Gospel Story Finder

Wangu, of the Kibuyu tribe, liked the hot dust of the road squeezing up between his brown toes. The African plain around him was spotted with many colored flowers, showing against the yellow grasses waving in the gentle breeze. Nandi flame trees flashed in the glaring sunshine. Wangu felt happy. He was sure something good was going to happen to him. Already he had found his bwana’s (white-man boss’s) lost cow and now he could see the tops of the huts in his shamba (village).
Wangu turned to pull on the lead rope to make the cow walk faster, and then he saw the bicycle. It was in the ditch beside the road and almost covered with thorn bushes. Wangu jumped into the ditch and with his panga (machete-like knife) he chopped the thorn bushes away. Then he dragged the bicycle up to the road.
It was a very old bicycle. Both its wheels were dented and it had many broken spokes. Its chain was stiff with rust. Some bwana threw it away a long time ago, he thought, but it was a bicycle and to own a bicycle was something Wangu had dreamed about.
Wangu had trouble leading the cow and carrying the bicycle, but he struggled on. A little farther along the road he stepped off into the grass, walking toward his shamba. He heard the neighing of an unseen zebra and the roar of simba (lion) a long distance away. The sounds did not disturb Wangu because he was thinking deeply about his four sons. They were a year or two apart in age, starting at age nine. He thought how much each boy would like a bicycle.
When Wangu entered the village his oldest son was the first to greet him. “What will you do with the broken bicycle, Father?” he asked.
His other three sons quickly gathered around him as he answered. “I will make it whole again so that it will be useful.”
“It is a beautiful bicycle,” his nine-year-old son said wistfully.
“I will make it even more beautiful,” Wangu promised, putting the broken bicycle in his thingira, a special hut where his wife could not enter. Then he took the cow to its place among his employer’s cattle.
Wangu began work on the bicycle by taking it apart. For help in understanding how to do it and to borrow tools, he went to the nearby mission.
Each month Wangu took part of the shillingi (English money) his bwana paid him for the work he did, and walked the seven miles to the ducca (general store) and bought new parts for the bicycle.
Repairing the bicycle was slow work, but for Wangu it was a work of joy. As he worked, his thoughts kept wandering to the worth of his four sons. He thought of how proud he was of them and of how fine and helpful they were to him.
Just before he finished working on the bicycle, he decided that his sons deserved to have it. But he couldn’t give it to all of them. Wangu knew that if he did that, the bicycle would cause many quarrels. He must give it to just one boy. He wondered how he could do that without hurting the feelings of the others.
Wangu painted the bicycle red and yellow; and while he waited for the paint to dry, he tried hard to think of a way to give it to just one of his sons. The answer came to him the night before he would take the bicycle out of his thingira and show it to all the people in the village.
The next morning Wangu wheeled the sparkling, newly painted bicycle out onto the hard-packed dirt in the center of the circle of beehive-shaped huts made out of wattle and mud. The people came running from all directions, shouting words of praise for the bicycle. Wangu waited for quiet and until his sons stood in front of him. As he looked at them he thought of how well they cared for his sheep and goats.
“It is my wish to give this bicycle to one of my sons, and I have found a way to do it fairly,” Wangu announced. “The people at the mission have taught us to write our names and some of the white man’s words.” Then he spoke directly to his sons. “Go and get a calabash (clay bowl shaped like a gourd), four pieces of paper, and a pencil.”
The boys left in an excited rush. Wangu waited, beaming under the admiration of the people. He waited until he became impatient. It seemed that his sons were taking much too long. When they finally arrived on the run he frowned at them.
“You will each write your name on a piece of paper, fold it so the name cannot be seen, and drop it into the calabash,” he told them. “Then I will lift out a name and whoever owns the name owns the bicycle.”
When this was done Wangu took the calabash and shook it. He pulled a paper from it. Wangu was the name written on the paper.
“This is the wrong name,” he said gruffly.
With his fingers in the calabash he stirred the papers around. Then he quickly took another one and unfolded it slowly. Wangu was also written on that paper. In a fast movement he grabbed the remaining two papers in the calabash and on each one was written the name Wangu.
All his sons had wanted him to have the bicycle. Tears filled Wangu’s eyes and his heart seemed almost to burst with the great love he felt for his sons.

You could start back in your room today. Is there an unfinished paper somewhere in the stacks? (I assume there are stacks there; I think I know your room.) Perhaps it is typed and apparently ready to turn in. Why bother more with it? I learned why during a religion class I taught once at Ricks College. I was teaching from section 25 of the Doctrine and Covenants. In that section Emma Smith is told that she should give her time to “writing and to learning much” (verse 8). About three rows back sat a blonde girl whose brow wrinkled as I urged the class to be diligent in developing writing skills. She raised her hand and said, “That doesn’t seem reasonable to me. All I’ll ever write are letters to my children.” That brought laughter all around the class. I felt chagrined to have applied that scripture to her. Just looking at her I could imagine a full quiver of children around her, and I could even see the letters she’d write in purple ink, with handwriting slanting backwards; neat, round loops; and circles for the tops of the i’s. Maybe writing powerfully wouldn’t matter to her.

Then a young man stood up, near the back. He’d said little during the term; I’m not sure he’d ever spoken before. He was older than the other students, and he was shy. He asked if he could speak. He told in a quiet voice of having been a soldier in Vietnam. One day, in what he thought would be a lull, he had left his rifle and walked across his fortified compound to mail call. Just as he got a letter in his hand, he heard a bugle blowing and shouts and mortar and rifle fire coming ahead of the swarming enemy. He fought his way back to his rifle, using his hands as weapons. With the men who survived, he drove the enemy out. The wounded were evacuated. Then he sat down among the living, and some of the dead, and he opened his letter. It was from his mother. She wrote that she’d had a spiritual experience that assured her that he would live to come home if he were righteous. In my class, the boy said quietly, “That letter was scripture to me. I kept it.” And he sat down.

You may have a child someday, perhaps a son. Can you see his face? Can you see him somewhere, sometime, in mortal danger? Can you feel the fear in his heart? Does it touch you? Would you like to give freely? What sacrifice will it take to write the letter your heart will want to send? You won’t do it in the hour before the postman comes. Nor will it be possible in a day or even in a week. It may take years. Start the practice this afternoon. Go back to your room and write and read and rewrite that paper again and again. It won’t seem like sacrifice if you picture that boy, feel his heart, and think of the letters he’ll need someday.

The pressure of trying to do a million things right and feeling like a failure was beginning to weigh me down. It was nearing exam time, and suddenly it seemed that most of my teachers realized that they still had three or four more chapters to squeeze in.
Even my efforts to get some of the less active Laurels back had become frustrating as I listened to endless excuses about why coming to church and activities was impossible.
I felt like a puppet whose strings were all being pulled at once without anyone letting go. On top of it all, I felt that I was facing everything alone. Sometimes crying made me feel better, but only for a moment.
Then one Sunday in Laurel class something happened that gave me the comfort and assurance I had been seeking. Our lesson for that particular Sunday was on pressures. How appropriate, I thought. The lesson did offer some helpful hints, but it was a scripture from the Doctrine and Covenants that seemed directed specifically at me.
“Be patient in afflictions, for thou shalt have many; but endure them, for, lo, I am with thee, even unto the end of thy days” (D&C 24:8).
How could I have been so forgetful? I was never alone. My Heavenly Father was beside me the whole way. In the face of my trials and pressures, I had simply forgotten. As I looked back, I realized that the trials I had been through had made me stronger. Through opposition, I had grown. I felt ready to face future obstacles, knowing that my Heavenly Father would be right beside me, helping me to overcome them.

In January of this year, my husband was hospitalized with a very bad case of pneumonia. Shortly after we were able to get him home, I was scheduled for surgery on my shoulder. The day before my surgery, a good friend of ours asked if they could bring dinner for us. I declined the offer.

The next day, our daughter went with me to the hospital because my husband was still recuperating. She asked if I had anything planned for dinner, knowing her dad was still too weak to do much and I would not be in shape to fix anything. I told her our friends had offered to bring dinner for us but I had turned them down so I would just figure something out.

She reminded me of something I know I myself have said to other people many times: we need to accept help from others when we need it, because they get blessed when they serve others, too. So, I asked her to contact our friends and tell them if the offer was still open, we would appreciate it if they brought us dinner that evening. At 6:00 pm the doorbell rang, and there they were, dinner in hand. In thanking them, I apologized for the short notice and inconvenience that I felt we had put on them. Our friend replied she had prayed that morning and had asked Heavenly Father to bless her to be aware of someone who needed her help. She said until our daughter had called, she had not been able to think of anyone. She thanked me for the opportunity to serve, which was an answer to her prayers.

Another great Elias is Moses Mahlangu, a preacher from Soweto, South Africa who found a copy of the Book of Mormon. Because the bottom of the title page was torn off he did not know what church had published it.

As he read the book, he was filled with light and understanding. He said: "I had desires to find God and to receive revelation, but I was never satisfied until I got the Book of Mormon." Fluent in nine languages, Moses taught from the Book of Mormon and had gathered many followers before he learned the name of the Church and made contact with the mission headquarters in Johannesburg. For over fourteen years he waited, preparing himself and others for baptism. During this time he frequently visited the mission president and obtained copies of the Book of Mormon and other literature, and I was therefore privileged to know him. Soon after the revelation was announced, I sought out Moses. As we embraced I asked him if he had heard about the revelation. He said, "Yes. Does this mean that I can now be baptized?" I asked, "Moses, would you like to be baptized?" His eyes welled with tears as he said softly, "I have waited for fourteen years."

I conducted a baptismal interview that I shall never forget. To every question, I received the same answer: "I have been keeping that commandment for fourteen years."

I was deeply humbled in the presence of this great pioneer. His son, who as a boy accompanied Moses in his ministry, later served as Moses' Bishop in the Soweto ward, near Johannesburg.

One day the three of them took Old Brownie and Belle and went up City Creek Canyon for a jag of firewood. As soon as they’d found a good place to stop and load up, Pa had Jeremy unhitch the team so that they could graze while the wagon was loaded.
“There,” said Pa, when the wagon was full. “That’ll do it for this trip. Hitch the horses back to the wagon, Jeremy, while Brose and I fasten the chain around the load to keep any logs from falling off.”
“Let me hook up the horses, Pa!” cried Brose. “I can do it, honest! I watched you and Jere do it every day, coming across the plains! Let me hook ‘em up, Pa!”
Pa hesitated, then said, “All right, Brose. Don’t forget to fasten the crosslines, so you can drive the team together without their trying to go off in all directions.”
“So you can drive them!” That’s what Pa said! Maybe, if I hook ‘em up just right, thought Brose, Pa’ll let me drive all the way home!
Brose didn’t have any trouble leading the horses into place. Brownie stepped right over the wagon tongue into her place while Belle stood quietly waiting on the other side. Then, just as Pa had cautioned, Brose fastened the crosslines, snapping the one from Belle’s harness onto the ring on Brownie’s bit, and the other onto the ring on Belle’s bridle.
Next he took the wide leather strap on the front of Brownie’s harness, slipped it through the big ring on the end of the yoke, and fastened the snap to the ring on the other side of the harness. “There! That was just the way Jeremy would have done it,” Brose murmured, pleased. He fastened the strap on Belle’s harness to the yoke the same way. Then he took the driving line from where Jeremy had hung it on Brownie’s hame and threw it ever so gently over Belle’s back, just the way Pa would have done it—quiet, easy, so as not to frighten the team.
When he walked around to put Belle’s line with the other, Brose heard a bird call. It was a new sound, something like a meadowlark’s, yet different. It was more like that little brown bird he used to hear back in Connecticut before the family had come west. Maybe it was! Maybe that very same little brown bird had followed him, Ambrose Dodd, all the way to the Valley!
Brose didn’t know how long he had listened to the bird before he saw Pa and Jeremy. They had walked a little way down the canyon and had stopped, waiting for him.
Brose was to bring the team and wagon! He was going to drive! He climbed up onto the seat, picked up both of the lines, and slapped them against Brownie’s side, just as Pa would have done.
“Giddap!” he cried, loud enough for Pa and Jeremy and the horses to hear. The horses stepped forward. But the wagon did not move. Only the yoke went with the team, the ring on it sliding off the end of the wagon tongue and the lines slipping through Brose’s hands.
Jeremy ran toward him just as the wagon tongue banged to the ground. “Brose!” he called. “Hey, Brose! You forgot the wagon! It won’t move unless you hitch the tugs!”
Brose couldn’t move. How could he have been so dumb! How could he possibly have forgotten about the tugs?
Jeremy reached out and took the lines and drove the team around in a little circle, putting the team right in place. Brose came out of his daze and scurried around to pick up the end of the tongue and slip it through the ring of the yoke, which was still fastened to the horses.
Jeremy was just hooking the last tug to the doubletree when Pa came. Brose watched Pa climb over the front wheel and take his place on the front of the load. Pa reached for the lines, and Jeremy handed them up to him. Pa took them without a word, and Brose knew that he had lost another chance.
There wasn’t much talking during chores that night. When supper was over, Brose sat on the little stool beside the fire, listening to the crackling and hissing of the pine knot and watching the sparks it sometimes sent up with the smoke.
Jeremy took Pa’s fiddle from its case, and music began to fill the little cabin, then float away on the night air. Brose leaned back against the warm cabin wall near the fireplace and listened. He wished—oh, how he wished!—that he could play like Jere. Pa had been fair about it, though. He had tried to teach both of them. Brose still remembered Pa’s words: “Seems as though you’ve got ten thumbs, Brose, and they all want to go in different directions.”
Pa had quit trying to teach him soon after that, and at the time Brose had been relieved. But now every time he listened to the fiddle singing under Jere’s fingers, Brose wished Pa hadn’t given up quite so quickly.
He’d much rather be standing there by Pa’s chair, playing the fiddle, with Ma and Trudy and Willie giving him all the smiles Jeremy was getting, than do the job he was supposed to be doing. He saw Ma looking at him from time to time, but she didn’t interrupt the music with talking, and after a bit Brose made himself get started.
He knew someone had to straighten out the kinks in the wool so that Ma and Trudy could knit it into socks for winter. Brose hated to card. Mostly women and girls did it, but Ma said that Trudy was as fast at knitting as she was, herself. With both of them knitting, they could have twice as many socks ready when winter came. They could, that is, if Brose would just keep ahead of them with the carding.
Brose had his problems with this job too. Sometimes he got the wool so tangled up that Ma said it was worse for knitting when he got through with it than before he started. But she had more patience than Pa. Or maybe she needed the wool carded more than Pa needed another boy to play the fiddle.
Across the firelight Brose saw both Ma and Trudy knitting, each tapping a foot in time to the music. The only time either of them stopped was if one of them happened to drop a stitch. Then the stitch-dropper would move closer to the fire so that she could see to pick it up. Brose sighed as he pulled the big basket of wool closer to him and reached for the cards.
He laid one card close to the fire so that the wire brush would warm. He picked up a handful of wool and drew it across the other card. Then he took the card he had warmed and pulled it carefully across the wool, trying to get the strands straight.
“Learned that fiddle quicker’n I did,” said Pa, as Jeremy stopped for a moment. “Never did see a boy pick it up as fast as that.”
Pa will never be that proud of me, thought Brose, even if I did the carding perfectly! Ma would be pleased, but Pa and Jere wouldn’t care about it at all. Maybe … just maybe someday I’ll do something that they’ll think is important …
“Brose!” He was startled from his daydream by Ma’s voice. “The wool, Brose! I can smell it! You’ve got it too close to the fire!”
(To be concluded.)

“You wouldn’t think it was funny if you had to dance with him,” said Lisa in a cross voice.
“I’m sorry, Lisa,” said Stephanie, smothering one last chuckle, “but I couldn’t help laughing because there was a time when I thought you had two left feet. Remember when we were learning to clog after third grade a couple of years ago?”
“Oh, yes,” said Lisa, thinking back. “Was I really that bad?” She thought some more, then admitted, “I guess I was before Tammy took over. She walked me through every step of that dance until I had it just right.”
“And now old Two-Left-Feet Lisa can dance,” said Stephanie with a friendly grin.

The Missionary Mom. Craig and Dawn Armstrong and their son Anthony, from Salt Lake City, Utah, USA, tell how Sister Armstrong was a homeless single mother when she met the missionaries. The gospel they shared helped her to turn her life around. She later married Craig, and the story comes full circle when Anthony goes on a full-time mission to South Africa to share the gospel that so blessed his mother.

From the pulpit, Elder Wirthlin enjoyed sharing lessons he had learned as a football player. One important lesson came at the bottom of a pile of 10 players during a conference championship game. After attempting to score what would have been the winning touchdown, Joseph was tackled just short of the goal line.
“At that moment I was tempted to push the ball forward. … I would have been a hero,” he recalled. But then he remembered the words of his mother: “Joseph,” she had often said to him, “do what is right, no matter the consequence.”
Joseph wanted to be a hero in the eyes of his mother more than in the eyes of his teammates. So, he said, “I left the ball where it was—two inches from the goal line.”6

We also can learn from the experiences of others. If I may, please let me share a personal experience that was very helpful to me in making an important decision. It taught me that getting proper inspiration and direction from heaven requires more than just going through the motions.

During the time I was deeply involved in my postdoctoral fellowship at Duke University after completing my medical internship and residency, I was approached with several interesting opportunities for my future academic career. I admit that the entreaties were flattering and most looked attractive. The problem for us was that we were very happy at Duke and in living in Durham, North Carolina. We loved our ward, our friends and felt that the academic experience was first-rate. While we missed our extended families, all living in the West, we felt we would return there some day and were quite content that we were exactly where we ought to be.

Thus, we prayed about our options and opportunities, but did not feel any compulsion or even inclination to do so more than just casually mention our preferences in our prayers. Happily for us, a man who later became a good friend and mentor sized me up much better than I had myself.

One day he called me about an opportunity that we had discussed twice in recent weeks. Not wanting to close any doors for future opportunities, my answer to him on those two occasions was that I appreciated the offer, the position was attractive, but the timing was not right and therefore I needed to decline. On the third call, he simply said that he understood my position and that the offer was the same as before. He then said if I could assure him that I had gone about the decision-making process in exactly the right way, he would not bother me again.

I did not know Dr. John A. Dixon very well at that point, although I knew he was a faithful Latter-day Saint and a former bishop. His question about "exactly the right way" caught me off guard and led to new and serious consideration about what that really meant and what I really should do. Without further details, I will report that we went about the process in the right way and got the right answer--an answer the Lord would not provide when we prayed as if we already knew the answer.

This process led me to leave my position at Duke and return to my alma mater. While perhaps not nearly as earthshaking as was President Clark's leaving Harvard for BYU-Idaho, it was traumatic for us. My chairman at Duke thought I was committing career suicide and even gave me the chance, which I did not take, to repent of the decision a couple of years later. The fact that my decision was not understood by most didn't matter. Now almost forty years later, some of my associates from that time acknowledge that perhaps the decision was not too bad after all since I seem to have been very happy over the years. What is not clear to most is that this was a very pivotal time in our life and many of the opportunities and experiences we have enjoyed over the years would not have been ours if our good friend had not insisted that we make our decision in exactly the right way.

When my wife and I visited Salt Lake City recently, we needed to find an ATM on the street. While we were looking around, we heard a voice from a parked car behind us say, “Are you looking for something? Can I help you?” The man, who introduced himself as Mike, added with a smile that it feels probably weird for a stranger to yell at us from a car, but in Utah we might not be surprised by that. He asked where we are from and when he learned that we are from Prague, his eyes lit up. He had recently spoken to a friend of his who was having trouble getting information about her ancestors from the Czech Republic, so he immediately wondered if there was anything we could do to help. We replied that we would be happy to send him contacts of brothers and sisters who were doing genealogy in our country. He thanked us, we said goodbye and he got into his car. As we were leaving, we noticed that Mike had gotten out of the car again and was coming back to us. This time, however, the happy smile was replaced by emotion.
With tears in his eyes, he told us how grateful he was for our brief encounter and that he felt urged to get out of the car. He had been trying unsuccessfully to help his friend with genealogy in Bohemia for a long time, and because of her advanced age, she was losing hope of finding her ancestors in Bohemia. Mike too was about to give up, but the previous day when he visited the temple he felt that the solution would come - and it came through us. And so he wanted to share with us the joy and gratitude he felt at another testimony of how wonderfully God‘s guidance works in our lives.
Our encounter with Mike is an example of how the Spirit works. Mike made an effort to listen to the promptings of the Holy Spirit and through his willingness to help complete strangers, he subsequently received not only help for his friend, but we all received another testimony of how God, through the Spirit, gives us answers and brings solutions. Yes, it was a small thing, but it is from such small and tiny things that the great mosaic of spiritual knowledge in our lives is made.

We were supposed to be filled with joy, but our hearts were heavy and our arms were empty. Debra Caelia Carter arrived on her due date, April 26, 2010, but she was stillborn.
As we walked into our home, I carried the tiny pink blanket we had used to hold and cuddle Debra at the hospital. When I sat on the couch, overcome with emotion, our two-year-old son approached the empty blanket and whispered, “Hello, baby sister. I love you.”
Tears streamed down my face, and I turned away. As I did so, I saw the words of a poster from the Friend magazine hanging on the wall: “Our Heavenly Father is only a prayer away, and the Holy Ghost is within whispering distance.”1
I began to pour out my heart to God in silent, fervent prayer. As I did so, I felt the Holy Ghost whisper, “Read your Book of Mormon again.” I had just finished reading it, but the feeling was distinct and the impression clear.
Arising early the following morning, I began reading the Book of Mormon. I used pencils and markers to highlight every passage about faith, prayer, hope, Jesus Christ’s attributes, preaching the gospel, and hearkening to the Lord’s voice. I knew that I must do what Nephi, Enos, Moroni, and other Book of Mormon prophets had done when they suffered trials. And I must do it with the same love for the Savior that filled their lives during difficult times.
During these daily, personal scripture study hours, I felt the Lord’s arms encircling me in His love, and I felt the power of His atoning sacrifice for all. The Spirit spoke to me, a peace covered me, and answers came to my fervent prayers. Pondering the words I read gave me strength as I grieved.
One day the Spirit filled me with joy as I read these words:
“I love little children with a perfect love; and they are all alike and partakers of salvation. …
“Little children … are all alive in [God] because of his mercy. …
“For behold that all little children are alive in Christ” (Moroni 8:17, 19, 22; emphasis added).
I felt as if I could see my daughter alive in Christ—smiling and happy and encircled in His arms. From that moment on I felt the power to endure, and I felt a new hope ignite in my soul for my family. I knew that if we would hold fast to the Atonement, the scriptures, the words of the living prophets, and each other through our temple covenants, we would be reunited as a family eternally.
I love the Book of Mormon, which clearly testifies of Jesus Christ, what He did and does for us, and what we must do to be like Him. The Book of Mormon brings light to my life and fills up my heart with hope in Christ.

A few years ago, President Nelson came to my homeland in Puerto Rico. This was a great blessing. I had always wanted to see him. And I wanted the chance to meet him face to face. My mom said it would be hard because a lot of people would be in the meeting. I still had faith, and I prayed a lot to be able to meet him.
During his talk, I wrote him a quick letter. I had hope and faith that I would be able to give him my letter. After the talks ended, I tried to walk closer. He saw my little brother and came over to him with a big smile. Then he shook my hand! He told me, “You will be a great missionary.” I will always remember his words.

Have you ever been to a party where they were doing some hypnotism things? We know now from reading the New Era that that’s not a very healthy activity, but I went to a party once where some people were hypnotized. They put a chair here, they put a chair there, and they hypnotized a boy and laid him across the two chairs, his head on one chair and his heels on another. The hypnotist said, “You are rigid.” He made him know that he was rigid. That’s an important point. Because he knew it, he became rigid. People jumped up and down on his belly. Can you imagine that! He had extraordinary ability in his body. I can’t endure people jumping up and down on my belly even when I’m flat on the floor.

Jack was in trouble. He had poked his little sister, Harper. Mom told him to stop. He dumped his toys in the kitchen. Mom asked him to pick them up. He pulled out all the plastic cups to build with. Mom told him to put them away. Then he got in a fight with his little brother, Adam. And that’s when Mom yelled at him. Jack yelled back. Then Mom told Jack to go sit outside.
Jack ran through the kitchen and out to the balcony. He slid the door shut as hard as he could. He walked back and forth and back and forth. He was mad!
And he was sad. He wished Mom hadn’t yelled at him.
He stopped and looked down at the cars far below the apartment. He watched small cars and big buses drive by. He wished he hadn’t yelled at Mom. He shouldn’t have teased Harper. Or fought with Adam. He hadn’t made very good choices today.
Jack sighed. He looked back at the street and counted cars.
Soon the balcony door slid open. It was Mom.
“Jack?” she said softly. She stepped outside and slid the door shut behind her. She stood by Jack and looked at the cars with him.
“I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you,” Jack said. “And I’m sorry I wasn’t very nice. Will you forgive me?”
“Of course.” Mom gave Jack a big hug. “I’m sorry I yelled at you. I’m still learning just like you are, and sometimes I make mistakes.”
Jack hugged Mom tight.
“Let’s go try again,” Mom said.
She followed Jack back inside. She helped him pick up the cups. They helped Harper find her blanket. Then they played a game with Adam and Harper. When Adam got mad about losing, Jack didn’t get mad back. Mom gave him a big smile. They were learning and trying together.

Ten-year-old Gavin is in the fifth grade, and he likes to do missionary work. Twice already he’s given friends copies of the Book of Mormon, and several times he’s invited his nonmember friends to family home evenings. He always prays that he will be a good missionary.
One Friday Mr. Leitzmiller, Gavin’s schoolteacher, had taught his class about the Mayan Indians of Mexico and Central America. Then, after the class was over and the students were leaving the classroom, he stopped Gavin and asked if they could talk a moment. When they were alone, Mr. Leitzmiller (who was not a Latter-day Saint) said, “Do you know if Jesus appeared to the Indians on the American continents after He died on the cross?”
Remembering what he had been taught in family home evenings, at Primary, and on other occasions, Gavin replied, “Yes, He did!”
“I once had a Mormon roommate in college,” Mr. Leitzmiller continued, “and I thought that I remembered his telling me about Jesus coming to the Western Hemisphere after His resurrection. Gavin, do you have a book that tells about that visit?”
“Yes,” Gavin answered. “It’s called the Book of Mormon.”
“Could you bring it to school with you on Monday?” the teacher asked with great interest.
Gavin said that he would.
That evening during supper Gavin told his family about his teacher’s request. They were all very excited for Gavin’s opportunity to do some more good missionary work.
On Sunday Gavin’s dad went to the stake center and picked up “Christ in America,” a pamphlet that tells what happened when Jesus came to the Americas after He was crucified.
That night Gavin carefully wrote on the inside cover of a new copy of a Book of Mormon, “This book tells about Jesus visiting America. It is a true story.”
Early Monday morning Gavin took the copy of the Book of Mormon, with the pamphlet tucked inside, to school and gave it to his teacher before class started. “Mr. Leitzmiller, here’s the book that you asked me to bring,” he said. “I hope that you’ll read it.”
The teacher promised Gavin that he would, and Gavin ran outside to play before the bell rang for school to begin.
When Gavin said his prayers that night, he asked Heavenly Father to bless his teacher as he read the Book of Mormon so that he would know the truth about Jesus.

The note was written on blue paper with zigzags drawn around the corners, so even though Jeremy handed it to her, Melanie knew the note was from Rachel. Melanie glanced around. Reading time was over, and her classmates were putting away their books.
Melanie knew how the note would start: “Dear Best Friend.” She smiled to herself. She and Rachel had been friends since second grade. “We’re still best friends, even though we’re very different,” Melanie thought as she unfolded the note.
Dear Best Friend,
Do you smoke?
—Rachel
Melanie was surprised. “Rachel and I are together all the time,” she thought. “Doesn’t she know I don’t smoke?”
She wrote on the bottom of the paper:
No. I think it’s gross. Why do you want to know?
—Melanie
Melanie handed the note back to Jeremy. Soon he passed it back again. Melanie read:
I snuck a pack of cigarettes from my aunt’s house. Do you want to try some with me after school?
—Rachel
Melanie stared at the note. Then she wrote:
Rachel! Why do you want to smoke? It’s bad for you! I know you like to try new things, but I don’t want to see you get hurt.
—Melanie
Rachel wrote back:
A few cigarettes aren’t going to hurt me. I might not even finish the whole pack.
—Rachel
Melanie felt like she was going to cry. She wrote:
You’re my friend and I love you. Don’t smoke.
—Melanie
Melanie watched Rachel as she read the note. Now Rachel looked like she was going to cry. She held onto the note for a long time. Then she wrote back. When Melanie got the note, she read:
Thanks. I love you too. I won’t smoke the cigarettes.
Melanie was grateful she had chosen to be an example. She felt relieved that Rachel had made the right choice.

Study true principles. Both of us began marriage with a very low sense of self-worth, and we both tended to be loners. One night my wife invited in two elders from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints because there was a blizzard outside and she felt sorry for them. I gained a testimony that the Church was true—despite my reluctance at first—and we eventually joined. As members, we learned that each of us is a child of God and that it is possible to improve ourselves. We accepted the fact that we were given weaknesses to learn humility and that our weaknesses could become our strengths (see Ether 12:27). This fact gave us the courage to continue on together and to study correct principles that have helped us make needed changes.
When, much later, I was called to serve as a bishop, I shared with many people some of the resources my wife and I had studied: principles from the scriptures, articles from the Church magazines, books I had read, and stories I had heard that showed how gospel principles can improve marriages. Every story was beneficial because each was based upon a gospel truth. These practical helps, experiences, and accumulated stories—added to scriptural insights—have enabled not only my wife and I but also many others to keep improving our marriage relationships and to enjoy being together. So much in the gospel is designed to improve our relationship with our spouse.—Robert N. Allen

Once again the Lord guided me to be in the right place at the right time. When the Americans had cleared the mountain and were gone, we left the house and marched on again toward home. A few days later, we were stopped once more by the Americans. At first I didn’t speak. I wanted to act like I didn’t know English. I heard them say, “Well, we’ll just let them sit here, and we’ll put them on the next truck that comes to transport them to a camp.” Trucks had been going by every two to three minutes.
We sat there waiting for a truck to come by any second. We waited and waited, for an hour or longer, but no truck came. I finally went up to one of the military policemen.
I told him who we were, and he said, “Oh, all of a sudden you speak English.”
“Yes, I speak English. I learned it in school. I was just scared.”
“How old are you?” he asked me. I told him I was 17-and-a-half years old.
“Where have you been?”
I explained the whole thing—what we had done, why we had civilian clothes on, where we wanted to go—home. He called up on the phone and checked the outfits where we had been to see if the information I had given him was correct. Then he looked at me for a long time and said, “I have a boy about your age, and if he would say to someone, ‘I’d like to go home to Mother,’ I hope they’d give him the chance. If you take this road, there is an American headquarters; but if you take that road, they can’t see you. Good luck.”

Our friend Jasmine was a good example to us too. Jasmine was 12 years old. Her family became our good friends when we lived in the Middle East. In her country, Church members can’t talk about the gospel with others. It’s against the law. But Jasmine decided she could share the gospel by doing what Jesus did. She could show love and kindness to others. Wherever Jasmine went or whatever she did, she tried to be like Jesus. She was a bright example to others.