Gospel Story Finder

Lucy took the box of valentines out of the sack. Tomorrow was Valentine Day, and she still hadn’t decided whether to give a card to Carla, the girl next door.
Lucy sighed. Nothing had been the same since Carla had moved in at the first of the year. Lucy and her mother had taken homemade cookies over to Carla and her family, but Carla hadn’t even said hello.
“She’s just shy,” Carla’s mother had explained.
Lucy quickly decided that Carla wasn’t shy—she was just a bad-tempered girl who loved to make life miserable for everybody around her. The first week after Carla had moved in, she had thrown rocks at Lucy’s dog, Jumper, and now he was afraid to go outside.
At school Carla bullied the smaller children on the playground. She was in the principal’s office at least twice a week. Lucy and her friends were embarrassed to be around her because she was loud and rough.
And now Lucy’s mother had said that she should give Carla a valentine.
“But, Mom,” Lucy argued, “valentines are supposed to be for people you like. And I don’t like Carla Bentley!”
“Carla has a lot of problems, Lucy. Maybe if she had some friends, she wouldn’t be the way she is,” Mother explained. “Sometimes people need attention so badly that they’ll do anything to get it, even things that they shouldn’t.”
Lucy sat on the floor of her room, her valentines spread out before her. She was putting two candy hearts in each one. As she wrote each name on an envelope, she checked it off her list. In class they had passed out a list with all the students’ names on it so that no one would be missed. Lucy popped a candy heart into her mouth. Only seven more, and she still hadn’t decided about Carla.
Finally Lucy checked the last name off the list. She stacked the cards carefully and put them into a bag. Then she realized that all her valentines were used up! “Mom!” she called, running into the kitchen. “Guess what! I can’t give Carla a valentine.”
“Why not?” Mother asked.
“Because I don’t have any more. Remember, we bought a box of thirty cards? Well, that was just enough for my class, so now they’re all gone.”
“Oh, that doesn’t matter,” her mother said. “If you decide to give a valentine to Carla, we have lots of things you can make a card with.”
“Make a card?”
“Sure. Lots of people make cards instead of buying them. It’s fun to do,” Mother said, going over to her desk and pulling out a drawer. “See, we have pink and red construction paper, and I remember some white doilies in with the napkins.”
Lucy shifted uncomfortably. “I’m not sure that I want to, though.”
“Well, I’ll just leave the things here in case you need them. I’ll be back in a while. I have to pick up your brother at soccer practice.”
Lucy thought, If I give Carla a valentine, maybe she won’t be so mean. I could make a really cute one with some of the stickers I have.
Lucy went to her bedroom to get her sticker collection. Some stickers were funny, others were pretty, and some smelled like root beer or peanut butter or strawberry when she rubbed them. She picked out three: a heart in different shades of pink, a furry kitten, and a cluster of sweet-smelling strawberries.
Hurrying down to the kitchen table, Lucy folded a sheet of white paper in half, drew half a heart along the fold, and cut it out. When she unfolded it, she had a pattern to trace around on the construction paper.
Lucy folded a sheet of pale pink construction paper in half, then cut out two red hearts and placed them and the strawberry sticker on the front of the card. She put the kitten and heart stickers on the inside. Then she signed her name at the bottom.
Holding the card up, Lucy thought, It’s pretty, but it’s not really a valentine if there aren’t any words except my name. But I can’t write a fancy poem to a girl I don’t even like. Finally, after trying out a number of ideas on scratch paper, Lucy wrote in red ink:
“Roses are red,
Violets are blue.
I’d rather be friends
Than fight with you.”
The sun was shining on Valentine Day morning. Lucy got up early and dressed quickly so that she could run over to Carla’s without being seen. As she hurried around Carla’s front porch, the Bentley house was quiet. Lucy propped the card up against the front door, rang the doorbell, and ran. She hid behind the bushes separating the yards and watched for someone to answer the door.
Mr. Bentley opened it and looked first to the left and then to the right. Lucy could see him smile when he finally looked down and saw the card. He picked it up and closed the door.
Lucy let her breath out. That’s that, she thought. She hurried home to eat so that she could meet Kim, her best friend, before school.
The morning passed quickly. After Lucy’s class exchanged their valentines, the room mothers came in and they had a party. For treats they had red punch and cupcakes with white frosting and red gumdrop hearts on them.
Lucy didn’t see Carla until lunchtime. Carla was walking toward Lucy and Kim with a funny look on her face.
“I don’t believe it,” Kim whispered. “Why is she coming over?”
“I gave her a valentine,” Lucy whispered back.
Kim looked at her quickly. “You did? Maybe she’s going to beat you up.”
“I don’t think so,” Lucy said, smiling shyly at Carla.
“Hi,” Carla said.
“Hi,” said Lucy and Kim together.
Carla looked down at her tennis shoes. “I—I want to thank you for the valentine, Lucy.” She held out a card to Lucy.
“You’re welcome,” Lucy said, taking the card. “Thank you.“
“I didn’t have time to make one.” Carla stood awkwardly.
“Oh, that’s OK. Would you like to eat lunch with us?” She heard Kim’s sharp gasp but ignored her.
Carla’s face lit up. “OK!” Then Carla looked at Kim and added, “If you don’t mind.”
Kim looked from Carla to Lucy then back again. “Of course not. Come on, let’s get over to the tree before somebody else does.”
As the girls sat on the bench beneath the old cottonwood tree, four boys walked past.
“Hey! Happy Valentine Day!” Carla yelled happily at them.

There is another aspect to Kent’s studies beyond the intellectual and aesthetic. Living with these magnificent birds has strengthened his testimony of his Creator. One winter day he took an atheist friend to a canyon where he knew there would be eagles. As they stood in the snow watching some 50 bald eagles soar above them, Kent looked at his open-mouthed friend and said quietly, “That didn’t just happen by accident.”
“Boy, I know it!” his friend said, his voice small with awe.
If anybody wants to know why eagles are worth saving, maybe that’s why.

I had a hard time finding Sister Gong. I have a quirky sense of humor, and it wasn’t easy finding someone who would laugh with me at my jokes. For example: It is a romantic night at the beach. The moon is full and bright. You are holding hands, strolling through the warm water. Something slithers against her leg. Don’t worry, it’s a moray.

What is this? A tie. In Mandarin Chinese, “wife” is “taitai.” Can you say “tai-tai?” The adjective for someone who lives in Thailand is—Thai. So, his Thai taitai tied tying his tie-dye tie.

Anyway, you get the idea. It’s a miracle I found Sister Gong. Something that helped me may help you. When I prayed, “Should I marry Susan?” I felt peace. But later, I made my own best decision. My prayer changed to one of real intent and commitment. “Heavenly Father, I love Susan and want to ask her to marry me. I promise I’ll be the best husband and father I can be.” It was then my clearest, strongest confirmation came.

When Sister Gong and I were married, Elder David B. Haight wisely counseled, “Always hold a calling in the Church,” he said. “Be wise and don’t neglect your family, education, or profession. But especially when life is busy, hold a Church calling so you feel the Lord’s love for those you serve and for you, as you grow in His service.”

One of our nursing students learned that being like the Savior is more than being able to teach charity, describe charity, or even profess charity. Let me quote from her journal:

I learned the deeper meaning of charity when I cared for a wheelchair-bound HIV patient who had lesions on his hands and buttocks. He was pale as a ghost with a red, spotted rash consuming his body. He wore dark sunglasses, which made him seem even ghastlier, and his partner sat at his bedside. Initially, looking at the men made me physically ill to my stomach. I felt like I should hold my breath, toss the patient his gown, and spend as little time in the room as possible, for I feared that somehow he would inevitably sneeze and I would catch his disease and bring it home to my husband and 10-month-old baby.

However, when his mother entered the room, she went to him and kissed him on the forehead and whispered, “Sweetheart, I will never leave you.” The words “charity never faileth” came to mind, and my soul melted. I put on my gloves, picked up a bottle of lotion at his bedside, and asked him if he wanted a back rub. That day I felt like I understood the words of the Savior more than ever before: “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.

I have been raised with the belief that homosexuality and IV drug abuse are immoral, unethical, and simply wrong. . . . I do believe that there comes a turning point in each person’s life. We must decide when we come to this point whether we will love others for who they are, surrendering judgment and criticism, or allow our prejudgments and the social barriers of the world to stifle another’s spiritual growth as well as our own.

At Chetham’s, surrounded by people whose values and standards differ from her own, Fleur is determined to keep her Young Women values. Although students aren’t allowed to smoke or drink at school, some of them do so when they go out to Manchester, a nearby city.

Fleur explains: “When they say, ‘Come to the pub with us,’ I just say, ‘No, thanks. I don’t drink.’” Now that Fleur’s fellow students know her standards, they respect her for not drinking or smoking.

When she goes out, Fleur spends time with friends who don’t drink, or she goes shopping or to the cinema. “I make my own sort of fun,” she says.

My dad and I were unloading the soccer equipment from his pickup truck, when we heard the telephone ringing. “It’s probably for you,” Dad said.
“I don’t feel like talking,” I responded. Dad gave me “that look,” then went inside while I stored gear in the shed. Was I feeling down! Tomorrow would be our first game of the fall indoor soccer season, and we had just completed another disastrous practice.
My team, the Stingers, was short a goalie. My best friend, Isabel, had been practicing the position, but, well, she’s a much better forward than goalie. My dad, the Stingers’ coach, tried to cheer me up on the way home. “We can still win,” he told me. But I knew that without a good goalie, it wasn’t very likely.
As I stepped into the kitchen, my father replaced the telephone receiver. He turned toward me, wearing a grin the size of a mailbox. “That was the commissioner. Look!” He handed me the team roster.
I saw that my father had penciled in a new name: Jana. Beside her name was listed her position: goalie! “You’re kidding!” I cried out.
“The commissioner said she just moved into our neighborhood and has been playing goalie in another city for three years. He knew that the Stingers were short a player, so …”
“Yes!” I jumped high enough to slap the top of the doorway. “I’m calling the other Stingers right now!”
“Whoa,” Dad said. “How about if you start by calling the newest Stinger? Tell Jana our opener is tomorrow, and that we’ll bring her a uniform tonight.”
I talked to Jana for only a few moments—I didn’t really know her yet—then called all the other girls. They were as excited as I was. But later that night, when Dad and I drove to Jana’s house, no one answered the door. We left her uniform on the mat.
The next day, the Stingers huddled excitedly in our team box. Everyone was there—except Jana. When it was our turn to take the field for pregame drills, Jana still hadn’t shown up. We lined up to practice goal shots. Right after I slammed one past Isabel, I saw Dad trotting toward the stadium door.
At the door stood a girl I had never seen before, wearing a Stingers yellow and black jersey. “Jana’s here!” I called. Then I saw something that made my stomach turn. Jana, our new star goalie, had a cast on her wrist and bruises on her face. I groaned. So did the other girls.
Needless to say, with our new goalie in the bleachers beside her father, we lost our opener.
My dad bought the team consolation ice-cream bars, and we ate them in the bed of his pickup truck in the parking lot. Jana sat alone on the open tailgate. Her dad and mine were nearby, talking about the team’s schedule. Again, my dad gave me “that look.” I knew it was because I wasn’t including Jana. So I slipped beside her and said, “How did you break your arm?”
“It’s my wrist,” she said.
Jana’s father turned and, putting a hand on her shoulder, said, “She broke it on our trampoline.”
Isabel perked up, moving quickly to Jana’s other side. “You have a trampoline?”
Jana nodded.
“Why didn’t you say anything about a broken wrist when we talked on the phone?” I asked.
Jana shrugged. She never took her eyes off her ice-cream bar. Her father said, “It was broken last night after she talked to you. We were at the hospital when you came with the uniform. Luckily it’s only a hairline fracture. She’ll be able to play again in a few weeks.”
“In the meantime,” Isabel began, her dark eyes as wide as coat buttons, “if you need someone to keep that trampoline from rusting, I’m available!”
“Rusting!” I teased.
“It could happen,” Isabel laughed.
Jana’s father said, “We’ll see,” and led Jana away.
Monday was Jana’s first day at our school. Isabel and I sat by her at lunch, and she invited us to her house that afternoon. The three of us took the bus to Jana’s stop, then walked to her house. She led us to her trampoline in the backyard. Not seeing her parents anywhere, I asked if they both worked.
She nodded. But when I told her that she was welcome at my house after school any day, she shrugged and said, “Oh, there are worse things than being alone.”
Isabel was already on the “tramp.” The golden beads on her hair clips shimmered in the sunlight. I climbed on and, as we sailed upward, Jana made silly sound effects to match our jumps. Jana was turning out to be really cool. I couldn’t wait to see her play soccer!
After about twenty minutes, I sat down on the trampoline. Isabel nearly landed on me! “We should go,” I said. Isabel nodded, and together we rolled off the tramp onto the grass.
“Jana, I bet you’re an expert on the trampoline,” I said as we passed through her gate. “You probably practice every day and can do backflips.”
“No,” Jana said, “we just got the tramp Saturday morning before the game, so I really haven’t used it yet.”
Isabel and I stopped and stared at her, confused.
“What’s wrong?” Jana asked.
“Your dad said you broke your wrist Friday, after we talked on the phone, but you just said that you didn’t have the tramp until Saturday.”
The color drained from Jana’s face. “Did I say I got the tramp on Saturday?” she laughed nervously. “That was dumb of me. We got it Friday. I remember now.”
Isabel and I looked at each other. We knew Jana wasn’t telling us the truth. I had a creepy feeling about it. I was about to thank her for letting us jump, when she suddenly faced us, tears on her cheeks, and whispered, “If I tell you a secret about how my wrist was broken, will you promise not to tell anyone?”
The secret Jana told us scared me. Isabel and I hurried home, then sat silently on my front lawn until Isabel’s mother pulled into her driveway. As Isabel rose, I asked, “Do you think we should tell someone what Jana told us?”
Isabel shook her head. “We promised Jana we wouldn’t. It isn’t right to break a promise.”
I went straight upstairs. I told my mother I’d be studying my spelling, but I couldn’t pay attention to it. I kept thinking about Jana. Before I knew it, Mom was calling me downstairs for dinner.
At the dinner table, my brother offered the blessing; then everyone else started talking about their day. I didn’t talk at all. I cleared the table while everyone gathered in the living room for family home evening. Suddenly I heard my two-year-old sister crash into the wall and start crying. I rounded the corner just as my father scooped her up and tenderly rubbed her sore head. My dad is the best dad in the world. He would never, ever, in a million, zillion years hurt me or my brother or sister.
But today I’d learned that some kids aren’t that lucky. Tears jumped into my eyes, and I couldn’t keep them in. I ran up the stairs and slammed my door. I sat against it and cried.
Someone pushed on my door, but I didn’t move away. “Alecia,” Dad called, “please let me in.”
I scooted over so he could open the door. He sat beside me and hugged me. I buried my face against him. He waited, then said, “Do you want to tell me what’s wrong?”
I sobbed. “I can’t. I promised I wouldn’t.”
Dad nodded and stroked my hair. “It’s usually right to keep a promise. But if keeping a promise hurts you or someone else, it’s not a good promise to keep. It looks like keeping this promise is hurting you very much.”
“Oh, Daddy,” I cried, “it isn’t me.”
“Will someone else be hurt if you keep this promise?” I nodded. “Then,” Dad said, “telling me is the right thing to do.” He looked into my eyes. “You can trust me, Alecia.”
I told him exactly what Jana had told me about how her wrist had really been broken. My dad hugged me tight. When he let go, I saw tears in his own eyes. “You made the right choice,” he said. He spoke with Mom, then made a telephone call.
I thought Jana would be mad at me for telling her secret. I thought she’d quit the Stingers and never talk to me again. But that didn’t happen. The next time I saw her was four weeks later, at our match against the Shooting Stars. Her cast was off. At first, she didn’t say anything, then she hugged me—almost as hard as my dad had—and said that she finally felt safe! She was going to a different school now because she is living with her aunt while her parents get help. Soon Jana will be back with them. “But right now, I want to get back on that soccer field!”
The Stingers cheered as we ran onto the field with our new goalie. I had been worried that Jana and I would never be friends, but now, as I watched her make a diving save, I realized that real friends watch out for each other.

Chris and Byron shared everything—their toys, their clothes, their books, their bedroom, and even their colds.
“I’m bored,” sniffed Chris. “I wish we could go outside.”
“There’s nothing to do in the house,” Byron said, coughing.
“Nothing at all,” Chris agreed, “except ride my horse.”
“You don’t have a horse,” Byron declared.
Chris wiped his nose. “I do so.”
“Prove it!”
Chris opened the door to their bedroom and pointed. “See?”
Byron blinked his eyes hard. “There’s nothing there but our bunk beds.” He snorted and started to turn away.
Chris walked over to the bunk beds and said, “Good horse,” as he gently patted one of the headboards.
Byron stopped and stared at the beds.
“Want to ride him?” Chris asked. “Or are you afraid he’ll buck you off?”
Byron stepped a little closer. “He’s your horse. You go first.”
Chris slowly climbed up the ladder and sat on the bed very carefully. He gripped the bedpost and whispered, “Giddy-up, horse.”
Nothing happened. He looked down at Byron.
“Try it again,” Byron urged.
“Giddy-up, horse,” Chris said louder.
Still nothing happened.
“Wait a minute,” Byron said. He lay on the bottom bed and lifted his legs up until his feet were touching the underside of the top bunk. “Now try kicking the horse,” he suggested.
Chris put one foot over the side and kicked the side rail. “Giddy-up, horse!” he yelled. With a little help from Byron’s feet, the mattress bucked up and down. “Yippee! Wahoo!” Chris bellowed.
Suddenly Mom appeared in the doorway. “Byron! Chris! Stop that right now before you break your beds,” she scolded, then disappeared back into the kitchen.
Chris swung his legs over the side. “What do you think?”
Byron sneezed, wiped his nose, and stood there staring at the beds for a long time. “I don’t think you have a horse,” he finally said. “What you have is a tree house in the middle of a dark, scary jungle.”
Chris screeched, “Look out behind you! There’s a tiger!”
Byron scampered up the ladder. “Where?”
Chris pointed his finger at Cat, who was sitting in the corner, busily licking his paws. Cat looked up at them with big, gleaming, hungry, yellow eyes.
“Should we shoot it?” Byron asked.
“No guns,” Chris reminded him.
Cat stretched, then stalked toward the bed.
“I don’t like the way he’s looking at us. Let’s get out of here before he decides to eat us.”
Byron pulled a long string out of his pocket and made a loop in one end.
“Here comes an elephant!” he shouted. “I’m going to capture it.” He swung the string over his head and neatly lassoed the bedpost. “Got it!”
The boys rode the big elephant away from the man-eating tiger, out of the jungle, and across the hot, white sands of the desert. The string slipped down in front of the bed and mysteriously came alive.
“Rattlesnake!” Chris exclaimed.
The elephant reared back, and the boys almost fell off. They had to hang on tightly while the elephant galloped past the rattlesnake.
“Whew! That was close,” Chris said.
Soon they came to a big lake.
“Let’s leave the elephant here and take a boat across the lake,” Byron suggested.
“Good idea,” Chris agreed. “I’ll go out on deck and steer the boat out of the harbor. You hoist the anchor.”
The boat hadn’t gone very far before it ran into a big storm. Hundred-foot waves crashed onto the boat and tossed the boys back and forth.
“Better head for port,” Chris shouted down to Byron.
When they were safely anchored in the harbor, Byron suggested that they take an airplane back home and get something to eat.
“Coming in for a landing,” Chris announced. “Check the landing gear.”
Byron learned over and looked under the bed. “There aren’t any wheels. Prepare to make a belly landing, and hope that the plane doesn’t explode.”
The plane skidded and jumped across the runway and came to a jerky stop.
“Everyone out before she goes up in flames!” Chris yelled. He and Byron bailed out just as the doorbell rang. They ran to open the door. It was George from across the street.
“Come outside and play,” George said.
“Can’t,” Chris sniffed. “We have colds.”
Byron coughed. “I wish we could go out,” he said. “There’s nothing to do in the house.”
“Nothing at all,” agreed Chris.

Matthew P., 18, from Utah, USA, recalls a formal dance when he and the other guys didn’t have a lot of money to spend on fancy restaurants, but they still wanted to give their dates a three-course meal for dinner.

Their solution was to have the first course, French fries, at a local fast-food place. Course two? Chicken nuggets at a different fast-food location. And the third course? Milkshakes at a third location. “Nobody had to spend a bunch of money,” Matthew says. “The way we did it, everybody enjoyed the dinner.”

My first assignment with a member of the Twelve was in 2004 when I was assigned to go to a stake conference with Elder Joseph B. Wirthlin. I nervously picked him up at his home. As we were driving to the stake conference, I tried to tell him how honored I was to be in his company. I said something like, “Elder Wirthlin, I am deeply honored to be with you.”

He responded by saying, “Brother Curtis, I am deeply honored to be with you.”

I thought to myself, “I did not explain that very well.” So I summoned my courage and tried again. “Elder Wirthlin,” I said, “I am just an ordinary member of the Church, and it is an extraordinary experience for someone like me to be with an apostle.”

He responded, “I am also an ordinary member of the Church, and it is extraordinary for me to be with you.” He seemed not to understand what I was trying to express.

At the conference he acted in every way like an apostle, being mighty in declaring God’s word, but he seemed incapable of seeing anything of significance in himself.

At his funeral his son said this:

When I contemplate the legacy that Dad left his ­family and the Church, his humility stands out. Dad just never saw himself as anyone special. When President Monson ordained him an Apostle, he ­prophetically declared to Dad, “Your humility will endear you to the people.” And so it has.

I first encountered this principle in high school. I considered myself to be unattractive, and so it was easier for others to think of me as unattractive—a vicious circle. But I had the fortune to acquire two friends, Janice and Jim. Janice thought that I had a wonderful personality, and it was easy for me to be pleasant around her. Eventually I found it easier to get along with other people because she had instilled confidence in me.
Her faith in my desirability helped me improve my grooming. I confided to her that I had always wanted to perm my hair so that it would be curly all over, but I was afraid that the other kids would make fun of it. She was so enthusiastic about this idea that I permed my hair and loved it. Janice also never saw the 15 pounds that I needed to lose; and because she helped me think of myself as thin, I lost the weight.
Jim was also a good friend. He was not interested in me romantically, but he still thought that I was attractive. When we became friends, I stopped wondering if the dresses I was buying looked similar enough to what everyone else was wearing and began to consider if Jim would like them. Because Jim was a good enough friend to let me know when I looked good, I gained confidence in my taste and I became able to buy and do things because I liked them. Because these two friends had patience, confidence, and the ability to see the Dulcinea in me, I have become happy with myself.

Ray Ivie, however, still loves rivers.

Brother Ivie is a spry little man, wiry and elfish, an electrical engineer by trade. Mention a river to him, and his eyes come alive. His already animated face becomes even more eager. His pulse picks up so fast that yours races with it. Listen to him speak, and the fascination for rivers is rekindled in you once again.

Ray Ivie is also the Scoutmaster of Troop 477 chartered to the 77th Ward of the Orem Utah South Stake. A couple of years ago he and his Scouts had built some pioneering projects, lashing poles together with rope to form furniture, camp equipment, even towers.

“We had poles and ropes,” he said. “And we’d been talking about a river trip, but we didn’t have any canoes. One of the projects mentioned in the pioneering merit badge book is to build a raft. I don’t think they had anything elaborate in mind, but it started me thinking, hey, we could do that; it wouldn’t cost much.”

That’s what happens when an engineer gets loose. Soon the boys in Brother Ivie’s troop were fashioning willow sticks into model rafts.

“We did some calculating of flotation needed for the weight we planned to carry, what we’d need to do in terms of water displacement,” Brother Ivie said. “We figured out that inner tubes would give adequate flotation, and we found some businesses where tubes with holes in them were just throw-aways. For the cost of patching materials and the time spent a couple of Saturdays fixing the tubes, we had the materials we would need.” The two-level rafts were designed with inner tubes lashed together underneath a log framework.

“The whole principle of pioneering is to use what’s available,” Brother Ivie added. “Teaching the boys about that is much more valuable than hiring some commercial company to ferry them down the river. And when you know you’re going to be floating on your own raft, you make sure it’s well built. It’s not like some tower you sit on for a minute. If a raft falls apart, you’re in the drink.”

After reviewing safety procedures and checking with Green River (Utah) State Park officials, Troop 477 set sail in the summer of 1983. The trip was so memorable that Brother Ivie and his boys automatically talked with friends and family about what they had done, inviting others to go with them the next year. Brother Ivie gave them copies of his assembly and instruction manual, “The PT-13 (Patrol Transport, 13-tube, 13-foot pole, Live-aboard Ship).” By the following summer, two more troops (from the Orem 15th and 27th Wards) manning a total of five rafts were scheduled for the second flotilla.

It all started in 1988 when three young women from the Jacana Ward in Sao Paulo, Brazil, felt a strong desire to visit the elderly ladies who live in a nursing home near the chapel.
The initial idea turned into a continuous service project called “Adopt a Grandma” and other young women from the ward soon began to participate. Later on, more young people from two other wards were also involved. Now, there are nonmembers who help with the project.
These youth have learned what it means to have the pure love of Christ. The elderly women in the rest home have different backgrounds and histories. Some don’t even know their parents or when or where they were born.
One of these is Sebastiana Maria Catarina de Jesus; a talkative, cheerful lady who appears quite small in her wheelchair. She does not know her age, and has no relatives nor visitors. She has become a different woman since these loving and giving young people began visiting her. Catarina now feels that she has a family. She loves to spend time with these youth who are her new family.
Flora Esperanca Galassi is seventy-nine years old and becomes emotional at the mention of her family. A surprise birthday party was given to Flora, who is touched as she remembers this precious day in her life. She embraces the young people warmly because they are everything she has in life.
Virginia Fernandes, who looks about seventy-five years old, also does not know when she was born. She walks around the nursing home with difficulty and does not hear very well, but her countenance reflects joy in being close to her newly made friends.
They speak words of support and are always willing to help the elderly ladies, whose simple needs are easily met: a towel to Catarina, clothing to Flora or a cake to Virginia. These young people know that they are attending to the needs of a part of the Good Shepherd’s flock. They freely give of their love, affection, and kindness, which is just as freely returned.

An example of this is illustrated in the book The Hiding Place. It is the true story of Corrie ten Boom, a Dutch woman who, with her family, hid Jews during World War II. Eventually their efforts were discovered. As a result, Corrie and her sister Betsie were sent to a concentration camp. Miraculously, they were allowed to keep their Bible in secret. They lived in miserable conditions. The barracks in which they lived were overcrowded and had no individual beds. There were makeshift beds in three levels in a building designed for 400 people but holding 1,400. The bedding was soiled and rancid. At one point, Corrie was discouraged and nauseated and decided to lie down. But she quickly sprang back up, pinching her legs because she was being bitten by fleas. She desperately asked:
“Betsie, how can we live in such a place!” . . .
“Corrie!” [her sister Betsie] said excitedly. “He’s given us the answer! Before we asked, as He always does! In the Bible this morning. Where was it? Read that part again!”
I glanced down the long dim aisle to make sure no guard was in sight, then drew the Bible from its pouch. “It was in First Thessalonians,” I said. . . . In the feeble light I turned the pages. “Here it is: ‘Comfort the frightened, help the weak, be patient with everyone. See that none of you repays evil for evil, but always seek to do good to one another and to all. . . .’” It seemed written expressly to [our concentration camp].
“Go on,” said Betsie. “That wasn’t all.”
“Oh yes: ‘. . . to one another and to all. Rejoice always, pray constantly, give thanks in all circumstances; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus—’”
“That’s it, Corrie! That’s His answer. ‘Give thanks in all circumstances!’ That’s what we can do. We can start right now to thank God for every single thing about this new barracks!”
I stared at her, then around me at the dark, foul-aired room.
“Such as?” I said.
“Such as being assigned here together.”
I bit my lip. “Oh yes, Lord Jesus!”
“Such as what you’re holding in your hands.”
I looked down at the Bible. “Yes! Thank You, dear Lord, that there was no inspection when we entered here! Thank You for all the women, here in this room, who will meet You in these pages.”
“Yes,” said Betsie. “Thank You for the very crowding here. Since we’re packed so close, that many more will hear!” She looked at me expectantly. “Corrie!” she prodded.
“Oh, all right. Thank You for the jammed, crammed, stuffed, packed, suffocating crowds.”
“Thank You,” Betsie went on serenely, “for the fleas and for—”
The fleas! This was too much. “Betsie, there’s no way even God can make me grateful for a flea.”
“‘Give thanks in all circumstances,’” she quoted. “It doesn’t say, ‘in pleasant circumstances.’ Fleas are part of this place where God has put us.”
And so we stood between piers of bunks and gave thanks for fleas. But this time I was sure Betsie was wrong.

They began holding Bible study in the barracks. As they did, the spirit in the barracks changed. At first the Bible study was held in a corner. But they began to notice that the guards did not interrupt them in their barracks, so they grew bolder. They began holding two services a night. They could not understand why they were never interrupted in their barracks when everywhere else they were closely supervised. This continued for several weeks.

Corrie then related:
One evening I got back to the barracks late from a wood-gathering foray outside the walls. . . . Betsie was waiting for me, as always, so that we could wait through the food line together. Her eyes were twinkling.
“You’re looking extraordinarily pleased with yourself,” I told her.
“You know we’ve never understood why we had so much freedom in the big room,” she said. “Well—I’ve found out.”
That afternoon, she said, there’d been confusion in her knitting group about sock sizes and they’d asked the supervisor to come and settle it.
“But she wouldn’t. [The supervisor] wouldn’t step through the door and neither would the guards. And you know why?”
Betsie could not keep the triumph from her voice: “Because of the fleas! That’s what she said, ‘That place is crawling with fleas!’”
My mind rushed back to our first hour in this place. I remembered Betsie’s bowed head, remembered her thanks to God for creatures I could see no use for.

Amah Cordelia is a humble widow with five children, three females and two males. All of them are returned missionaries in the Nsukka Branch of the Nsukka Nigeria District.
Shortly after the death of her husband, it became a very big challenge to feed her family in a country with the greatest number of the poor, but it has also become one of Sister Amah’s accomplishments.
Sister Amah is a petty trader in vegetables, hence her decision to go into vegetable farming after her graduation from the self-reliance programs. She gained sufficient knowledge and principles that uplifted her. She learned that expanding the farm could help her meet her needs and those of her family.
She learned how to prepare a self-reliance plan and followed through implementing every item on the project.
Through a positive attitude and hard work, she has successfully developed her farm where she harvests Nsukka pepper, garden eggs, and cucumber.
The motivation of sponsoring her sons through university education enabled her to expand the tomato farms, which has resulted in a tripled income.
Sister Amah has not only been able to feed her family, but her farms have also become training sites for all the members participating in the self-reliance program within Nsukka District.
Her experiences have helped Nsukka District members move massively into farming as the need to feed families remains difficult and challenging.
Her accomplishments are stories better seen than told.

My priests quorum was pretty much like any other quorum. We had an adviser, inspiring lessons by the bishop, assistants to the bishop, and then the rest of us. Our ward was neither huge nor small, but we had a number of members who seldom or never came to any meetings. In one particular quorum meeting we spent a lot of time discussing those young men who had not been to church in a while. Brother Wheeler, our quorum adviser, had prepared a list.
When I was young, many considered me shy and quiet, and I did not especially go out of my way to make noise or be seen. I was not the first to volunteer to visit the young men on Brother Wheeler’s list. All he was asking was for us to pick a name, make a friendly visit, and invite them to our upcoming weekly activities.
Hands went up when Brother Wheeler called out names from this list. He said it was a plus if you were already friends, neighbors, or schoolmates. I started to feel guilty as the list grew smaller and smaller. Finally there was one name left. The other boys were chatting about their plans of how they were going to take care of this assignment. Brother Wheeler looked at the name on the list and then at me. I lifted my hand. Smiling, he wrote down the boy’s name and sketched a map for me. He said the family had moved in a while ago and a visit could really benefit the young man.
We lived in an area of southeast Idaho where it was a mixture of farms and homes. Many of the parents commuted to work in town. As in many communities like this, we were fairly close-knit, and everyone pretty much knew everyone else. But I didn’t recognize the name I was given, nor did anyone else in our quorum.
Sunday passed, and I considered the name I’d received. Monday came and went. I still considered. Tuesday passed, and I considered with increasing gravity. How was I going to approach a total stranger and ask him to come to church?
Wednesday came, and my consideration began to change into worry. The week was already passing by, and all I could consider was a gut feeling of dread. This young man I was to visit had never been seen at church, he had never been seen at Scouts, he had never been seen at school, he had never even been seen, period.
The school bus dropped me off at my house. I pulled out the folded note I had been carrying with me since Sunday. The young man’s house was about two-and-a-half miles from mine. I wanted to get it over with and release this burden. I told my sister where I was going and, with grim determination, headed out.
Imagination fed on anticipation. I pictured a family where the dad answered the door with a shotgun in his hands and vicious dogs were ready to attack. I walked half a mile. I pictured a family that only spoke Russian. I walked along. I pictured a family with so much wealth that they only wore tuxedos and ball gowns. Was this how Nephi and Sam felt while they were on their way to get the brass plates? Or worse, perhaps this is how Laman and Lemuel felt. Suddenly, there I was in front of the house.
I rang the doorbell. I heard heavy footsteps. The door swung open, and an older man stood there. He looked at me. “Hello,” he said.
A rush of relief came over me. He was not holding a shotgun, he spoke English, and he was not wearing a tuxedo. “Uh, can uh …” I looked at my note. I couldn’t remember his name. “… Bill …” I couldn’t think straight. “… play?” I finally blurted out. I felt like a little kid. What kind of word had I used? “Play?”
The man looked very surprised.
“Is Bill … available?” I corrected myself. Did I read the map wrong? Was I at the wrong house? “Does a Bill, Billy, or even a William live here?”
The man’s expression changed from confusion to smiling enlightenment. “Oh, yes, of course. Come in. You must be from the ward. Brother Wheeler called last week and told me someone would be coming.”
An entire flood of relief swept through me. I followed the man through the front room, past the kitchen, down a hallway, to a bedroom. The house was neat and modest. I saw a picture of the Salt Lake Temple on the wall. The Ensign magazine sat on the kitchen table, opened. I saw scriptures on the shelf. “But these people never come to church,” I thought with more than a touch of confusion. And what about Bill, who was a total hermit apparently—and a very lazy one, because it appeared he was still sleeping.
The man softly knocked. “Billy?” he said as he gently opened the door.
Instantly everything was explained. I felt so small. A wheelchair and a hospital bed sat in the center of the room.
An emaciated boy lay there staring out the window. He turned his head to look at us. His eyes widened. “Help me sit up, Father. Do I have company? What is your name?”
I did not have to worry about carrying the conversation; Billy was very good at assisting me with that. I returned regularly to his house for the next several weeks. I brought various games; he especially liked chess. I learned that he was actually a foster child and had not seen his birth parents for years. Billy’s disease was critical, and the older couple he was now with had taken him in so that he wouldn’t have to stay by himself in the hospital. He was a member of the Church but could only remember being baptized.
Brother Wheeler arranged for us to have our priests quorum meet for class at Billy’s home. His bed had been moved to the front room to help accommodate the extra visitors. Our bishop came and even helped bless the sacrament for Billy and his foster parents.
I felt pretty good about the whole thing. Over the past few months I had made a friend, and I had helped this friend make other friends in our quorum. I did not anticipate the phone call I received from the bishop later that week. He told me he had interviewed Billy and found him worthy to hold the Aaronic Priesthood. Billy had asked the bishop if I could ordain him.
We held our priesthood meeting again at Billy’s house the following Sunday. I do not remember what I said during the ordination. I do remember Billy’s smile and the tears he was pushing back—the tears Brother Wheeler, the bishop, and all of us were pushing back.
A few weeks later, Billy was not available for “playing” anymore. His condition had worsened, and he spent most of the time in the hospital. About six months from my first meeting with Billy, he died.
Now what I remember most about Billy is not what I did for him on my visits, but what he did for me. A young man whose name I came to know from a simple list had become one of the most treasured memories of my youth.

I am proud of my heritage—which happens to be that of a genuine farm girl from Enterprise, Utah. Now, if you haven’t heard of Enterprise, it’s a suburb of Beryl, Modena, Panaca, and Pioche. Bryant Gumbel would have as much fun with that as some of the city slickers from the big metropolis of St. George did. We weren’t a very confident bunch, and those smart-aleck kids (who included my own husband) had plenty to make fun of.

I grew up helping my five brothers milk the family cows. I drove a pickup truck while my father fed cattle, and I missed two weeks of school every October to gather potatoes into dusty gunnysacks and ship them off to market.

Because of those humble beginnings, I was always rather shy and absolutely terrified to speak before the public. While growing up, I somehow managed to struggle through a few speaking assignments (and dodged all the rest) until I was married and living on this campus. During the first year here, our stake president asked Jeff and me if we would speak in stake conference, and, as usual, Jeff accepted. I was mortified! When we returned home, I cried, I stamped my feet, I threw a royal tantrum, but Jeff insisted. Finally I consented to do it if he would write my talk.

He said, “Absolutely not!”

I said, “Write the talk or get a new roommate.” As you can see, he wrote the talk.

I gave it—and it was a total disaster. Jeff received a lot of compliments for his, and I received gratuitous smiles for mine. When we returned home, I was more discouraged than ever. Through tears I asked, “What went wrong? The talk you wrote for me was better than the one you wrote for yourself, but from what I saw, your talk was the one that touched people’s hearts. Mine hit them like a fast-acting sedative.”

But my wise and gentle tutor put his arms around me and said, “Pat, heart speaks to heart. If you want to touch someone’s heart, you have to speak from your own.”

Growing up, I thought I knew what serving a mission would be like. My older siblings had served missions, I had seen movies about missionaries, and I was ready to get to work. But as my mission got closer, my plan quickly fell apart.
Because of the COVID-19 pandemic, I was reassigned from my original call in the Philippines to my home country of Australia. When I arrived in the mission field, my experience was different than what I had expected. I desperately wanted to go home.
After I talked with my mission president, he gave me the option to finish my mission early and return home—exactly what I wanted. But when I was presented with that choice, I felt an overwhelming feeling from the Spirit that I should stay in the mission field.
I had a choice to make: act on revelation or act on my own desires.
Because of past experiences following promptings, I trusted that even though it wasn’t what I wanted to hear, this prompting to stay on my mission would ultimately be for my good.
I ended up serving a full two years and completing my mission. I wish I could say that the remainder of my time was super easy, but it wasn’t. However, the things I learned, the daily habits that connected me with Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ, and the deeper testimony I gained from serving have kept me grounded in the gospel.
Elder David A. Bednar of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles addressed this sort of situation when he said: “Very rarely does one prompting bring an answer. There’s almost always a sequence, ‘line upon line, precept upon precept’ (2 Nephi 28:30).” Even though my mission was tough, I was able to press forward with hope that God had a plan for me and that my struggles wouldn’t be in vain, because of the revelation I had received.

I grew up in Mexico with my siblings, my mother, and my grandmother. Every day after doing homework and chores, I played soccer. I loved soccer! I would pretend that my right leg was one team and my left leg was the other team.
One day when I was playing soccer, I suddenly couldn’t breathe very well. I rested for a few minutes, but I still had trouble breathing. I became so sick that I had to go to the hospital.
The hospital room had many other children in it, but I missed my family and felt very alone. Although I was not a member of the Church yet, I believed in God. Every day I prayed to be healed, but instead I got worse and worse. The doctors thought I might not live.
The doctors finally sent me home from the hospital, but I had to spend the next year in bed. I took many pills and had two shots every day. And I still had a prayer in my mind and heart. I told Heavenly Father that if I got well, I would serve Him all the rest of my life.
Then one day when I was reading in bed, I accidentally dropped my book on the floor. When I leaned down to pick it up, I realized that I was breathing normally. I dropped the book again. Again I could pick it up without any problem!
I got out of bed. At first I was dizzy because I had not walked by myself in such a long time. I looked in the mirror and saw that I was smiling. I knew that I had received an answer from Heavenly Father.
Every day since then, I have tried to do something to express my gratitude to Heavenly Father. When I grew up, I became a doctor to help answer the prayers of other children. And now I am trying to serve Heavenly Father with my calling in the Church.

Every year Dino Bear knew when it was time to get his winter bed ready. He took the quilt from the den shelf, put fresh clean sheets on his bed, and fluffed up the pillow. When Dino finished, his eyelids were usually heavy and he was ready for a good long sleep.
But this year Dino was wide awake. He didn’t even yawn! “I’ll be sleepy soon,” he said to himself. But days and weeks went by and winter finally came—yet Dino wasn’t one bit sleepy!
“I’ll put on my nightgown and nightcap and go to bed anyway,” he mumbled to himself. So Dino snuggled down under the quilt and shut his eyes. But his eyes wouldn’t stay shut. Soon they were wide open and staring at the ceiling.
“Maybe a spoonful of honey will help,” Dino decided. But after five spoonfuls of honey Dino was still wide awake.
Then Dino started counting sheep. He counted 100 sheep, 200 sheep, 300 sheep—but he wasn’t sleepy.
Before long Dino’s stomach growled. “I’m hungry!” he moaned. “But the honey’s all gone and the cupboard is bare!”
“I must go out into the winter world and look for food,” Dino decided. Outside it was snowing hard. Dino knew all about autumn snow, but this blowing, stinging winter snow made it hard for him to see. The snow made his tracks disappear like magic and hid familiar trees and streams!
“There’s no food,” Dino complained. Then he suddenly saw something move. Dino ran and stumbled toward it. And there was Arnie Beaver!
“What are you doing?” Dino called out as he saw Arnie gnawing at a pine tree.
“What do you think I’m doing?” Arnie grumbled.
“If I knew, I wouldn’t ask,” Dino answered politely.
Arnie wiped his eyes, squinted, and shouted, “Dino Bear! You’re supposed to be sleeping!”
“I can’t sleep,” Dino complained.
“I’ve never heard of a bear with insomnia!” Arnie declared.
“Well, now you know one,” Dino replied. “I can’t sleep.”
Arnie gave Dino some pine needles. “You must be hungry.”
“I am, and thank you!” Dino answered. He wished the pine needles were berries, but he was so hungry that he ate them anyway.
Arnie began to clack his razor sharp teeth. He was ready for work on the pine tree again. “Come to my house later, Dino,” Arnie invited the sleepless bear. “Maybe I can help your insomnia.”
Dino walked off to look for more food. Soon he saw something move, and there was Dora Deer!
Dino ran and stumbled. Soon he was close enough to see that Dora was stringing red berries! “Why are you doing that?” Dino shouted.
Dora wiped her eyes, took one look at Dino, and exclaimed, “Dino Bear! You’re supposed to be sleeping!”
“I just can’t sleep!” Dino grumbled.
“A bear with insomnia?” Dora asked sharply. But then she smiled and gave Dino some of the red berries she was stringing. He gobbled them all up in one mouthful.
Dora laughed and said, “Why don’t you come to Arnie Beaver’s house later? Maybe we can help your insomnia!” Then she began to string red berries again; so Dino walked off to look for more food.
When the light began to grow dim, Dino started for Arnie’s house. Even before he reached the door, Dino heard laughing and singing. When he finally stepped inside, his black eyes opened wide! The pine tree Arnie had gnawed down stood in the center of the room. The red berries Dora had strung were wound in and out of the pine tree’s green boughs. And a big pine cone sat on the top!
“Merry Christmas!” Dora called out.
“Merry Christmas!” Arnie cried, thumping Dino’s furry back.
Merry Christmas? Dino thought. This winter world is very strange!
Dora gave Dino a big bowlful of berries and honey.
Arnie gave him a cup of warm mountain goat’s milk. “It’s good for your insomnia,” Arnie explained.
Dino ate the berries and honey, and he drank the warm goat’s milk. Then he sat and looked at the beautiful tree and listened to Dora and Arnie sing some songs.
“What are you singing?” Dino asked, wishing his eyelids weren’t so heavy.
“Christmas carols!” Dora and Arnie said happily together.
“This—this Christmas is so—so good,” Dino said, “so—so. …”
But Dino never finished what he started to say, for he was sound asleep!

On that November day in 1972 when I got on the bus to go to school, I had no idea this day was going to be one of the most important in my life.
I was 13 and an ordinary student. I mainly tried to have a good time at school, and I had many friends who were like I was. Óscar Italia was not like the other boys. He really did study and, as a result, was on the honor roll. But I didn’t know him well. He was a quiet fellow.
When I entered the classroom that day, he was wearing a button on his lapel that read, “I Care. What about You?” At that time the Church in our area had a program to help members share the gospel. They wore this button so when people asked about it, they could explain about family home evening and the family.
I asked Óscar, “What’s that?” He explained that he had been baptized three months before and was the only Latter-day Saint in his family.
During the breaks that day he noticed my interest and explained the plan of salvation, and he gave me a copy of the Book of Mormon. He read me the promise in Moroni 10:3–5 and told me that if I prayed, I would feel a burning in my heart that would confirm to me that the Book of Mormon was true. Óscar was a great member missionary, and I believed him.
The next morning, while my mother was doing her shopping at the neighborhood market, I decided to read the Book of Mormon. When I was almost finished with the first page, I had a desire to pray. I went to my room and knelt beside my bed. I had never prayed before, but I remembered I had to ask God in the name of Christ. I asked if the Book of Mormon was true, and I asked God to tell me if He existed. I expected to feel what my classmate had testified I would feel. After some minutes I heard my mother coming home and was afraid she would find me praying, so I stood up and got ready for school.
As I rode to school a real battle of ideas was going on in my head. “Is it true or not? Nothing happened,” I thought. I had a lot of doubts.
I can’t explain why, but no sooner had I stepped from the bus onto the sidewalk at school than the doubts disappeared, and I knew it was true. It was extremely simple.
Óscar came up to speak with me at the classroom door. I said, “I will be a member of your church.” He couldn’t believe it. A friend of mine was listening, and he told my other friends what was happening. Soon they were all around me, asking me why I was going to change religions. They told me I was crazy. I couldn’t answer their questions and started to cry. They finally went away, and I was left alone with Óscar. Suddenly I had an overwhelming feeling of joy. I had never felt anything like it before. It was the burning my friend had said I would feel, and it came as a confirmation of the decision I had made.
The next day Óscar brought me a button, and we wore them proudly.