Gospel Story Finder

After I went home, I didn’t want to lose the connection to the Spirit that I had felt during the conference, so I made a goal to do what was necessary to keep my newfound foundation in the gospel firm and keep the Spirit with me.
Making changes was a little hard at first. I had to stop spending time with certain friends because they were not a good influence on me. I worked to give up some bad habits. I started taking church seriously. Making these decisions helped me fill my life with goodness. What has helped me stay consistently connected to the Spirit is setting aside time each day to study the scriptures, especially the Book of Mormon.
The teachings in the scriptures remind me what is really important in my life. When I feel lonely in my faith, especially with so few members here in Bulgaria, I allow the truths of ancient prophets to deepen my faith in Jesus Christ.
One of my favorite verses is Moroni 10:32: “Come unto Christ, and be perfected in him, and deny yourselves of all ungodliness; and if ye shall deny yourselves of all ungodliness, and love God with all your might, mind and strength, then is his grace sufficient for you, that by his grace ye may be perfect in Christ.”
It’s scriptures like this one that remind me of the light the gospel offers and keep me strong when I’m having a hard time. The scriptures always strengthen my foundation of faith.

Seminary students from four wards slip quietly from their homes in the dark stillness of the hour before dawn. The chill of fall in the air encourages them to run quickly to the warmth of a waiting car, already half-filled with other sleepy teens and leaders. The city will not wake for another two hours, and only a few delivery trucks and early commuters compete with the caravan of trucks and cars carrying the Latter-day Saint youth out of the city and up the serpentine road to Cerro de la Gloria.

By the time the group arrives at the top of the mountain, a faint, orange-pink glow is visible above the horizon in the east; but the “Hill of Glory” is still guarding its treasure. In the gray light of predawn, a hymn is sung, a prayer is offered, and the students begin this day’s study of the gospel. Only then does the darkness give up its secret—streaks of red and orange fill the sky as the sun reveals the glory of the panorama surrounding today’s mountaintop classroom. The majestic peaks of the Andes Mountains on the west and the sweeping plains surrounding the city on the east display the glorious work of the Creator.

In this idyllic setting—much different from their ordinary classroom—these young men and young women in Mendoza, Argentina, are spiritually fed and fortified to face the challenges of another day. As the sun rises higher, the spirit of the morning begins to transform to the concerns of the day, but the students linger a moment and talk about the blessings of having the gospel in their lives.

My best friend, Liz, and I were always eager for girls’ camp. Since we were 12, we had excitedly gone every year. The hot, muggy Texas weather didn’t bother us a bit. We loved spending time with the girls and leaders from our ward and stake, attending fun activities, and bearing our testimonies on the last night of camp. Now, as 18-year-olds, we were being given the chance to serve as music leaders in our seventh and final year before going to college.
The Saturday before camp started, we decided to drive to the location, an hour away from where we lived, to look at the unfamiliar campgrounds and get a feel for how to prepare our tent and cabin. Both of our mothers advised us not to go. They warned us that a storm was coming from the direction where we were headed. A thunderstorm in Texas is no small matter, especially in the early summer months of May and June. Downpours mixed with heavy thunder and flashes of lightning are not unusual. But we were excited and a bit rebellious, and we went anyway.
The moment we drove into the state park, immense drops of rain pounded the windshield of the small car I was driving. The wipers flipped back and forth, splashing the rain off. The sky was gray, and evening was quickly approaching. We didn’t have much time to find our campsite. We drove into the main part of the park, near a closed convenience store and park headquarters. The parking lot was empty, and everything looked secluded. There was no trace of anybody anywhere.
“What should we do?” I asked. “We can’t find these campsites from here.”
“Let’s walk around and see if a park ranger could help us,” she replied.
Wooden canoes, tied up to a dock on the lake, clanked together as fierce winds blew. The tall trees swayed back and forth, their leaves rustling together like pom-poms. Rain hit the lake like a million pennies falling from the sky. We quickly got back into the car.
“Maybe we should just go home,” I said. Just as I started the engine, though, a park ranger’s truck approached us. A stocky-built man stepped out and approached my vehicle. I rolled down my window, eyeing the state park badge sewn on the left sleeve of his stiff, brown button-up shirt.
He hunched over, tipping his ranger hat and placing his hands on his knees.
“Can I help y’all?” He asked. I could smell alcohol on his breath. I looked at Liz, and then back at him.
“We’re going to be attending a camp here this coming week,” I replied. “We just came to look for some campgrounds.”
“Oh,” he said. “I was just heading down that way. Why don’t you follow me?”
“Okay,” I replied, feeling unsure. I rolled up my window.
“Liz, that guy freaked me out,” I said. “Could you smell the alcohol on his breath?” I had a sick feeling in my stomach, which is the feeling I get when the Spirit is prompting me to turn away from a bad situation.
As the park ranger drove, we followed. Then we came to an intersection where we could choose to continue following the ranger or exit the park. For a moment, we stopped. I watched as his truck drove through the spillway into the camp. The water from the lake, which spilled over the road, reached halfway up the truck’s tires. I knew that my small car might get stuck on the spillway if the rain continued.
“Let’s get out of here,” said Liz, with urgency in her voice. I couldn’t ignore the sick feeling in my stomach. The Spirit was telling me that I shouldn’t continue to follow the park ranger. The truck drove one way and we drove the other, exiting the park. The farther away I drove, the better I felt. As we headed home, the raindrops pounding on the windshield lessened and eventually came to a complete stop.
I knew that we should have listened to our mothers, who were clearly more in tune with the Spirit than we were when they advised us not to go. I’m not sure exactly what danger we might have been in—it could have been with the ranger, who was a stranger, the stormy weather, or things completely unknown to us at the time. But the best part of the story is, we weren’t there to find out! I’m absolutely sure that we had to leave, and I’ve learned that when faced with a decision to make, following the inspired counsel of our parents and the promptings of the Spirit is the best and safest direction to take.

Another new member is Rocío Flores Rojas, 15. “Elder and Sister de la Cruz taught and baptized my mother,” she says. “At first I didn’t want to be baptized. But they kept coming and talking to me about the word of God. And they treated me so well—like they do all the people. I came to know that their message was true and was baptized last Sunday. More than anything, we would like them to stay with us forever. But when they have completed their mission, they have a right to return to their family.”

An acquaintance of mine grew up not far from here. By the time he was 14 years old, he was over six feet tall and very uncoordinated. He said, “One afternoon when I was in a 10th-grade seminary class, the Spirit really touched me. I came to know that the gospel literally was true. I made up my mind that day that I wanted to serve the Lord in any way I could.”
By his senior year, he was well over six feet tall and much more coordinated. Many universities offered him scholarships to play basketball. After his first year playing at a university, he told his coach that he would like to be excused for two years to go on a mission. The coach said, “If you leave, you can be sure of one thing: you will never again wear one of our basketball uniforms!” Many thought that his “mission” ought to be playing basketball. Even some family members, including his parents, tried to convince him not to serve a mission. But he was totally committed. He was willing to give everything to the Lord—the scholarship, the applause of the fans, and the excitement of playing. He knew what the Lord was counting on him to do. He was called, and he served an honorable mission.
When he returned two years later, he was even taller and about 35 pounds heavier. His coach decided to repent. He was permitted to wear one of those basketball uniforms again, and in his senior year, his team not only won the conference championship but went on to the finals in national competition.

I first learned of the treasure on a beautiful Australian morning in October 1992. My husband, who is not a member of the Church, woke up and described a remarkable dream. He said that in his dream someone from my family had asked him for permission to let me go into mainland China to get my family’s genealogy records.
I asked my husband what his response was. He answered that he did not want to be held accountable for not letting me go.
I was amazed. I had already planned to go to Hong Kong in a few months for my daughter’s wedding. It occurred to me that, after the wedding, I could travel to my family’s ancestral village on mainland China, where our records are kept. Because of my husband’s dream, I decided to make the trip.
I was excited, yet afraid of going into China alone. But Heavenly Father provided a solution. A son-in-law was also going to Hong Kong, and he offered to accompany me into China.
On 16 December 1992, we boarded the train from Hong Kong to GuangZhou, China. From GuangZhou, we took another train eleven hours to the city of MaoMeng; then from MaoMeng we took a motor bike with sidecar three more hours to the village. When we arrived, my uncle was surprised to see us, as he had received the letter announcing my visit only the night before. I recognized him immediately, for he looked just like my father. After we all got acquainted, I asked about the records.
My uncle brought out seven volumes that traced my family back nearly seven hundred years. Not only did they contain birth and death dates, but the records also contained a bit of history on each ancestor. I was thrilled.
However, I faced a major problem. The village was so remote that it had no running water, let alone a photocopy machine. Copying the records by hand would take months. When I expressed my concern, my uncle smiled. He said he had a spare set I could take. My son-in-law and I looked at each other in wonder. These people are not well off; making that extra copy must have cost a lot of money.
For years I excused myself from doing family history work because I lacked records. Now there is no excuse. This experience has convinced me that many of my ancestors have accepted the gospel in the spirit world, and that is why the way was opened for me to secure their records—truly a treasure beyond price.

Aioo Suisala just turned 19. He works to earn money for his mission. On Saturdays and during school vacations he works with Letane and Sosaia at nearby plantations with many of the other people from the village. They get to the fields either by walking or riding horses. At the plantations they weed the taro plants, fumigate, pick bananas, and check how the pineapples are ripening.
On Sundays Aioo, who is assistant ward clerk, Sosaia, and Letane attend Church meetings and take care of their responsibilities in the ward. Their chapel is less than ten years old, and the local Saints helped to build it. Aioo and Sosaia both remember working on it.
Aioo stands in stake conference in Pesega as he is sustained to be ordained to the Melchizedek Priesthood. He has been looking forward to and preparing for this day for a long time because it means that he is almost ready to go on his mission.

I used to have a monster crush on Tyson Davis. Used to. I mean, he’s gorgeous. But he knows it. Besides, he’s kind of a jerk.
I am not going to call him. No way.
But …
Last Sunday I saw Tyson at church. It was the first time he’d been there in about a year. He looked really sad and miserable. He was sitting in the back row, and if I didn’t know better I’d say he’d been crying.
He didn’t stay for the whole meeting. I sort of wish he had. I wanted to talk to him. He looked so sad.
Ever since I saw Tyson, I can’t get him out of my head. I feel like I should call him. I’m not going to, though. When Tyson first moved into the ward, I called him all the time. I invited him to do things with the Young Women and Young Men. He never did anything with us, though, and he treated me like a pest. He made me feel stupid.
I am not going to call him.
Besides, I’m late. I’m going to the church dance.
I make it all the way to my car and start backing out of the driveway before I finally sigh. “Okay, I’ll call him.”
The urge to do it is too strong to ignore. And I grumble to myself all the way to the phone. I’ll call him, and he’ll make me feel like an idiot. But at least then I can go to the dance in peace.
“Hi,” I say when his little sister, Kari, answers the phone. “Is Tyson there?”
“Uh, I’m not sure,” she says. “Who is this?”
“It’s Michele.”
She’s silent for a moment. “From church?”
“Yep,” I tell her. “Michele from church.”
“He’s probably not here, then,” she says. “But I’ll check.”
I hear her put down the phone. I’m almost positive she is going to come back and tell me he’s not there. Apparently he’s having the six-year-old screen his calls. So I’m pretty floored when a minute later Tyson picks up the phone.
“Hello,” he says, “Michele?”
“Yeah.” He sounds friendly. Weird. Maybe Kari didn’t give him the whole message. “It’s Michele from church.”
“I know,” he says. “Hi.”
“Hi. Well, I was just calling—well, wondering, um, I saw you at church Sunday and you seemed really sad.”
Tyson is silent for a moment. “Yeah, I was.”
“I’m calling because there’s a dance at the stake center tonight. Maybe you should come.” I feel sort of lame inviting him, knowing how he feels about the Church. He’s been pretty clear he doesn’t want anything to do with us. Still, I can’t get my mouth to shut up. “Maybe it could cheer you up,” I tell him.
“Yeah, maybe.” He sounds thoughtful. “I’ll meet you there, okay?”
I nod, even though I’m talking into the phone. “Okay.”
“And Michele?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for calling.”
When I hang up the phone, I stand staring at it in amazement. Did I dial the wrong number? Was that really Tyson? Tyson Davis? Mr. I’m Too Good for Church Dances?
When I pick up Audrey and Shawna they don’t believe me about the conversation. “Tyson actually said he would come? Tonight? To the dance?” Shawna asks.
I nod. “That’s what he said.”
“He was being sarcastic,” Audrey decides.
When we get to the dance, we look all over the building. No Tyson. I dance for a while then go back to the parking lot—not really to wait for him but just because I have the feeling I should check it out. There I find Tyson sitting in his car.
I knock on his window, and he gives me a sad kind of smile. “Hi,” he says. He looks sort of embarrassed.
“What are you doing out here?” I ask.
“I couldn’t go in,” he says. “I was going to but, ah, I don’t know. I was hoping you would come out. I wanted to talk to you. Is that okay?”
I shrug. “Sure.”
I get in the passenger seat, and I’m surprised to see that he’s dressed up. I can tell he planned to go in. “What did you want to talk about?”
He’s silent for a moment. “When you called tonight it was weird. I’d been praying. I hadn’t done that in a long time—prayed, I mean. And then you called.”
He explains that his best friend, Seth, had died two weeks ago. He wasn’t from here. He lived in Florida where Tyson used to live.
“Seth was drunk and ran into a car,” Tyson says. “He died and everyone in the other car—a family—died too.”
Tyson wipes away a tear. “Seth messed up. He really messed up his life. I have too. I’ve messed mine up really bad. But I want to change. I really do. That’s what I was praying about, see, but it’s hard. My friends are partiers. That’s what we do. We party.”
Tyson’s silent for a moment. He looks tormented. “And I don’t have other friends. I mean, friends in the Church. I blew them off a long time ago. I was so mean to you. But then tonight you called.” He sounds full of wonder.
I didn’t know what to say. “I just felt like I should.”
“Yeah, see, that’s it,” he says. “You’re really close to God. He talks to you and you listen.”
Tingles run through my body. “Yeah, but Tyson, you can have that too. It’s the Holy Ghost. If you listen, He’ll talk to you.”
Tyson shakes his head. “I’m not like you. You don’t know what I’ve done. I’ve done bad things.”
“But Tyson,” I protest.
“Look, you don’t have to bear your testimony to me. I know what you believe. You live what you believe. I watched you all last year. You can’t know how it is for me. You don’t do things wrong.”
“I do too!”
“Well, not like me,” he says. “Anyway, I’m glad you’re the way you are. I needed someone to talk to tonight. I’m glad it was you.”
I blush, feeling totally complimented. “So, do you want to go into the dance?”
“I don’t know if I’m ready for that,” he says. “I thought I was. I want to change my life around. That’s what I want. But it’s harder than you think.”
“I don’t think it’s as hard as you think,” I tell him, pulling him out of the car. “It’s just a church dance.”
I take his hand. “Don’t be scared. I’ll be with you.”
“Mormon Michele, protector of the inactives,” Tyson says with a grin.
“That’s right,” I tell him. “And don’t you forget it.” I give his hand a squeeze. “I mean it, Tyson. Don’t forget it.”

Ministering on the Sabbath is something Sister Zola Adjei came to love while growing up in the Kpong Branch in Ghana. While home from boarding school during the summers, she and other youth would go in groups to visit members of their branch they hadn’t seen in a while. “It was a sacrifice because most of us felt very hungry after church, and we were so far from our homes that we didn’t have time to eat and gather again,” Sister Adjei said. But the sacrifice was worth it, as they were able to pray and sing hymns with their fellow branch members and invite them to church and activities. One of the youth would offer to walk with them to church the next Sunday.

“This practice formed a bond amongst us,” Sister Adjei said. “Some of us have stayed strong friends from the decisions we made to go out and bring back our lost friends by giving up a few hours of our Sabbath day.”

Each new convert should be provided a calling in the Church. Such brings interest, stability, and growth. The task may be somewhat simple, such as that given to Jacob de Jager when he and his family became members in Toronto. He held lofty posts in business, but his first calling in the Church was to put the hymnbooks in place along the pews. He took his assignment seriously. In recollecting this first calling, he said, “I had to be present each week, or the hymnbooks would remain undistributed.” As you know, Elder de Jager later served many years as a member of the First Quorum of the Seventy. Though he had many demanding responsibilities as a General Authority, he never forgot his first calling in the Church.

“Mom!” The high-pitched wail made me wince.
What now? I wondered. The children had gone to bed, and I was going about my evening activities. My husband was at a late meeting.
I went upstairs, bracing myself for what I thought was another argument between siblings, and found my youngest child, Michaella, with red-rimmed eyes. “My ear hurts, Mom.”
Oh, no, I thought. Why does this always happen at night? I couldn’t justify the expense of an emergency-room visit for an ear infection, so I used all the home remedies I knew and tucked her in. “Try to sleep now,” I said. “I’ll call the doctor as soon as her office opens in the morning.”
Downstairs again, I felt anxious and could not concentrate. I went to the kitchen and halfheartedly began to wipe the counters. Then with a sudden motion I threw down the cloth. I headed back upstairs to check on Michaella, moving softly in case she was asleep. I stopped halfway up. Through the open door at the top of the stairs, I could hear sobs.
I could not take it. I couldn’t just stand by, helpless, while my child suffered. I sank down on the stairs, tears running down my face. I prayed. I pleaded. I trembled as I told the Lord I would do everything I could to help my daughter and then I would leave the rest up to Him. After taking a few deep breaths, I climbed the rest of the stairs, sat on my daughter’s bed, and smoothed her damp hair.
“It hurts bad, Mom.” The usual dimple in her cheek wasn’t there. Her face was pale. Fatigue and pain had made dark smudges under her eyes.
I decided I would not wait until my husband returned; I would risk looking like an overanxious, overprotective, and overreacting mother. “I’m going to call our home teacher, OK?”
Michaella nodded.
I made the call, feeling somewhat awkward. When I asked our home teacher if he would give Michaella a blessing, his answer was, “Of course.” A short while later he arrived, smiling, as if driving out late at night was his favorite thing to do.
While he performed the blessing I felt hope lighten my heavy heart. I thanked him as he left, then put Michaella to bed again. She was asleep within minutes.
The next morning she seemed so much better, I was tempted to skip calling the pediatrician. But I had promised the Lord I would do everything I could.
Later that morning, I watched the doctor closely. She peered through her scope into Michaella’s ear and said, “You didn’t get much sleep last night, did you?” It wasn’t really a question; it was a statement.
“She slept straight through the night,” I said.
I took a mental photograph of the doctor’s astonished face.
I knew then that we had had our own little miracle. No seas were parted, no lepers cleansed, no dead raised. It had simply been a night of peace, without pain, for a little girl.
For me, it was enough.

This story happened in the USA.
Maya sliced the strawberries and added them to the bowl of fruit salad. Fruit was her favorite food. She loved all the bright colors. And she never had to worry about eating it!
Maya had a lot of food allergies. She had to be careful because eating the wrong food could make her really sick. When she was little, she drank some cow milk by accident and had trouble breathing. She had to go to the hospital. She didn’t want that to happen again.
Sometimes it was hard to have to eat different things than her friends and family. But she knew it was important to stay safe.
Maya carried the fruit salad to the counter. “The salad’s ready.”
Dad looked up from the pot he was stirring. “Great! Our guests will be here soon.”
Maya heard a knock at the door and ran to open it. The Johnson family and the missionaries smiled at her from the porch. The Johnsons were family friends. Maya was happy to see them again. She opened the door wide for everyone to come inside.
While they waited for dinner, one of the missionaries showed Maya a magic trick. She couldn’t figure out how he was pulling the coin out of her ear!
Soon it was time to eat. Brother Johnson said a prayer. Then they all lined up to fill their plates.
When it was Maya’s turn, she got a big scoop of fruit salad. She skipped over some food she knew had milk in it.
Then she picked up a big bag of chips and poured some onto her plate. They looked like the same kind of chips she had eaten before. She put one in her mouth.
But as she started to chew, she had a strong feeling. Check the ingredients, a voice said in her mind.
Maya stopped chewing. She looked at the list of ingredients on the bag. The chips had milk in them!
Maya grabbed a napkin and spat out the chip as fast as she could. Her eyes filled with tears. She hadn’t swallowed it. But would something bad still happen?
“Mom! Dad!” Maya rushed over to her parents. “I put a chip with milk in it in my mouth!”
“It’s OK,” Mom said. “Let’s get some medicine.” Maya swallowed the pill Mom handed her and took some deep breaths. Dad held Maya while they waited for the medicine to work.
After a few minutes, Mom said, “How do you feel?”
Maya still felt scared. But nothing felt wrong with her body. “I think I’m OK. But could I have a blessing?”
“Of course,” Dad said. “Let’s ask the missionaries to help.”
Maya sat in a chair, and Dad and the missionaries placed their hands on her head. They blessed her to be safe. Maya felt calm. All her bad feelings were gone.
“How did you know to check the ingredients on the bag?” Mom asked.
“I felt a warning from the Holy Ghost!”
Dad gave her a big hug. “I’m so glad you listened.”
Maya nodded. She knew that Heavenly Father loved her and cared about her.
Illustrations by Chrisanne Serafin

I turned the corner of the street just in time to see the bus pulling up to my bus stop. I ran as fast as I could, running between pedestrians, and leaped onto the bus just as it began pulling away.
Buses in Manchester, England, were always crowded at this time of night, but I didn’t mind. As an American student at the Royal Northern College of Music, I didn’t have very much free time to meet the British people, so I looked forward to my crowded bus rides as opportunities to make new friends.
I finally found a seat next to a lovely young woman who was deeply involved in reading a pamphlet. I sat down quietly, trying not to disturb her, but I couldn’t help looking at what he was reading. It was a religious pamphlet that had the title, “Believe in Christ and Be Saved!” Further down the page I read the words, “We are saved by faith alone.” I looked up to find the young woman smiling at me curiously. “Oh, excuse me,” I said, “but I couldn’t help noticing your pamphlet. Are you interested in religion?”
“Oh, no!” she said in a strong, contented voice. “I’m already saved! I’m just reading this for fun. And what about you?” she asked. “Are you saved?”
I had never been asked the question in that way before, and I stammered with my answer, “Well, I’m … I’m … I’m trying! I am a Christian.”
“Hallelujah! Praise the Lord!” she shouted in a loud voice, making several of the other passengers on the bus turn around to look at us. Then, a little more softly, she asked, “What is your church?”
“The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I’m a Mormon.”
“Oh, no!” she whispered, leaning away from me with fear in her eyes. “Oh, I know about Mormons! You’re not Christian.”
“Yes, we are!” I said.
“No,” she said again. “No! I remember two Mormons came to my home once and told me that they had a message for me about Jesus Christ. I let them in to talk about Christ, and all we talked about was some man named Joseph Smith. I don’t believe in him, and they didn’t tell me about Christ. Your church isn’t Christian.”
She was so sure of her opinion that I didn’t know what to say in return. But then I heard myself talking about Joseph Smith and explaining why he was so important to the restoration of the true gospel. I told her about continuing revelation and bore my testimony of a living prophet on the earth today.
She listened politely for some time, then apologized as she stood up, “I’m sorry, but this is where I get off. It’s been nice talking to you, but I still say Mormons aren’t Christian.” With that, she got off the bus and left me staring after her.
I worried all the way home, and for the rest of the evening I couldn’t stop thinking of the young woman and her incorrect belief that Latter-day Saints didn’t believe in Christ. What could I say, if I ever met her again, to convince her that I did have a testimony of Christ and that I believed that I belonged to his church?
I turned to my scriptures, hoping to find some kind of answer or at least some comfort. I picked up my Book of Mormon, and in 2 Nephi I began to read the beautiful and plain words testifying of the Savior.
“And we talk of Christ, we rejoice in Christ, we preach of Christ, we prophesy of Christ, and we write according to our prophecies, that our children may know to what source they may look for a remission of their sins” (2 Ne. 25:26).
Since I had been studying in England, I had told many people on my bus about the Church. I had talked about Utah and Brigham Young University, about pioneers and prophets, about families, about developing talents and storing food. I had talked about Joseph Smith and the restoration of the gospel, and about missions and the scriptures. But had I ever “talked of Christ”?
In my prayers that night I gave sincere thanks for Jesus Christ, the reason this gospel and church are true, and the source we can look to for a remission of our sins. I also prayed that I would see again the young lady I had talked with on the bus, so that I could tell her about the most important part of my testimony, my belief in Christ.
I did see her again, the very next day on the same bus. She seemed happy to see me, and we chatted about the weather and my music classes. As we got closer to her stop, I turned to her nervously and said, “I forgot to tell you something about my church yesterday.”
I began to talk of Christ. The words were not eloquent or powerful, but I bore my testimony of Jesus Christ as our Savior and as the head of our church. “My church teaches its members many things,” I said. “Sometimes we get so caught up in these wonderful truths that we forget the most important truth we have, that Jesus is our Savior and is at the center of our church. I’m sorry I didn’t talk about him sooner.”
I talked about the scripture in 2 Nephi [2 Ne. 25:26] and told her that I knew the Book of Mormon was another testament of Christ.
The bus had stopped and people were pushing their way off. Without looking at me, the young woman got up and joined them. But as she got off the bus, she looked up at my window and called, “Thank you!”
I never saw her again. I don’t think she ran home to call the elders and ask to be baptized. But she did leave that bus knowing that I believed in Jesus Christ and that I knew The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is his Church and worships him.
How grateful I am for the powerful words of Nephi that reminded me of what it is we always ought to be teaching our brothers and sisters. In talking about the many wonderful blessings of our church, I hope I never again miss the opportunity to show, through words and actions, that at the center of our belief is Christ.

“I share with you an experience that embarrassed, a game that was lost, and a lesson in not taking ourselves too seriously.

“First, in a basketball game when the outcome was in doubt, the coach sent me onto the playing floor right after the second half began. I took an in-bounds pass, dribbled the ball toward the key, and let the shot fly. Just as the ball left my fingertips, I realized why the opposing guards did not attempt to stop my drive: I was shooting for the wrong basket! I offered a silent prayer: ‘Please, Father, don’t let that ball go in.’ The ball rimmed the hoop and fell out.

“From the bleachers came the call: ‘We want Monson, we want Monson, we want Monson—out!’ The coach obliged. …

“I fared much better at fast-pitch softball. My most memorable experience in softball was a thirteen-inning game I pitched in Salt Lake City on a hot Memorial Day. The game was scheduled for just seven innings, but the tied score could not be broken. In the last of the thirteenth, with two men out and a runner on third, the batter hit a high pop fly to left field. The catch was certain, I thought. And yet the ball fell through the hands of the left fielder. For thirty-eight years I have teased my friend who dropped the ball. I have promised myself I will never do so again. I’m not even going to mention his name. After all, he, too, remembers. It was only a game.”1

After lunch on Saturday, Sara asked, “What should I do now?”
“What would you like to do?” Father asked. He was at his desk, opening his stamp album.
“I don’t know,” Sara replied. “Everyone else has a hobby to work on.”
“You could start a recipe collection,” Mother suggested. Mother liked to cook new things. She was scanning the newspaper for recipes to clip.
“Quilting is a nice hobby,” said Grandmother, who was cutting small squares of material for quilt blocks.
“Go leaf hunting,” Sara’s sister, Grace, said. She held a leaf in one hand and a book about trees in the other.
“Rocks are more interesting than trees,” Sara’s brother, Glen, argued as he sorted small stones.
Sara didn’t know what to say. Dad’s stamps were colorful. Mother’s meals were delicious. Grandmother’s quilts were beautiful. Grace’s leaf collection was pretty. And Glen’s rocks were interesting. But Sara didn’t want to do what anyone else was doing. She wanted a hobby of her own.
“Thank you for the ideas,” Sara said sadly. She sat on the sofa and looked out the window. Jake, the family’s dog, was in the backyard burying a bone. Even he has something to collect! Sara sighed. She thought about how her family had tried to help. Suddenly she had an idea. “I know what I’ll collect!”
“What?” Father asked.
Sara smiled. “It’s a surprise,” she said. “I’ll show you next Saturday.”
On Monday, Sara’s school class visited a limestone quarry and watched the big machines load rocks onto trucks. Sara picked up one of the small stones scattered on the ground and put it into her pocket. When she got home, she put the stone into an empty box.
After school on Tuesday, Mother told Sara, “A letter came for you.” She handed Sara an envelope.
“I’ve been hoping for this!” Sara tore open the envelope. Inside was a letter from her friend in Sweden. Sara read the letter three times.
Then Sara looked at the envelope again. With a pair of scissors she carefully cut off the corner of the envelope that held the stamp. She had seen Father do this many times. My collection is growing, she thought as she dropped the stamp into the box.
After dinner Wednesday night, Sara came downstairs carrying a worn-out dress. “May I have this for my collection, Mother?”
“Yes,” Mother replied, looking at Sara curiously.
Sara spent the rest of the evening cutting parts of the worn-out dress into small squares. By bedtime she had a large stack of squares to put into the box.
Thursday, during recess, Sara looked closely at all the trees in the school yard. Some of the leaves were golden. Sara pulled a leaf from a tree, put it between two pieces of paper, and slipped it into her math book. Later she laid it gently in the box.
Mother shopped for groceries every Friday night. Glen, Grace, and Sara took turns going with her to help. Sara was glad it was her turn. Before leaving for the store, she took some coins from her wallet.
At the meat counter, Sara found a beef bone wrapped in plastic. She put the bone into their cart and handed Mother the coins. “I would like to buy this for my collection.”
“Are you sure?” Mother looked surprised.
Sara just smiled and nodded.
On Saturday Sara had lunch with her friend Hana Clark. Mrs. Clark made a pie filled with cheese and tomatoes. It was the main course.
“This pie is very good,” Sara said. “May I have the recipe?”
“Of course,” answered Mrs. Clark.
After lunch, Hana read the recipe to Sara, who printed it on a piece of paper. When she got home, she put the recipe into the box.
Saturday evening Sara took the bone from the refrigerator and put it into the box.
“Are you going to show us your collection?” Glen asked when Sara brought her box to the dinner table.
Sara nodded. She set the box on the table and took off the lid. Father, Mother, Grandmother, Grace, and Glen peered inside. They all looked puzzled.
“What a strange collection!” Glen said.
“It is different,” Grace agreed.
“Sara, what is your hobby?” Father asked.
Sara didn’t say anything. She just handed the recipe to Mother, the stamp to Father, the fabric squares to Grandmother, the leaf to Grace, and the stone to Glen. “The bone is for Jake,” she explained. She unwrapped it and set it outside the back door.
When she came back to the table, she saw smiles on everyone’s face. “I’m collecting smiles,” she said. “Now I have five smiles for my collection. If you count Jake’s wagging tail, I have six.”
“Yours is the best hobby of all,” Grandmother said. Then she kissed Sara on the nose.

Until last year, Danny had a hard time communicating. Even those close to him had a hard time understanding his speech. But now Danny talks with his eyes—well, with a laser that’s attached to his glasses. Using the laser, Danny can activate keys on a small, talking computer. Now that he’s able to communicate more easily, collecting fast offerings becomes as easy as pushing a button.
“Hello. I’m from the Church. Do you have any fast offerings today?” When the envelope is returned to him, Danny pushes another button, and the electronic voice says, “Thank you!” He’s also used his new voice to give talks and bear his testimony.

A mission had always been a goal of mine, ever since being in Primary and singing “I Hope They Call Me on a Mission”.
Unfortunately, being diagnosed with a brain tumour at the age of 16 shattered that dream. I started to suffer with depression and anxiety while still struggling with the day-to-day issues from my illness.
In 2017, I had begun to prepare to serve in the Birmingham England mission office. I was to spend a few days a week working in the office, and the remainder of the week resting at home. A few weeks before this was due to start, while having a routine check-up, I was told my tumour had grown and that I would need radiotherapy. I felt the world was telling me that the goal I had, of serving a mission, was never going to happen.
Fast forward to December 2020, my physical and mental health weren’t great, and I was struggling to just wake up and get out of bed most days. I remember fasting and asking for help. I was impressed with the idea to work on my physical health. I had hidden away at home for a long time. I decided to mix walking with fundraising for the charities who had helped me since my diagnosis. I ran a yearlong fundraiser while doing virtual-walking challenges, with the goal of climbing Mount Snowdon at the end of the year. The year went great! My physical health improved massively, as did my mental health. I climbed Snowdon in August, four months before I had planned.
In 2021, the service-mission programme started in the UK. This led me to look at serving again. I am now two months into my service mission—it is the best decision I have ever made. I was set apart at the same time as my younger brother, Elder Joseph Peedle, who is serving in Helsinki, Finland. It was amazing to be set apart on the same day! During my preparation for starting my mission, I learnt a lot about being patient and how things are done in the Lord’s timing.
My service mission has saved me. It has given me purpose and focus. I felt lost for a long time and this mission ‘found’ me. I love the gospel and I love our Saviour and our Heavenly Father. Trust in the Lord, everything will work out!
Read more about Elder Peedle’s work as a service missionary in the next article, “Historic Times Lichfield Stake Service Missionaries”.

Joshua Wright walked out onto the playground during recess on his first day of first grade. He saw his friends running toward the jungle gym and swings. Then he saw some of the new kindergarten students standing alone against the school wall. A few of the older students were teasing them.
“Kindergarten babies!” someone chanted.
“You’d better watch out,” another boy said. “Stay away from the swings and the tricky bars. Only the big kids get to play on them.”
Joshua remembered how he had felt last year on his first day of kindergarten. Some of the older students had teased him, and sometimes he didn’t like going out to recess.
Joshua’s mom and dad had always taught him to look out for others who needed friends. They had taught him the story of the Good Samaritan and told him that Jesus wanted all members of His Church to be Good Samaritans. Joshua decided that he would find a way to be a Good Samaritan to the new kindergarten students.
A few days later Joshua came up with a plan. He asked his teacher if the first-grade students could be paired with kindergarten students as special buddies. He thought that if the kindergarten children each had a special first-grade friend, the big kids would be less likely to tease them. Joshua’s teacher took his plan to the first-grade students. They were eager to help. Soon each kindergarten student felt special and protected by his or her first-grade buddy.
Joshua watched as first graders offered to play with younger students and included them in their games. The new buddies even asked the other children not to tease or pick on the kindergarten students.
After a few weeks, nearly all the teasing stopped. Parents and teachers noticed that many of the older students were making extra efforts to be kind to the kindergarteners.
This year as Joshua prepares to be baptized, he feels happy that he listened to the Spirit. When the school community council met, they voted to continue Joshua’s buddy program. As last year’s kindergarten students returned to school as first graders, they were excited to be new first-grade buddies to a new class of kindergarten students. They learned from Joshua’s program that one buddy really can make a difference.

My daughter Emily is in kindergarten. Every day at recess she sees a little girl named Raye who is in a wheelchair. Raye can’t walk or talk. Emily told me that she doesn’t want Raye to feel sad because she can’t run and play with the other children. So whenever she sees Raye, Emily sits with her and holds her hand and tells her stories. One day last week Raye looked cold, so Emily took off her own coat and laid it across Raye’s shoulders. Emily loves Raye and wants her to be happy.

The bell rang. Molly put her books in her bag. School was over, and she couldn’t wait for the weekend!
“Remember to be ready for your history reports on Monday,” said Mr. Miller. “Have a good weekend, class.”
Molly looked over at Anisha. Her head was down, and she looked worried.
“Hey, Anisha,” said Molly. “Are you OK?”
Anisha sighed. “I’m scared to give my report on Monday. I’ve worked hard on my English since we moved here. But the words in our history book are hard for me to say.”
Molly thought about that. It would be so hard to move to a different country and learn a new language.
“Would it help if we practiced together?” asked Molly.
Anisha nodded. “I would like that. Maybe we can study our vocabulary words too.”
“Sure,” said Molly. “That would help both of us!”
On Monday morning, Mr. Miller stood in front of the class. “We will start class today with our reports.”
Molly turned and gave Anisha a smile. Anisha smiled back, but Molly could see worry in her eyes.
A few other people gave their reports. Then it was Anisha’s turn. People giggled as she walked to the front of the class. Some of them pointed at her and whispered.
Anisha took a big breath. The paper she was holding shook a little.
Molly said a silent prayer. Heavenly Father, please help Anisha do well on her report. And please help me know how I can help her.
The teacher asked the students to listen quietly. But Molly still heard whispering. When Anisha tried to say the hard words, a few people laughed. Molly wished she could make the kids stop giggling and whispering. She made sure to smile whenever Anisha looked at her.
When Anisha finished, she walked back to her desk. Molly saw tears in Anisha’s eyes. Anisha put her head down on her desk.
Then it was Molly’s turn. She walked to the front of the room. “Before I start, I want to say that Anisha did a great job on her report.”
Anisha looked up.
“She has only lived here for a few months, and she’s already so good at English. She works hard and doesn’t give up. I hope I can be brave like she is.”
After class Molly grabbed her books. She wanted to talk to Anisha. But lots of other students were already gathered around Anisha. They were saying nice things to her.
“Good job on your report, Anisha!” one boy said.
“Some of the names of people and places were very hard to say!” said another girl.
Molly smiled and said another silent prayer. She thanked Heavenly Father for helping her be brave like Anisha.