Gospel Story Finder

Sister Hughes says that the words of the scriptures, together with her knowledge that she is a daughter of God, have anchored her and helped her find peace, even during the difficult periods of her life. Once, for example, while she was struggling with what may have been postpartum depression, she and her husband visited Liberty Jail in Missouri. They reviewed the Prophet Joseph Smith’s experience there and read the revelation he received, which is recorded in Doctrine and Covenants 121. Sister Hughes realized that just as the Lord had sustained Joseph Smith, He would help her endure her own trials. “It was one of those times you remember—a defining moment when I sensed the presence of the Lord in my life and realized what the scriptures can do to bring comfort and peace,” she says.

The Church’s centers for young adults are not just protecting the rising generation from the temptations of the world—they are also preparing the Church’s present and future leaders to change the world.
As extensions of the institute program, the centers for young adults—which exist primarily in Europe—offer religion classes as well as a place where young adults can gather for activities ranging from cooking dinner to doing homework to playing Ping-Pong to sharing the gospel.
Toward the end of 2003, the initiative for centers for young adults began with four centers opening in Copenhagen, Denmark; and Berlin, Hamburg, and Leipzig, Germany. Elder L. Tom Perry of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles further encouraged the growth of the initiative when President Gordon B. Hinckley (1910–2008) called him to preside over the Europe Central Area in 2004.
According to Erik Psota, the current associate area director of seminaries and institutes in Europe, many of today’s priesthood leaders in Europe were under the age of 30 at that time.
“The spiritual impression that came to Elder Perry that the growth of the Church in Europe will come through the 18- to 30-year-olds has had a deep impact on young adults and priesthood leaders at all levels in Europe,” said Brother Psota. Elder Perry’s impression is still relevant to young adults today, he continued, “because it helps them understand their responsibility for the growth of the Church.”
Today, there are more than 140 centers in Europe, with an additional 30 in development. All of them prepare the rising generation to spread the gospel to the world.
The young adult center in Oslo, Norway, is just one of many centers where young adults are learning how to build the kingdom. Take Mathilde Guillaumet, from France. Missionaries began teaching her at a center in Paris in 2009 after Sister Guillaumet’s friend invited her to learn more about the gospel.
Sister Guillaumet was baptized in 2010 and then moved to Norway for a year, where the local center for young adults continued to play a role in her growing testimony.
“The center really was a home away from home. It was definitely more welcoming than my dorm room,” said Sister Guillaumet. “The center’s missionary couple became like parents—wonderful people to come to for comfort and advice. Both in Paris and in Oslo, I have been able to go to the missionary couple to talk about the gospel, which I couldn’t do at home, considering I am the only member in my family.”
Sam Basnet, baptized in 2009, is also the only member in his family. Doing missionary work at the Oslo center helped him to share the gospel with his relatives when he returned to visit them in Nepal. He told them about the priesthood and the Book of Mormon, having already helped the missionaries teach other people the same principles in Oslo.
“My family wanted to feel the way that I was feeling,” said Brother Basnet. “They had seen the difference between ‘Sam-before’ and ‘Sam-after.’ Before, I had no hope. I was not positive. After my baptism, I used to come into the center and everything was higher than before.”
Brother Basnet is not the only one who has felt lifted and motivated by the Spirit in the center. Benjamin Kerr of Scotland has spent the past two summers working in Oslo and sees the center as a place where he remembers what really matters.
“The center is my refuge from the world,” said Brother Kerr. “I definitely feel a peace, a safety, when I am there. I think some of my most encouraging experiences have come from being able to sit in the center, especially at family home evening, and to talk about things that really concern us, things we find difficult. These experiences have reminded me of the importance of the simple principles of the gospel.”

I grew up on a farm in Colonia Dublán, México, and I learned early how to do farm chores. My father had a large family, and we all had certain assignments. One day after I had finished my chores, I went inside. I had little leaves and pieces of straw and hay in the cuffs of my pants, so I decided to clean them out.
I lifted the lid off our wood-burning stove and dumped the hay and straw into the fire. I stirred the coals and watched the straw and hay sparkle and burn on them in the stove. When I put the lid back on the stove, somehow a hot metal poker slipped and hit me in the center of my eye.
To this day, I remember the incredible pain and agony I felt. My mother heard my screams and came running to my aid. She picked me up in her arms and carried me to her bedroom, where she held me most of the night.
I was only about six years old, and I don’t remember a lot of details about that evening. But I do remember her holding me and cuddling me, trying to comfort me in the midst of such terrible pain. My father was out of town, so my mother spent the night with me alone, praying fervently to Heavenly Father for help and healing.
I spent much of the night crying, but at some point I fell asleep. The next morning I awoke. There was no sign of any burns, no mark, no loss of vision. The faith of my mother had healed me.

When I was a teenager, I decided to invite the Savior into my life by being baptized and becoming a member of the Church. My friends were good examples to me. So was my grandmother. She was a temple worker in the Los Angeles California Temple. She would leave our house at 4:00 in the morning to serve the Lord in the temple.
Just two years after I was baptized, I decided I wanted to serve the Lord as a full-time missionary. On my mission, I helped many people learn about the Savior so that they could invite Him into their lives.

These young men continue to influence our family. Two months ago our ward had a missionary activity on a Saturday evening, inviting everyone, including part-member families. Our youngest son, Sun-Yoon, had just come back from a youth camp in the afternoon of that same day. He said he was not going to the missionary activity because he was not a member of a part-member family and he was so tired. He didn’t come to the activity. My wife called him on the phone to explain that everyone was invited to the activity. He said, “I know, but I am not coming today,” and hung up.
Right after the meeting started that evening, Sun-Yoon came in and sat by his mother very quietly. He whispered to her, saying, “Right after I hung up the phone, I remembered asking Dad what made the Hanaro Quartet so successful in their lives. He told me that they obeyed the words of the Church leaders and that they regularly attended the meetings of the Church. That was the key that changed their lives and made them so successful.” My son continued, “All of a sudden, the words of my father came into my mind, and I decided to follow them because I want to have a happy family like theirs and to be successful in my life.”

It is about two such boys and two good men that I’d like to talk tonight, for they form the central theme of my remarks.
The boys are special young men, like all of you and the men are choice leaders in church and community. I met one of these fathers and his five-year old son just a few days ago. The father told me of a recent conversation with his boy in which he explained that elections are coming soon and that he is being urged to run again for the office of mayor. “Shall I run for mayor?” he said.
“Uh-uh,” said the lad.
“Well,” said the father, “some church leaders are coming to our stake next week and they may ask me to continue to serve as stake president. Shall I say yes if they ask me?”
“Uh-uh,” said the boy.
“What do you want me to do?” the father laughed.
His son said, “I just want a regular dad.”
The other story was equally interesting and significant to me. This family has a tradition of educational accomplishment and the father was shaken a bit when his wife brought him their high school son’s report card with his first C on it. Dad brooded over the matter and when the son came home invited him into the study, sternly confronted him with the card, and said, “Son, what is this I see on your report card?”
“Well, Dad,” replied the boy, “I hope you see the five As.”

I met one such young man not long ago while I was attending a stake conference in another country. We were about to conclude a Saturday afternoon meeting with the stake presidency when a knock came at the office door. The president opened it, and I saw a hand give an envelope to him. It had my name on it. The letter inside introduced me to a young man who needed an interview in order to be accepted as a missionary.

As soon as our meeting with the stake presidency was concluded, I excused them and invited the young man in. His initial appearance shocked me. I couldn’t believe he was being recommended to go out and serve as a missionary. His clothes were somewhat wrinkled; he needed a shave; he reeked with tobacco smoke; he even had some sort of paperback book rolled up in his hands. What could he offer in the service of the Master, I thought.

And then it happened—he walked over and shook hands with me. As I looked into his eyes, I was electrified. He was different. He was special, in spite of his outward appearance. As we sat down he told me his story. He first excused himself for appearing to be untidy and in a hurry. He said he had just gotten off the bus after a 13-hour ride from his home and, if I didn’t mind, he hoped he would be able to be back on the bus in another hour for another 13-hour ride to his home.

I then began to put two and two together. I knew now why his clothes were wrinkled and why he needed a shave. I knew the tobacco smoke was not of his choosing, but from the close confinement in the bus. I made another observation. That paperback book in his hand was the Book of Mormon—well read, well used, a priceless possession. He went on to say that three years ago he had joined the Church because of his association with our young people. He said they were different. His parents had given him permission if he wanted to, but warned that if he did, he would no longer have a bed in their home. He could no longer live with them as their son.

When he was baptized, his father kept his word and opened the back door, telling him never to return. The young man didn’t. He moved in with friends. He told me that for the past three years he had been working and going to school. He said he had saved over $2,000 to keep himself on a mission. Please, could he go, he said; he wanted to more than anything in the world. The impression of the Spirit said yes, and he’s now part of the army of 18,000 stalwarts who are out covering the earth as servants of the Master.

During the Christmas season of 1995, when I was 13 years old, my family talked about creating a new Christmas tradition. For a long time, we looked for the right idea in our neighborhood in Manaus-Amazonas, Brazil. But the season continued to pass, and we had not yet put any of our ideas into practice.
Christmas Eve fell on a Sunday that year, and, as usual, Mama prepared roast chicken for dinner. It never felt like Sunday if we didn’t have roast chicken. But on this special Sunday, Mama prepared three chickens instead of the usual two. She wrapped the extra chicken in aluminum foil and put it in a sack. Then she picked up one of the 300 cakes she had made to sell.
“These are presents,” she told us. “Do you know who they are for?”
We guessed the names of our friends, neighbors, and ward members. None of our guesses was correct.
Then she said, “They are for Banel.”
We fell silent. Banel was a boy about my age who lived with his grandmother in a humble little house. He was also the terror of the streets. He got into cars if they were not locked. He stole the wallet of one of our friends and tore up the papers inside. He threw rocks at dogs and threatened children at play. The neighbors wanted to file a complaint against him to get him off the streets.
But after we had recovered from our surprise, we agreed. My father, my eight-year-old brother, and I took the chicken and cake and went to visit Banel. He was at home and came out when we asked for him.
He looked distrustful. He thought we had come to complain about something. “What is it? What is it?” he kept asking.
My father just smiled and handed him the packages. Banel was very surprised. “For me?” he asked. His countenance changed, and he became friendly and courteous. He was very grateful for the presents.
Since that day, Banel has not bothered the neighborhood children. Sometimes he even plays with them. He smiles and speaks to the neighbors when he sees them on the street.
Our family learned something important that day. We learned that a friendly gesture, however small, has the power to change people, even people who seem as unreachable as Banel.
We also started a practice that we hope will become more than just a Christmas tradition—taking the time to show love and kindness to those who need it most.

As prophet, President David O. McKay traveled the world. He encouraged the Saints to be faithful and made friends with many government leaders.
During a visit to the Netherlands, the queen agreed to meet with President McKay for half an hour. He watched the clock carefully and stood to leave when the 30 minutes were up.
President McKay: Your Highness, thank you for visiting with my wife and me. It has been a pleasure.
Queen: Mr. McKay, sit down! I have enjoyed this 30 minutes more than I have enjoyed any 30 minutes in a long time. I just wish you would extend our visit a little longer.
President McKay agreed. Soon a servant wheeled in a table, and the queen poured three cups of tea.
Queen: Won’t you have a little tea with the queen?
President McKay: Thank you, but Latter-day Saints don’t believe in drinking coffee, tea, or alcohol.
Queen: I am the queen of the Netherlands. Do you mean to tell me that you won’t have a little drink of tea, even with the queen?
President McKay: Would the queen of the Netherlands ask a church leader to do something that he teaches his people not to do?
Queen: You are a great man, President McKay. I wouldn’t ask you to do that.
Throughout his presidency, President David O. McKay set a great example and earned the respect of leaders all over the world.

Kelly tossed her book bag on the floor. She just had to talk to someone, and that someone had to be Grandma because Mom wasn’t home. “Grandma, Julie was so mean today—I’m never speaking to her again. She told Ryan that I like him.”
Grandma set down the music she was practicing and smiled at her. “I can see that you’re angry.”
“Of course I’m angry,” Kelly fumed. “You would be too.”
Grandma chuckled softly.
Kelly couldn’t believe her ears—her life was ruined and Grandma thought it was funny!
All of a sudden Grandma began to laugh out loud. “Oh, Kelly,” she said finally when her laughter stopped. “You sailed in here just like a soprano I once knew. Everything made her mad, and she flounced theatrically here, there, everywhere, all around the opera house.”
Kelly was mortified. “I don’t flounce, and not everything makes me mad.”
Grandma chuckled some more. “Of course not, I know that. Come on, child, see some humor. If you don’t laugh about your troubles in life, you’ll grow old before your time. Being angry takes energy.”
“I want to be angry,” Kelly mumbled.
“I know,” Grandma nodded wisely. “Anger is such a strong feeling that you think you like it. But actually you don’t feel good inside right now, do you?”
Kelly stubbornly refused to agree with Grandma. She had a right to be angry. Julie had been mean to her, and she hadn’t done anything to Julie—at least not at first. “I feel just fine,” she said grimly.
Grandma chuckled again. “Remember, voices are my business. I can tell by your voice that you’re feeling bad inside. I think I’ll sing you a song. It’s helped me many times when I’ve felt all bad inside.”
Kelly wanted to sigh out loud. Grandma’s opera songs were usually hard to understand, and most of the time they were in another language. She was in no mood for opera.
Grandma began to sing softly:
“‘Help me, dear Father, to freely forgive
“‘All who may seem unkind to me
“‘Help me each day, Father, I pray;
“‘Help me live nearer, nearer to thee.’”*
Kelly looked up in astonishment. The song was simple, it had a sweet melody, and it wasn’t opera. She listened quietly as Grandmother sang it again. She felt her anger melt away. “Where did you learn that? I’ve never heard you sing a churchy kind of song before.”
Grandma smiled. “I never was much of one for church in the past, but since I was here last, I joined one.”
“Which church?” Kelly asked.
“The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. That’s where I learned the song—in Primary.”
“What’s Primary?”
“It’s kind of like Sunday School for children your age. They have classes, Sharing Time, and singing time. I lead the singing in Primary.”
Kelly was astonished. Grandma was one of the country’s best operatic sopranos. She got paid a lot of money to sing in operas, and now she was leading music for little kids! “How much do they pay you?” she blurted out.
A satisfied look came to Grandma’s face. “Not one single penny.”
Grandma teaching music for free? She took a good look at Grandma. Grandma had been happy ever since she’d arrived. She sang and danced; she helped around the house. She got along well with everyone. “You’re truly happy,” Kelly said thoughtfully.
Grandma nodded. “Yes, very happy. Learning about Heavenly Father, Jesus Christ, and the gospel has brought me peace and happiness. I’d like to share it with you, especially—” Grandma winked at her—“the peace part right now.”
“I suppose you think I should forgive Julie,” Kelly said grudgingly. “Like it said in that song.”
Instead of answering, Grandma began to sing again:
“‘Help me, dear Father, to truly repent,
“‘Making things right, and changing my ways.
“‘Help me each day, Father, I pray;
“‘Help me live nearer, nearer to thee.’”
Kelly stared at Grandma, “You don’t think I need to repent, do you? Is that why you sang the rest of the song?”
“Was Julie the only one that did something wrong?”
Kelly had yelled at Julie. But Julie deserved it, Kelly told herself defiantly. Aloud, she answered, “Yes, she was.” She refused to look Grandma in the eye. It was all Julie’s fault. It was!
The rest of the evening the song whirled around in her head. She could hear it when she did her homework. She heard it when she brushed her teeth. She woke up the next morning with it ringing in her ears, so she put on the headphones to her radio to make her brain switch tracks. The new music worked—she walked to school, forgetting the song and all that Grandma had told her.
As she turned the corner, she caught sight of Julie talking to Jamie on the playground. Julie saw Kelly and started to wave, then stopped and turned her back. Why is Julie mad at me? She’s the one in the wrong. Kelly hesitated, remembering the name she’d shouted at her best friend. It wasn’t a nice word. Maybe Grandma was right—maybe she should be sorry. When Jamie ran off to claim her turn at tetherball, leaving Julie alone, Kelly hurried over to her. “Julie, I’m sorry I called you that name.”
“You’re apologizing to me?” She looked embarrassed. “I’m the one who should say she’s sorry.”
Kelly grinned at her. “Yes, you should, too—now Ryan will bug me for the rest of the year.” They both laughed.
Julie smiled again. “I really am sorry. I shouldn’t have done it. I was mad because you were playing with Jenny and not me.”
After school, Kelly hurried home. “Grandma,” she called, “guess what.”
Grandma was making cookies.“Julie and you are friends again.”
“How did you know?”
“Well forgiving and being forgiven make people happy. You look happy, and you sound happy.”
“Grandma, do you think Mom would let me go to church with you this Sunday?”
“There’s only one way to find out—we’ll just have to ask her.”
Grandma began to sing a familiar song from an opera. Kelly felt so good that she joined right in.

Their collaboration came about after Abby started writing music again, following the birth of their fifth child, when she heard about Sam’s professional musical experience from a fellow member in his ward. Sam helped Abby record the songs she had written and they worked together on other compositions, even from opposite ends of the United Kingdom. They have since released a full CD of original Christmas songs, which has also been printed as sheet music for others to use.

On March 24, 2018, the Ugbighoko Ward Relief Society sisters did something extraordinary. The sisters convened to learn home enrichment skills. The sisters were taught how to make shower gel and toilet cleaning liquid. The Relief Society president, Loretta Olaye, taught the sisters prior that “homemaking” enables the family to economize and save money in their budget. She also taught that with homemaking, the sisters could learn to be self-reliant by acquiring home enrichment skills to better their lives. She reiterated that with these skills, every Latter-day Saint sister is enabled to contribute to the support of her family. She also testified that this will grant the sisters greater self-confidence.
These sisters learned the principles of temporary self-reliance by finding solutions to short-term and long-term welfare needs. After the discussion, the sisters experimented on the lesson taught. As the bishop, I was overwhelmed by the faith of the sisters in learning these skills. As I watched the sisters engaged in mixing the ingredients for the production of the shower gel and toilet cleaning liquid, I could see the faith of their hearts in action. They experimented in the process, not knowing what it may turn out to be. It strengthened my faith in the Savior as the sisters looked to their leader and obtained the desired result. We too may have an expected end of dwelling with God in the eternities, if we focus on Christ who is the author and finisher of our faith.

Other Minnesota youth are busy setting a good example, too. Maggie Albaugh, a Laurel in the Anoka stake, stepped outside her comfort zone when she taught a girl in her class to pray. Katie was one of the more popular girls in her school, and Maggie didn’t know her very well. “She’d never prayed and was never into religion,” Maggie says.
The sudden death of one of their friends brought them, and their whole class, closer together. Katie stopped Maggie in the halls of their school, knowing of her LDS standards, to ask her questions about life and death. “The only advice I could give her was the simple advice to pray,” Maggie says. “I just felt that, as Mormon youth, prayer helps us through a lot of things and a lot of people don’t have the same understanding of prayer. It is a gift that was given to us to communicate with our Heavenly Father.”
So Katie prayed, and at a memorial service for their friend, she shared with her class the comfort she had received through prayer.

Years ago, during my first week working in the Church’s public affairs office in Mexico, we received an invitation from a radio talk show. The show, which discussed world religions, offered us 45 minutes to talk about the Church.
“What a great opportunity,” I told the Area President as I shared details of the invitation. “Whom should we send to represent the Church?”
He responded, “You, of course.”
I was new in the office and very young. I was surprised he didn’t suggest someone with more experience. Nevertheless, I prayed, prepared as best I could, and invited a companion to join me. Soon we found ourselves at the radio station.
“We have with us this evening two representatives from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints,” the program director said as he introduced us. Then he asked, “Why does your church have such a long name? Why don’t you use a shorter, more commercial name?”
My companion and I were happy to answer such a great question. We explained that the Church’s name was not chosen by a man. Rather, the Savior Himself revealed it through a latter-day prophet (see Doctrine and Covenants 115:4).
The program director respectfully responded, “Then we will repeat the name in its entirety with great pleasure.” And he did—numerous times.
I still remember the sweet spirit we felt as we explained the origin of the Church’s name and how that name refers to the Savior and to the members of His Church today. My companion and I answered a lot of questions, many of which centered on the Church’s name. The experience was a blessing for the Church in our area and for me.

I had a feeling. I asked my father to say a prayer that a tornado would not hit our house. He said, “Don’t worry—tornados never come to this area.”
I kept asking him, and finally, with my mother, we prayed and asked Heavenly Father to make sure that a tornado would not hit our house.
Two days later, while we were at church, a tornado touched down very close to our house. After church, we drove by my school and saw trees had been torn down. Heavenly Father heard our prayer. I am grateful for prayer.
Caitlin Kingi, age 5Berkeley Heights, New Jersey

Trent sat high in the oak tree, dangling one leg over a thick branch. When Jared and Tom called to him from below, he didn’t even hear them. He was daydreaming about a book he had been reading. His Grandma Jessop had given him Pioneer Children for his birthday. After reading the book for a while, he had left it on his bed and climbed the tree to think about the pioneer children and their amazing experiences.
One boy in the book had saved his two little sisters when their house and fields caught fire. Another had found food for his family because his father was away fighting in the war.
The stories told about the many dangers that the pioneer children faced—bears, coyotes, Indians, even starvation. Trent wished that he had lived then. He would have met the challenges! He could outsmart Indians or scare away coyotes. As a Boy Scout he had learned how to make a cave in the snow where he could keep himself and his little brother warm if they got lost, just like a girl had done in one of the stories. He would share a piece of bread with a hungry child, even if it were all he had.
But it would never happen to Trent. His mother could buy him anything he wanted in the supermarket—any type of bread, fresh fruits and vegetables year round, even cookies and candies.
Finally, the voices below broke through Trent’s reverie.
“Trent! What’s the matter with you?” Jared called. “Have you gone deaf or something?”
“No. Why?”
“We’ve been hollering at you to come down,” Tom said.
“What for?”
“Who knows? We’ll just walk around till we find something to do.”
Yeah, I’ll bet, Trent thought. Jared and Tom were his best friends, but lately they were often into some kind of mischief. Trent climbed partway down the tree and then dropped to the ground.
“What were you doing up there, anyway?” Jared asked.
“I was thinking about this book I’ve been reading,” Trent answered. “It’s all about—”
“A book!” Jared sneered. “Don’t you have anything better to do than read books?”
Trent looked searchingly at Jared, trying to see past the dark eyes and freckles that he had come to know so well. Tom, too, was almost as familiar as a brother, although he had moved into the neighborhood only six months ago.
“What’s with you, Jared?” asked Trent. “You used to like to read. You used to like the other things I like too.”
Jared just ignored Trent’s question.
“Hey, look,” Tom said, pointing. “Here comes Reggie. Let’s have some fun with him.”
Trent winced.
Reggie was huffing and puffing up the hill on his bike, sweat beading on his forehead, a paper sack held tightly in one hand. Reggie tried his best, but he just couldn’t do a lot of things very well, and he attended a special class for slow learners.
“Hey, dumbo,” Tom said as Reggie neared them, “dumb kids aren’t allowed on this street. You’ll have to go back around the other way.”
Reggie stopped and straddled his bike. He looked around, confused.
“What’s the matter?” Tom went on, “Don’t you know the way?”
Jared snickered. Reggie was older than they were. He was stronger, too, but he looked afraid.
“What’s in the sack?” Tom asked.
“Candy.”
“Mmm, let’s see,” Jared said, grabbing the sack away from Reggie. “Maybe you have my favorite kind of candy in there.”
Jared dumped out the candy, and he and Tom began dividing it between them.
Reggie blinked a few times, and Trent saw tears in his eyes. “My daddy gave me the money,” Reggie quavered. “I earned it.”
“Ha!” Tom jeered. “What did you have to do to earn it? Tie your own shoes?”
“Button your own shirt?” Jared added.
Trent felt tears starting in his own eyes. He didn’t want to go against his two best friends, but he knew what he had to do. “Stop it!” he shouted.
Tom and Jared looked at him, surprised. Even Reggie looked surprised. Trent grabbed the candy out of his friends’ hands.
“Aw, c’mon,” Tom said. “We’re just having a little fun.”
“Well it’s not much fun for Reggie, is it?” Trent asked as he handed the sack and candy back to Reggie.
“No,” Reggie said, wiping the tears off his cheeks.
“Come on,” Trent said, his hand on Reggie’s shoulder. “I’ll walk with you.”
As they walked, balancing the bike between them, Trent and Reggie talked. They talked about bicycles and allowances, and Reggie told Trent about his new puppy.
When they waved good-bye, Trent felt good about what he’d done. He realized that although he hadn’t faced starvation or bears, as the pioneer children in his book had, by standing in his against his friends to help Reggie, he had acted with courage too. It was just another kind of courage.

Several years ago in Osaka, Japan, I received a telephone call from one of the Japanese officers of the Church requesting an appointment. I invited him to my hotel room and there listened to one of the most intelligent and articulate young men I had ever met.
He was a college graduate. He had majored in a special field of science and was employed by a stable, conservative corporation. One of his classmates, who had been at the top of the graduating class in the same field, was employed by a young, progressive firm in Tokyo. Several times in recent months this classmate had tried to entice his friend to change jobs. One of the vice-presidents of the firm in Tokyo made contact with the Church member, saying he could set his own salary at three or four times what he was then making.
The response was, “If there is the slightest question in the minds of the officers of my church about my leaving Osaka, which would require my being released from my Church position, it doesn’t matter how much money you offer me, I will have no interest in your proposal.” The vice-president replied, “I am not a Christian. I know nothing about your religion, but you are the kind of man I want in my organization.”
Should he move from Osaka to Tokyo, which would require his release from his Church assignment? Of course, I assured him that he could serve the Lord in Tokyo as well as in Osaka.
He moved to Tokyo. Later, while visiting that city, I received another call from the same man. We visited for quite some time. He had become extremely successful. He had broadened his experiences and was now a consultant teaching top management personnel in major corporations how to operate their companies. His time was in great demand. He was earning a large income. But he was neglecting his Church work and his family responsibilities.
I told him I wouldn’t tell him what he should do, but that there was a scripture that would tell him if he truly was converted: “But seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you.” (Matt. 6:33.) I sensed that this scripture might have caused a little antagonism; however, we parted as good friends.
A few weeks after I returned home, I received a letter from him. He said he had his priorities straightened out. He had resigned from the company. His first priority now would be his family and the Church, and his second priority would be employment. Setting priorities and then reviewing them to see that we are not straying is one of the most valuable lessons we can learn.

Let me share an experience about responding to prophetic words from the life of President Russell M. Nelson:
In 1979, five years before his call as a General Authority, Brother Nelson attended a meeting just prior to general conference. “President Spencer W. Kimball challenged all present to lengthen their stride in taking the gospel to the entire world. Among the countries President Kimball specifically mentioned was China, declaring, ‘We should be of service to the Chinese. We should learn their language. We should pray for them and help them.’”18
At age 54, Brother Nelson had a feeling during the meeting that he should study the Mandarin language. Although a busy heart surgeon, he immediately secured the services of a tutor.
Not long after beginning his studies, Dr. Nelson, attending a convention, unexpectedly found himself sitting next to “a distinguished Chinese surgeon, Dr. Wu Yingkai. … Because [Brother Nelson] had been studying Mandarin, he began [a] conversation [with Dr. Wu].”19
Dr. Nelson’s desire to follow the prophet led to Dr. Wu visiting Salt Lake City and Dr. Nelson traveling to China to give lectures and perform surgical operations.
His love for the Chinese people, and their love and respect for him, grew.
In February 1985, ten months after his call to the Quorum of the Twelve, Elder Nelson received a surprise phone call from China pleading for Dr. Nelson to come to Beijing to operate on the failing heart of China’s most famous opera singer. With the encouragement of President Gordon B. Hinckley, Elder Nelson returned to China. The last surgical operation he ever performed was in the People’s Republic of China.
Just two years ago, in October 2015, President Russell M. Nelson was once again honored with an official declaration, naming him an “old friend of China.”

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

I lay awake under the wagon with my dog, Swisher, close by. Once in a while I could hear Ma moving restlessly in the wagon bed above me. I wondered if it was because Ma was hungry too.
Thinking about it brought a lump to my throat and an even deeper feeling of emptiness to my stomach. She had given me her share of the thin flour soup that had been passed around the small circle of wagons at sunup. I had gulped it down before I learned it was the last of our food until relief wagons from Salt Lake were to reach us.
I planned to stay awake until the relief wagons rolled in. I would be the first in line to get Ma a share of food. And maybe there would be something for Swisher too.
When Swisher began to growl softly, I listened for the sound of wagons. Suddenly Swisher leaped to his feet, staring into the half-light night. My heart pounded.
“Shush your dog, Sam,” a voice whispered. “It’s me, Dirkin.”
Dirkin!
I didn’t much like Dirkin. He had kicked at Swisher more than once. I raised up on one elbow and put an arm over Swisher’s neck. His growl settled to a nervous rumble in his throat.
“What are you doing here, Dirkin?”
“I’m going after some wheat.”
“Wheat?”
“Shhh!” Dirkin cautioned. “Folks say old man Crowley has a whole sack of it. He keeps it hidden in the daytime and sleeps on it at night.”
I had heard about Brother Crowley’s wheat. “That’s for planting when we reach the valley,” I told Dirkin. “He doesn’t even eat any of it himself.”
“Yeah? Well that wheat should belong to all of us. I don’t aim to starve while he has it handy.”
“Brother Crowley wouldn’t let anyone starve clean to death. Anyway, the relief wagons are on the way. That rider who passed through camp this morning brought the word.”
“I only aim to fill my pockets,” Dirkin whispered. “It’ll be easy. Old man Crowley is at that meeting the men are having over at the main campfire.” Then in a warning voice, he added as he turned to go, “Keep your dog quiet!”
I felt sick. What Dirkin intended to do was wrong. I wished he hadn’t told me. Somehow, just knowing about it made me feel guilty.
“He’s lots bigger than I am,” I reasoned to my dog. “He’s older, too, and mean. Remember how he kicked at you for no reason?”
Swisher licked my hand. Then he wiggled out from under the wagon, and I followed. I only intended to sneak along behind Dirkin, but when I saw him moving through the half-darkness, something made me holler out. “Dirkin!”
He lunged at me. I felt his fist hit me in the eye, and I yelped. It hurt. I dove at his legs, and we tumbled to the dirt. I aimed a fist at Dirkin’s eye. He turned his head, but not fast enough.
Swisher barked and growled and jumped around us. In spite of the hurting, I felt pleasure in knowing that the noise would spoil Dirkin’s plans.
“Hey now—what’s going on here?”
I knew it was Brother Crowley even before he lifted me off Dirkin’s back.
“What’s this rumpus all about?”
My mouth was full of dirt, and I kept busy spitting it out so I wouldn’t have to say anything. I couldn’t rightly tell Brother Crowley. Dirkin wasn’t about to explain, either.
“All right, if you’re not talking, I guess the best thing is to keep you fellows separated until morning so that the rest of us can get some sleep.”
He lifted me by my galluses (suspenders) and pushed me toward his wagon. “Up against the wheel, Sam. Sit tight until daylight. I’ll put young Dirkin up against the other wheel. … Well, look at that! He’s slipped away.”
My back was sore where Dirkin had pounded me. I leaned enough away from the wagon wheel that my back wouldn’t touch it. My stomach hurt more, and I rubbed at it. I wanted to get back to my bed. Maybe if I told Brother Crowley. …
“Brother Crowley,” I began, “about the wheat you have …”
“Good wheat for planting.” It was as though he read my mind. “When those relief wagons head back to Salt Lake, I’m going along to get it planted.”
“I hope those wagons hurry,” I said.
“Hungry, are you? Well, I’m a mite hungry myself. But we can stand it a few more hours, can’t we, Sam?”
I hoped I could. And I hoped Ma could. I was glad when he added, “You may as well go roll up in your own blankets, Sam. No need sitting here without young Dirkin to talk to.”
I wasted no time getting back to my bed, but I couldn’t sleep. My eye was puffed up and hurting.
I was awake when the relief wagons pulled into camp near first light. I heard the shouting and the laughter and the welcoming. Out of one eye, I saw Ma running to join the crowd. Even Swisher left me to follow.
I pulled Ma’s old patchwork quilt up over my face. I wondered what she would say when she saw my eye.
“Hey, Sam!”
Dirkin again!
I threw off the quilt, rolled out from under the wagon, and jumped up with my fists doubled. Dirkin blinked at me, and I almost laughed. He had a swollen eye too.
“I brought you something.” What he handed me was tied up in a cloth. I could tell by the feel of it—wheat!
“Dirkin, you didn’t—”
“Nope,” he said with a grin. “Old man Crowley sent it. It’s sort of a reward.”
I stared at Dirkin, trying to puzzle it out.
“I told him. He said to make it right I’d have to go with him when the relief wagons leave and guard his wheat.”
“Guard it?”
“Yeah—I’m going to help get it safely to Salt Lake, then help him plant it.” He paused. “Sorry I kicked at your dog, Sam.” With that he left.
All of a sudden I didn’t mind the smarting, swollen eye he had given me. “Dirkin,” I called after him, “see you in Salt Lake.”