ordered a lot of lunches, which were not eaten slowly.

And then they returned to the stake center, where they got down to work.

A leadership session in Tulsa is no mere meeting. It’s the culmination of weeks and months of planning. It’s the presentation of practical workshops and question-and-answer sessions where leaders and youth speak frankly. Listen in on some of the presentations:

“You will never be a greater leader than you are an individual,” said Marilyn Higbee, 17, youth representative to the stake YW–YM committee. In the opening session of the conference she recounted the story of Enos, who prayed to overcome his own sins, then prayed for his people and for his enemies (see Enos 1:4–5, 9, 11–13). “Try to improve someone else by being a good example, and you’ll improve two people,” she added.

“You don’t get anything for nothing,” said Matt Johnstun, 17, also a youth representative to the stake committee. “The reason we’re blessed as leaders is because we get the opportunity to do a lot of work. We need to show those around us that there is time in a busy schedule for the Church.”

In one of three workshops held for young women, Krista Thompson, first counselor in the Young Women presidency of the Bartlesville First Ward, spoke about the Personal Progress program. She compared those who don’t set goals to a ship without a rudder. “To progress, you need direction,” she said.

Vicki Southward and Miriam Steurer, advisers to the Beehives and Mia Maids of the Cleveland Branch, showed examples of “quiet books” girls in their classes made for investigators with young children; of surprises made for “12 Days of Christmas” projects; of “love buckets,” filled with treats, passed as a thank-you to family members, missionaries, or elderly members of the branch. They also told how their girls cleaned up and repaired the nursery as a service project.

In another room, Bishop Lynn McKell of the Tulsa First Ward talked about the bishopric youth committee. “You’re there to represent your class, not just yourself,” he reminded. “Make sure you bring their comments with you, and make sure you take notes so you can report back to them.”

After each workshop ended, the Beehives, Mia Maids, and Laurels rotated rooms, so that by the end of the evening, everyone had heard all three presentations.

The Young Men met in a single priesthood session, where they heard from Weston Dale Larsen, second counselor in the Tulsa Oklahoma Stake presidency, from Bishop Gary S. Fuqua of the Sapulpa Ward, and from Doug Cross of the stake Young Men presidency.

They talked about positive and negative peer pressure, about how to reactivate less active friends, about planning with a priesthood purpose in mind, and about how a mission prepares you for the rest of your life. One of the adults also suggested that learning to run a quorum in the Aaronic Priesthood prepares you to do the same in the Melchizedek Priesthood.

Bishop Fuqua told of a missionary who wrote to his friend about baptizing someone, “That little piece of paper may have changed his friend’s life,” the bishop said. “It helped him discover that he wanted to share the gospel too.”

Of course, once the spiritual feasting was over, there was feasting of another sort. The cultural hall turned miraculously into a gourmet restaurant where baked potatoes were mounded with toppings like ham, bacon bits, cheese, and sour cream. Conversation was friendly and earnest, even among people who had just met. Table centerpieces carried a gospel theme, reminding diners of the importance of temple marriage.

It was a perfect time to hear comments from the youth themselves—to discover, from those who know firsthand, what it means to be young Church members in Oklahoma, and to hear the advice they would give to others like them throughout the world.

“There aren’t any Latter-day Saints in my school except for me,” said Shelinda Robinson, 13, first counselor in her Beehive class in the Cleveland Branch. “Sometimes, when it gets real bad—the language or jokes or kids talking about doing bad things—I just leave.”

“But you’re never a stranger to other members of the Church,” said Kerri Wade, 14, Mia Maid first counselor in the Sapulpa Ward. “That’s one of the neat things about being a member. You can instantly share some common feelings.”

She told about being the only Latter-day Saint in a private school run by another church.

“Some of the kids were talking about football, and they mentioned Brigham Young University. Then one of them turned to me and said, ‘Those Mormons are all so weird.’ I asked him if he had ever met one. He said no. And I said, ‘You’ve met one now!’ I think it shocked him.

“Another guy kept staring at me the whole year long, like I should look funny or act funny. We got to be pretty good friends after a while. Finally, the last day of class, he said, ‘Know what? Ya’ll are just ordinary people.’ That was really nice.

“My bishop said that I’m an example 24 hours a day. If I do something wrong, others may judge the Church by me. I have to be careful, which is good, because I should be careful anyway.”

Greg Laster, 15, first counselor in the teachers quorum of the Sapulpa Ward, said, “Other people are watching you. They want to see the standards you set. They think the whole Church is like you.”

His friend from the ward, Steve Henry, 17, an assistant to the president of the priests quorum, agreed. “You have to hold up your standards so those around you see that you’ve got something special, that your church is not the same as all those other churches.”

“Most of my friends know the church I go to,” Greg said, “but they don’t know the authority I hold. There are people saying they can heal and stuff, but I have more authority than they do.”

“Holding the priesthood makes you feel like you’re a part of things,” said John Ashby, 13, of the Third Ward. “You’re not just a bystander; you’re important.”

“Our quorum is small,” said Mark Choate, 13, first counselor in the deacons presidency of the Cleveland Branch. “In fact, there are only three of us. But we’re pretty good friends. Right now we’re working on a quorum project, making a sign for the property where our new chapel is going to be built. We’re digging holes for the posts, setting up the sign, painting it and everything.”

“Doing things together as a quorum is important,” said Gary Player, 15, first counselor in the Third Ward teachers quorum. “You have to stick together. You can’t just take the Church for granted. It seems like here you’re either fully active or you stray away. But even though it’s hard to be worthy, it’s worth it. One of the things that I like the best about the Church is that it’s kept me clean. If there’s ever any problem, I can think back to the Church teachings and it makes it easier to handle, to have the strength to say no.”

Tommy Cross, 14, of the First Ward, talked about a temple trip to Dallas, Texas. “At first we all thought we’d remember going to Six Flags and that the baptisms for the dead were something we’d do just to keep the leaders happy. But when we got back and talked about it, we’d forgotten about the amusement park. Everybody remembered the temple and what went on inside the temple. It was more important. You felt better there.”

Invariably, the young leaders described Tulsa as a friendly place. “It’s big enough to have everything you need,” Steve said. “But it seems like a small town. Everybody smiles and says hi.”

“And everyone is extremely religious,” Gary said. “Even though they may not understand what the Church means to you, they usually respect you for believing.”

But there’s a special bond, one that goes beyond mere friendship, among those that do have the gospel in common.

“There’s a real close relationship among the youth of our ward,” said Annette Richins, 16, Laurel president of the Third Ward. “And we need that. We all have each other to depend on. I look at my friends who aren’t members, and I’m so grateful for the Church.”

“I especially like getting together with our advisers, when it’s just us and them and we can be ourselves with people who understand what we’re trying to be,” said Mandee Moon, 13, the Beehive president of the Sapulpa Ward.

“I just moved to Tulsa seven months ago,” said Kim Luke, 13, Beehive president of the First Ward. “I got to know my way around because of Church people. I feel at home here, like I know people better. I don’t mind being the only Mormon in my school, or one of the few, not when I know how many of us there really are.”

“You look around the room here,” Kerri said, pointing out people at different tables. “I didn’t know her until today. I didn’t know them, either. But it doesn’t matter; we’re friends anyway. The gospel brings us together.”

When the leadership meeting let out that night, it was dark. Most of the young people hurried home. A few lingered at the chapel, retrieving dishes that had been used for the dinner. Some stopped at Braum’s, the local emporium for ice cream.

But few if any of them took time to stop and study the Tulsa skyline, now alive with lights like a Christmas tree. Those driving or riding farther, out into suburbs like Sand Springs or Bristow, may have looked back at the town, may have even thought it looked beautiful.

But it’s unlikely that they were thinking of themselves as lights. Lights to a city, examples to their friends. Unaware of their own significance, the young Latter-day Saints were back in their homes, back in their communities. They were ready to stand firm and proud, to raise their standards and mark their place, if you will, in the spiritual skyline of their city.

“If something’s tall here, you can see it from a long way off.”

No kidding.

Allow me to share this afternoon with you one of the most precious things to me—the story of how I myself was found.
Just before I turned 15, I was invited by my uncle Manuel Bustos to spend some time with him and his family here in the United States. This would be a great opportunity for me to learn some English. My uncle had converted to the Church many years before, and he had a great missionary spirit. That is probably why my mother, without my knowing, spoke with him and said she would agree to the invitation on one condition: that he did not try to convince me to become a member of his Church. We were Catholics, and we had been for generations, and there was no reason to change. My uncle was in complete agreement and kept his word to the point that he didn’t want to answer even simple questions about the Church.
Of course, what my uncle and his sweet wife, Marjorie, could not avoid was being who they were.3
I was assigned a room that contained a large library of books. I could see that in this library there were roughly 200 copies of the Book of Mormon in different languages, 20 of them in Spanish.
One day, out of curiosity, I took down a copy of the Book of Mormon in Spanish.
It was one of those copies with a sky-blue soft cover, with the figure of the angel Moroni on the front. When I opened it, on the first page there was written the following promise: “And when ye shall receive these things, I would exhort you that ye would ask God, the Eternal Father, in the name of Christ, if these things are not true; and if ye shall ask with a sincere heart, with real intent, having faith in Christ, he will manifest the truth of it unto you, by the power of the Holy Ghost.”
And then it added: “And by the power of the Holy Ghost ye may know the truth of all things.”4
It is difficult to explain the impact that these scriptures had on my mind and heart. To be honest, I was not looking for “the truth.” I was just a teenager, happy with his life, enjoying this new culture.
Nevertheless, with that promise in mind, I secretly began reading the book. As I read more, I understood that if I really wanted to get anything from this, I had better start to pray. And we all know what happens when you decide not only to read but also to pray about the Book of Mormon. Well, that is just what happened to me. It was something so special and so unique—yes, just the same as what has happened to millions of others around the world. I came to know by the power of the Holy Ghost that the Book of Mormon was true.
I then went to my uncle to explain to him what had happened and that I was ready to be baptized. My uncle could not contain his astonishment. He got into his car, drove to the airport, and returned back with my plane ticket to fly back home, with a note addressed to my mother that simply stated, “I had nothing to do with this!”
In a way he was right. I had been found directly by the power of the Book of Mormon.

When I returned to Buenos Aires, my mother realized that I truly wanted to be baptized. Since I had a somewhat rebellious spirit, instead of opposing me, she very wisely took my side. And without even knowing it, she did my baptismal interview herself. Indeed, I believe that her interview was even more in-depth than those that our missionaries conduct. She told me, “If you want to be baptized, I will support you. But first I’m going to ask you some questions, and I want you to think very hard and answer me honestly. Do you commit to attend church absolutely every Sunday?”
I told her, “Yes, of course I’m going to do that.”
“Do you have any idea how long church is?”
“Yes, I know,” I said.
She replied, “Well, if you get baptized, I am going to make sure that you attend.” Then she asked me if I was truly willing to never drink alcohol or smoke.
I answered, “Yes, of course I am going to comply with that as well.”
To which she added, “If you get baptized, I am going to make sure that that is the case.” And she proceeded on in that way with almost every commandment.
My uncle had called my mother to tell her not to worry, that I would get over this soon. Four years later, when I received my call to serve in the Uruguay Montevideo Mission, my mother called my uncle to ask him exactly when I was going to get over all this. The truth is that from the time I was baptized, my mother was a happier mother.

Because of construction, over 2,000 Muslims in Ghana didn’t have a place to celebrate their religious holidays in 2022. Leaders of the Takoradi Ghana Stake let them worship on the grounds of the stake center. Top: Brother Emmanuel Botwe (left) helped coordinate between the two groups.

That blessed tradition continues today in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Take, for example, the generous Saints of Ghana. Because of construction, local Muslims didn’t have a place where large groups could gather for worship during some of 2022. In April of that year, Latter-day Saints graciously allowed 2,000 followers of Islam to use the Takoradi Ghana Stake center for Ramadan meals and prayers. Two months later, Latter-day Saint leaders welcomed the group as they celebrated Eid al-Adha. These are two of Islam’s biggest holidays.6

Our Muslim friends were grateful. “We are all brothers and sisters. We are from one heritage,” said the local Muslims’ chief imam, Alhaji Mohammad Awal, alluding to Abraham’s sons Ishmael and Isaac.7

Emmanuel Botwe, called to lead communication in the Takoradi Ghana Stake, said he has cultivated relationships with other faiths in the area since 2018. He has invited them in to play football and attend a religious symposium, stake conferences, and the dedication of a new meetinghouse.

“We all have to respect and care for each other regardless of our differences,” Brother Botwe said. “That has prompted me to reach out—especially to our Muslim brothers.” Muslims make up only 19 percent of Ghana, a predominantly Christian country. “We are all sons and daughters of our Father,” he continued, “so we need to see eye to eye with them.”

Brother Botwe’s outreach balances kindness with principle. Muslims traditionally celebrate Eid al-Adha by sacrificing an animal such as a ram or goat. They do this in memory of God allowing Abraham to sacrifice a ram instead of his son Isaac.

“We told [our Muslim friends] that it’s not possible for them to slaughter the ram at our church premises. We explained our belief that the ultimate sacrifice has been done by the Almighty. And they respected our wish,” Brother Botwe said. “After the service, they moved to the mosque, where the sacrifice was done by the chief imam.”

For Brother Botwe’s kindness, the chief imam gifted him some of the ram meat. Brother Botwe graciously accepted.

“When you start by respecting their values and beliefs, respecting them for who they are—and not condemning them, not belittling them, even if you disagree with them—mutual respect will be there,” Brother Botwe said.

“Please hurry, Rabiha,” Hisham urged as he walked beside the cart on the busy Cairo street.
The mule pulling the loaded cart could make little progress on only three good legs.
“Get that worthless bag of bones off the street!” the impatient cart owner directly behind Hisham yelled.
“Rabiha is not worthless!” Hisham shot back.
A feeling of affection for Rabiha washed away Hisham’s anger as he guided the mule to the side of the road and stopped. He looked at Rabiha’s lame leg again and grimaced when he saw how swollen and sore it was. “My poor Rabiha,” Hisham mourned, patting the mule. “Your leg is not healing.”
Putting into words what he had feared these many days aroused a feeling of terror in Hisham. The heavy loads Rabiha pulled provided Hisham and his mother their only income. When his father was alive, Rabiha had pulled the cart for him. Hisham did not know how they could manage without the mule. Discouragement overwhelmed him, and he buried his face in Rabiha’s neck, ignoring the noise of the busy street.
“Hisham!”
Hisham started, blinking back the tears. His neighbor Mr. Megm was looking at Rabiha’s leg.
“You must take your mule to the Dispensary for Sick Animals,” Mr. Megm advised. “When my donkey’s leg became lame from a nail lodged in his hoof, the veterinarian there removed the nail and made him well again.”
Hisham brightened. “Do you think they can help Rabiha?”
“They can try,” Mr. Megm replied. “I will help you take him there after work.”
That evening Mr. Megm and some of Hisham’s other neighbors helped load Rabiha into a cart, and then Hisham took the crippled animal to the dispensary. For the first time in his life Rabiha rode in a cart instead of pulling it.
“It’s a deep, ugly tumor,” the white-coated veterinarian told the boy after examining Rabiha’s leg. “I can operate tomorrow.”
Hisham wet his dry lips. “Will Rabiha be all right?” he asked anxiously.
“I hope so,” the doctor replied. He gave Hisham a reassuring smile.
Through smarting tears, Hisham tried to return the smile.
Rabiha was put into an empty stall and fed.
“You may go home now,” the doctor told Hisham. “Your mule will be all right here tonight.”
“I cannot leave Rabiha!” Hisham cried.
“As you like,” the doctor replied. “But there is no food for visitors to the dispensary and no place to sleep.”
Hisham was too worried to eat. After sending word of his whereabouts to his mother, he spent the night in the stable beside Rabiha.
The next morning Hisham watched from the stable as the anxious owner of the donkey in the next stall led his animal to the canvas-covered operating table in the adjoining area. As the white-coated attendants forced open the donkey’s mouth, Hisham again buried his face in Rabiha’s neck. “I love you,” he whispered. “You must get well!”
Later Hisham heard an attendant chuckle as the other donkey was returned to the stall. “A greedy donkey if I ever saw one,” he said.
The owner was laughing too. “Greedy indeed!”
“What ailed your donkey?” Hisham asked.
“He had a whole corncob stuck in his throat,” the owner explained, grinning. “He is all right now.”
When Rabiha’s turn came to leave the stable, Hisham tried to be brave. But his legs felt like matchsticks as he followed the mule to the operating table. Then, hearing the neighing and barking from the paddocks and dog kennels close by, Hisham whispered to Rabiha, “The animals are sympathizing with you, old friend. You will soon be well.”
It wasn’t until the attendant administered the anesthetic from a large brown flask that Rabiha quit straining at the thick ropes steadying him.
Smelling the pungent fumes Rabiha was breathing, Hisham’s head, too, began to swim. He backed away and rested against a tree.
When he felt better, Hisham saw that the doctor had removed the tumor and was scraping and cauterizing the wound. Rabiha lay quietly on his side.
Hisham swallowed the lump in his throat. For the first time in weeks, he thought, Rabiha is feeling no pain in his leg.
“Your mule came through the operation beautifully,” the veterinarian told Hisham.
“Thank you, doctor!” the boy exclaimed. “Rabiha thanks you. My mother also thanks you.”
“Your mule, however, cannot go home today,” the veterinarian said.
Hisham blinked. “Why not?” he asked.
“He will have to stay several days until his leg heals.” He patted Rabiha’s bony back. “He needs time and rest to put a little meat on his tired bones.”
“Rabiha has never had a holiday,” said Hisham, wondering how he and his mother would live while the mule was recovering.
Seeing the boy’s worried face, the veterinarian said, “Perhaps I could lend you some money until your mule can work again.”
“I could not take money unless I earned it!” Hisham protested.
“If you are willing to work,” the veterinarian said, “there are jobs you can do here. Because you love animals, you would be a good worker for us. Come, I will show you the pets we board for people on holiday. They help pay our costs. You could help care for them.”
Hisham accepted the kind offer and then smiled as he thought, Rabiha’s holiday will be my holiday too.

“On fast Sunday, Íngrid is the first in our family to get up and bear her testimony in sacrament meeting, and she bears her testimony like an adult,” her dad said. “Sometimes she’ll ask me, ‘Are you going to bear your testimony today?’ I’ll usually tell her that I’m not sure, because it’s hard for me to speak in public. And she’ll tease me by saying, ‘If you don’t, I’ll call you from the pulpit to come up and do it.’ I’ll say, ‘Don’t you dare!’ She smiles happily if I do go up.”

The Ryer family of the East Coast Bays Ward also appreciates the temple day care. With six children, Alby and Lisa Ryer have not been able to attend the temple together in 12 years. Thanks to the hard work of the youth in their stake, things have changed.

“We used to try to take the children to the temple with us and take turns attending the sessions, but everybody would be tired and grumpy afterward. Now, we go to the temple together, and while we travel home, the kids are all nice and happy and telling us about their temple experiences,” says Sister Ryer.