Gospel Story Finder

As a seven-year-old boy living in the Arabian Peninsula, I was consistently told by my parents to always wear my shoes, and I understood why. I knew that shoes would protect my feet against the many threats to be found in the desert, such as snakes, scorpions, and thorns. One morning after a night’s camping in the desert, I wanted to go exploring, but I did not want to bother with putting on my shoes. I rationalized that I was only going for a little wander and I would stay close by the camp. So instead of shoes, I wore flip-flops. I told myself that flip-flops were shoes—of a sort. And anyway, what could possibly happen?
As I walked along the cool sand—in my flip-flops—I felt something like a thorn going into the arch of my foot. I looked down and saw not a thorn but a scorpion. As my mind registered the scorpion and I realized what had just happened, the pain of the sting began to rise from my foot and up my leg. I grabbed the top of my leg to try and stop the searing pain from moving farther, and I cried out for help. My parents came running from the camp.
As my father battered the scorpion with a shovel, an adult friend who was camping with us heroically tried to suck the venom from my foot. At this moment I thought that I was going to die. I sobbed while my parents loaded me into a car and set off across the desert at high speed toward the nearest hospital, which was over two hours away. The pain all through my leg was excruciating, and for that entire journey, I assumed that I was dying.
When we finally reached the hospital, however, the doctor was able to assure us that only small infants and the severely malnourished are threatened by the sting of that type of scorpion. He administered an anesthetic, which numbed my leg and took away any sensation of pain. Within 24 hours I no longer had any effects from the sting of the scorpion. But I had learned a powerful lesson.
I had known that when my parents told me to wear shoes, they did not mean flip-flops; I was old enough to know that flip-flops did not provide the same protection as a pair of shoes. But that morning in the desert, I disregarded what I knew to be right. I ignored what my parents had repeatedly taught me. I had been both lazy and a little rebellious, and I paid a price for it.
As I address you valiant young men, your fathers, teachers, leaders, and friends, I pay tribute to all who are diligently striving to become what the Lord needs and wants you to be. But I testify from my own experience as a boy and as a man that disregarding what we know to be right, whether through laziness or rebelliousness, always brings undesirable and spiritually damaging consequences. No, the scorpion did not in the end threaten my life, but it caused extreme pain and distress to both me and my parents. When it comes to how we live the gospel, we must not respond with laziness or rebelliousness.

A mother of four knelt with her family around their kitchen table and prayed for help in paying their assessment. That evening she received a phone call from a neighbor lady, asking if she would tend her small children on a regular basis. Some six weeks earlier the sister’s offer to tend these same children had been refused because her fee was too high. The neighbor explained that she had been strongly impressed that afternoon that this sister would provide the most loving care of any person she had considered, and this was worth whatever fee the member wanted to charge.

In his new school, the students say a prayer each morning. “But they don’t pray the way we do,” Raúl says. “They say a memorized prayer, and sometimes they pray to the Virgin Mary, the mother of Jesus.
“Once I asked if I could offer the prayer. I folded my arms, shut my eyes, and bowed my head—and I prayed to Heavenly Father. I thanked him for the beautiful day and for my new school, where I can study peacefully. I asked him to bless my teacher and all of my classmates. I prayed especially that one boy who was sick would be able to return soon. Then I closed in the name of Jesus Christ.”
After school each day, Raúl changes out of his white shirt and tie and puts on other clothes. Some days, he helps his mother in her small store. Other days, he stays home to help care for his three-year-old brother, Luis Angel, and his one-year-old sister, Luciana Andrea.
He loves to climb the trees in his yard. He helps his brother and sister pick up nuts that have fallen to the ground; then he cracks the shells on a rock, and they all enjoy the treat. Later, they play with their pet rabbits and feed the pig out in the back yard.
Inside, Raúl helps tidy up the house. On the walls are pictures of his parents wearing white clothes, standing in front of the São Paulo Temple. The pictures were taken just a month and a half earlier, when his parents took the sixteen-hour bus ride to the temple to be sealed. Brother and Sister Aquino hope to be able to take Raúl, Luis Angel, and Luciana with them to be sealed as a family the next time they go to the temple.
Raúl and his family live in the small Paraguayan town of Piquete Cué. In the nearby town of Limpie, there is a beautiful LDS meetinghouse where a ward meets. But each Sunday, Raúl and his family pass the Limpie Ward’s meetinghouse on their two-hour bus ride to the town of Villa Hayes. There they attend a tiny branch that meets in a small rented house. Why don’t they go to the ward that is so much closer to their home?
“Because the branch in Villa Hayes needs us,” says Raúl’s father, Luciano, who works as an industrial engineer. “There are so few members in the branch that they really need us there.” Brother Aquino is first counselor in the branch presidency. Sister Aquino has been Relief Society president and now teaches a Primary class.
Raúl attends Primary and loves to learn more about the Book of Mormon. “I don’t know how to read it yet,” he says. “But my mamá and papá read it to me.”
Raúl often bears his testimony in sacrament meeting. He told the branch members recently that he’d had a headache—but when he prayed, it went away.
He also remembers the time his dad was seriously sick. Raúl’s mother thought he was going to die. She rode a bus to the missionaries’ house to ask them to give him a blessing. They weren’t home, so she left them a message. When they arrived several hours later, Raúl’s father was so sick he could hardly talk. The missionaries gave him a blessing—and within half an hour, he was up and feeling much better.
“I really want my eight birthday to come so I can be baptized,” Raúl says. “And I want to be a missionary.”
Raúl already is a missionary. “I know that the Book of Mormon and the Church of Jesus Christ are true,” he says. “I would tell children all over the world to try to love everyone—especially the children that I see in the streets who don’t have a home. They make me cry a lot. Be thankful to Heavenly Father and also to our parents. Love the Church of Jesus Christ, take the sacrament, and always pray.”
Then Raúl climbs up his favorite tree. From his leafy perch, he waves good-bye.

The children called the Prophet “Brother Joseph,” and he always had a smile for them. Once a group of children were playing in a home where the Prophet was hiding from wicked men who wanted to kill him. They overheard the older people tell of the Prophet’s danger, and one seven-year-old girl said, “I know what we can do. We can pray and ask our Father in heaven to keep Brother Joseph safe from harm.”
A few minutes later the Prophet went past a bedroom door in time to see the children kneeling together and to hear their simple prayer for his safety. Tears filled his eyes and then rolled down his cheeks as the children rose from their knees and one of them said, “I know Brother Joseph will be safe now.”
Then the Prophet returned to the room where his older friends had come to guard him through the night and told them that they could go to their own homes. He said he knew that the prayers of the children would be heard and answered and that he could sleep in peace that night. And he did!

A short time ago, my world came to a drastic halt when my beloved friend became very ill. At first I just assumed it was just a very bad cold, and he would recover. But to my saddened heart, the news soon came to me that my dear companion was dying slowly of a rare sickness.
I am talking of my horse, which I rode in various competitions around the United States. We had the honor of riding to our first national champion title at the 2007 Canadian National Arabian horse show.
He was everything I could ever hope for as a faithful mount and friend. Now he was dying of liver and kidney failure. He taught me a lot through the nearly four years I had been graciously given to know and adore him.
I now know that this was all part of God’s plan and that this would be a trial for me to overcome in my life. I would have to lean on the principles I was taught in the scriptures, by prophets, and in Personal Progress, as my faith was tested. After many weeks of struggling, I realized I had forgotten to go first to the Lord for comfort.
I know that I am a daughter of a Heavenly Father who loves me and I love Him. I know that all the Personal Progress values reflect the Redeemer, even Christ himself. And as we strive to become perfect just like Him, we can go to those values and study them thoughtfully and prepare ourselves for any obstacles in our daily lives.
I hope that Young Women everywhere will learn of the unique importance of Personal Progress and work diligently to fulfill all of its requirements.

When Harold B. Lee was seventeen, he became a teacher. He taught in a one-room school near Weston, Idaho. Some of his students were older than he was!
The pot-bellied stove in the middle of the room sometimes fell apart, filling the school with smoke and soot.
Harold: Quick, help me put the stovepipe back on!
Student: Yes, sir!
A year later, he became both the principal and a teacher at nearby Oxford School. The students there liked to play tricks on him. While he was busy talking to someone, they hid his horse.
So he had to walk several miles to get home.
Harold: I must keep better control of my class. I want them to be my friends.
One day, he decided to join his students during their lunch break.
Harold: Mind if I play with you? Whose team can I be on?
Students: You can be on ours.
Student: Wow! Great shot!
His plan to befriend his students worked. Joseph Gibby, one of his students, later said, “He made a place in my heart through his love and understanding that caused me to regard him, next to my own dear father, as the best friend I had on this earth.”

All of the Authorities who are here tonight could testify that in the reorganization of stakes they have had remarkable and inspiring experiences. I recall being assigned to reorganize a stake about 40 years ago. The president had suddenly died. The Brethren asked me to go down and speak at the funeral and reorganize the stake. I had never done this before. I was new as a General Authority. I was to be all alone.
When I arrived, I was taken to another town, where I participated in the funeral service. I asked all of the stake officers and the bishops to remain after the service and announced that a reorganization of the stake would take place the next evening.
I asked the mission president to sit with me as I interviewed the brethren, none of whom I knew. We interviewed late into the evening. I soon discovered there were problems in the stake. There were divisive feelings. When we were all through, I said to the mission president, “I am not satisfied. Are there not others?” He said, “I know of only one man whom we have not interviewed. He moved here rather recently on a transfer in his company. He is the second counselor in a bishopric. I do not know him well. He resides in another city.”
I said, “Let’s go see him.” We drove and went to the hotel where I would be staying for the night. Here I was, having interviewed all of these brethren and having not found one that I considered worthy to preside and having scheduled the reorganization for the next evening.
We arrived late at the hotel. I called the man; a sleepy voice answered the phone. I said that I wished to see him that evening. I apologized for calling him so late. He said, “I’ve just gone to bed, but I’ll put on my clothes and come.”
He came to the hotel. The conversation that followed was most interesting. He was a graduate of BYU in petroleum geology. He worked for a big oil company. He had served elsewhere in positions of responsibility in the Church. He knew the program of the Church. He had served a mission. He knew the gospel. He was mature in the Church. And the territory for which he was responsible as an employee of the oil company was exactly the same as the territory of the stake. I told him we would telephone him in the morning and excused him.
The mission president went on his way, and I went to bed.
At about three o’clock the next morning I awoke. Doubts began to flood my mind. This man was almost a total stranger to the people of the stake. I got out of bed and got on my knees and pleaded with the Lord for direction. I did not hear a voice, but I had a very distinct impression that said, “I told you who should be stake president. Why do you continue to ask?”
Ashamed of myself for troubling the Lord again, I went to bed and fell asleep. I phoned the man early the next morning and issued to him a call to serve as president of the stake. I asked him to select counselors.
That evening when people gathered for the meeting, there was much speculation as to who would be the stake president, but no one even thought of this man. When I announced his name, people looked at one another for a clue to discovering who he was. I had him come to the stand. I announced his counselors and had them come to the stand.
Even though they did not know him, the people sustained him. Things began to happen in that stake. The people had known for a long time that they needed a stake center, but they had been uncertain and argumentative as to where it should go. He went to work and within 18 months had a beautiful new stake center ready for dedication. He unified the stake. He traveled up and down, meeting the people and extending his love to them. That stake, which had grown tired, came to life and literally bubbled with new enthusiasm. It stands as a shining star in the large constellation of stakes in this Church.

Wilford Woodruff, too, could see humor winking at him through the hardships of his mission. He writes of his experience in January of 1830 when he was twenty-seven years old. He and his companion walked sixty miles in two days, without food. On the first day they were confronted by a bear, lost their way, were followed by wolves, and finally, late at night, reached a cabin where they were given nothing to eat, though they were allowed to sleep on the floor. That, writes Elder Woodruff, was “the hardest day’s work of my life.” The next morning they walked twelve miles in the rain to the house of a man who, they discovered, had been in the mob that drove the Saints from their homes in Jackson County, Missouri, a year earlier. As they reached the cabin, the man’s family were sitting down to breakfast. To read from Elder Woodruff’s account:
“In those days it was the custom of the Missourians to ask you to eat even though they were hostile to you, so he asked us to take breakfast. … He knew we were Mormons; and as soon as we began to eat, he began to swear about the Mormons. He had a large platter of bacon and eggs, and plenty of bread on the table, and his swearing did not hinder our eating, for the harder he swore the harder we ate, until we got our stomachs full; then we arose from the table, took our hats, and thanked him for our breakfast. The last we heard of him he was still swearing. I trust the Lord will reward him for our breakfast.”7

Elder Sheffield has been under the knife eleven times in major surgery and many more times in surgery lasting less than an hour. The greatest desire of his life was that the surgery would make him acceptable for a mission. A year before he entered the mission field, he had his final operation. Since he has been on his mission, he has averaged seventy to eighty hours a week in proselyting. He is greatly loved by all.
He has been a great blessing to missionaries who thought they had problems. In one interview his companion told me that Elder Sheffield’s shoulder separates and falls out of place quite often. When this happens he is in severe pain. It happens most often during the night. When I interviewed Elder Sheffield, I suggested that we put him in a local hospital here and have the doctors do what needed to be done to correct this problem. He looked me in the eye, and with a sternness seldom seen he said, “President, I have spent most of my life in hospitals, and when I complete my mission I am returning to several more major surgical operations. I promised the Lord that if he would let me serve a mission, I would not spend one day in the hospital during the two years no matter how sick I was or how much I suffered.”

Since the very beginning, much of the strength of the Church has come through the service, faith, and devotion of the faithful women of the Church. As the noble daughters of God, the sisters over the years have stood firm and true in the spirit of faith. My wife’s mother, Elizabeth Hamilton Wright, had seven children and was pregnant with her eighth child when her husband was called on a mission. She was left with the responsibility of the family and, with the help of one hired man, seeing that 16 cows were milked every day, that the garden was planted and harvested, the berries picked, and the family taken care of. She was a woman of deep faith and love of the Lord. Her faith never wavered all of the days of her life. It gave her strength to do the work which the Savior had for her to do and to meet the needs of her growing family even in her husband’s absence.

In 1962, Elder Harold B. Lee, then a member of the Council of the Twelve, used a very practical modern example of that principle. “It is sometimes very interesting to get the reaction of people,” he observed. “I recall when President McKay announced to the Church that the First Council of Seventy were being ordained high priests in order to extend their usefulness and to give them authority to act when no other General Authority could be present. I went down to Phoenix, Arizona, and I found a Seventy who was very much disturbed. He said to me, ‘Didn’t the Prophet Joseph Smith say that this was contrary to the order of heaven to name high priests as presidents of the First Council of Seventy when they were named in the beginning?’
“And I said, ‘Well, I had understood that he did, but had you ever thought that what was contrary to the order of heaven in 1840 might not be contrary to the order of heaven in 1960?’ You see, he had not thought of that. He … was following a dead prophet, and he was forgetting that there is a living prophet today. Hence the importance of our stressing the word ‘living.’” (“The Place of the Living Prophet, Seer, and Revelator,” address given to Seminary and Institute Faculty at BYU on July, 1964.)

Prior to my membership in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, I associated for many years with another Christian denomination. There, the notion of prophets and apostles was a thing of the past. Discussion about topics such as modern revelation or living prophets and apostles were prohibited.
In 1995, I was still working on my understanding of this doctrine when President Gordon B. Hinckley (1910–2008) visited London. We were invited to a special meeting at Wandsworth Stake center. There, something indescribable happened which strengthened my testimony of a living prophet. As the company started entering the chapel, my attention was immediately drawn to President Hinckley, and I had an overwhelming feeling as if a voice spoke to me saying “This is the living prophet on the earth today. He is the mouthpiece of the Savior”. I am grateful for that personal experience. This became an anchor to my understanding of the need for a living prophet and the importance of following his counsel.

A friend of mine once asked me this question, and I asked her where she had gotten this idea. She told me that a man had shown it to her in the Bible. I then remembered John 1:18, where he says that no man can see the Lord. With the help of seminary, I remembered other scriptures in the Bible that say men like Moses and Jacob, being full of the Holy Ghost, saw God. And so I was able to answer my friend confidently and bear my testimony.
Luis M., age 17, Mato Grosso, Brazil

When Elder Hales finished serving as mission president in 1979, the family moved directly to Europe. There, as area supervisor, he worked with Elder Thomas S. Monson, then of the Quorum of the Twelve, and Hans B. Ringger, then a regional representative. They worked closely with the leaders of countries where the gospel had not yet been established. In East Germany, they talked with leaders about the possibility of building a temple. Each time the Church leaders made the request to build, it was denied because “no building materials were available.” Finally, they asked where building materials might be available. Eventually the answer came: Freiberg. Soon permission was granted to build a temple there.

I am ever grateful to many of the Brethren for their examples of kindness and thoughtfulness to their wives. I well remember, when I was a stake president, the example set by the late Elder S. Dilworth Young of the First Council of the Seventy. At that time, his first wife, Gladys, was an invalid, having suffered a cruel stroke. She remained that way for many years before her death in 1964. Brother Young made the extra effort to dress her, feed her, and care for her. In all my life I have not seen a greater example of gentleness and solicitude than Brother Young showed to Gladys. He once told me, “It was the worst thing in the world that could have happened to Gladys and the best thing for me. It made me decent. I learned what love really should be.”

I received one of those blessings just a few weeks ago. Since general conference falls on a weekend that would normally include the fast and testimony meeting, I fasted and prayed to know how I should still obey the commandment to care for those in need.
On a Saturday, still fasting, I woke at 6:00 and prayed again. I felt impressed to look at the world news. There I read this report:
Tropical Cyclone Pam destroyed many homes as it made a direct hit on Port Vila, the capital of Vanuatu. It killed at least six people in Vanuatu, the first confirmed from one of the most powerful storms ever to make landfall.
“Hardly a tree stood straight [as the cyclone] bellowed across” the Pacific island nation.4
World Vision’s emergency assessment team planned to view damage after the storm died down.
They advised residents to seek shelter in sturdy buildings such as universities and schools.
And then they said: “‘The strongest thing they’ve got is cement churches,’ said Inga Mepham [from] CARE International. … ‘Some of them don’t have that. It’s hard to find a structure that you’d think would be able to withstand a Category 5 (storm).’”5
When I read that, I remembered visiting little homes on Vanuatu. I could picture in my mind the people huddled in homes being destroyed by winds. And then I remembered the warm welcome to me of the people of Vanuatu. I thought of them and their neighbors fleeing to the safety of our cement chapel.
Then I pictured the bishop and the Relief Society president walking among them, giving comfort, blankets, food to eat, and water to drink. I could picture the frightened children huddled together.
They are so far away from the home where I read that report, and yet I knew what the Lord would be doing through His servants. I knew that what made it possible for them to succor those children of Heavenly Father was fast offerings, given freely by the Lord’s disciples who were far away from them but close to the Lord.
So I didn’t wait for Sunday. I took a fast offering to my bishop that morning. I know that my offering may be used by the bishop and Relief Society president to help someone in my neighborhood. My small offering may not be needed near where my family and I live, but the local surplus could reach even as far as Vanuatu.

“Okay, class, we have just about five minutes left for journal writing,” says Mr. Haupt, our sophomore English teacher. “And since Christmas is next week, I want you to write about the one thing you want more than anything else. I’m not terribly concerned about structure at the moment. I do, however, want details. Lots and lots of concrete details. As I’ve said before, well-chosen details make the difference between lifeless writing and writing that …” Mr. Haupt startles us all by taking in a sudden rush of air through his nostrils, “… that breathes.”
Writing that breathes. Only an English teacher, even if he is good-looking in a ’70s kind of way, could say something so truly undecipherable.
I can hear the rustle of paper all around me as kids fish for their class journals. “I hate it when he makes us write in these dumb things,” grumbles the girl behind me.
Usually I feel the same. Only today I know exactly what I’m going to write about. In fact, I can practically feel the words surging through my pen, getting ready to
“Wanted: a guy for Christmas. Should be very tall and slim like Jed Campbell. Should have green eyes like Jed Campbell and also light brown hair with streaks of sun like Jed Campbell. Should look really great in a pair of stone-washed jeans like Jed Campbell. Should adore pizza and Hires root beer like Jed Campbell. Should walk and talk like Jed Campbell. Should, in fact, be Jed Campbell.”
As you may have guessed by now, I have a major crush on Jed Campbell, who happens to sit on the back row of English class. My three older sisters (one’s married, one’s on a mission, one’s away at college) always tease me about my crushes, saying that I fall in and out of love more often than some people (namely me) clean up their bedrooms. But it’s different this time. This is it. The real thing. I’ve felt this way since November.
Here’s the best part. I think maybe he likes me too. Sometimes he waits for me after class, and he always smiles at me in the hall. Yesterday at lunch he and his friend even sat down by me and my friends. I think that’s a good sign.
The bell rings. I slam my journal shut and stuff it in my backpack, then get up to leave.
“Cynthia?”
Did you just hear that loud pounding noise? Well, it’s my heart.
“Oh, hi, Jed.”
He falls into step next to me as we walk out of the classroom and into the hall.
“Hey,” he says, “I was wondering if you wanted to do something tonight. Maybe we could go to a movie.” Jed smiles, and I can’t help but notice what white teeth he has. That would be another good detail to add to my paragraph.
“A movie would be great,” I say.
“So I’ll pick you up around 6:00. Okay?”
“That would also be great.”
“Great.”
We both laugh before splitting up and going to our separate classes. I practically float through the door. Sometimes life is just so fine, don’t you know.
When I get home from school, I can hardly wait to tell Mom my big news about Jed. She’s tending my five-year-old nephew, Travis, on the couch next to our Christmas tree, reading The Cat in the Hat. Travis is the son of my big sister Emily and her husband, Gary.
“Cynthia! Thank goodness you’re home!” Mom looks pretty frazzled. I’m dying to tell her about tonight, but I can tell she’s really stressed, so I do the mature thing and ask her what’s going on in her life first.
“What isn’t ‘going on in my life?’” Mom replies, standing up and brushing back a strand of hair. “Your father is still out of town. I’m supposed to be at a meeting as we speak, both Gary and Emily have to work late tonight, and Travis’s baby-sitter canceled on them at the last minute. I’ve been staying with him until you could get home.” She looks at me, expectantly.
“Oh, no. Not tonight. I definitely have plans.”
“Cynthia, honey, please. This is an emergency.”
I have to admit she does look like someone getting ready to appear on an episode of Rescue 911.
“But, Mom …”
“But, Cynthia …”
I fold my arms across my chest and tap my foot. “Okay, fine.” I really hope she can tell how happy I am not.
Mom puts an arm around my shoulder. “You’re the best, Cynthia. You have no idea how much this helps.”
Then she turns to Travis, who is still sitting on the couch pretending to read. He’s doing his Cat in the Hat voice right now: “Give me all your hats, you guys, or I’m gonna bite your legs off.”
“Travis, Cynthia will take care of you for the next little while. Okay?”
He looks up for a second and flashes me a smile. Then Mom unloads the rest of the bad news. “Gary gets off at 9:00, and Emily doesn’t finish closing out until 10:00. I’m not sure when I’ll be home, but I have a feeling it will be late.”
Of course. Naturally. I didn’t have something else I really wanted to do tonight. Sometimes life is just so not fine.
Mom flies out the door, pulling her coat on as she goes, and I go to the telephone to call Jed. I’m both relieved and disappointed when I get the answering machine.
“Jed, it’s me, Cynthia. Hey, things are kind of desperate here. It turns out I have to baby-sit my nephew, Travis, so I can’t go out tonight. I’m really sorry.” I pause, “So anyway, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”
There. I’ve just ruined my one and only chance for true happiness in this life and possibly in the next.
“Hey, Cynthia,” says Travis, joining me. “Wanna play G.I. Joes with me?”
I sigh. “Sure, Travis. Go get your guys.”
Before I know it, he’s got everything set up in the middle of the living room floor. He gets to be the good guys. I get to be the bad guys.
“Heh, heh, heh,” I say, using my best bad guy voice, “Let’s go wipe out the Joes.”
Travis gives me a withering look. “That’s not how they talk, Cynthia.”
Don’t you just love it when a five-year-old starts giving you instructions? He tells me what I have to say and where I get to move my guys. In other words, I’m just the furniture mover.
Travis and I play G.I. Joes for about half an hour, which I think is pretty nice of me. Enough, however, is definitely enough.
“Hey, Travis, I’m getting tired. Why don’t you watch cartoons for a little while?” Actually, I want some time to think about not going out with Jed tonight. I’m in the mood to suffer.
Travis grumbles, but in the end he trudges into the family room by himself where he flips on the television. Naturally he leaves his stuff all over the floor for me to pick up, which I do. Then I collapse in a chair by the living room window and watch the snow fall. It’s five o’clock. Just another hour from now I might have been going to a movie.
“Cynthia?”
It’s Travis already.
“Will you play Old Maid with me?” he asks.
What I want to say is, Thanks to you, Travis, I am an old maid. But instead I give him a weak smile and say, “Maybe later.”
It’s not that I don’t think Travis is a real cute kid. He’s got a killer grin and these huge brown eyes that usually knock my socks off. I don’t even mind baby-sitting him most of the time. But tonight, I have to be honest, Travis is getting on my nerves in a big way.
“Go get your coloring book and color for a little while,” I tell him.
“Will you color with me, Cynthia?”
“Not right now.”
“Please. Pl-e-e-e-e-a-a-a-s-e.”
“No!” I snap. “I want to be alone right now, Travis. Okay?”
He doesn’t say a thing, just looks at me for a long time, then turns around and walks back to the family room.
So what do you think? Don’t you agree that I’m entitled to have a little time to myself, especially after my big sacrifice and everything?
Then why do I feel like such an incredible jerk?
I try to shake off the feeling by watching the snow some more. It’s really coming down hard, and the flakes are so huge they almost look like those old-fashioned doilies you see draped on the backs of overstuffed chairs. When I was a kid, I absolutely loved storms like this. I’d bundle up and run outside and try to catch snowflakes on the tip of my tongue. Maybe you did the same thing too.
Something pricks at me. My conscience maybe? Sometimes I really hate my conscience. I heave a sigh and walk into the family room where Travis is busy pretending to be a ninja.
“Hey there, Travis.”
He totally ignores me and gives the air a deadly kick.
“Do you want to go outside and play in the snow with me?” I ask.
Travis drops the ninja routine and turns with a full-court smile. “YES!”
So the two of us stuff ourselves like sausages into winter clothes and run outside where we make angels and throw snow into each other’s face. Pretty soon the neighbor’s big black Newfoundland dog, Rudy, joins us, his tail swishing behind him like a flag. I know from past experience that this dog definitely has a special talent.
“Hey, watch this, Travis.” I lightly pack a snowball and throw it in Rudy’s general direction. He bellows out a bark and lunges, catching up the snowball in his mouth.
Travis laughs, then throws Rudy another snowball. Sure enough, Rudy snags that one too, just like he’s playing shortstop for the Yankees.
We keep this up until our arms are tired.
“No more, Rudy,” I say. Rudy, who looks pretty disappointed for a dog, lumbers back to his front porch and resumes residence.
Travis drops backwards in the snow and makes another angel, but this time, instead of getting up, he just stares at the night sky, full of stars. “I wonder if that star is still up there somewhere.”
“Which star?”
“You know, Cynthia. The one over the barn where Baby Jesus was born.”
“The Star of Bethlehem,” I say, smiling. “I don’t know where it is now.”
“I know what!” Travis springs to his feet. “Let’s go find it!”
I start laughing until I realize I’ve made Travis feel stupid. I used to hate it when grown-ups did that to me, even though I realize now they didn’t mean to.
“Okay,” I say. “Let’s go look for it.”
So Travis and I start walking around the block, looking for the Star of Bethlehem. When he’s not throwing his head back to search the sky, Travis is running ahead, singing Christmas carols at the top of his lungs. He doesn’t know most of the words, but that’s okay. He’d rather make up his own. All I know is that I suddenly love the sound of his high-pitched voice ringing across the evening snow.
And then the most amazing thing happens.
Travis stands beneath a street lamp and looks up to the sky again, but this time his whole face is shining, filled with light. The forgotten words of an old Primary “Jesus once was a little child, a little child like me.”
I almost stop breathing, and it’s suddenly as though the winter air around me is warm and full of the smell of the sea and the sound of gulls laughing and that the boy in front of me is another little boy from long ago, standing on the shore, his hair and face blazing with sun.
The moment passes, and it’s just me and Travis again, looking for stars. We finish our trip around the block, Travis still blasting through a billion songs and kicking snow with his feet, me bringing up the rear more slowly.
“Who’s that on the porch, Cynthia?” Travis wants to know as we round the corner. I squint to see through the night.
You’re really not going to believe this. It’s Jed.
“Hey, you guys,” he says, walking toward us with that loping step I just love. In fact, he looks so adorable right now I could just faint dead in the snow. “I wanted to know if you want to go to 7-Eleven and buy some hot chocolate with me.”
Travis whoops, and I smile. Sometimes life is just so fine.
Later when I’m in bed, I’m still thinking about how fine life can be but also about how it can take you so totally by surprise. Let me give you an example of what I mean, since Mr. Haupt, our English teacher, always says that specific examples make your writing stronger.
I got the guy I wanted for Christmas all right, and he’s even more wonderful than I imagined he would be. It just turns out there was something I wanted even more, only I didn’t even know it.
What I really wanted was to feel the presence of the Savior in my life, and thanks to a five-year-old kid, I did.
So, Travis, even though I know you’re home asleep right now, surrounded by the zoo of stuffed animals you take to bed with you every night even though it drives your mother crazy because there’s no room left for you, I have something I want to say.
I love you, Travis. Merry Christmas.

“Manya,” invited her mother, “go into the garden and play. Your sisters and your brother have been outdoors since daybreak and here you are with your nose still buried in that book.”
With a deep sigh, Manya Sklodowska obediently put down the book and went out to join her sisters and her brother. Soon tiring of playing in the garden, they went into the nearby forest to pick the berries that had just started to ripen. Of course, they ate more than they picked because none of them could resist the delicious sweetness of the fruit.
Although Manya, the youngest of the family, had been christened Marja, she immediately became Manya to her family and friends.
Manya’s childhood was a happy one. The Sklodowska family was poor in material things but they were wealthy with the richness that comes from love of God and their country Poland. Manya’s father had the post of Professor of Physics at the university in Warsaw and encouraged his children to read the books in his library.
Next to the bookshelves was a glass case containing what Professor Sklodowska called his specimens, which he had collected during his physics classes. It was here that Manya spent a great deal of her time. “Some day,” she told herself, “I will learn what each of these is.”
Although Manya was not old enough to attend regular school, her older sisters involved her when they studied. Because of this, Manya was soon able to read and write, even before she entered school.
One privilege she did not have was a place at the big desk where her sisters did their homework. But as soon as she became a student, she, too, was allowed to join them, and these occasions became some of the happiest moments of her life. Manya had the kind of memory that retained everything she read, a gift that lasted throughout her life.
Manya’s teachers found her to be an exceptional student, and her grades were always among the highest in her classes. Nothing seemed too difficult for her, and soon she found herself two years ahead of the rest of the students in her starting class. But often she thought of the glass shelf in her father’s study containing his specimens. She repeatedly told herself that one day they would no longer be a mystery to her.
After graduating from the Russian Lycee (high school), Manya was selected as a gold-medal winner. Although this was not the first time a member of her family had achieved that honor, this was a tremendous event in her life.
“I think I will take a holiday now,” she told her family and friends. “I need to relax.” And off she went to the countryside, far from the bustling city of Warsaw.
How she loved the country! All was peaceful and happy there with picnics, balls, and dances that lasted far into the night. Many handsome young Polish men came from the neighboring villages to join in the festivities.
Too soon the good times came to an end. Manya’s father had invested his money unwisely, and so the Sklodowska sisters had to find a way to earn a living for themselves. In those days there was little opportunity for well-brought up women to earn a livelihood. Manya decided that her way would be to become a teacher. This was the kind of work she loved. She was no longer called Manya but Mademoiselle Marja (Marie) instead, because she had become a young lady with the responsibility of teaching others.
For six years Marja did what she thought would be her life’s work—teaching others. However, all of this changed when, on a visit to her father, she immediately saw the changes that had taken place in her absence. He had been able to add a laboratory to his workroom. Although to many it seemed a strange place for a young lady to spend her time, Marja soon found herself very much at home among the test tubes and beakers. For the first time in her life, Marja knew what she was meant to do. First of all, though, she would have to continue with her studies.
All of her life Marja’s father had told her that there were many ways to solve a problem. Her funds were insufficient for her to spend additional time in school without help. She wrote to her married sister Bronia in Paris to see whether she could repay part of the money Marja had once loaned her to go to medical school. Bronia responded, and with that and what other money Marja managed to get together, she was able to return to school.
In Paris, Marja became completely involved with the study of physics. When she married a young scientist by the name of Pierre Curie, they worked as a team to discover two new elements, polonium and radium, now so important to the medical world.
The rest is history. Manya, Marja, or Marie (as the French people called her), together with her husband Pierre, made some of the most important discoveries in the annals of medicine. Countless lives have benefited because a young girl once told herself that one day she would know all about the minerals in her father’s workshop. Her dedicated research led her to find out things that even her father never dreamed of discovering.
In 1903, Marie and Pierre Curie shared the coveted Nobel Prize for Physics with Henri Becquerel. In 1911, five years after the untimely death of Pierre, Marie Curie was awarded the Nobel Prize for Chemistry.

George didn’t know what to do. But he did know who to ask for help. His Heavenly Father! When George was a young man, he didn’t really believe in God. He lied and stole money from his friends and family and only read the scriptures because he had to for school. Then one day George met some people who loved God and tried to follow Him. George began to pray every day. He learned that God was real and would answer the prayers of His children.
When George Müller opened his first orphanage in 1836, he wanted to provide a home for children who didn’t have parents. He also wanted to share his testimony of God’s love. So George decided to trust that God would help him. When George needed money or food or even jobs for the orphans who had grown up and were ready to leave, he would get on his knees and pray. George had faith that if he prayed to know God’s will and then asked for help, God would help him. And God did! Donations and help always came just in time. The children in the orphanages had what they needed, and George helped them see that God loved them.
As George looked at the broken heater, he knew this time would be no different. George had faith that God would help. He called workmen to come and fix the heater, but before they could come, a freezing north wind began to blow. George was worried. How would the children stay warm until the heater was fixed?
Then George remembered a story from the Bible where the walls of Jerusalem were built quickly because the builders had a “mind to work” (Nehemiah 4:6). George got on his knees and began to pray. “Lord,” said George, “would you be pleased to change the north wind to a south wind? And would you give the workmen a mind to work?”
When George woke on the morning of the repairs, the weather had changed! Even though it was December, a warm south wind was blowing. The children would be warm and wouldn’t need a fire while the heater was being fixed. The repairs could begin!
The workmen spent all day trying to fix the heater. But there was too much work to finish in one day. At the end of the day, George went down to the cellar of the orphanage. The man in charge of the workers told George, “The men will work late this evening and come very early again tomorrow.”
George nodded. He hoped the weather would stay good until then.
Then one of the workers spoke up. “We would rather, sir, work all night,” he said.
George smiled. He remembered how he had prayed that the men would have a mind to work hard and finish the repairs as quickly as possible. By morning, the heater was fixed and the orphanage was warm and snug before the winter winds returned. George knew that God had answered his prayer.

Subject: Dan
Age: 16 years
Event: Football practice
“Report to my office when you’re dressed,” the coach growled to Dan in the locker room after the practice.
A short time later, Dan sheepishly stood in front of the coach’s desk.
“I’m dropping you from the team,” the coach rasped.
“Why? I take good care of my uniform. I keep all the training rules. Why drop me?”
“Because you can’t play football!” the coach said harshly.