Gospel Story Finder

When I was a boy, at Christmastime my mother put out a picture of the Savior knocking at a door. We weren’t members of the Church yet, and I always asked myself, “Why is Jesus knocking on the door? Who is on the other side?”
A few years later I discovered there was no handle on the outside of the door the Savior was knocking on. The person on the inside needed to open the door. Now I know who is on the other side of the door. We are! The Savior is knocking, and we all have to open the door and invite Him to come into our lives.

Jeff stood in his room, admiring his newest first place archery trophy. It was the third one he had won this year. He was thinking about how much he enjoyed archery—it had no pushing or shoving, like football did, and no need to be a good jumper or runner, like in basketball. There was just quiet practice until you were good at hitting the bull’s-eye.
His thoughts were interrupted when he heard his mother coming down the hall. “Jason and I are going to clean up the frog pond,” he said. “We won’t be gone long, Mom.”
“Are you sure you feel up to it?” Mother asked. “You still have a bump from yesterday.”
Jeff rubbed his forehead and felt the egg-shaped bump. He had gotten it in a fight with a new boy in the neighborhood, but he had told his mother he had fallen off his bike. Now he felt ashamed about lying to her. “Mom,” he said.
“Yes, Jeff?”
“Mom, I feel OK, but I didn’t really fall off my bike.” He lowered his head. “I got into a fight with that new boy down the street.”
“I see. Well, I was sort of wondering if that would happen.”
“You mean you thought I’d get into a fight with him?”
“Well, I hoped that you wouldn’t, but when some of the other mothers in the neighborhood told me that he’d picked fights with their sons, I figured that sooner or later he’d get around to you.”
“I didn’t even do anything to him,” Jeff began to explain. “I just told him that I didn’t believe that his father had been a general in the Army during the war. Why did he punch me for that?”
Jeff’s mother sat on his bed so that she could look him right in the eye. She spoke softly. “Some people hurt inside themselves almost all the time. And many times these people make up stories, thinking that they will help the hurt go away. Then when someone else points out that the stories aren’t true, they feel hurt and embarrassed, so they fight. Do you understand?”
“Yeah, I think so. But what does that have to do with the new boy?”
“I think that maybe the new boy is hurting inside and feels that no one likes him. About two years ago, his mother and father died. Since then he’s lived with seven or eight different families. He’s staying with the Wilsons now, and although they hope to adopt him if things work out, I think that having lost his parents, and all that moving around between foster homes, makes him feel that no one wants him.”
Jeff could feel a hard lump in his throat as he thought about how bad he would feel if his own parents died.
His mom reached over and gave him a hug.
“Mom, what can I do if he keeps wanting to fight me?”
His mother thought a minute. “Well,” she began, “I’d say you should show him that you don’t want to hurt him, that you’d like to be his friend.”
“How do I do that?”
“I’m not sure, but there must be some way. Why don’t you pray about it? And if you see him today, you could invite him over for some cookies. I’m going to be baking some right away.”
Mom left, and Jeff was just getting up from his knees, when someone knocked on the front door. “That’s Jason,” he called to his mother. “We’ll be home for lunch.”
“You still have the lump, I see,” Jason said, pointing to Jeff’s forehead as the two boys headed towards the frog pond.
“Yeah.”
“Don’t worry—we’ll get that kid. Billy’s going to meet us at the pond. If that new kid’s there, we’ll get him.”
“I don’t know, Jason. Maybe we should try to be his friend.”
“His friend? I’m not going to be his friend. Not after the way he’s been beating people up.”
“Maybe that’s because he doesn’t have any friends.”
“Well, he won’t get me for one.”
By this time, the boys had arrived at the small band of trees that surrounded the frog pond. By looking between the trees, they could see that the new boy was indeed there, his back to them. They could see him standing on the bank of the pond, holding a bow and arrow. As they watched, he suddenly set them down, gathered a bunch of large rocks, and started chunking them into the frog pond.
“What’s he doing?” Jeff asked.
“I don’t know,” Jason answered.
Billy came up behind them. “What’re you guys watching?”
“Shhh,” Jason told him. “It’s that new kid. He’s throwing rocks at frogs or something—we can’t see what.”
The three boys continued to watch, hidden in the trees. Pretty soon the new boy reached down and pulled a small green and yellow turtle out of the pond. Jeff felt sick as he watched the turtle wildly wave its legs in a useless struggle to get away.
“What’d he do that for?” Billy asked.
“I don’t know,” said Jason, “but let’s get him!”
Before Jeff could say anything, his two friends were scrambling through the trees toward the new boy. When he caught up with them, Jason and Billy had backed the new boy up to a tree.
“Why’d you grab that turtle?” Jason demanded.
“Yeah,” Billy added. “It never did anything to you.”
“It’s none of your business. It isn’t your turtle, is it?”
Jason jumped towards the boy and snatched the turtle out of his hand.
“Give it back,” the boy demanded.
“Make me,” Jason challenged as Billy moved over next to him.
Jeff saw traces of tears starting in the new boy’s eyes and thought about what his mother had said: “Try to show him that you don’t want to hurt him.” But how could he do that? He had an idea, but he wasn’t sure it would work. One thing he did know, though he would never help by doing nothing. He took a deep breath and stepped between Jason and the other boy.
“Let me just explain something,” he began. “It’s not our turtle, but we don’t like to see helpless things getting hit by rocks. Besides, you have a bow and arrow—why not try to hit something worthless”—he looked around for something he felt the boy could hit—“like that plastic milk jug over there?” Jeff pointed to a jug about twenty feet away.
“That? That’s easy. Watch this.”
The boy fit his arrow to the bow, took careful aim, and let the arrow fly. It hit the jug almost dead center.
“There! What’s so hard about that?”
“Well, it’s harder than throwing rocks at turtles, isn’t it?”
“Maybe, but I wasn’t throwing at the turtle, just near it so I could catch it for a pet. Anyway,” he said, pointedly changing the topic, “I bet you couldn’t hit the jug at all, let alone dead center.”
Jason and Billy, who had been watching this exchange with some questioning in their eyes, now erupted in laughter. “Jeff is the best shot in the neighborhood. He has his own target in his backyard. He could shoot better than you with his eyes closed!”
The other boy quickly glanced at Jeff, and Jeff could see the distrust in his eyes. “Well, I do have my own target, but that doesn’t make me the best shot. Besides, we came over to clean up the litter, not use it for target practice. If you want to have a contest, though, let’s go to my house and do it there. Besides, my mom’s making some cookies right now, so we can get some while they’re warm. How about it?”
Jason and Billy didn’t say anything. They were still trying to figure out what was going on.
“I don’t know,” the boy replied. “What kind of cookies are they?”
“I’m not sure,” Jeff answered. “We’ll have to see when we get there.”
The boy thought a minute as he looked first at Jeff, then at Billy, then at Jason.
“OK,” he finally said. “But if I don’t like the cookies, I might leave.”
When Jason heard this, he started to say something, but Jeff spoke up quickly, “That’s OK—you can stay or leave or whatever you want.”
The other boy nodded his approval, Jason took the turtle back to the pond, and they all started off toward Jeff’s house.
Somehow Jeff knew that no matter what kind of cookies they were, the new boy would stay. And he had a feeling that there would be four boys cleaning up the frog pond that afternoon—as friends!

In the Philippines, there are science high schools that have a strong focus on academics. Students in these schools take more subjects, spend more time in class, and have a lot of homework. This is the kind of environment I was in as a young woman.
I gave up many activities upon entering high school because I knew I would be spending so much time studying. I almost never attended Church activities and would occasionally miss church on Sundays because of school events. I also struggled to attend seminary.
One Saturday my seminary teacher told us how busy she was in her high school days. Despite her schedule, she managed to do her seminary assignments and study scripture mastery at the library. I decided to take up her challenge to do the same. I carried my scripture mastery cards with me all the time and reviewed them during my free time. I prayed for help to balance my seminary study with the demands of school. I memorized scriptures while commuting to school. I took the cards out while I chatted with my friends. During breaks and lunchtime, my friends enjoyed quizzing me on the mastery cards. And then some of them started bringing their scriptures and talking about activities at their churches. I felt the change in atmosphere around me, and school felt lighter and better.
My three younger sisters followed my lead, and now my family reaps the blessings of the scriptures in our home. Learning my scripture mastery verses was a very simple act, but more important than the memorized words, I learned the difference the scriptures could make in me and the people around me. I know that whatever challenge or trial we face, we will always find strength and guidance in the words of our loving Savior.

On May 1, 2016, the Dakar Branch was organized with Jacques Niambé as president. Under his leadership and with the help of Elder Gary and Sister Helen Parke, the branch grew steadily. In February 2018, eight members of the branch traveled to Accra, Ghana, to attend the temple. In April, less than two years after the Dakar Branch was organized, it was divided, and Alphonse Samadé was called as president of the newly organized Parcelles Branch. Just weeks later, during a visit to Dakar, Elder Ulisses Soares of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles marveled at the potential he saw in the branches in Senegal. “The little branch I attended [in Brazil as a boy] became three stakes,” Elder Soares said after his visit. “I can see a similar future in Senegal.”

Years ago I had the privilege of serving on the New York World’s Fair Committee. I remember that after months of planning we were ready to start construction. It was a clear and beautiful day as we gathered at the fair site for our groundbreaking event. All around us was a flurry of activity as the fair buildings were taking shape. The fair was being constructed on a lush meadowland. Instead of the traditional groundbreaking ceremonies of turning over soil with shovels, we were using a pile driver because of the lack of a solid foundation. Big wooden piles about the size of those used for telephone poles were being driven into the ground to form the foundation of our pavilion.
After a prayer and two or three responses, it was time to drive the first pile. Everything was in place. The driver was ready for action. There was a big puff of steam and a loud thud. The pile driver started its work. Then the second puff and the second thud—the pile was on its way into the earth. Then the third puff and the third thud—suddenly the earth swallowed up the pile, and it sank completely out of sight. We learned a great deal that day about foundations.
The days and weeks passed, and many piles were driven into the meadowland soil until a foundation was established that was strong enough to support our beautiful pavilion.

The day progressed better than I thought it would. Snow fell throughout the morning, giving way to an afternoon of windy sunshine. I heaved a relieved sigh when my geometry test was postponed a day. I hurried home after school to tell Topie good-bye.
Mom met me at the door. She held a dish towel in her hands. Her cheeks were wet. Why had she been crying?
“Honey,” she said, “I tried to get them to wait until you came home from school, but they left with Topie an hour ago. I know how much you wanted to say good-bye. I’m sorry, Honey. I’m so sorry.”
I felt numb and strange and sort of broken. “I’ll be okay,” I said. “I’m going to go up to my room for a while.”
I sat on my bed for a long time. I stared out the window at the ring I used to ride in and the homemade jumps Dad built for me. I stared at distant hoof prints in the mud and the bit of snow that hadn’t quite melted. There wouldn’t be any snow in California. I stared at the green and yellow wallpaper Mom had found on sale and we had hung together. I stared at everything that I would be leaving behind.
Suddenly the door cracked open and, before I could say anything, Rob was next to me on the bed.
“Why aren’t you at baseball practice?” I asked.
“I thought you might want to do something,” he said. His little boy eyes looked soft.
That’s when it hit. I didn’t just cry. I sobbed. Tears for my beautiful horse, my ugly hair, and all of the changes that jerked me so fast and hard. Rob’s hand on my shoulder moved up and down with my gulps. When I quieted, Rob turned to me.
“I’m thinking of someone,” he said.
He was playing the guessing game, a silly game we played on long car trips. By asking yes and no questions a player had to guess who the other player was thinking about. The person in mind could be rich and famous, alive or dead, or the kid next door. The only rule was that all of the players had to have heard of that person. You got a point for each question you asked and the lowest score won.
We played for a long time, our voices trailing the air. In the back of my mind I realized that my little ten-year-old brother was missing his Little League practice in order to be with me, in order to keep my mind moving and to give my soul something to grip other than loneliness. Rob beat me by one point.
“Hey, this isn’t fair,” I forced a smile. “When you were a little kid I used to let you win whenever we raced. You could at least let me win one today.”
“That’s too much to ask!” Rob laughed. “But I will let you have the mashed potatoes first tonight!” I managed a real smile. We raced down to dinner and tied.

When I returned from my mission, I wanted to find an eternal companion and be sealed in the temple. I first met my wife, Rosana, while we served in the same mission. Several months following our missions, we crossed paths at a multistake dance. We started dating, and two years later, we were married and sealed in the temple with the goal of raising our own eternal family.
Rosana and I worked together to create a family focused on the Savior, His teachings, and the teachings of His prophets and apostles. In time, I had the blessing of sealing my three children to their spouses. Seeing them kneel at the altar in the temple was an unforgettable and beautiful experience. Today, our children are raising their children in the gospel—just as my parents had done for my brothers and me and as Rosana and I have tried to do for them. I can see the blessings of the gospel continue eternally for our family!

My mom was very gifted, creative, and talented. She was a strong leader in her callings and gave of herself to many.

Sadly, she spent most of her life battling some type of illness. In her later years, she suffered from seizures which sapped all her energy, leaving her unable to do what she used to. However, throughout the many struggles in her life, I always knew she loved God, the gospel, and had an unwavering testimony.

The last few years she struggled with dementia, which made her very forgetful and unable to remember; it was a hard time for all of us. She passed away a year and a half ago.

At her funeral, the speaker said that he went to the temple to help him prepare his talk. As he was there, he was trying to listen so he might know what my mom would want to say to us, her family and friends. He was filled with the Spirit as he heard the words, “come home.”

When he shared this with us, those words told me that my mom was telling us that Heavenly Father’s plan was real, that her unwavering testimony was still strong and right: there is an afterlife with our Father in Heaven. I knew she was whole again, and more than anything she wanted us to come home—home to her and other family but most of all home to the presence of our Heavenly Father.

Her words were another gift of hope that we can do this mortal life and that there is a Heavenly Father who loves us, and He too wants us to come home. I will never forget her beckoning, which has made me more desirous to fulfill His beckoning. Come home!

The time had finally come. My family was about to take our annual trip to Bear Lake, Utah, and the excitement was as apparent as a flash of lightning. My brother, Mike, and I were more ecstatic than anyone else. We had talked our parents into letting us invite our next-door neighbor Kevin to come along. He had just received a two-man raft for his birthday, and we couldn’t wait to get that raft out on the lake.
As we all traveled to Bear Lake in our big, red van, Kevin, Mike, and I talked about all the things we would conquer in our “ship.” We were going to cruise from one side of the lake to the other. We were going to catch the biggest fish ever. And, best of all, we were going to wipe out all the evil pirates and their ships that might be lurking on the lake’s uncharted waters.
We arrived at Bear Lake in the early evening, and to our disappointment, it was too late to go to the beach. Although our spirits drooped a bit, we decided that it would be best if we had a good night’s rest before starting our adventures on the lake, anyway.
The next morning, Mike, Kevin, and I awoke before the sun had even taken its first peek at the northern part of Utah. We knew we couldn’t wake anyone else up, so we just whispered quietly about what the day would hold. After breakfast, we hurried to Rendezvous Beach. It was a beautiful day. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, and the temperature was just right. As we got our first glimpse of the deep, blue water, we knew that “magic” was in the air.
We took turns pumping up the inflatable raft and were disappointed in its smallness. Sure, the raft was called a two-man raft, but we hadn’t believed that only two people would really fit in it. We’d thought all three of us could be out on the water together. However, we weren’t going to let this setback ruin our entire trip. We would just have to take turns. Since the raft was Kevin’s, he was the designated captain, and Mike and I took turns rafting with him. Mike went first. Their journey went as planned, and I couldn’t wait for mine.
After lunch, Kevin and I got in the raft and pushed off from shore. We were having the time of our lives. We took turns rowing; the person not rowing looked for a ship to attack. As time went on, we kept getting farther and farther from the beach. Before we knew it, my family looked like miniature figures who could fit into a dollhouse.
Kevin decided that we should start back. Before long, we realized that we weren’t making any progress. The wind had suddenly started blowing, and instead of getting closer to the shore where my family was, we were being blown farther away. Kevin and I were scared. We no longer felt as if we ruled the lake. We just wanted to be back with my family.
Kevin suggested that one of us get out of the raft and pull it back to shore while swimming. How could he even suggest such a thing? Everyone knows that the Bear Lake Monster isn’t real, but neither of us wanted to prove it! We started to panic. I felt as if someone had punched me in the stomach. The sun was starting to go down, and the temperature was going down with it. I looked at Kevin, and instead of seeing the “mighty captain” he was supposed to be, I saw a nine-year-old boy, a boy one year younger than me, shivering from both fright and the cold.
I was just as scared as Kevin. I started feeling the effects of being sopping wet, windblown, and cold. My “thinking wheels” started spinning, but I couldn’t come up with any plan. Hot tears formed a waterfall on my face, and I knew that this was one problem I wasn’t going to solve on my own.
I suggested that we say a prayer, and Kevin agreed. It was a short prayer and to the point. We told Heavenly Father that we needed His help and asked Him to please return us safely to the shore and to my family.
In less than a minute, three men in a motorboat were at our side to help us. Heavenly Father had sent them. When we arrived safely back on shore, we received a warm welcome from my family.
The rest of the week at Bear Lake was full of fun and excitement. However, our conversations were no longer centered on the lake we would rule and conquer in the raft. Instead, we talked about the small miracle we received because of our short, sincere prayer.

In 1991, Alfred Kyungu was a 24-year-old student at the University of Lubumbashi in the Democratic Republic of the Congo, living with his uncle, Polydor Ngoy. One day his uncle told him about an appointment with some missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
“Don’t miss this good opportunity,” his uncle told him.
Soon both he and his uncle were meeting regularly with a senior missionary couple from Utah. At first, Alfred was hesitant to join a new, foreign religion. After six months of discussions and answers to many questions, however, Alfred and his uncle were baptized on September 21, 1991.
In some ways, joining the Church was not an easy transition. Many in the community were suspicious of the Church and wondered if Latter-day Saints were mystics or even truly Christian. Fortunately, the members of their small branch were kind and welcoming. Elder Kyungu and his uncle received strength from “being taught the principles taught by Jesus Christ.”
Elder Kyungu married Lucie Kabulo Malale in 1998. They were sealed in the Johannesburg South Africa Temple in 2004. They are the parents of two daughters and one son.
Alfred Kyungu Kibamba was born in Kamina, Democratic Republic of the Congo, on October 31, 1966, to Domitien Kyungu Nkimba and Celestine Ngoy Mbuyu.
Elder Kyungu received both a bachelor’s degree and a master’s degree in social sciences and international relations from the University of Lubumbashi. He worked in several government positions for the Democratic Republic of the Congo and for the Church as a coordinator for seminaries and institutes and as a family history manager.
An Area Seventy at the time of his call, he has also served as an institute teacher, ward Sunday School teacher, counselor in a bishopric, high councilor, counselor in a stake presidency, and president of the Democratic Republic of the Congo Mbuji-Mayi Mission from 2016 to 2019.

One such dear friend of mine had limited experiences with God. But he longed to be with his departed wife. So he asked me to help him. I encouraged him to meet with our missionaries in order to understand the doctrine of Christ and learn of gospel covenants, ordinances, and blessings.
That he did. But he felt the course they advised would require him to make too many changes in his life. He said, “Those commandments and covenants are just too difficult for me. Also, I can’t possibly pay tithing, and I don’t have time to serve in the Church.” Then he asked me, “Once I die, please do the necessary temple work for my wife and me so that we can be together again.”
Thankfully, I am not this man’s judge. But I do question the efficacy of proxy temple work for a man who had the opportunity to be baptized in this life—to be ordained to the priesthood and receive temple blessings while here in mortality—but who made the conscious decision to reject that course.

The story that stood out to me in the November 2010 New Era was “He Is My Savior Too.” The story is about a young woman in a choir class who hears someone else take the Lord’s name in vain. When she asks the girl not to swear, other classmates agreed. The reason that this story is my favorite is because it made the girl who took the Lord’s name in vain stop and realize what she was saying.
Bradi M., Utah

The sun was going down as Tatsuki rode his bike home. He loved zooming down the small hill by his home, but he needed to be back before it was dark.
When Tatsuki rolled his bike to a stop, he saw his Primary teacher, Sister Yamada, walking up to his apartment building.
“Hi, Tatsuki,” Sister Yamada said with a smile. “I’m here to talk about your baptism.”
Tatsuki’s family had just started going to church again. He liked being with his friends in Primary, and he was especially excited to be baptized! Sister Yamada and Tatsuki rode the elevator together and joined Mom in the apartment.
“Tatsuki, I’m so glad you’ve chosen to follow Jesus Christ by being baptized,” Sister Yamada said. “When we are baptized, we make covenants with Heavenly Father. Do you know what a covenant is?”
Tatsuki didn’t know Sister Yamada was going to ask him questions. He started to feel a little nervous. But Mom smiled encouragingly.
“Promises?” he asked shyly.
“That’s right!” Sister Yamada said. “Heavenly Father promises us we can always have the Holy Ghost with us. Do you know what we promise Heavenly Father?”
Tatsuki shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“I’ll give you a hint—the promises are in the prayers we hear before we take the sacrament,” Sister Yamada said. “We promise Heavenly Father that we are willing to take upon us the name of Jesus Christ, to always remember Him, and to keep His commandments. Do you know what it means to take Jesus’s name upon us?”
Tatsuki shook his head again. Mom helped him. “It means we are happy to say we are members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints,” she said. “It means we will do what Jesus would do if He were here.”
“What kinds of things would Jesus do?” Tatsuki asked.
“Jesus would be kind to people. He would help people who are sad or sick,” Sister Yamada said. “And He would teach people how to follow the commandments.”
Tatsuki had a sinking feeling in his stomach. He started to frown and said, “I don’t think I can be baptized.”
“Why?” Mom asked.
“There are so many promises! I don’t think I can be like Jesus every day!”
Mom gave Tatsuki a hug. “Remember when you helped Yuna when she was crying yesterday?”
Tatsuki nodded. His sister had been sad, so he had made funny faces and played with her until she was happy again.
“And remember how you helped your cousins share and be nice to each other last week? When you did that, you were following Jesus.”
Tatsuki didn’t know that’s what it meant to follow Jesus. He started to feel a little bit better. He could do those things!
Sister Yamada said, “And when we do make a mistake, we can repent. That means we can say we’re sorry and try to do better. When we repent, Heavenly Father forgives us. We can always keep trying!”
Tatsuki didn’t feel so worried anymore. He felt happy.
“I want to be baptized!” he said.
Mom and Sister Yamada smiled. Sister Yamada gave Tatsuki a Book of Mormon with his name written on it. Tatsuki felt happy that he could try each day to be like Jesus. Now he couldn’t wait to be baptized!

As a child of record, my commitment to the gospel’s principles has been something I try to pay keen attention to. However, there’s always been a lingering sense of inadequacy surrounding family history work. My wife and I would earnestly set goals each year, only to fall short time and time again. Opening my family tree brought a wave of discouragement, leaving me unsure of where to even begin. Then, a pivotal moment occurred during an employee devotional where a colleague from the Family History department delivered a poignant talk on the significance of this sacred work. It was like a spark ignited within me, propelling me to take decisive action. Immediately after the devotional, I reached out to my aging parents in the village, hoping to glean some insights despite their foggy memories due to illness.
Miraculously, as the call with my dad continued, it felt as though unseen hands were guiding me, directing my questions and what exactly to ask. This unveiled much history about my ancestors I knew less about. With each revelation, my excitement grew, and for the first time in ages, I felt a renewed sense of purpose for family history. Armed with newfound determination, I delved into tracing my wife’s lineage, eager to unearth connections that would bridge our family histories.
Calling upon her older sister, who had introduced her to the Church, proved to be a pivotal moment. Though initially unsure, she promised to assist and, after just a few days, inundated me with a treasure trove of ancestral information. Sharing this with my wife, I witnessed a radiant glow envelop her face as she discovered the names and connections of most of her ancestors for the very first time.
In that moment, the transformative power of family history work became abundantly clear. It wasn’t just about names and dates but also about weaving together the threads of our shared past and strengthening our familial bonds in the present. I felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude towards the colleague whose words had sparked this journey within me.
Through their inspired message, I found the courage to begin, and in doing so, unlocked a profound source of joy and connection that continues to enrich our lives to this day.

Jason’s 13-year-old brother, Alex, has autism. That means he has a difficult time dealing with changes and interacting with others. “He’s smart, but he thinks slowly,” Jason explains. “He’s gentle and softhearted. He usually gives smiles and hugs.” But he can also get upset, so Jason has learned how to calm him down, and when to get help from an adult. He has also helped Alex learn to say “sorry” or “excuse me,” because sometimes he will eat too fast and burp, or bump into people without meaning to.

Francisco, age 8, is sometimes persecuted at school because he is a member of the Church. One day two boys he was playing with started to hit him. One of them hit him very hard on the head. “I didn’t fight with them,” he says, “because I don’t like to fight and I know it is bad. Also something told me not to fight with them. It was the Holy Ghost.”
The director of the school called in the parents of all three boys to help solve the problem. After the meeting, the director told Francisco’s parents how impressed she was with him for not fighting, for telling the truth, and for setting a good example for the other children. “My friends were punished for what they had done—they couldn’t go out at recess for one or two weeks,” Francisco remembers. He is grateful the Holy Ghost prompted him to do what was right.

“Am I too little to have a testimony?” Jamie asked her mother.
“Why do you think you are too little?”
“Because today in Primary Sister Johnson told us to tell our testimonies to someone who will write them down for us. We’re going to put all our testimonies into a Book of Mormon and send it to a missionary. Then the missionary can give it to someone. I’ve tried and tried, but I can’t think of what to say. Maybe I’m just not big enough to have a testimony yet.”
“Five years old is big enough for a testimony to start growing inside you,” said Mother. “You just haven’t found the way to tell it yet. Think of what you know about the Church and how you feel about it. Try to say what your heart tells you is true,” she said, giving Jamie a little hug. “Let’s ask Dad to talk about testimonies in family home evening tomorrow night.”
Jamie though about what she could say for the rest of the day. She was supposed to have her testimony ready to give to Sister Johnson the next Sunday. But how can I have it ready if I don’t know what to say? she wondered.
It was Jamie and her sister Susan’s turn to fix the treats for family home evening, so on Monday afternoon they made cupcakes with chocolate frosting and shredded coconut. That evening Father did give a lesson about testimonies. “A testimony is kind of like the bright, sparkling light that shines through our crystal chandelier,” he said, pointing to the ceiling fixture above them. “It shines and sparkles inside of you. To have a testimony, each of us needs to do certain things. We need to pray to Heavenly Father, and we need to study the scriptures. Obeying Heavenly Father’s commandments, attending our meetings, and partaking of the sacrament will also help our testimonies to grow. It’s important to share our testimony with others too.”
After her father shared his testimony with the family, Jamie knew that what her father had said was true. And she knew that she had been doing the right things to gain a testimony.
I want to share my testimony, Jamie thought, but how can I find the words? That night when she said her prayers, she asked, “Heavenly Father, please help me find the right words to say for my testimony.”
The rest of the week, while Jamie was busy playing and helping Mother, she kept thinking about her testimony. But when Sunday morning came, she still didn’t have anything ready to be written down. She gave a big sigh as she got ready for church. “What will I tell Sister Johnson?” she asked Mother.
“Maybe you’ll have to tell her that you’re still trying,” answered Mother. Then she asked, “Would you like to use the testimony that your sister wrote in her Book of Mormon?”
“No,” replied Jamie. “I want it to be my very own.”
Since she was the first one ready for church, Jamie decided to listen to her tape of Primary songs while she waited for the rest of the family. Jamie loved to sing along with the tape. The first song started, and she joined in: “I am a child of God, And he has sent me here …” It was her favorite song, and as she sang it, her heart told her that the words were true. Suddenly she jumped up. “Mother, Mother,” she called, grabbing some paper and a pen and running to the family room. “I know what to say now! Will you write it for me?”
“Of course,” said Mother.
Jamie spoke very clearly. “I am a child of God. So are you. He will help you know what’s true.” She was quiet for a minute, then she said, “Does that sound like a testimony?”
Mother put her arms around Jamie and held her close. “That is a very beautiful testimony,” she told her. “There are many people in this world who don’t know that they are children of God. They need someone like you to tell them and to help them find the truth.”
At church Jamie hurried to her Primary classroom and was the first one to hand her testimony to Sister Johnson. “Thank you very much,” Sister Johnson said. Then she added, “You look so pretty and full of sunshine today!”
“It’s because of my testimony,” Jamie said excitedly, “shining like a bright crystal!”

“Come on, Jodi! It’s only one soccer match! God isn’t going to hate you for playing just this once on Sunday.”
“That’s right,” thought Jodi Allen, a seventeen-year-old from Sandy, Utah, and the best goalkeeper on her championship soccer team. “It is only one soccer match.” But to play in it would break a personal promise she’d made to Heavenly Father years before.
But how could she explain that to the teammates who were pressuring her to play? As a team, they had worked hard all season, winning the Utah state championship and traveling to the regional tournament in San Francisco, California, to compete against other winning teams from throughout the western United States. They had successfully played a couple of tournament matches and now had the opportunity to play a team that had beaten them the previous year. Jodi’s team wanted revenge, and a win for the team would place them in the regional finals.
But the game was scheduled for Sunday.
“Oh Jodi! Who do you think you are? Some of us are members of the Church too, and we’re playing on Sunday. Do you think you’re better than we are?”
So there was never a question about playing on Sunday—not even in this tournament. But making her teammates understand was another story.
“Look,” she tried to explain, “if I don’t play on Sunday, I’ll disappoint my team, and I feel bad about that. But if I do play on Sunday, I’ll disappoint so many more. I’ll disappoint myself, because I’d be breaking a promise. I’d disappoint my parents, who know how important that promise is to me. I’d disappoint my cousins, who don’t play on Sunday because of my example, and I’d disappoint my seminary teachers, who have taught me better. But most important of all, I’d disappoint God. I just can’t do that.”
It was a great explanation, but it didn’t do Jodi much good. All Saturday night the team tried to convince her to play. They made fun of her. They called her every name they could think of. Finally, at about midnight, Jodi telephoned home in tears. It wasn’t that she was tempted to give in. It’s just that she felt so alone.
Her parents listened. Her parents understood. Both her mother and father got on the telephone and had a prayer with her. After they hung up, they called an old friend in the San Francisco area and asked her to give Jodi some support.
The next morning Jodi got up and got dressed—in a dress, which she wore as she stood on the sidelines watching her team play. The final score was one-to-one. After the game, many of her teammates apologized for being so critical of her.
The team took third place overall in the tournament, which was better than they’d ever done before. Jodi thought this would be a highlight on which to end her soccer career.

Featured in the magazine was an account of a once proud airplane, a mighty bomber, found rather well preserved in an isolated corner of the vast Sahara Desert. The bomber and crew had participated in the famous raid over Rumania’s Ploiesti oil fields. The craft had been struck by antiaircraft fire, which completely destroyed its communication and navigational equipment. As the stricken plane turned toward its desert landing field, a sudden sandstorm obliterated familiar points of reference. The field’s landing lights were shrouded by sand. The plane droned on, even far beyond the landing field, into the desert wastes until, with fuel exhausted, it settled on the Sahara, never to fly again. All crew members perished. Home and the safety and shelter there to be found had been denied. Victory, hopes, dreams—all had been swallowed by the silence of the desert’s dust.

Now, in closing, I want to share with you the story of a man who lost his sense of priorities at an early age.
President Hugh B. Brown, as a young soldier in World War I, was visiting an elderly friend in the hospital. This friend was a millionaire several times over who, at the age of 80, was lying at death’s door. President Brown related:
As I stood by his bedside and thought over various parts of his life . . . , as I thought of his divorced wife, of his five children, all of whom were estranged, and none of whom cared enough to come to the hospital to see him, as I thought of the things he had lost which money could not buy and noted his tragic situation and the depth of his misery, I asked him what he would do if he had the privilege of living his life over again and could start it with the wisdom which had come through the years, what he considered the real values in life as he stood near the end of it. . . .
This old gentleman, who died a few days later, said to me, “As I think back over life, the most important and valuable asset which I might have had but which I lost in the process of accumulating millions, was the simple faith my mother had in God and in the immortality of the soul.”
The old gentleman asked me to get a little book out of his briefcase and gave me the page on which he had marked a poem, and then he said, “You asked me what is the most valuable thing in life. I cannot answer you in better words than those used by the poet. Will you read them to me?”
That was the dying testimony of a man who was born in the Church but had drifted far from it. That was the brokenhearted cry of a lonely man who could have anything that money could buy, but who had lost the most important things of life in order to accumulate this world’s goods. [Hugh B. Brown, Continuing the Quest (Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Company, 1961), pp. 33–34]