Gospel Story Finder

Illustration by Mark Robison
Allie could see the word clearly in her mind—portion. Easy. Just a few more words to go, and she’d be the school spelling-bee champion for sure.
P-O-R …
Allie and her parents had come from another country and had to learn a new language. Her parents encouraged her to do her best in school. Allie didn’t want to disappoint them.
But she knew she’d do well. She loved words. That’s how she had learned English so quickly. She even translated for her parents a lot. Winning the spelling bee was another way to show them she was doing her best.
Broccoli, exaggerate, mischievous, separate.
She spelled all those words correctly. Now it was just Allie and two other students on stage.
“P-O-R-I-T-I-O-N, portion,” Allie finished. She opened her eyes and smiled at the judge.
The judge frowned. “I’m so sorry, Allie. The correct spelling is P-O-R-T-I-O-N.”
Allie gasped. What had she done? She’d added an extra i! Her face flushed and her heart pounded. How could she have missed such an easy word? She couldn’t believe this was happening after all her hard work.
Coming down from the stage, Allie could barely see the stairs as tears welled up in her eyes. She just wanted to be invisible. How would she face everyone?
“May I go home?” she asked her teacher. “I’m not feeling very well.”
“Of course, Allie,“ Mrs. Bauer said.
Allie grabbed her books and ran straight home.
Soon Mom tapped on her bedroom door. “Are you OK, Alexandra? How was the spelling bee?”
Allie sniffled. “I missed a word, Mom, a dumb, easy word,” she answered, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“OK,” she heard her mother say, but Allie imagined how disappointed Mom probably felt.
Lying on her bed, Allie thought about how bad she felt. It wasn’t so much about misspelling an easy word, although that was really hard. But she felt she had failed her parents and herself.
The next day was Saturday. Mom made Allie her favorite breakfast to cheer her up. But Allie stayed in her room most of the day. Her best friend, Lindsay, called to see if she wanted to play, but all Allie could do was lie on her bed and think over and over about that awful moment at the spelling bee.
Finally Sunday came, and Allie wondered if she should even go to church. When Allie had first moved in, Lindsay had invited her to come to church with her family. Allie’s parents weren’t members of the Church, but they agreed to let her go. When Allie turned eight, her parents had even let her be baptized!
Allie was still sad today, but she still wanted to go to church. When Lindsay came to the door, Allie kissed her parents goodbye and headed outside.
Allie’s heart began to feel lighter as she walked into the chapel. What was that feeling?
When it was time for Primary, Allie and Lindsay were talking happily as they sat down. Then Allie heard a familiar song. She’d sung the words many times before, but she’d never really thought about what they were saying until now.
I am a child of God, and He has sent me here,
Has given me an earthly home with parents kind and dear.
Suddenly it seemed like these words were just for her. They were a gift from Heavenly Father. They reminded her that her parents wanted her to do her best because they loved her. Her Heavenly Parents loved her too. And she felt the Spirit telling her that as long as she was trying to do her best, that was good enough.
These are the best words ever! Allie thought.

My husband and I had been praying for another baby before we found out we were expecting. “Excited” hardly describes how we felt. Adding to our joy was the news that a friend’s baby was due the day before mine, and my sister-in-law’s baby was due four days later. Almost immediately, we started planning the play dates.
Nine weeks into my pregnancy, however, I started having seizures. Terrified, my husband and I rushed to the hospital for an ultrasound. At my appointment, I eagerly looked to the monitor and asked the technician if my baby was OK. He didn’t respond as he turned the monitor away from me.
I didn’t want to expect the worst, but when the technician left the room, fear seized me. I began to pray in a way I had never realized I could, asking for something—anything—that could give me peace.
Instantly, I was enveloped in a warm embrace and heard the “still small voice” (1 Kings 19:12) reassure me that all would be well. I felt comforted and calm as I waited for the doctor to give me answers.
When the doctor arrived, he gently told my husband and me that our baby had died. Instantly, I again felt the Spirit’s warm embrace. I hurt, but I could not doubt the feeling that comforted me.
As I grieved during the following weeks, I turned to my Heavenly Father in frequent prayer. The calming reassurance of the Holy Ghost never left, and I knew that the Lord was watching over me. I gained a deeper understanding of the Atonement of Jesus Christ as I felt the Savior’s healing balm. On days when I felt I could not function, I could feel angelic hands bearing me up.
My husband and I prayed for continued comfort. We were both still sad, but neither of us doubted that through His Atonement, the Savior could cover our pain and loss.
This experience was incredibly difficult. At times it was almost too great to bear. But I am eternally grateful for the relationship I developed with my Heavenly Father and my Savior through this experience. Prayer can be one of our greatest resources.
I know that Heavenly Father really does care for His children and that He and His Son “will not leave [us] comfortless” (John 14:18).

“Hi, Stori.”
“I love you, Stori.”
“Stori, you’re so pretty.”
Everyone wants to talk with Stori B. And Stori talks with everyone. In many ways she is a typical three-year-old. But there is one big difference—Stori is totally deaf. She uses her hands to speak in sign language. She is the only deaf person in her ward, so almost everyone is learning sign language.
Stori has taught the Primary children that talking with their hands is fun. She’s always willing to talk with anyone, even if they know only a few words of sign language. Kaylie learned the letters of the deaf alphabet and can say “I love you.” Joseph learned some sign language words in school, and he enjoys practicing with Stori. The entire Primary is learning to sign the song “I Will Follow God’s Plan.” Stori likes watching them sing to her.

Tina and her family went back to Orem, Utah, to see the little house where she lived as a child. “When we moved into that little house, the yard was run-down and full of weeds. We had to clear all the weeds and the rocks before we could plant lawn. It was the nicest lawn, and everyone came to play there. When we went back, we found it had all gone to weeds again. I was so sad. I remember how hard I worked.”

For a long time, I had not been interested in family history. Why did I need to learn about people who lived so long ago? Yes, they endured a lot, but they did not go through the same challenges that today’s world presents. How could I learn from people whom I simply could not relate to since they lived in an entirely different world?
Then my dad gave a family home evening lesson about one of our ancestors. I expected to be bored, but it was one of the most interesting and informative family nights that we’d had for a long time.
He told us about Edward Ashton, a grandfather several generations back. Edward grew up in England, where the missionaries taught his family the gospel. His father then wanted to move the family to America, so they sailed across the Atlantic to New Orleans. A few years later they moved to Iowa. When Edward grew to be an adult, he trekked to Utah as a member of the Willie and Martin handcart companies. Like the other pioneers in that group, he endured snowstorms and near-starvation on his way to the Salt Lake Valley, but he pressed on in spite of it. Once he got to Utah, he became a missionary himself.
While his hardships weren’t exactly like the things I experience today (since I don’t have to voyage across an ocean or pull a handcart through the snow), I realized that he and his family had to endure trials and challenges just as I do right now. Even though our trials came in different forms, I could see how the Lord helped Edward grow through these experiences. I realized the Lord helps me grow through my trials, too.

Many years later this boy again visited the Islands in the company of a member of the Presiding Bishopric, Bishop Charles W. Nibley, who later became a member of the First Presidency. As they landed in the harbor at Honolulu, many native Saints greeted them. They brought lots of leis and all kinds of beautiful native flowers. Both of them were loaded with leis upon leis. The young man, who was now an old man, had more than anyone else. A great Hawaiian band was playing a welcome to them and even played Mormon music.
Then Bishop Nibley explained in his journal one touching little incident:
“It was a beautiful sight to see the deep-seated love, the even tearful affection, that these people had for him. In the midst of it all I noticed a poor, old blind woman tottering under the weight of about ninety years, being led in. She had a few choice bananas in her hand. It was her all—her offering. She was calling, ‘Iosepa, Iosepa!’ [means ‘Joseph, Joseph!’] Instantly, when he saw her, he ran to her and clasped her in his arms, hugged her, and kissed her over and over again, patting her on the head saying, ‘Mama, Mama, my dear old Mama!’ And with tears streaming down his cheeks he turned to me and said, ‘Charley, she nursed me when I was a boy, sick and without anyone to care for me. She took me in and was a mother to me!’”
Bishop Nibley continued:
“O, it was touching—it was pathetic. It was beautiful to see the great, noble soul in loving, tender remembrance of kindness extended to him, more than fifty years before; and the poor old soul who had brought her loving offering—a few bananas—it was all she had—to put into the hand of her loved Iosepa” (Life of Joseph F. Smith, pp. 185–86).

Alison listened eagerly as the bishop announced that their ward would be having a Christmas open house this year. “We want it to be a special evening,” he said. “It will be a wonderful opportunity to invite friends and neighbors.”
Alison loved the Christmas holidays. She liked shopping for presents for her family and friends and singing Christmas carols. And she loved reading the story of Jesus’s birth and thinking of Him as a small baby.
The bishop’s next words caught her attention. “Because of the open house, we won’t be having our traditional ward Christmas party this year.”
Alison frowned. “No party?” she whispered to her mother. The ward Christmas party was one of her favorite parts of the season.
Mom put a finger to her lips.
“Some of our friends and neighbors do not understand that we are Christians,” the bishop continued. “We want them to know that we believe in Jesus Christ.”
Alison thought about that. She remembered when her best friend, Erica, had said that Mormons weren’t Christians. She didn’t understand what Erica meant, so she had asked her parents about it.
“A lot of people focus on the name ‘Mormon’ or ‘Latter-day Saints,’” Mom had explained. “They forget that our Church is named for Jesus Christ.”
The next day at school, Alison had told Erica the first article of faith: “We believe in God, the Eternal Father, and in His Son, Jesus Christ, and in the Holy Ghost.”
But Erica had just shrugged. “Then why don’t people call you Christians instead of Mormons?” she asked.
Alison turned her attention back to the bishop.
“The open house will focus on Jesus Christ,” he said. “We’re asking families to bring nativity sets, and we will have a live reenactment of the Nativity scene.”
As the time drew near for the open house, Alison started getting excited. Mom and Dad invited an elderly neighbor to go to the open house. Alison invited Erica.
The night of the open house, Alison helped Mom wrap both of the family’s nativity sets in newspaper. Then Mom and Dad drove her to pick up Erica.
When they got to the church, Alison and Erica looked at nativity sets from Japan, Austria, the Philippines, and many other countries.
Then the girls went outside where the young men and young women were acting out the Nativity. There were live cows, sheep, and even a nanny goat. “Everything but a camel,” Alison said.
The bishop asked everyone to gather in the chapel. Alison and Erica sat with the Primary children. The children sang “Picture a Christmas”1 and “The Nativity Song,”2 and the ward choir performed parts of Messiah.
“That was really great,” Erica said on the ride home. “I wish my parents could have come.”
“Maybe next year,” Alison said, smiling. She thought about the open house and realized she hadn’t missed the Christmas party after all.

When they made me their quorum project again, I figured it wouldn’t do any good. It hadn’t worked before, and I could see no reason why it would work this time either. Of course, that was before I knew J. J.
At first they tried an old trick, but I saw them coming. I was no ordinary inactive member; I hadn’t been to church since I was baptized, and I’d seen all the activation tricks in the book. All of them.
See, I figured that sports and religion didn’t mix. How can you bang heads with animals on the football field and hang out with religious wimps at church? Besides, my coach said I had a shot at big-time football if I stayed focused. And focused I was—sharper than an electron microscope. You don’t bench press 325 pounds without focusing.
That Sunday was kind of comical, really. Eight or nine guys my age, priests, I think they call them, came up to the front door. It was the old “If he won’t come to priesthood class, we’ll take the class to him” trick. They figured they just had to show up and I’d swing open the door and say, “Gee whiz, guys, thanks for coming over. Is it too late for me to go to church with you?”
No way. With Mom at work, I cranked up the baseball game on TV and ignored the doorbell. The ringing soon stopped, and I heard a couple of taps on the door. Then it stopped. I waited a second and opened the front door a crack to watch them head back to church when I saw this skinny bald-headed kid.
“Hey, Wayne,” he grinned. “Guess you didn’t hear us knocking, huh?”
I had to say something, but this guy just freaked me out. I mean, the guy had no hair. Finally, I said, “Uh, guess not. I’m just looking for the, um, to see if the newspaper is out here.”
He smiled. “Didn’t see it. By the way, I’m Jonathan Johnson, but you can call me J. J.” He stuck out his hand.
I couldn’t slam the door, so I shook his hand and said, “I’m Wayne Salow.” He stood there waiting for me to say something more, so I said, “Uh, you want to come in or something?”
He followed me into the living room. After a moment of awkward silence, J. J. explained he was new in our ward and the bishop had just called him to be the priests quorum first assistant. I wondered how somebody so scrawny could assist anybody. That bishop must be desperate, I decided.
J. J. looked like grade-school bully bait. His body was pathetic. I mean, he made Ghandi look like a sumo wrestler. His round wire-rim glasses perched low on his nose like oversize goggles. But the head, man, that was the weirdest. J. J. didn’t have any hair. Zilch, zippo, nada. Not even eyebrows.
“Some of the guys in the quorum and I came over to say hello.” He looked me in the eye when he talked, and you know what? He had laser eyes. A trash body and a gaze that could slice granite.
“Well,” he said, “we just wanted to let you know we care about you, and we’d like you to come out to Mutual some night, you know, if you feel like it. We have some pretty exciting activities.”
I saw the Scouting tactic coming, so I cut it off quick. “Sorry, man, but I’m not into Scouting and hiking and that kind of junk.”
“No sweat. We do all kinds of things. Want me to come by Wednesday and pick you up?”
Slick, I thought. J. J., you ought to sell used cars. “Sorry, man, but I’ll be busy Wednesday night.” I looked at the TV to let him know our conversation was finished.
He shook my hand again. “Okay, I’ll let you get back to your game. But really, Wayne, if you ever feel like coming you let me know. Anytime.”
What a piece of work, I thought, as I closed the front door behind him.
I was in the garage Wednesday night working on my biceps when J. J. showed up. I had a pretty good pump on my arms as the veins were bulging something fierce and the sweat was glistening in the glare of the garage light. It made them look polished. I pulled a few extra repetitions when I saw him. My chest was bulging out of my black tank top as I dropped the weights at my feet.
J. J. jumped a little at the sound, smiled, and toed the barbell carefully with his foot. “You lift weights, huh?”
“I bench press 325. Squat 400.”
“Really?” He glanced around at my weight-lifting equipment. “I guess that’s pretty good. What’s a bench press?”
I pointed to the bench, and the next thing I knew he’s lying flat on it and I’m helping him do a few shaky repetitions with just the bar—no weights. He managed to lower the bar to his chest and push it back up five times before he racked it and sat up, sweat glistening on his bald scalp.
“Bench press,” he said a little breathlessly. “Interesting. And how much did you say you can do?”
“Three-twenty-five.”
“Pounds?”
I nodded and he whistled softly.
“And how much did I just do?”
“Forty-five.”
He whistled again. “I guess I’m out of shape.” He walked over to a barbell and tried to pick it up. It didn’t move.
“You know, Wayne, I could probably benefit from a little weight training—not for football or anything like that, but just for physical fitness. How would you feel if I worked out with you for a while?”
I didn’t think he was serious, so I agreed. But first I spelled out my basic training rule. “No pain, no gain.”
“Huh?” he asked.
“In weight lifting, if you don’t push yourself, especially when you’re tired and feel like quitting, you’ll never gain strength. So the rule is no pain, no gain. Deal?”
“Deal.”
I didn’t think he’d do it, but for two months, J. J. showed up every Tuesday and Thursday night to work out. The little dude was intense. He wasn’t pushing any serious weight, but he was making gains. When he lay on the bench with the bar in his hands, his eyes lit up. He never gave up, and he always strained for that extra rep, the one to grow on.
“No pain, no gain,” I yelled one night when he struggled for an extra repetition.
His arms quivered, the veins in his skull bulged, but he got that look and the bar went up.
“No pain,” he panted, “no gain.”
“You got it, my man,” I said, squeezing his upper arm. You’re definitely putting on some meat here.”
“You know,” said J. J., “I wonder if Lehi was talking about weight lifting when he said, ‘It must needs be, that there is an opposition in all things.’”
“Who’s Lehi?”
“A prophet in the Book of Mormon. You know, Nephi’s father.”
“He was into weights?”
“Probably not. He was talking more about life, you know, about how stuff that’s hard for us makes us stronger.”
“Sounds like he knew what he was talking about.”
“Yeah,” J. J. nodded seriously. “Yeah, kinda like no pain, no gain.”
I didn’t want him to ruin our workout by discussing the Book of Mormon, so I steered the conversation to something else. “You know, J. J., weight lifting will make a man of you, but I’m afraid it’s not going to do anything to sprout hair on your bald head.”
J. J. straightened up and patted his scalp. “Too bad. I’ve got plenty of room for growth up here. But it’ll grow back someday.”
“You mean it’s not a permanent, genetic thing?”
“Well, I was born bald,” he laughed, “but I had a pretty normal childhood—hair and everything. When I was nine I got really sick and the medicine they gave me made my hair fall out.”
“Bad stuff, huh?
He nodded slowly as his smile faded.
“Real bad.”
“Do me a favor, and keep your medicine away from me. I don’t want to turn out like that Samson dude.”
J. J. grinned and lay back on the bench for his final set.
J. J. showed up every Tuesday and Thursday for another month, but instead of gaining, he started losing strength. His arms shook more than ever, and his energy faded almost with the first repetition.
“No pain, no gain,” I shouted to help him finish a repetition. He strained for a moment, but gravity dragged the bar back down. I helped him rack the bar.
He sat at the end of the bench completely wiped out.
“Man, I’ve got plenty of pain, but it’s sure not helping me make any gains, at least not in weights.”
We ended our workout early that night, and I gave J. J. a ride home. I didn’t see J. J. for two weeks, so I called his house to see what was going on. His mom told me he had leukemia. It had been in remission for a couple of years, but recently it came back with a vengeance. He was at the local hospital getting chemotherapy, and he was pretty sick.
I wasn’t sure what to say, so I asked, “Can I see him?”
Lying in the hospital bed, J. J. looked skinnier and more pale than I had remembered. A couple of bottles hung next to his bed with plastic tubes running down into his arms. I rubbed my own arms and shivered.
“Hey, J. J. Hey, how you doing?”
He didn’t move right away, but then he saw me and smiled.
“Wayne. Hey, thanks for coming.” His voice sounded hoarse and papery.
“You’ve been missing workouts, my man.”
He smiled but said nothing.
“I got 330 on the bench last week. Too bad you missed it.”
J. J. closed his eyes and his body flinched in pain. For a moment his breath stopped as his whole body tensed. I just about called a nurse, but he gradually relaxed and breathed again. When he opened his eyes, tears rimmed the bottom of his eyelids.
“You okay? Can I get something? Call a nurse?”
He shook his head. “No pain,” he whispered, “no gain. I’m kind of used to this. I guess chemotherapy is better than the alternative.”
I started visiting J. J. pretty regularly after that. He still looked like a wimp, but that laser gleam was back in his eyes. He’d tease the nurses, arm wrestle me, and talk nonstop. “Just wait until I get out of here, Wayne Muscle Brain. I’m gonna hit your weights like a maniac, and in a couple months …” He paused when he saw my doubtful grin. “Okay, in six months, maybe seven, I’ll be stronger pound for pound than you.”
One Saturday, it was J. J. and me quietly watching a baseball game on TV. It had been his roughest week yet. I’d say something once in a while, and he’d nod or blink to let me know he heard. Talking made him tired.
Then he spoke. “Wayne?”
“Yeah?”
He took a shaky and shallow breath. “I want you to come to church.”
“Me? Yeah, sure. The roof will collapse if I walk in there.”
“Please. My parents are taking me tomorrow. Please come.”
I started to tell him no, but his look. Those eyes. He was so determined. I reached over and patted his shoulder. “Okay, man. Okay.”
He sighed and closed his eyes. Soon he was asleep.
I met J. J. and his parents in front of their church the next day and helped load J. J. into a wheelchair. His whole body shook when I lifted him out of the car. “Hey, man, you okay?”
“I’m okay,” he said, taking a deep breath. “No pain, no gain.”
We sat in the back of the chapel. After the sacrament had been passed, people started standing up and talking. When someone stood, a boy walked over and handed them a microphone. They talked about their lives and their families, and about the church. Some of them cried. I noticed J. J. crying too.
Near the end of the meeting, J. J. leaned onto my arm and tried to stand. He struggled a moment but couldn’t make it and fell back into his chair with a crash and a sob. The kid with the microphone noticed and walked over, handing it to J. J.
For a few seconds he just sat there with the mike in his lap. His mouth was moving, but only whispers were coming out. So I picked up the mike and held it close to his lips.
Everybody had turned to watch J. J. as the chapel became silent. Finally his voice came over the speaker. “I’m thankful to … to be alive.” He tried to say more, but nothing came. He just sat there with tears running down his face. Everybody, including me, was crying. Something got into me then; it was J. J., I guess. With the microphone still in my hand, I stood up and started talking.
“Uh, I’m Wayne Salow, a friend of J. J.’s. You know, before I met him, I had no interest in church. Football was everything. Then J. J. started coming over, not to preach or act like a missionary, but to work out, to be my friend. And we started talking, started being friends. And I got to where I really liked him.
“When I first met J. J., I figured I had it made because I was big and strong and he was so skinny and weak. But as I got to know him, I started to see that he had lots more than I did: a strong family, a strong will, and more courage than I’ll ever know.”
My voice started to shake, so I hurried to finish. “Anyway, I love him for being my friend, and I love what makes him the kind of person he is, and whatever it is, I want it. I want to be like him. Uh, that’s it … Amen, I guess.”
Not exactly a typical testimony, but for a guy who hadn’t been to church forever, it was okay.
J. J. didn’t live much longer. As he got sicker, I could only see him on his rare good days. The last time I saw Jonathan Johnson was four days before he died. By then, his body had had about all it could take. We didn’t even talk; I’m not even sure if he was awake all the time I was there. I just stood at his side and held his hand. I told him I thought that with all the pain he’d been through, he’d gained an awful lot. More than most people gain in a lifetime.
“And, J. J.,” I said, “I wanna gain it too. I’m working on it—going to church and everything. The bishop said that if I keep it up, he can’t see any reason why I can’t go on a mission the year after I graduate. A mission. Man, can you believe it?”
I think I felt him squeeze my hand right then. Or maybe I imagined it. But I like to think that he heard and understood. And that he was glad.

Bobbie sat on the edge of the pool, looking at the warm, clear water. She remembered that last summer she had run into the waves at the beach. And at the neighborhood pool, she had stood in the shallow end and stuck her head underwater. She had even opened her eyes to count her fingers. This year she had learned to float around in the deep end of the indoor pool.
But today Bobbie just sat on the edge of the big indoor pool and worried. She watched some of her friends kicking up and down the pool lanes, holding onto blue and red kickboards. Bobbie had already done that. In fact, last week Bobbie had kicked all the way down and all the way back in the pool. She secretly thought that she might be the best kicker in her class.
Others in her class were in the shallow end, practicing their overhand strokes. Bobbie could lean over and do a really good crawl stroke. Her swimming instructor had told her how nicely her arms curved when she pulled them through the water.
Another small group was working on breathing. They blew into the water, then breathed in, then blew, then breathed in. Bobbie knew that she could do the breathing. She had worked on that in the bathtub as well as at the beach and in the pool.
Bobbie looked at the depth marker—10 FEET. She looked up at the sign over the door—THIS POOL IS 75 FEET LONG.
I can breathe correctly, and I can kick a good, strong kick, she thought. And my arms don’t get tired.
Just then the buzzer sounded for class to be over. Slowly Bobbie got up from the steps. If only I had a little more time … She really hated to get dressed and go home. Mother wouldn’t say anything. She would smile at Bobbie, sort of raise her eyebrows expectantly, and have an encouraging twinkle in her eyes. But Bobbie would have no beginner’s swimming card to show.
All that week Bobbie walked to the pool, she put on her swimsuit, grabbed a kickboard, and kicked up and down the pool. She practiced her arm strokes until she was quite sure no one could do them any better. She blew bubbles and breathed in, and she even sat on the bottom of the pool in the shallow end.
But each time Bobbie went over to the deep end of the pool and thought about jumping into ten feet of water, she knew she just couldn’t do it.
Every once in a while, Bobbie saw her swimming instructor smiling at her. When Bobbie felt that she was ready to put her arm strokes and her kicking and her breathing all together and swim the length of the pool, her instructor would be right there beside her. So Bobbie wasn’t afraid of sinking.
Bobbie started thinking about just why she couldn’t jump into the deep water and swim to the other end. I must be afraid of something. I wonder what it is. It isn’t the water. It isn’t my teacher, and it certainly isn’t Mother. It’s not my friends, either. Some of them still haven’t learned how to breathe or kick or do the arm strokes. Bobbie thought about all the people who would love her whether she learned to swim this summer or not.
Suddenly Bobbie realized that there was one person she had not thought of—herself. I’m afraid because I don’t want to fail. As long as I don’t try to swim, I can tell myself that when I do try it, I’ll be the best one in the class. But once I jump into that water, maybe I’ll find out that I can’t do it.
Bobbie looked up at the clock. Class wouldn’t be over for another half hour. She left the pool area, went into the dressing room, faced herself in the mirror, and said, “Bobbie, just go do it. Even if you don’t make it today, you can try again tomorrow. The important thing is to try. You’ve got to believe in yourself.”
The mirror Bobbie looked back at the real Bobbie. They smiled at each other.
Walking quickly back into the pool area, Bobbie stood by her swimming teacher and said, “I’m ready to try.”

I grew up with friends who were members of the Church, and I became excited to be baptized and become a member myself. When I moved across the country for college, I began taking lessons from the missionaries. Unfortunately, pressure from my new peers made it difficult to follow the standards of the gospel. My fellow freshmen spent a lot of time at parties drinking alcohol. I had never tried alcohol before, but my new friends were constantly pressuring me to drink it.
I knew the gospel was true, but the temptation from my peers was difficult to resist.
I began to pray to Heavenly Father for the strength to make the right decision. I hadn’t lowered my standards yet, but I was afraid I wouldn’t have the strength to turn down the alcohol the next time it was offered. I missed my friends who shared the same values.
One Saturday night I went to a party with the people in my dorm. Immediately all of my friends were drinking and encouraging me to try my first taste of alcohol.
I was tempted. I took the cup of beer that was handed to me. I pulled it toward my mouth, uncomfortable but pleased to have the attention of my friends. Then Nick, a boy notorious for drinking, walked up to our circle.
“You didn’t drink that, did you?” he asked.
“Not yet,” I replied.
“If you do,” Nick said, “you will regret it every day for the rest of your life.”
I was shocked. I knew he was right. I didn’t want to drink. I wanted to join the Church. I handed the cup back and left the party, grateful that I hadn’t made a bad decision.
The next morning I went to church, found the missionaries, and set a date for my baptism. From that day on I stayed away from parties with alcohol. I made new friends at church who shared my values and standards. I was still friends with the people in my dorm, but I made my standards clear. When they learned how important my values were to me, they respected them and stopped pressuring me. They noticed and respected it when I left the room when they watched inappropriate movies or listened to inappropriate music.
My testimony was strengthened by this experience, and I will strive to never lower my standards because of peer pressure. I also know that the best way to face difficult decisions is to know your standards and hold firmly to them from the start.
I know that Heavenly Father answered my prayers for strength to resist temptation. I am grateful that the Holy Ghost encouraged me to make the right decision. I know that the standards of the Church are there to protect us, and I am grateful that choosing to follow them helped me choose to join the Church.

I am Hannah. I am 18. And I am a cancer survivor.
I took a walk recently and was reminded of just how infinite our Savior’s love is. Even if I gave Him everything, it would never compare to His love for me.
I passed by people who smiled and waved.
I came to a park, where I swung on the swings.
I sat on a bench and watched a bird gather grass clippings for a nest, a butterfly land at my feet and flutter its wings, the cotton fall from the trees and be caught in the breeze, and a spiderweb glisten in the sunlight.
I listened to the wind rustle the leaves on the trees, the birds sing, the water from the lake wash up on the sand, and a bee buzz its way through the grass.
I felt the sun’s warm rays on my face, arms, and legs. I felt the wind brush against me, cooling my skin and rushing through my hair. Then I thought of what a miracle that was. I have hair. I felt my heart pump and my pulse slow down as I rested.
Then I just thought. I thought of what has happened and what may happen. I pictured myself years from now with the ones I love most laughing and playing in a similar park. I don’t remember everything I thought, but it doesn’t really matter, because in the end the song “My Heavenly Father Loves Me” (Children’s Songbook, 228–29) consumed my thoughts. I repeated it over and over, and I felt one last thing: peaceful, true, eternal, and amazing love.
And that is what it all comes down to—love.

I have been a member of the Church for five years. At first I was the only member in my family; my wife was very active in another faith. Now two of my children have been baptized, and my wife and a third child are receiving the missionary discussions. I firmly believe that these blessings have come about because I fasted and prayed and attended the temple. I exhort you to do the same and to have patience. Your desire may be granted when you least expect it.
José Marcos García,Newark (Spanish) Ward, Scotch Plains New Jersey Stake

Mommy sniffed and coughed. She blew her nose. “Madelyn, I am sick. I need your help with baby Jason today.” Madelyn wanted to be a good helper. She held baby Jason carefully and gave him a bottle. She made Jason laugh and smile while Mommy changed his diaper. When Jason wiped carrots all over his face, Madelyn cleaned him with a soft towel. While Jason was napping, Mommy had a rest too. Madelyn brought her a blanket. “Thank you for helping today!” Mommy said. Madelyn smiled. She liked being Big Sister Madelyn!

I heard the garage door open, and I knew what he would tell me. I lay quietly in bed. My father’s figure appeared in the doorway.
“Tracie, are you awake?” My heart was breaking as I felt my dad sit on the edge of my bed. “Lynn and I are going to get married,” he said. I was silent as he tried to explain.
“This does not mean that I love your mom any less. I know it will be hard, but I need you to be a good example to your sisters.” His sentences swirled around my mind, blurring into a mass of tears, weighing harder and harder on my heart.
“Good night, Tracie. I love you.”
As he left, my eyes overflowed with tears. My mind wouldn’t stop spinning. Why did my dad have to get married again? We were doing fine. Grandma didn’t mind helping us out. Mom wouldn’t want him to remarry. I didn’t want a stepsister my age. I have only one mom. I will be loyal!
I was eight years old when my mother died of cancer, and it changed me. I had always been shy, but my mother’s death caused me to turn completely inward. My friends distanced themselves from me. Home was my only safe place, and in it I grew up quickly as I became the part-time caretaker of my two little sisters. I must have blocked some things out because there’s not much I remember. I do know, however, that I became a hardened little girl.
It was during that stage that my dad told me he was inviting Lynn and her daughters to our house for a visit. They were family friends, so my little sisters were excited to play with Lynn’s two girls, Meghan and Paige. I hated the idea from the start. I suspected my dad’s intentions, and I decided I was opposed to the idea. I was determined that I would not forget my mother.
I felt betrayed that my dad would even consider remarriage. How could Mom’s memory live on with another woman in the house? I thought all my dad’s love would go to Lynn, and she would try to take Mom’s place.
I was wrong, and I am constantly amazed at how my views over the years have changed. It has been a long, hard process, but it has contributed a great deal to my character and has helped sculpt me into the person I am.
The first thing I needed to do was learn to love Lynn. I thought she was a nice lady, but that was where it stopped. She tried to tell me what to do, and even worse than that, she loved hugs and kisses. I did not want to kiss her and went to great efforts, at least at first, to avoid it.
Lynn and my mom are about as different as two people could be. They were actually best friends, and where one had strengths, the other had weaknesses. I have many memories of my mother waking up at five in the morning to read her scriptures and bake bread. She was friendly, but at the same time a bit shy. Lynn was the bold, outgoing one who loved talking and meeting people. This was something I had to deal with; she was just so different.
I think it was these differences, though, that made it possible for me to love her. I had respected Lynn from the beginning because she was my father’s new wife, and I wasn’t a rebellious child. But it was different when I started to love her. I saw that she was good to us. She drove us places and helped us with our problems. It was nice to have a woman in the house, especially during my early teenage years. She made my dad more happy and relaxed than he’d been in a long time, and it was nice not to have so much responsibility for my sisters. But there was still a wall between us. I loved and appreciated her as a person, but she wasn’t my mom.
Over time, Lynn’s role in my life changed. I matured, and Lynn became a great help to me. She loved it when I talked to her. Sometimes I would just plop down on her bed and talk to her for a long time. I really started to trust Lynn, to depend on her.
I now consider Lynn my second mother. The wall is gone. I used to think if I loved Lynn, my love for my mom would decrease; but just the opposite has happened. I love them both and appreciate their strengths and the many things they have taught me. I don’t compare them since they are both so loving and kind and have so many wonderful qualities. It took me a long time to admit I love Lynn and my stepsisters, but since I did, I have realized that love is sweet and powerful.
I love both my moms, and I am proud I am a little like both of them. I feel at peace, because I know the Lord’s plan for my family has been fulfilled. I have grown so much through these experiences and rejoice that I have learned to accept different people, to express myself to others, and most importantly that I now cherish a person I vowed I would never love.

I discovered the following scripture during the years my husband was not a member of the Church: “If any man will do his will, he shall know of the doctrine, whether it be of God.” (John 7:17.)
I took great comfort in knowing that in many ways my husband was doing God’s will. We had home evening, we stored a year’s supply of food, and he encouraged my children and me in church attendance and service. That scripture helped me realize that someday my husband would gain the testimony that what he was doing actually was God’s will.
He eventually did realize it and was baptized. Now this scripture reminds me that the more I live the gospel, the more assuredly I know it is of God.

While attending a sacrament meeting during the summer months, I was fortunate to hear messages from three students who were home from school for the summer. One of the talks especially interested me.
She had been working during the summer recess in a restaurant frequented by truck drivers. One driver who had a regular run stopped at the restaurant on the same day each week to eat. The regularity of the stop created an opportunity for short visits. He asked the young lady where she lived. She reported that she was home for the summer to earn money to return to school in the fall. His next question was, “Where do you attend school?” Her answer with pride: “BYU–Idaho.” He wanted to know more about the school, which led to a gospel discussion. Her first approach was to teach him about the Word of Wisdom. She was successful. She convinced him to give up smoking.
Then her shift was changed, and she no longer had the opportunity to serve him, so she wrote him a note and enclosed a Church missionary tract about the plan of salvation. After several days she received a note from the driver. It simply stated, “You’ve created a monster.” Thanks to this young woman, he had found information which caused him to think about the changes he must make in his life. I do not know the full outcome of this little encounter between a waitress and a truck driver, but clearly his life was affected.
She then went on to explain how easy it is to let others know about the beauties of the gospel. Opportunities are there every day in our normal pursuits of life to open our mouths to let people know of the gospel truths that will bless them here and now and into the eternities to come.

In October 2021 the Book of Mormon musical began its performances in The Millenium Centre in Cardiff. On the opening evening, I had the privilege of going to the Millennium Centre, along with Stake President Jason Spragg and Bishop Stefan Liassides of Cardiff Ward. We had all attended training in preparation for questions from the media or audience members.

We waited as the audience made their way out after seeing the show, where they were met by 40 missionaries in bright white shirts and missionary tags clearly in view. These young men and women stood firm in their beliefs and were a shining example to us who stood by. They were polite, friendly, and answered all questions. Some people stopped to listen and then while walking away would exclaim, “They are the real ones”. I remember seeing one young missionary run to his mission president in excitement proclaiming, “We need more, we need more!” He was referring to the pass-along cards, and leaflets with more information about the Church.

Due to COVID restrictions these missionaries had spent most of their mission working with social media to share the gospel and to contact people. Now they had the opportunity to meet face-to-face and to share their beliefs.

These young men and women were wonderful examples. Even though some people rushed past, or said they weren’t interested, the missionaries were not disheartened and carried on sharing what they knew to be true. How lucky we are to have real missionaries in each of our wards and stakes.

One day I saw my oldest son, Wilford, preparing a tithing envelope. He was probably around five years old at the time. Wilford didn’t earn any money, so I wondered why he was paying tithing. When I asked him, he told me he was actually paying a fast offering.
Wilford didn’t have much money of his own. But he was still excited to pay a fast offering.
I was impressed by this act of kindness. I asked him why he had decided to do this.
Wilford answered, “I don’t have any needs. But I know others do.” He knew his money would help people. He was very happy about that.
This simple experience taught me a good lesson: children are really in tune with the Spirit and have a natural Christlike love. Wilford had something he didn’t need and knew it would be helpful to other people. He was willing to make the sacrifice.
Saving money is good. But my young son taught me another lesson through his example. By listening to the Spirit, we can bless the lives of others when we share what we have.

Serving a mission was a sacred time of my life. In my last interview with him as a full-time missionary, President Blair Pincock spoke of the upcoming change in mission leaders, as he and his wife were also nearing the completion of their service. We were both sad to be leaving something we loved so much. He could see that I was troubled by the thought of not being a full-time missionary. He was a man of great faith and lovingly taught me as he had for the previous two years. He pointed to the picture of Jesus Christ above his desk and said, “Elder Olsen, it is all going to be OK because it is His work.” I felt reassured knowing that the Savior will help us, not just while we are serving but always—if we will let Him.

Jeffrey just started kindergarten and is making lots of friends. One day, his teacher told me that the day before, one of the students in his class was having a bad day and was very unhappy. The teacher said that Jeffrey stayed by this student’s side during recess and tried his best to be a good friend. He put his arm around her and comforted her the best he could. At lunchtime, he made sure that he sat next to her, and he helped her open her milk carton and other items in her lunch. Jeffrey’s teacher said that she was very proud of Jeffrey for being a good friend to the girl.