Gospel Story Finder

The impact of a Christlike teacher can be everlasting. I know because my life was changed by a teacher who taught in the Savior’s way.
When I was a Mia Maid, my adviser, Sister Chambers, was one of the most Christlike people I’d ever known. She truly understood the importance of loving those you teach. She was always so genuine and kind to everyone. I always looked forward to her lessons because it was clear that she truly cared about the young women. I always felt the Spirit when she taught, and I always felt inspired to do better.
I still remember specific lessons that she taught, including one about how we can draw closer to the Savior when we turn our focus outward and look for ways to help others. Years later, I’m still striving to turn that inner focus outward.
Sister Chambers also happened to be my piano teacher. She was so patient with me, even when I was having a hard time with a piece or when it was obvious that I hadn’t practiced as much as I should have. Sister Chambers was encouraging and gentle, and I think that helped me improve more than anything else. I loved her so much that I didn’t want to disappoint her! In fact, I wanted to be like her.
During one piano lesson, she told me she was moving. After the lesson, I think I cried for about an hour! I loved her so much. I don’t think she ever knew the impact she had on me. But that’s the power that good teachers can have. They can shape you in such a way that their influence is felt long after their presence is gone.

By inspiration, a bishopric calls a young couple to serve in the ward nursery. At first, the husband sits in the corner, detached and distant. Gradually, he begins smiling with the children. Later, the couple expresses gratitude. Earlier, they say, the wife wanted children; the husband did not. Now, serving has changed and united them. It has also brought the joy of children into their marriage and home.

Recently a mission president asked me to speak to a troubled missionary who was having extreme homesickness problems. His intense yearnings were causing poor performance, a waste of time, a lack of concentration, and a dislike for his present assignment. I took the occasion to tell him that some of the right kind of homesickness could be desirable, but it must be kept under control. Let me say at the outset, yearning is defined as “to have a strong or deep desire; be filled with longing” (American Heritage Dictionary, second college edition, 1982). This missionary seemed very sincere in wanting to do better. Proper yearnings for home can be beneficial.
Not just children but all of us will want to think of home under joyous or trying circumstances. We let ourselves become homesick for love, acceptance, security, understanding, and guidance that generally are taught and shared there. Home should be the place in which a person can unburden his soul and find renewed strength to face the world; where there is comfort, joy, and understanding; where best friends live; and where we can learn to be our best selves.
There is a certain kind of yearning for home we should never want to lose. Home should be an anchor, a port in a storm, a refuge, a happy place in which to dwell, a place where we are loved and where we can love. Home should be where life’s greatest lessons are taught and learned. Home and family can be the center of one’s earthly faith, where love and mutual responsibility are appropriately blended. Thinking of home with its pleasant and happy memories can make us stronger during our present and future days here upon the earth.
President Benson has always loved his childhood home. He loves Whitney, Idaho, his birthplace. He loves the homestead where all eleven children were born and reared by noble parents.
Over a lifetime of worldwide travel, he yearned to return often to his home, and he did so. His heart has always been in Cache Valley. He loved going back and visiting with family members still there and seeing the friends of his birth, his neighbors, his teachers, his bishops, his kin who had such an impact for good on his life. He calls them “the finest people in all the world,” and Whitney “the ideal farm community.”
It revitalizes President Benson to go back to his roots, to go back to the land that nourished him and built character in him and provided him the sacred beginnings of a life devoted to God, family, and country. Truly, President Benson loves his childhood home.
I am concerned for people today who do not have a longing for or thoughts of home. It is unfortunate that among us we have people who have never experienced home life that has been and is desirable so that there can be an anxiousness under control for thoughts toward home. Our responsibilities are to share the warmth of our homes by being good neighbors and friends.
To know who we are is important, but to know where we are in relationship to our earthly home and heavenly home is essential if we are to receive all the blessings our Father in Heaven has for those who love him and keep his commandments. Our eternal home is our ultimate destination. A proper yearning for home can prevent our getting lost in detours or paths that lead us away.
It is reported that one summer at a Young Women’s conference in Alberta, Canada, three hundred girls were camped in tents scattered among tall pines. It rained every day and was very cold and wet. Even so, there was no murmuring in the camp. The last day of the conference, the leader addressed the young women under cloudy skies. Despite the unseasonable cold, there was a feeling of warmth among them for this their temporary home. Maybe because of the cold they were all drawn together and felt warm from the inside out.
The speaker began her remarks by asking, “Where are you going following this outdoor conference?” The united chorus of three hundred young women resounded through the tall pines. “Home!” they cried out. “Where?” they were asked again, and they responded with even greater conviction: “Home!” They knew where they wanted to go most of all and were anxious to get there.
The most attractive home that we will ever share will be that abode with our families with appropriate relationship to our Heavenly Father and his Son, Jesus Christ. Even the prodigal son could not resist the pull of home. He spurned his father, his home life, and his heritage, lavishly wasting his inheritance on riotous living. When he had nothing and was reduced to living off the spoils that only swine would eat, his thoughts turned homeward. Could there have been moments, as he gleaned the fields for husks to eat, when he longed for the security, safety, and acceptance he’d had before? Might he have been deeply homesick? Repentant, and hoping his father would accept him as a servant, he finally returned home. His father rejoiced, welcoming him back with open arms and complete acceptance. He no doubt knew that welcoming his wayward son was crucial if he hoped to ever return to his heavenly home. (See Luke 15:11–32).
Over the years I’ve counseled with many whose homesickness threatened to interfere with their missions, marriages, and families.
But I’ve come to see that being homesick isn’t all bad. It’s natural to miss the people you are closest to. It’s normal to long to be where you feel secure, where those you love have your best interests at heart. It’s understandable to want to return to the place where you learned how to walk and talk, where you felt loved even when friends turned away, and where you were accepted, regardless of the situation. There’s no place on earth that can take the place of a home where love has been given and received.
Recently we’ve witnessed the tragic devastation that Hurricane Andrew left in its wake in southern Florida and Louisiana. Tens of thousands of people have lost their homes. Armed forces personnel have raised tent cities to try and at least provide these victims with shelter. But the sobering fact is that, at least for a time, many of these people literally cannot go home. I cannot imagine how they must yearn for what they so recently had.
I have known other men and women who, for one reason or another, could not go home or who had no home to go to. I have felt their pain and seen their tears. It is, at best, a heartbreaking situation.
In another application, I have also known men and women who have jeopardized the privilege of returning to their heavenly home. Some were dealing with problems that made them ineligible to enter the temple and make the eternal covenants that bind us to our eternal home. I have felt their heartache and their longing for opportunities that, at least for a time, were beyond their reach.
The ramifications are poignant and endless. Perhaps we’ve all had these overwhelming thoughts come to mind: What if I am unworthy? What if I could never go home?
If he could have his way, Satan would distract us from our heritage. He would have us become involved in a million and one things in this life—probably none of which are very important in the long run—to keep us from concentrating on the things that are really important, particularly the reality that we are God’s children. He would like us to forget about home and family values. He’d like to keep us so busy with comparatively insignificant things that we don’t have time to make the effort to understand where we came from, whose children we are, and how glorious our ultimate homecoming can be!
We are literally the children of our Heavenly Father. We kept our first estate. During our experience in premortality, we lived with and were cared for and taught by a loving Father. Among other things, we were schooled in what had to be a perfect spiritual and educational environment. And we rejoiced when told of the plan whereby we could prove ourselves. Hence the day arrived when it was our turn to experience a period of probation and testing, a period during which a veil would be drawn over our memories so that we would be free either to walk by faith and by the Spirit or to forsake our spiritual heritage and birthright.
Now we’re here. And I’m sure we would all agree that this second estate has lived up to its billing. It is a time of testing, of probation. The challenges and duties and responsibilities, at times, seem to overshadow almost everything else. Sadly, it’s easy to become so encumbered by the press of daily life that we lose our focus.
One definition of the word focus is “directed attention” or “emphasis” (Webster’s Ninth New Collegiate Dictionary). Perhaps as much as anything in this day and age of mass media, instantaneous worldwide communications, and modern conveniences that seem to help us pack more into each day than would have been considered possible just a few decades ago, we need to focus on and direct our attention to the things that really matter. And simply, what really matters is a personal testimony of Jesus Christ, an understanding of who we are and what we’re doing here, and an absolute determination to return home.
What young musician, finally scheduled to debut in a capacity concert hall after years of agonizing rehearsal, would, while en route to the performance, stop to join a long line forming at the latest hit movie, forgetting the thousands of people waiting to hear her?
What world-class runner, after training for well over a decade, would find himself in the Olympic finals, only to stop running halfway through his race to watch the high-jump finals taking place on the other side of the field?
These examples may seem preposterous—but how much more tragic it is for someone who, equipped with a testimony of the truth and a knowledge of the purpose of life, becomes more absorbed in life today than in life forever. Who’s just a little more concerned about his or her status and standing in mortality than in eternity. Whose focus is not directed to God the Father and his Son, Jesus Christ, with whom it is possible to have a glorious connection and bond.
I fear that, at times, we run the risk of acting like seasoned, conditioned athletes who are more interested in what kind of jogging suits we’ll wear than in buckling down to train for the race. C. S. Lewis had an intriguing way of evaluating this dilemma: “We are half-hearted creatures, fooling about with drink and sex and ambition when infinite joy is offered us, like an ignorant child who wants to go on making mud pies in a slum because he cannot imagine what is meant by the offer of a holiday at the sea. … We are far too easily pleased” (A Mind Awake: An Anthology of C. S. Lewis, ed. Clyde S. Kilby [New York: Harcourt, Brace and World, 1968], p. 168).
The prophet Mormon put it another way: “Why are ye ashamed to take upon you the name of Christ? Why do ye not think that greater is the value of an endless happiness than that misery which never dies—because of the praise of the world?” (Morm. 8:38).
When we have a yearning and don’t know what it is for, perhaps it’s our soul longing for its heartland, longing to be no longer alienated from the Lord and the pursuit of something much higher, better, and more fulfilling than anything this earth has to offer.
After Joseph, son of Jacob, had been reunited with his brothers, he asked them to return home to Canaan to bring his father, Jacob, to him in Egypt. As the brothers were preparing to depart, Joseph said to them simply, “See that ye fall not out by the way” (Gen. 45:24).
Might our Heavenly Father have given us much the same counsel as we departed his presence to begin our earthly sojourn?
May our yearning for home be the motivation we need to so live that we can return to our heavenly home with God our Father on a forever basis, I humbly pray in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

The story is told of a family who had a grandmother who had to live in a home for the elderly. Once each year they would visit her. On that occasion, they would take her a new blanket. As they were returning home from one such visit, one of the father’s young sons asked, “Daddy, why do we visit grandmother every year?”

The father answered, “So she will know that we love her.”

Another question: “Daddy, why do we bring her a new blanket every time?”

The father answered, “So she will remember that we’ve been here and that we have not forgotten her.”

Then a pause. “Daddy, what color blanket would you like when I come to visit you?”

The miracle of the mortal body became apparent to me one afternoon when I was holding my first baby. It was a girl, and suddenly she seemed to stop breathing. I tried to force air into her lungs. I cried to the Lord in desperation, and after only a few seconds that seemed like an endless hour, she began to breathe normally again. The problem was diagnosed as an enlarged thymus gland that needed treatment. I shall never forget how grateful I was for the miracle of life and for the power of the body that I knew that day. I determined to do my very best to help her use her life as the Lord intended when he gave her to me to care for and love.

The second example of lives filled with service, with which I shall conclude, is the missionary experience of Juliusz and Dorothy Fussek, who were called to fill an 18-month mission in Poland. Brother Fussek was born in Poland. He spoke the language. He loved the people. Sister Fussek was born in England and knew little of Poland and nothing of its people.

Trusting in the Lord, they embarked on their assignment. The living conditions were primitive, the work lonely, their task immense. A mission had not at that time been fully established in Poland. The assignment given the Fusseks was to prepare the way so that the mission could be expanded and gain permanence, that other missionaries be called to serve, people taught, converts baptized, branches established, and chapels erected.

Did Elder and Sister Fussek despair because of the enormity of their assignment? Not for a moment. They knew their calling was from God, they prayed for His divine help, and they devoted themselves wholeheartedly to their work. They remained in Poland not 18 months, but rather served for five years. All of the foregoing objectives were realized. Such came about following an earlier meeting where Elders Russell M. Nelson, Hans B. Ringger, and I, accompanied by Elder Fussek, met with Minister Adam Wopatka of the Polish government, and we heard him say, “Your church is welcome here. You may build your buildings, you may send your missionaries. You are welcome in Poland. This man,” pointing to Juliusz Fussek, “has served your church well, as has his wife. You can be grateful for their example and their work.”

Even as I lay on my bed staring at the cobweb on the ceiling (my cobweb, because it was my turn to dust), I could think of two reasons why I should be happy. First, it was my birthday. At our house a birthday means a special dinner. The birthday celebrity picks the menu and sits at the head of the table. Dessert is a big homemade cake. Second, in just two and a half hours, my neighbor and good friend Scott would pick me up for the dance. It was my first date with him. For that matter, it was my first date with anybody. So why wasn’t I excited? So why wasn’t I jubilant? The reason was not a good one.
I turned my head and looked at the pictures on my wall. I call it my wall because my two sisters and I have shared the rest of the room in the attic for as long as I can remember. My bed is adjacent to the wall where the ceiling doesn’t slope. There, framed in velvet, are the pictures I have had copied of many of my relatives for generations back. I looked at my favorite, the picture of my grandmother Agatha Robertson, which was larger than the rest. I always like to look at Grandmother Agatha. She’s wearing a lace dress and her hair is piled high. Her eyes seem to be dark brown like mine, and although she isn’t smiling in the picture, I’m sure smiling is something she often did.
I had read her journal many times. Agatha Robertson, my mother’s great-great-grandmother, had been an only child and had been given beautiful things by her wealthy parents. Yet, she had grown lovely and serene and had done many benevolent acts in her lifetime, therefore disproving the theory that all only children of wealthy parents grow up to be selfish and spoiled. Later in life Agatha had married Captain Conrad Robertson, who adored her and brought her gifts from faraway lands. Unlike my pioneer grandmothers, unlike my grandmothers from Scotland and Holland, Agatha had lived a life of luxury. “I get to be Grandma Agatha!” I had often shouted when my sisters and I played dress-ups. Even then her picture had fascinated me.
Now, as I looked at her again, I envied the life she had led—so different from mine. I had to struggle just to buy the fabric to make a dress for myself. It was either sew or wear hand-me-downs, and I wasn’t much of a seamstress yet.
“Oh, Grandmother Agatha,” I said aloud, “you wouldn’t understand this because you always had the best before it wasn’t the best anymore. But, if I have to wear a hand-me-down to the dance tonight, I just won’t go. I won’t! It’s awful to be third girl!” Agatha Robertson’s expression didn’t change. But then, I hadn’t expected it to.
“Honestly, Janet, I wish you’d quit talking to your pictures.” The inside of me jumped. I hadn’t heard Joani climb the stairs, but there she was, standing in the doorway studying herself in the blue dress she was making. She turned sideways, then completely around, always keeping her eyes on the mirror.
“Well, it isn’t as bad as talking to yourself,” I said defending myself, “and I’ve heard you do that before. It’s pretty,” I added in a mumble, looking at her dress. It was beautiful. Joani was an expert. Maybe that was my trouble. I always tried to sew quickly and energetically like she did. Joani took some pins out of her mouth and smiled at me.
“Thanks,” she said, “I’m almost finished. You can have the machine back in just a few minutes.” She began hemming the sleeves with the pins. “Are you about finished with yours?”
“Uh-huh.” I didn’t tell her about the yellow dress because I knew what she would say. She would lecture me on beginning at the beginning and picking easier patterns. I was finished with the dress all right. It wasn’t a lie. It was hanging in my closet with at least four more hours of work to do on it. It didn’t fit right at all. The bodice was all wrong, and the sleeves were crooked. Now there wasn’t time to fix it, not with dinner and everything. That meant that tonight of all nights I’d have to wear a hand-me-down. And there was Joani—quick, clever little Joani—admiring herself in a beautiful creation she’d designed herself. I didn’t want to look at her, so I turned my head. Why should she care? She had her dress. Why should she care that I’d have to wear one of the ancient dresses in the basement? Why should anyone care? Erma, my oldest sister, obviously didn’t. She had taken all her bridesmaid dresses to college with her.
Joani headed back downstairs to the sewing room, a few pins still in her mouth, and I looked at Grandmother Agatha and sighed. Then I pulled myself off my bed and shuffled downstairs as if I were carrying a 300-pound pack on my back. Mother was bustling busily in the kitchen, preparing my birthday dinner. She smiled at me with an “Aren’t you elated it’s your birthday?” look on her face. “Your special dinner will be ready in about five minutes,” she said excitedly. “Go tell everyone.”
“Okay.” I began passing the word around. First, I called out back where Jack and Alex were playing. Then I called into the family-sewing room to Dad and Joani. In ten minutes we were all seated around the dining room table. Dad gave the prayer, and then Jack, Alex, and Joani each passed me a little gift. Alex gave me another bottle of “Forever Yours” cologne. He gave me that every year. Jack had made me a pencil holder out of a cutoff milk carton. Joani gave me a jeweled comb and brush set. I oohed and aahed and tried to act excited as I opened each of the gifts. Then Mom passed me the gift from her and Dad. Maybe I had hoped somewhere in the back of my mind that it would be a dress, a yellow dress, because I felt a tinge of disappointment when the package they sent me was too small. Besides, it rattled.
“Careful,” Mom said.
“Yes, careful,” Joani said. She was smiling widely.
“I wonder what this could be?”
“You might say it’s a hand-me-down from all of us.” Mom laughed.
“Oh?” I took off the yellow ribbon and opened the package carefully. Inside the box was … no, it couldn’t be … “Is this? It is! It’s Grandmother Agatha’s locket! But, Mom, I inherited this from Aunt Louise. She gave it to you!”
“Oh, I never wear falderal like lockets, and—”
“But, Erma’s the oldest. She should have it. Or Joani. I’m only third.” Joani smiled again.
“I asked them if it was all right and they insisted you have it,” Mother answered patiently. “Both said you knew Grandmother Robertson the best and deserved it.”
“But, …”
The phone rang and Alex jumped up. “I’ll get it! I hate mushy stuff like this.”
“Oh, thank you, thank you so much! I can’t wait to show Scott.” I laid the locket carefully by my plate on the tablecloth where I could look at it more closely. It was gold, with tiny roses, and inside, I knew, was the only picture we had of Captain Robertson. It was too small and faded to have it copied. On the back of the locket were the initials A.R.W.L. I guessed they stood for “Agatha Robertson, with love.”
Everyone had begun eating chicken, mashed potatoes, corn, and rolls, but I wasn’t hungry. I was too happy.
“It’s Erma,” Alex announced. “From Provo. She called to wish you a happy birthday.”
“Erma!” I jumped up and ran to the phone. “Erma, thanks. Thanks for the locket. I’m so excited! But, it should rightfully belong to you. You’re the oldest.”
“It’s yours,” Erma said. “You’re the one who deserves it. We all wanted you to have it. Besides, you can wear it tonight with your new yellow dress. How did it turn out?”
“I won’t be wearing the yellow dress. I didn’t get it finished, but I don’t mind. I’ll wear something from the basement. Anything will look beautiful with this locket.”
Erma was silent for a moment. “Oh, but it’s your first date. You just can’t. Why was I so stupid to take all my bridesmaid dresses with me? I just want to kick myself. If there was only time to drive home I would, I … hey! Wait! I did leave home my velvet skirt. Wear that. It’s in the sewing room and just needs the seam fixed. You’ll probably have to lengthen it, but it shouldn’t take you long. Find a pretty blouse, and you’ll look fantastic.”
“Hooray!” I said. “Thanks, Sis, thanks!”
After chocolate cake with lemon frosting and strawberry sherbet (all my favorites), I hurried to the sewing room and found the skirt in the closet. Joani followed me.
“What are you doing?”
“Erma said I could wear her skirt because I didn’t finish my yellow dress.”
Joani looked confused, then hurt. “You should have told me. Why didn’t you? I would have helped you finish it. We have to stick together, don’t we? It really upsets me you didn’t tell me.” Then she had an idea because her eyes grew wide and her lips parted into a smile. “Then the least you can do is wear my satin and lace blouse.”
I was stunned. “You’re kidding!” I knew the satin and lace blouse was her favorite, her best. She kept it in a special part of her drawer instead of the closet, wrapped in tissue paper. She only wore it on the most special occasions. “I couldn’t.”
“Please.”
“Joani, Joani, you don’t mean it, do you? Your satin and lace blouse? Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
Upstairs, Joani unwrapped her blouse with only the slightest hesitation and handed it to me. Then she went back downstairs.
I put the blouse on and stepped into the skirt even though I hadn’t fixed the seam yet. I wanted to get the effect first.
Even before I put the locket on, I knew the blouse was perfect to set it off. And it was. I looked up to see Grandmother Agatha looking at me with an earnest expression on her face. “Who would have guessed I’d be getting a hand-me-down from you for my birthday,” I said with a laugh. I think Agatha Robertson would have smiled in real life. Her eyes would have sparkled. But the picture’s expression didn’t change. Of course, I hadn’t expected it to.
I looked back at myself in Joani’s blouse and Erma’s skirt and the locket I had inherited because of their generosity and unselfishness, and yes, their love for me. I gulped.
I looked again at my perfectly groomed, elegant, great-great-grandmother who had had beautiful things, the finest clothes and jewels, but who had been an only child.
“Grandmother Agatha, you missed out. You really missed out. You just don’t know how wonderful … oh, you wouldn’t know what I mean.” But, even as I said the words, I guessed she knew what I was trying to say. With one last smile, I hurried downstairs. I had a lot to do before the dance.

I grew up in a large family, and I always believed that motherhood would be my greatest contribution to building the Lord’s kingdom. However, my husband and I recently learned that our chances of adding children to our family in this life are small. Our infertility journey has been excruciatingly painful, but the uncertainty of treatments and the emotional load of making difficult decisions have been especially soul crushing. At times I have wondered, What will my influence and role be if I can’t be a mother in the way I had planned?
During this journey, I’ve been grateful for other faithful women in my life whose experiences have also turned out differently than they had planned. And through their examples, Heavenly Father’s message to me has been this: “Don’t wait. Don’t second-guess if you could or should have done more or chosen differently. Be where you are now. Take opportunities to love and serve those around you.”

Last year I experienced what Lemony Snicket would describe as A Series of Unfortunate Events.
In a space of four weeks I had seven major surgeries, the possible amputation of my leg, and was diagnosed with stage-three cancer. I told you it was unfortunate! Prolonged hospital stays and treatments gave me ample opportunity to reflect on my relationship to God and others. Sometimes limitations placed on us can be liberating in other ways. I know that for all our weakness, fears, and failings, including our own hypocrisy, there stands Christ perfect, preeminent, loving, and anxious to bless us.

“I’m going to get rich,” Tom told his mother on Saturday morning. “All the money I have in the world is the quarter Uncle Fred gave me. A quarter isn’t enough to buy the green bike in Thompson’s department store window. So I’m going to get rich.”
“How are you going to do that?” his mother asked. “There aren’t many ways a boy your age can earn money.”
“I’ll find things to do,” Tom assured her. “Mrs. Davis’s yard is a mess. I’m sure she’ll pay me to clean it up. Don’t worry. There are lots of ways I can earn money.” He smiled. “I’ll make at least five dollars, just today! In a few weeks I’ll be rich enough to buy the bike.”
Tom whistled as he pulled his wagon down the sidewalk. He was still whistling when he rang Mrs. Davis’s doorbell.
“I’m going to earn money for a bike,” he told Mrs. Davis. “Will you hire me to clean your yard?”
Mrs. Davis looked surprised. Then she looked sort of embarrassed. “I’m sorry, Tom,” she said. “I would certainly like to have this dirty yard tidied up, and I can’t do it myself. But my pension isn’t enough for me to pay to have it done.”
Tom looked at the branches and paper scraps cluttering the yard. Then he looked at Mrs. Davis. Even though she was old and could barely stoop to pick up things, she kept the inside of her house clean. Tom was sure that she hated having a messy yard. “Look,” he said. “Your yard is small, and it’s early. I can easily clean it before I start getting rich.”
“Why, thank you, Tom!” said Mrs. Davis. “Come in when you’re finished. I’m baking cinnamon cookies today.”
Tom smiled. Mrs. Davis’s cookies were worth waiting an hour to start getting rich!
The sun was inching higher into the sky when Tom carried the last branch to the trash pile. If he hadn’t been so hungry, he would have skipped eating the cookies and gone right on to getting rich.
He’d barely left Mrs. Davis’s house with the extra bag of cookies she’d insisted he take home, when he heard someone call, “Young man! Could you help me?”
Looking around, Tom saw Mr. Gunther waving at him. “I need help carrying some boxes to the basement,” the old man said. “I have to store some of my junk down there, or there won’t be room upstairs for me.”
He cackled at his own joke, and Tom smiled. Mr. Gunther lived on a pension too.
I won’t get rich here either, Tom decided.
“Come on,” the old man urged. He walked toward his house, not even waiting for Tom to agree to help.
Tom sighed, then followed Mr. Gunther inside. His mom wouldn’t be happy with him if he refused to help a neighbor. Besides, Mr. Gunther was pretty nice. Last summer he’d showed Tom how to make neat little boats from plain old tree leaves.
An hour later Tom looked at the clock in Mr. Gunther’s kitchen. It was ten-thirty, and he still had only a quarter!
“Wait,” Mr. Gunther said as Tom started for the door. He looked embarrassed, like Mrs. Davis had, and Tom knew that he was going to apologize for not having money.
“I don’t want anything for helping,” Tom said quickly, feeling embarrassed too.
Mr. Gunther looked relieved. “Checks just don’t reach far enough nowadays,” he mumbled. Then he took a small box from the table. “I found these when I was cleaning. Do you have a stamp collection?” He opened the box, and Tom stared at a stack of old envelopes. The one on top had a big stamp with an airplane from World War II on it.
“Wow!” Tom said. “I don’t have any stamps this old!”
Mr. Gunther looked pleased. “Here, then,” he said. “And if you’re trying to make money, Mrs. Jackson seldom moves her car from her garage. She’s sure to need some errands done.”
“Thanks a lot!” Tom said as he left. Helping Mrs. Jackson was a good idea. Once she’d given him a whole dollar just for getting a loaf of bread from the store!
Mrs. Jackson was pleased to see Tom and sent him to the store. But after he’d paid for her bread and milk, there was only a dime and four pennies change.
“I’m so sorry, Tom,” she said after she had dug through three old purses to see if she could find more money. “I guess fourteen cents is all I can pay today. I haven’t been to the bank lately to get any cash.”
Tom gulped. Then he remembered the dollar she’d paid him last time, and he knew that he’d already been paid for today too.
“That’s OK,” he said. “Fourteen cents is plenty. Thank you, Mrs. Jackson.”
“Thank you!” she said. Then she smiled. “You’re a nice boy, Tom. It’s good to have helping neighbors.”
Her words made Tom feel so good that he was almost home before he realized that the morning was gone and that he was only fourteen cents closer to being rich enough to buy the green bike.
Still, he thought as he parked his wagon, Mrs. Davis’s cookies will make a great dessert. And he was eager to get Mr. Gunther’s old stamps soaked off the envelopes and into his album. As for Mrs. Jackson … well, she had given him some money, and she was a good friend.
“Hurry, Tom. Lunch is ready,” his mother called. When he went into the kitchen, she asked, “Well, are you rich yet?”
Tom grinned and replied, “Yep—I sure am.”

Speaking of music, one of the most obvious places to use a musical talent is in the orchestra pit. It’s hard work, say Shane Larsen, 14, and his brother Joseph, 16. When you point out to Shane that nobody really sees the orchestra, he says, “Yes, but they hear us. And if the music isn’t good, the play won’t be any good either.” Joseph admits that when he was on stage in previous productions, he kind of took the orchestra for granted, too. But not any more.

Of course, when it comes to being seen, no one would be seen—or heard—if the stage and sound and light crews were not on the job. Sandy stake’s Thomas Craft, 19, has acted in some productions, but he prefers to work behind the scenes. “Backstage people don’t always get credit, but they are very important for the play to turn out the way it should.”

Which brings up some of the things the stage can teach you about life. Kaisa Hansen was in Pirates. Now she’s a student at BYU. As much as anything, performing gave her an appreciation of the work of others. “When you get involved, you see how much people do behind the scenes. I have started realizing how much work people put into things. And when you are involved in something with other people, and you just play a small role, you are part of the glue that holds things together.”

Eli Hansen, 15, of Burley, talks about another lesson learned from the stage: “When you’re not part of the action, don’t upstage the others. Focus attention on them. Stay in character all the time. There’s always somebody watching you. You represent the Church name, your family name, even your employer. You have to be ‘on’ around the clock.”

When you get involved in stake productions or even Church pageants, there are still more lessons learned—things that shape and strengthen your testimony. Many of those who performed in Promised Valley volunteered that the experience had given them a greater appreciation of the pioneers and of their own heritage. As Spencer Williams notes, “To get into character, you have to imagine what it would have been like.” For him, the miracle of the crickets and the seagulls took on much deeper meaning.

Just like the friendships formed, those kinds of experiences can stay with you for years. Amy Hill, 18, of the Taylorsville Utah Central Stake, remembers when she was in her stake’s performance of the Book-of-Mormon-based A Day, a Night, and a Day. Amy was a ninth grader and had only a small nonspeaking part. But she has vivid memories of “acting out the Book of Mormon, thinking, Wow! this is so cool. This is how it would have felt.” Would she do it again? “I’d definitely recommend that kind of experience. I miss it sometimes.”

So what do the critics say? You’ve just heard from the critics who matter most—the people who have done it. So next time you have a chance to get on the stage (or behind the scenes, or in the orchestra pit) don’t start looking for the first stage out of town. If you want to develop friends, talents, and self-confidence, that stake musical or school play or community theater may be just the ticket.

Be a critic. The world judges plays and musicals as good or bad based on how well they are written and performed. Latter-day Saints must be concerned about content. What is the message? Are language and costumes appropriate? If you have to “become your character” in order to act well, what kind of character are you being asked to play? Several of the young people we talked to indicated that they were touched emotionally and spiritually by what they were portraying.

Be aware. There are lots of opportunities to get involved in wholesome theater. Most—but not all—school plays are safe. (Get a look at the script if you are unsure.) Stake and ward productions are a wonderful opportunity for friendships and personal growth. And many communities—especially those with a strong LDS influence—have local theater companies that have high moral standards. Ask around.

Be prepared to commit yourself and work hard. Rehearsals can be boring and tiring. But when everything comes together, the payoff can be terrific.

Six-year-old Amber looked around the busy chapel as the people came in. She saw the young men who passed the sacrament smiling as they sat down. Moms and grandmas hugged their neighbors. Dads and grandpas shook people’s hands. She also saw her friends from Primary sitting on benches with their moms and dads and brothers and sisters.
Then Amber looked at her bench. Only her mom, older sister, and brother sat with her. Her dad sat with the bishop at the front of the chapel.
Amber didn’t like Dad sitting at the front of the chapel. She knew he sat there because he was called to be the second counselor in the bishopric. But she wanted him to sit next to her so she could snuggle against his arm.
Mom looked at her grumpy face. “What’s wrong, Amber?” she asked quietly.
“I don’t like Dad sitting in the front,” Amber said.
“Bishop Smith is responsible for all the people in the ward,” Mom explained to her again. “That is a very big job. He needs helpers like Dad and Brother White. They have received a call from Heavenly Father to help the bishop and each person in the ward.”
After sacrament meeting Amber went home with her family. Dad stayed at church for a meeting. When Dad got home, Amber sat on his lap. “I missed you in church,” she said quietly. Dad looked at her carefully. “Well, I’ll see what I can do about that,” he said.
The next Sunday after Primary, Dad was waiting for Amber. Together they walked into the chapel and up the steps. Dad took his place next to Bishop Smith. Dad had told Amber that she could sit with him for a few minutes before the meeting started.
Amber tried to be very reverent. She listened to the soft organ music and watched as all the people sat down in the chapel. She saw white-haired ladies sitting together on a bench. She noticed that some of the families had only a mom, and some had only a dad. And some children came to church with their grandmas and grandpas.
“And the bishop takes care of all these people!” she thought. “He does need help.” Amber knew that she could help the bishop by not being grumpy when Dad sat away from her. “From now on I’m going to be happy!” she thought. Then she looked at Mom and her brother and sister. “They look lonely without me sitting next to them,” she decided.
Amber smiled at Dad and whispered, “See you at home. We’ll be waiting for you.” Then she walked quietly back to her family.

When Kevin Brown was 12 years old, a sister missionary challenged him to read the Book of Mormon. So, every morning he would pray, read, and pray again. With each prayer, he asked Heavenly Father if the Book of Mormon was true.
He recalls that one morning while praying, he “didn’t even have to ask the question. The Lord’s answer came in such a profound way.” He felt the Lord tell him: “I know you, and I love you. You are my son.”
Immediately, the Holy Ghost confirmed to him: “This is God’s truth. The Book of Mormon is true. Joseph Smith is a prophet.” This experience changed his life.

I watched Ma’s eyes moving up and down the rough board walls partly covered with pasted-up newspapers. Five times now I had watched her read our lean-to walls, and it brought an ache to my heart.
If Ma had a book to read, I thought, maybe it wouldn’t seem so bad to be down in bed day after day. I tried to think of likely places to find her a book. “I heard once that Mr. Piney keeps books, Ma. I think I’ll go borrow one tomorrow.”
Ma looked at me, and I caught a flicker of interest in her tired eyes. “You’d ride ten miles just to get me a book, Jase?”
I grinned at her, glad that I’d thought of it.
Ma gave a deep sigh. “It would be nice to read a book,” she said.
When Ma had hurt her back, Old Doc Thomas had told her that staying down flat was the only choice that she had for a while. I fixed the meals, did the chores, and kept the garden plot weeded so that Pa could work in the mines long enough to get money to pay Doc for his visits. And I tried to keep Ma happy while Pa was gone.
The next morning, after fixing Ma a bowl of mush and putting some lunch on the chair by her bed, I climbed onto Hoofer and rode bareback toward the Pineys’ ranch. Their house was over the hills and across a sizable creek from our place. I figured that I could reach the Pineys’ place by noon and be back by chore time. But I hadn’t counted on a storm coming up, and it made me uneasy when it started to rain before I even got over the first hill.
I knew that the creek swelled sometimes when it rained in the hills, and I hoped that it wouldn’t happen now. When I reached the creek, it was shallow and running clear. I splashed Hoofer across with a joyful shout, and we went pounding on to the Pineys’ ranch.
I hadn’t figured on wasting any time at the Pineys’ place, but Mr. Piney insisted that I stay long enough to dry myself out. Then Mrs. Piney set a platter of warm biscuits and honey in front of me. After I had stuffed the third biscuit into my mouth, I told them about Ma and about me thinking that she needed a book to read.
Mr. Piney went to his bookshelf, and I watched his fingers sliding over the smooth covers of each book. He loved those books, I could tell. My heart sank. Maybe he loved them so much that he wouldn’t want to loan me one.
“Do you know about Shakespeare, Jase?” he asked me.
I swallowed the last of the biscuit that I was eating. “No, sir, but I reckon Ma does.”
His fingers stopped on a book with a dark red cover. He took it down from the shelf and opened it. He smoothed the pages just like I sometimes smoothed Hoofer’s velvety neck. “I wouldn’t want it to get soiled or damaged,” he said softly.
I held my breath.
“I’m going to trust you, Jase.” He wrapped the book in a cloth and handed it to me. I felt as if I was being handed a treasure of jewels or gold. And my heart sang just knowing that I would be carrying such a treasure to Ma.
It had stopped raining, and the sun was coming out, so I started home. I rode along, envisioning how Ma’s eyes would sparkle when I gave her the book.
When I reached the creek, it was overflowing its banks! The only way to cross it would be to swim Hoofer. But how can I protect the book? I wondered.
I held Hoofer back and watched the swirling water. Maybe I could hold the book high above my head with one hand and hang onto Hoofer’s mane with the other. Or maybe I could tuck it up high under my galluses and against my chest. …
I closed my eyes against the sight of the water and prayed to know what to do. I wanted to get the book safely home to Ma, I told the Lord. I wasn’t worried about Hoofer. He was a strong horse, and he had swum the creek before. It was the book that worried me, I told Him.
Then it was like my own voice inside me, reminding me of Mr. Piney’s trust in me. It was telling me that I didn’t have any right to take a chance of getting his treasured book wet. Tears began stinging my eyes when I knew what I had to do. I turned Hoofer back toward the Pineys’ ranch.
Mr. Piney didn’t ask any questions when I handed him the cloth-wrapped package. I was glad, because my throat was too tight to do any explaining.
“It will be here whenever you come back for it,” was all that he said.
With my throat aching something terrible, I loped Hoofer back to the creek. I only slowed up at the creek bank for a moment; then we plunged into the swollen water. I clung to his mane and tried to lift my legs away from the water. It reached his belly quickly, and I felt its tug against my legs.
Hoofer was splashing up onto the far bank when one big splash caught me full on, drenching me. The water hit my face, and I gasped and sputtered. Then a wave of pure thankfulness spread over me. I was surely glad that I had seen fit to return the treasured book.
It was near dark when I rode into our yard. I saw that Ma hadn’t even lit the oil lamp beside her bed. I went in, feeling choked with what I had to tell her. I saw the movement of her arms in the corner where she lay on her bed, and I wet my lips. “I didn’t bring you a book, Ma,” I said.
“To have you home safe, Jase, is worth more than any book,” she told me.
I touched a match to the lampwick, and shadows fled the lean-to room. Lamplight flickered on the newspapered walls. “Did you ever read Shakespeare, Ma?” I asked.
She gave a sigh of remembering. “A long time ago.”
In a few days the creek would again run shallow, and when it did, I’d ride back to Mr. Piney’s ranch for that treasured book.

Irene Kabongo (my co-host) and I were both invited to accept the assignment to present Rising Gen: Europe to an Area Seventy (Elder Alan Philips) who works closely with the Europe Area Presidency. At that point I had been developing the broadcasts for a couple of months with my fellow members of the Europe Young Adult Advisory Council but didn’t expect to be asked. I felt honoured, trusted, a little daunted, but excited to get to work.
Having never worked as an on-screen presenter before, I had to learn a lot of new skills quickly on the job (camera awareness, speaking clearly, interview skills, etc.). The hardest work, however, was definitely off-camera:
putting together an amazing team of videographers and technicians
finding the right people to interview both in and out of the studio
finding lovely musical items
prayerfully consulting with interviewees about what we should discuss in each episode
making sure that what we put on screen reflects Europe’s diverse nations, cultures and people
As both a creatively and technically-minded aspiring-architect, I loved the merging of creative and technical skills that a broadcast like this requires. I love being part of a major Church project which is distinctly European. Furthermore, I learned that I really love to interview people — connecting with them and drawing out their wisdom. Interviewing also reinforced my strong belief in the inspirational influence of the Holy Spirit. There were many occasions where I was blessed with inspiration as to what to ask, what to say, and when.
I have learned so much about Christlike love and conduct from the goodness of our leaders and their families. Up until this year, these were men and women whom I had only ever seen speaking on-screen at general conference, or from a distance at a stake conference. I have now had many interactions with them both virtually and in person, and I count them as some of the most wonderful people I know who want the very best for me and my generation.

Our son, Spencer, has tried to learn to fast since his baptism nearly two years ago. We have not made him feel he must fast at this young age. He may not fast as long as we do on some Sundays. In fast and testimony meeting some time ago, he whispered to me, “I think I’ll go up and bear my testimony.” I smiled and nodded my approval. His sincere testimony touched me. He was feeling something. So did I.

Enduring Trials
“When [Kate] was 14, … one day her [seminary] teacher started to talk about trials and guaranteed that we all would face them. She said to herself, ‘I don’t want trials; I don’t want to hear this.’
“It was just a few weeks later that her father woke up … extremely ill. Kate said: ‘… Within 36 hours he had a massive stroke that shut down most of his body. … I remember seeing him and thinking, “Oh no, it’s happening. … I am having a trial.”’ Within a few days Kate’s father passed away.
“… Kate said: ‘It was so hard. … I knew I could make it a springboard for growth or allow it to be a roadblock. I didn’t want to let it ruin my life. … I tried to be as close to the Lord as possible. I read my scriptures a lot. … I prayed a lot. I wrote in my journal. … I kept my testimony vibrant by writing it down. I went to church and to Young Women every week. I surrounded myself with good friends. I kept close to caring relatives and especially to my mom. … I sought out priesthood blessings. …’
“These consistent choices, like those of the wise virgin, added oil to Kate’s lamp. … She wanted an eternal relationship with [her father], and she understood that staying on her covenant path would keep her life woven tightly with his. …
“Kate had this kind of faith because she understood the plan of salvation. She knew we lived before, that earth is a time of testing, and that we will live again.”
Mary N. Cook, former first counselor in the Young Women general presidency

A woman I once counseled was having difficulty with an adopted son and wanted to learn some techniques for dealing with him. As I listened to her, it became apparent to me that some of the problems stemmed not from the child’s behavior, but from the woman’s own impure heart.
The boy was somewhat handicapped. In addition to a physical difficulty, he was emotionally handicapped because his real mother had been unable to meet his developmental dependency needs.
But the adoptive mother had an even greater handicap: she was suffering from the disease of pride. When she was a child, her parents had tried to appear shameless and had self-righteously demanded perfection from their children. The family was extremely concerned about external appearance and the impression others had of them. They were caught up in the pride of materialism, status, and prestige. They had learned to be judgmental and critical of themselves and of others.
When this woman’s adopted child didn’t measure up to her expectations, the fear of his making her look bad became a serious threat to her personal image, and she would strike out towards him.
Together, we studied a few verses in the Book of Mormon. And she came to realize that, although she had been diligent in the outward performance of religion, she had failed to see the impurity of her heart. In a sense, she was active in the Church, but inactive in some important aspects of the gospel.
This sister began to see that she had become entangled in the pride of the world. One of the greatest evidences of her pride was that she had been relying on her own strength to solve her problems.
As she began to see more clearly, she began to feel hope—hope born not of faith in herself or in her own ability to raise her child properly, but a hope based in Jesus Christ and in his power to heal and redeem. Through repentance, she changed her attitude and behavior. And she began studying the scriptures—not just reading them—seeking the Spirit, and putting her hope and trust in the Lord.
This sister is a different woman today. She is still far from perfect and still has problems dealing with her child. But she has a different perspective now as she confronts her challenges. She is working with the Lord to find the solutions.

High school graduation night was hectic, and I was in a hurry. The envelope lying on my bed that evening didn’t look particularly interesting, so I hurriedly opened it, figuring it was just another piece of junk mail I could throw out and get on with my night. But, to my surprise, the envelope contained a letter:
Dear Angela,
Do you get a kick out of remembering things you did when you were a kid? Good, because I’m going to ask you to turn your thoughts back to when you were ten years old. I was your Primary teacher then …
The letter went on to tell me what my teacher, Sister Bently, remembered about me and my classmates. The letter ended:
In June of the year you were in my class, I gave a lesson on the Word of Wisdom. Each of you wrote a letter to yourself that day. Today, I am mailing the note you wrote to yourself so long ago. I do not remember what you wrote. What is inside is strictly for you.
Love,
Sister Bently
I quickly opened the seal on the smaller envelope inside the letter and read the short but beautiful testimony of why it is important for me to keep the Word of Wisdom. I was glad to know that I had been true to myself and kept my standards.
In the years since I had written the note, I had observed the sometimes dire consequences of breaking the Word of Wisdom—things like cancer and car accidents. When I was ten and in Primary, I knew the Word of Wisdom. Now, I also know the wisdom in the words.

This is what I read:
It is November and cold outside. I can hear the wind whistling through the beech trees down in the woods. I am sitting in front of my fireplace in my old leather-back chair with Mom’s old knitted shawl over my lap. There is a little table by my side, and I am writing on a lined tablet. The lines are wide because my eyesight is not as good as it once was. The dancing flames from the fire seem to stimulate my thoughts, and I relive the years when my beloved wife and I first joined the Church. The wind was blowing off the ocean when we waded into the water off the coast of Wales. Bess’s health was poor, she being with child, andshe was concerned about the effects of the cold water on her and the unborn baby. The presiding elder blessed her that all would be well, that there would be no bad effects from the cold water. It turned out that way. There are other places in my history where I have told of the persecutions we endured, but now I must tell you about my three sons.