Gospel Story Finder

Stan, a dear friend of mine, was stricken by cancer. He had been robust in health, athletic in build, and active in many pursuits. Now he was unable to walk or to stand. His wheelchair was his home. The finest of physicians had cared for him, and the prayers of family and friends had been offered in a spirit of hope and trust. Yet Stan continued to lie in the confinement of his bed at University Hospital.
Late one afternoon I was swimming at Deseret Gym, gazing at the ceiling while backstroking width after width. Silently, but ever so clearly, there came to my mind the thought, “Here you swim almost effortlessly, while your friend Stan is unable to move.” I felt the prompting, “Get to the hospital and give him a blessing.”
I ceased my swimming, dressed, and hurried to Stan’s room at the hospital. His bed was empty. A nurse said he was in his wheelchair at the swimming pool, preparing for therapy. I hurried to the area, and there was Stan, all alone, at the edge of the deeper portion of the pool. We greeted each other and returned to his room, where a priesthood blessing was provided.
Slowly but surely, strength and movement returned to Stan’s legs. First he could stand on faltering feet. Then he learned once again to walk, step by step. One would not know that Stan had lain so close to death and with no hope of recovery.
Subsequently Stan spoke in church meetings and told of the goodness of the Lord to him. To some he revealed the dark thoughts of depression that engulfed him that afternoon as he sat in his wheelchair at the edge of the pool, sentenced, it seemed, to a life of despair. He told how he pondered the alternative. It would be so easy to propel the hated wheelchair into the silent water of the deep pool. Life would then be over. But at that precise moment he saw me, his friend. That day Stan learned literally that we do not walk alone. I, too, learned a lesson that day: never, never, never postpone a prompting.
Later, as Stan’s youngest son was married for all eternity and the family had assembled in the sacred temple of the Lord, we paused and remembered the miracle we had witnessed. Words did not come easily from emotion-filled hearts, but a silent chorus of gratitude spoke the feelings that words were inadequate to express.

Our missionary district went caroling to our investigators for Christmas (and we made and delivered cookies too). When we finished singing at one house, which we thought would be the last house, a woman two or three houses down started clapping and said, “Encore! Encore!”
We were tired, and our voices could no longer be considered harmonious, but we went and sang two songs for her. It was the best performance of the night. She was truly touched and told us no one had caroled at her house for many years. A week later we went back, and because of what she felt when we sang, she agreed to listen to the discussions.
I know that we can influence more people than we ever realize if we’ll just open our mouths and let the Spirit guide us.
Elder Justin Cooper is serving full time in the Georgia Atlanta Mission.

This is a net, a fisherman’s net that my father, Kanenori Nishimura, made in Hawaii many years ago. It has been mine since he died thirty years ago, and I have cherished it for his sake. For me, that moment of casting the net is a supremely beautiful one. I loved seeing my father standing on a rocky point on the beach, the net close-gathered in his hands, then with a strong, graceful gesture, like a dancer, flinging the net up and out. It would unfold in flight, opening like a fan or an umbrella, then fall over the fish that were darting like silver arrows through the surf. The lead sinkers around the edge of the net would make it sink gently to the bottom, completely enclosing the fish.

Then my father would jump down into the water and gather the net from the bottom, pulling the outer edges into his hands, until he had scooped it up like a bag. He would walk up on the beach holding the dripping net full of twisting fish in his arms, spread it out, quickly pick out the first for our supper and for the next day—very often a fish or two for several of our neighbors—then release the rest into the sea.

Then the merchant told his story. “I was once a farmer and had a strange tree on my farm. The tree had only a few barren branches but no leaves. One day I noticed that three fruits appeared on the branches. The fruits grew bigger and bigger until each was about the size of a barrel. I cut the fruits open and found a young man in each of them. I made them all work for me on the farm. But one day the young men ran away because they didn’t like the hard work.”

At this point the merchant pointed his finger at the three brothers and said, “I know you are the ones who ran away from my farm. I’m taking you back to the farm today.”
At once the three lazy brothers jumped up and cried, “No, no, we are not from your farm! We don’t believe your story!”
The merchant looked at them and smiled. “Have you forgotten your promise? You don’t believe my story; therefore you shall be my servants.”
The chief judge declared that the merchant had won the contest, and the three lazy brothers became servants of the merchant.

It was an uncommonly warm spring evening in Port Alberni, the small mill town in British Columbia, Canada, where I lived. I was looking forward to attending Mutual and spending time with my Latter-day Saint friends. I was friendly by nature but was nevertheless struggling socially both at school and at church.
As was our habit, a group of us gathered in the foyer of our meetinghouse and began chatting. I spent little time on center stage in these conversations, and from my outside vantage point I spotted two sister missionaries coming in the front doors with a boy beside them. I recognized him from my neighborhood.
While her companion stood off to the side speaking to the boy, Sister Eaton approached us and said, “Look, you guys. We’re really excited about this. We’ve been working with this boy and his family for months, and this is the first time he’s agreed to come. Would you make him feel welcome?”
We nodded halfheartedly, said our hellos, and made a small opening for him to stand with us. He looked awkward and uncomfortable and mostly stared at the floor. In comparison to most of us, he was poorly dressed and unkempt. We talked for a few more minutes until the adult traffic became too intrusive. Then we slipped away to the rest room for more privacy.
All of us, that is—except the new boy. We were so caught up in our discussion we didn’t notice him turn and walk out the door alone. Nor did we miss him in the rest room.
A few minutes later the bell rang for the start of opening exercises. We filed out of the rest room, joking among ourselves. Just outside the door, however, Sister Eaton was waiting for us, tears pouring down her face.
“What’s the matter with you?” she cried out, more in disbelief than anger. “All you had to do was be friendly to him, to include him. Was that too much to ask?”
“Where’d he go?” I stupidly asked.
“What do you care?” she snapped back. “You won’t have to worry about him again. He won’t be back.” With that, she turned, joined her companion, and left the building to look for the boy. It was a five-kilometer walk back to our neighborhood.
Stung by her chastisement, we filed quietly and sheepishly into the chapel. Even when the others began to revive their spirits, my conscience burned. I was deeply disturbed by what we had done. Later that evening after I returned home, I talked to Laurence, my older brother, about it. He had returned from college and would soon go on his mission. I respected his advice on spiritual matters.
“What do you think you should do about it?” he asked me after I had blurted out the whole story.
“I don’t know,” I answered glumly. “What can I do now? Sister Eaton says it’s too late.”
By now Laurence sensed how upset I was.
“Maybe not,” he said with a tinge of hope in his voice. “The sisters should be home by now. I’ll call over there.”
Within five minutes Laurence had the boy’s address, and we began walking there together. Although it wasn’t far, it was getting dark as we walked into the poorly lit part of town where the boy lived. I was glad my brother was with me. I didn’t know what kind of reception awaited us, and I was nervous.
We approached an old house that needed a coat of paint. Laurence checked the number under a streetlight and pointed toward it.
“That’s it,” he announced. Taking a deep breath, I headed toward the front door with Laurence at my side. I knocked quickly before my courage failed. My heart was pounding. A few moments later, a woman I assumed to be his mother answered the door. She looked older than I had expected and seemed tired.
“Hi, is your son here?” I asked.
“What do you want with him?” she asked suspiciously.
“He came to our church tonight, and we kind of ignored him,” I stammered. “I want to apologize and invite him back.”
She folded her arms and looked directly at us. I saw in her eyes a look of disgust at the way we had treated her son.
Ignoring me, she looked over at Laurence and said, “Thank you for coming by, but I don’t think he’ll want to come back.”
As she began to close the door, Laurence made a last attempt to reassure her of our repentance. “The boys made a mistake, and I know they’re sorry. I know them. It won’t happen again.”
But the door had closed before he could finish. For the second time that night, I felt stung by my actions.
“Do you think he’ll ever come back?” I asked apprehensively.
“I doubt it,” Laurence replied bluntly.
We said very little the rest of the way home. I had done wrong, and I knew it. I had felt deep remorse, and I had even tried to make restitution. But I had failed. I wondered why, after I had followed all the steps I had been taught, the Lord hadn’t recognized my repentance and lifted my burden of guilt. I felt awful.
The answer finally came from my heart: I hadn’t done enough. But I was too afraid to go back and try again. So I never did.
For me, this was a complete failure, one I’m still deeply ashamed of. Yet in a curious way I learned an important lesson from it—one that still humbles me and reminds me of what it takes to be a true disciple of Jesus Christ.

The eight months following my activation were eventful. We were sealed as a family in the Chicago Illinois Temple, and I was again called to serve as an elders quorum instructor, only this time I didn’t quit. I was then called as a counselor in the branch presidency, and five months later I was called to serve as the branch president. A month or so after my call, I remember thinking, “I’m the branch president?”

I have told many struggling Saints over the years that if I can progress in the gospel, anyone can. It is just a matter of understanding the true power of the Savior and His Atonement and taking the steps to come unto Him.

I will be eternally grateful to my wife and children and all the faithful home teachers, quorum leaders, bishops, and other faithful Saints who set such a marvelous example for me. It has been a privilege to serve the Lord and the Saints these past 20 years. My life has been blessed beyond anything I could have imagined.

When I was a law student I was handicapped by a self-satisfied assurance that I could write verse even though I had never been schooled in that discipline. A classmate and I entered a poetry-writing contest sponsored by three law professors who knew something about the subject. In this naive collaboration, my friend was to provide the rhymes and I was responsible for the meter. Our lengthy effort of fifteen or twenty stanzas attempted to describe and poke fun at a recent judicial opinion by a renowned judge, to whom we sent a copy of the finished version. Though our poem didn’t win a prize, or even a favorable mention, I still thought we were the cleverest poets in the school. Proceeding on that assumption, I sought a compliment from one of the faculty judges by reminding him of our effort, telling him we had sent a copy to his friend the judge, and asking him if he thought the judge would be offended at our poem. His reply told me where I stood as a poet and probably saved me great subsequent time and embarrassment. “Oh, no, he won’t be offended,” the professor replied thoughtfully, “not unless he has a good sense of meter.”

I have always been impressed by the organization of the Church, but I did not fully realize how important it was in efforts to serve others. The Pompano Beach Florida Stake, with many other stakes in the area, organized several relief efforts during four hurricanes that hit Florida last year. My ward was one of the many wards involved, and I was able to experience serving others.
A group of youth and leaders met one Saturday at 6:00 a.m. and drove two hours to Vero Beach. There, each ward was assigned an area to work in. Our ward was asked to help the senior citizens at a trailer park that had suffered a lot of damage. We were outside in the hot sun all day cleaning up debris and reconstructing homes, working alongside some of the residents.
This turned out to be a wonderful experience that I will never forget. I felt the Lord’s love as we served those people. Seeing the smiles on the faces of the people we were helping was such a blessing. I gained a testimony of the meaning and power of service and what it feels like to act in the name of Jesus Christ as a representative of His Church. I know that serving others is what He wants us to do.
The hurricanes caused a disaster, but there were blessings that came out of it. Testimonies grew, people were introduced to the Church, and the pure love of Christ was felt. Service brings us closer to Heavenly Father because we show and feel the Light of Christ as we act in His name. Taking upon us the name of Christ includes doing what He would do, like taking time to help those who need it most.

It was a celebration so special that I traveled more than six thousand kilometers to return to my Samoan village of Faletele.
The village was bustling with activity. Crowding in with the few hundred villagers were more than a hundred of my relatives from many parts of Samoa and many honored guests from other villages.
I started walking through the village, heading toward the big, domed roofed fale [house] when I saw my beloved cousin Sama. Suddenly I was filled with pride and sorrow and love as I remembered when we first came to know Sama—Sama the Thumb.
I was just five years old. Sama was ten. His parents had gone to New Zealand for the dedication of the temple, and Sama had come to stay with us.
I was watching the young men and boys play ball. A bus stopped on the road, and one of my aunts got out, followed by a boy who we learned was our cousin Sama. When they went to the Tuita’ua’s fale, I followed them.
Tuita’ua Ioane was the senior member and head of our family. Hundred of relatives—brothers and sisters, husbands and wives, aunts and uncles. Grandchildren and cousins—honored and obeyed him. Tuita’ua is one of the great titles in Samoa, and the Tuita’ua is respected by all Samoans.
In the days that followed, we enjoyed getting to know Sama with his stories and jokes and his sense of humor. We soon accepted him not only as a cousin but also as a good friend. When Sama was with us, whether we were working or playing, we laughed and had fun.
On Sunday morning I couldn’t find Sama. All day I asked the people of the village if they had seen him, but nobody knew where he was.
Finally, in the late afternoon, long after our church services and our afternoon meal were over Sama came walking through the village in his white shirt and white lavalava [native skirt or kilt]. Tuita’ua Ioane called him into the fale. “Where have you been, Sama?” he asked.
“In Fuapa’epa’e.”
“You walked the twelve kilometers to Fuapa’epa’e? And back?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Why?”
“Because that is the closest village where I can attend my church.”
Tuita’ua Ioane took off his wire-rimmed reading glasses and laid them on the Bible, which he’d been reading. “Sama, the village rule is that there will be only one church in Faletele and that all the people in Faletele will attend that church. Do you understand? You are part of my family, Sama, but you are also a guest in this village and you are under my protection. You know our rule.” He leaned forward and looked Sama in the eyes. “You do what you have to do.”
The following week none of the cousins mentioned Sama’s trip to Fuapa’epa’e. They continued to joke and laugh together as they worked and played together.
Trouble started on the second Sunday. I woke up to the sounds of arguing. Two of my cousins, Malini and Tofo, were chasing after Sama, who was dressed in his white shirt and lavalava.
“Sama, you know what the village rule is!” Tofo shouted.
Malini grabbed Sama’s arm. “How can you show such disrespect to Tuita’ua Ioane?”
Sama stood boldly in front of them. “Tuita’ua told me to do what I have to do. And this is what I have to do!”
As he started walking away again, Malini shouted after him, “Sama, don’t embarrass our family like this!”
At the end of the day when Sama came walking back into Faletele, some of the villagers made fun of Sama, calling him bad names. Some of them mocked him calling “Mamona” [Mormon] as he walked by. All the cousins were angry at Sama and wouldn’t talk to him—all of them, that is, except me. I had Sama all to myself the entire week. It was wonderful as we talked and sang and he told me stories.
“Maybe tomorrow you will remove our family shame and come with us to the village church,” Malini told Sama on Saturday night.
But on Sunday morning Sama was gone again. Next to each of our sleeping mats was a gift that Sama had made.
When Sama returned that evening, I ran out to greet him. He was eager to see the others, too, until he saw that his gifts had been broken and thrown away.
“The villagers made our cousins angry,” I explained. “But I kept my gifts. I like them very much. Thank you.”
Sama smiled at me, then went off my himself until it was time for the evening meal.
When he returned the cousins shouted, “You are a disgrace to our family!
“Find someplace else to sleep. You’re no longer welcome in the boys’ fale.”
They pushed Sama down, and raised their fists to hit Sama. “Because of you, our friends are calling us bad names!”
I was afraid that the cousins were going to hurt Sama, so I ran to get Tuita’ua Ioane. But he had heard the fight and had already come to the door of his fale. “You boys, stop it now!” He commanded. “All of you, come in here!”
At the sound of his voice, the boys immediately stopped. They walked meekly into the fale and sat down.
“Look at my hand!” Tuita’ua Ioane held out his hand. “See how these fingers are bunched here together? And how the thumb is out here all by itself?”
We all looked at his hand.
“We have a saying here in Samoa: ‘The thumb stands alone, but it is the strongest of the fingers.’”
Tuita’ua Ioane pointed at each of the cousins. “You boys are the fingers. But Sama is the thumb!”
Even though I was very young, I learned many things that night. Tuita’ua Ioane taught us about being true to yourself and valiant in your beliefs. His words and Sama’s example changed my life.
After thinking back to those days, I continued walking up the steps of the big fale and removed my shoes, as was the custom. Sama saw me immediately. And we hugged each other. Everyone was there for just one reason—to honor the Tuita’ua. Tuita’ua Sama.
But to me he would always be Sama the Thumb.

Early one morning while visiting Quito, Ecuador, tour guide and naturalist André Degel was taking a Sunday walk by a Latter-day Saint meetinghouse. The year was 1997, and though he was a member of the Church, he had been less active for years after moving to the Galápagos Islands. André remembered the comforting feelings of being in church and would often intentionally walk by a meetinghouse when he was in Ecuador. He didn’t usually go inside. He just wanted to be near the building. “It made me feel better,” he says, “like I was home.”
On this day sacrament meeting was just beginning. After a moment’s hesitation, André decided to enter. It was a decision that ultimately would alter the destiny of hundreds of lives.
After the meeting the missionaries and members greeted André. He remembers the conversation fondly, especially about how surprised—and excited—they were to discover he was from the Galápagos.
At the time, there was no formal Church organization on the islands. In fact, priesthood leaders in Ecuador weren’t even aware members lived there.
The missionaries didn’t waste any time. They introduced André to the Quito Ecuador Mission president and made sure they had André’s contact information.
Shortly thereafter André returned home to Puerto Ayora, the largest town in the Galápagos, on the island of Santa Cruz. Soon the mission sent him two boxes of Church materials, including manuals for study. But perhaps most important, the mission president had acquired a list of members living on the islands, which André could use to help gather the Saints. A quick review of the list surprised André.
“There were people on the list I knew, but I didn’t know they were members of the Church,” he explains.
Once André had gathered a core group, they began meeting together regularly. At first, there were only four families and friends.
“We would meet often, sometimes daily, mostly at my house,” André says. “We studied the books the mission had sent us and the Bible and the Book of Mormon.”
“It was a beautiful time,” says Araceli Duran. “We were very united. We would gather each week to study.”
“It is something that I will never forget,” says Jeanneth, “because there was such a sense of unity, such a feeling that our Heavenly Father loved us and knew that it was now that we needed to get together.”
They depended on each other, taught each other, and built their faith together. Soon their efforts were recognized, and an official branch was organized in early 1998.

Late one afternoon we were approaching the mouth of a river at the end of Starvation Lake. As we pulled ashore, the canoe bumped a boulder. We noticed a huge mound of fur nearby. I thought it was a dead animal until it moved and Bob said, “It’s a grizzly. And it isn’t dead, it’s asleep.” We were less than 100 feet from it at that point. Suddenly, it stood up. I thought it would run away, as most bears do. But it was irritated. The hair on its neck raised up, it started swaying its head back and forth, its jaws started moving—you could hear the teeth clacking—and its ears were laid back. I grabbed the camera and Bob grabbed the gun, but we soon decided it wasn’t smart to stay close, and we backed into deeper water. Somehow we had to get by that grizzly.
We pulled into a small draw about 200 feet away and checked on the bear. It had lain back down. So we took the food packs up and came back for the canoe. When we checked on the bear again, it was gone. It couldn’t go the opposite direction from us because of cliffs. It couldn’t go to the right, because of the lake. So we knew it was either going parallel uphill or coming straight for us. It knew where we were, but we didn’t know where it was. Bears will sometimes move up your trail and intercept you, and we were both scared. We knew it might come boiling over the hill any minute. Bob said, “Dad, can we pray, please?” After a prayer and with great caution, we started up the draw, me with the canoe over my head and Bob with the gun.
We broke the ridge about 100 feet from our packs, and it was waiting there for us. If it tasted the food in the packs, we would have to kill it to keep it from destroying the entire supply, and we didn’t want to do that. As a last desperate effort, and with prayer in my heart, I raised the canoe and shouted at the top of my lungs.
The bear swung its huge head around and saw a pair of legs, a body, and a 17-foot aluminum head growling at it. It was startled so badly it took off at a dead run. It took us about four hours to shake the hollow feeling we had after that close encounter, but we both knew the prayer had helped us through.

“Joe’s moving!”
“I’m sorry to hear that, honey.”
“What am I going to do? He’s basically my only friend!”
“How did you become such good friends with Joe in the first place?”
“We started talking one day, and then we just kept talking.
“We could talk about everything.”
“You could do that again. Find someone to talk to and see what happens. You might find you’ll keep talking.”
“I guess I can try that.”

When my mission president announced my transfer, I thought he must be punishing me. A native of France, I was serving in France and Switzerland. Now my new companion and I were called to be zone leaders in Avignon—a city where there had not been a convert baptism for many months.
My companion and I spent our first evening in Avignon discussing our situation and trying to find motivation and strength. One solution would be just wait for things to happen. But when we thought of how short our missions were, we knew that we would hate to waste precious months.
We remembered the scripture in Matthew 19:26: “With God all things are possible.” [Matt. 19:26] What if we were in this city and region for a reason? What if the people of this city were not as hopeless as we had been led to believe? What if their problems were only the missionaries’ attitudes toward them? What if the Lord would prepare a recompense commensurate with our faith, our effort, and our desire?
We decided not to pay attention to what others had said about Avignon. In our prayers, we asked the Lord to guide us to a choice soul—one whom we would be able to prepare for baptism the following month. And we promised the Lord that we would work with all our strength.
Two days later, we met and began teaching Haroun—and we baptized him exactly one month after we had made our commitment to the Lord. Haroun referred us to his neighbors who lived above his apartment, so we also began to teach the Langer family. They, too, accepted the gospel and were baptized. It is wonderful to watch the miracle of conversion in people you love.
Since the apartment building where Haroun and the Langer family lived had only two stories, with one apartment in each, we realized that their entire building was now converted to the Church! We had achieved 100 percent success there!
After four months of work, sacrifices, miracles, and blessings, the little branch in Avignon had practically doubled. The missionaries of our district had prepared fifteen people to come into the Church. Now all of the missionaries wanted to serve in that city. Its reputation had been restored. All of the bad ideas about it had changed.
A year after my mission, I attended the Swiss Temple and had the surprise and extreme joy of seeing Brother and Sister Langer and their three children there. I witnessed them kneel at the altar and be sealed as a family. Brother Eric Langer is now a high priest—and is president of the Avignon branch.
I thanked the Lord for his generosity to me. And I thanked him for enlightening my companion and me on that first evening in Avignon when we decided to work with all our strength. What would have been the result if we had just waited for things to happen?

Shortly after Edward was born, Mary Ann moved with her children to Salt Lake City and took work as a midwife, cook, and cleaning woman. Since her meager income could not support the needs of her family, Edward left school when he was twelve and went to work on the night shift at the Salt Lake Tribune.
A few months later Mary Ann had saved five dollars from Edward’s earnings for tithing. “Eddy,” she told him, “I have not paid your tithing yet. I know that you have no overcoat, and you must walk many miles to and from work each might. With winter coming on, it’s going to be bitter cold when you return home at four or five o’clock in the morning. So I’ll give you this money, and you can either pay your tithing or buy an overcoat. I’ll leave the decision up to you.”
He did exactly what she knew he’d do. Edward later recorded, “I took the money, ran immediately over to the bishop’s home, and paid the tithing.”
A week later his Aunt Mary came to visit, and brought with her an overcoat that one of her sons had outgrown. It fit Edward perfectly and “was a better overcoat than [he] could have purchased for five dollars.” After that day, Edward recorded, he was always generous in paying his tithes and other Church offerings.

The Book of Mormon helped one woman remember spiritual experiences from her youth. Miriam, a middle-aged Christian woman from Brazil, read a wonderful page, page 478. She then said:

I was very sick when I was young and my mother told me everyday to ask for God’s help. When I was five God came to me and blessed me. My father was killed in a car accident when I was 19 and when I ran up to my room upset I asked God where He was and why He would let this happen. He told me that my earthly father was gone, but I would always have my Heavenly Father. I’m so glad you’re doing this. I had forgotten about those experiences until I read this page. Reading this book lets people remember their spiritual experiences.

As two missionary sisters currently serving in the England Bristol Mission, we have really appreciated the New Era during the past week. One of us has had a contagious throat infection, so we weren’t allowed to contact people. The doctor said, “Do not spread the gospel or your germs!” Hence we’ve had plenty of time to study. Although none of the New Eras in our flat are too up to date, the oldies gave us plenty of “food for thought.” Keep up the good articles!
Sisters Reid and HornbyEngland Bristol Mission

I served in the Hungary Budapest Mission. When I returned home early, it was hard because all my companions were still out on their missions and I missed being a missionary. I also feared that other Church members would judge me, but fortunately, everyone treated me with love and understood my situation.
As time passed, I felt better. I read an article in the Liahona about early-returned missionaries that helped me feel better because I didn’t feel I was the only one anymore (see Destiny Yarbro, “Home Earlier Than Planned,” Liahona, Jan. 2018, 44–47). And I also took to heart what my aunt said: “Missionary work continues wherever we are.”
Lucas Ludwig Saito, São Paulo, Brazil

I am a professional ballet teacher. I teach talented young dancers in my studio. Before I was a ballet teacher, I was a professional dancer. I even danced for presidents and leaders from all over the world.
I love helping my students improve their ballet skills. I enjoy taking them to the ballet to watch others perform. I love to choreograph dances. I also like traveling around the country to teach.
First I had to learn how to dance. I practiced many hours a day. I learned the basic techniques and the history of ballet. I also learned the right posture and positions for each dance step. Soon I started helping my teachers. Then I became a teacher myself. Sometimes I even let my students make mistakes so they can learn from them.
Teaching ballet is the best job in the world. I use the talents Heavenly Father has given me to help other dancers discover their gifts. Then I encourage my students to share their talents with others. Heavenly Father wants us to find our talents, use them, and share them with as many people as we can.

Casey wiped the inside of the bus window, trying to see the frozen world outside through the blinding snow.
“It’s coming down really hard,” Andy remarked beside him.
“Looks like a blizzard!” Casey exclaimed.
“Won’t our moms be surprised at our getting home from school at noon!” Andy chortled.
“I’m going to play video games all afternoon!” Casey announced.
“Lucky you!”
“Ask your mom if you can come over.”
Andy beamed. “OK! If she says no, I’ll call you and moan over the phone.”
Casey chuckled. “Don’t call till after lunch!” He licked his lips. “Mom fixes the best grilled cheese sandwiches with tomato soup and a glass of cold milk! It sure beats our cafeteria food.”
“It sure does. Here’s my stop—I’ll call you.” Andy hurried to the front of the school bus to get off.
After Casey got off the bus, he scurried along the lane toward his house. As the snow piled higher, his house seemed farther than ever from the road. It sure will be good to get inside! he thought as he reached the door.
“Mom?” He hung up his cap and coat. “School let out early! I’m home! Mom?” He went into the kitchen and circled into the living room. No Mom. He ran into the laundry room and looked for her. Where was she? He was home—cold and hungry!
He looked out the window and toward the garage. The doors were closed, so he knew she hadn’t gone anywhere in the car.
He raced up the stairs two at a time. “Mom?” he shouted as he ran to his parents’ bedroom door. Then he stopped abruptly. “Mom?”
He tiptoed to the bed. She was covered with a quilt pulled high around her chin. “Mom?” Gently he touched her shoulder.
Her red-rimmed eyes barely opened. Casey touched her forehead lightly—it was hot! “Mom, you’re burning up! Should I call Dad … or Grandma?”
Her eyelids closed, then reopened. “Water, honey—a glass of cold water,” she said weakly. “With ice.”
Casey hurried downstairs to the kitchen. “Pitcher, pitcher,” he muttered. “Where’s the pitcher?”
He found the pitcher on the shelf beneath the breakfast counter. Quickly he filled it with ice and water and started back toward the stairs. Then he spun around and returned for a glass and a straw.
“Mom.” Casey slid a hand under her head. “Here’s your water.” He lifted her head and put the straw between her lips. “Drink, Mom—it’s ice water.”
She sipped the water, and Casey felt her skin burn beneath his touch.
“I’m calling Dr. Marshall!” he announced.
“I talked to him, honey. He said it’s just the flu.”
Just the flu? She looked awfully sick! “What’d he say you should do?”
“Just take aspirin, drink liquids, and get plenty of rest.”
“Aspirin—did you take some aspirin?”
She nodded, smiled, and closed her eyes.
Casey held her hand for a long minute. Coming home from school, he had only thought of himself. Now he was concerned about her.
Quietly he tiptoed from the room. The phone rang, and he grabbed it right away so it wouldn’t disturb her. “Colby residence,” he whispered with his hand cupped around the mouthpiece.
“Casey?” Dad replied. “What are you doing home, Son?”
“School let out early because of the snow, Dad, but Mom’s sick! She’s in bed, and I gave her some ice water. Can you come home early?”
“I talked to your mother and Dr. Marshall this morning, Casey. He told her to go right to bed and stay there. I’ll stop at the pharmacy on my way home and pick up some things that may make her feel more comfortable, but the doctor said the flu simply has to run its course. I’ll try to get home early, Son, but with the roads as they are, I doubt that I’ll get there much sooner than my usual time. Is everything else OK?”
“Yeah, but I don’t like it that Mom’s sick.”
“She probably got it nursing us a couple weeks ago.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“If you need me, call. I’ll be home as soon as I can.”
Casey ate a sandwich and drank some milk, then went back upstairs to check on Mom. Gently he put a damp cloth on her forehead. He felt the heat pouring out of her, and he suddenly felt awful. What if something happened to her? What would he and Dad do without Mom? She was always there for them. Please, Heavenly Father, make Mom better, he prayed silently.
When the phone rang again, her eyelids fluttered.
“I asked Mom, Casey,” Andy said on the other end. “The snow’s let up a little, and she said I could come over.”
Casey sat on the carpet with his back against Mom’s dresser and the phone cupped close to his face. His eyes were on his mother’s sick face.
“Sorry, Andy. Maybe another time. My mom’s sick, and the doctor told her to rest.”
“All your mom’s going to do is sleep, I bet!” Andy said. “Why don’t you come over here?”
Casey thought about how Mom had taken care of him when he was sick. “Thanks, but I’d better stay here. If she needs me, I want to be here. I’d better go now, Andy. I’ll talk to you later.”
“Wait! My mom wants to know if there’s anything she can do.”
“Tell her thanks, but everything is under control.”
“What about dinner?” Andy asked. “Can she send something?”
“Thanks, but I’m going to make waffles for me and Dad.”
“Waffles? When did you learn how to make them?”
“The frozen kind, Andy,” Casey explained. “Anyone can make them.”
“Well, OK. I’ll talk to you later, Case.”
Casey put the phone back on the nightstand. He pulled the quilt higher around Mom’s shoulders so she wouldn’t get a chill. As he tiptoed from the room, he smiled. It felt nice taking care of her for a change.

Another member, Miguel Samudio, joined the Church while studying in Buenos Aires. He made the difficult decision to leave his girlfriend behind and serve a mission. “Her parents wouldn’t let her get baptized, and she didn’t want me to go,” he explains. “But I had to. I had found a great treasure.” Six months later he received a photograph of her dressed in white and standing with two missionaries; he realized she had been baptized. When he returned, they were married in the temple. He was called as second counselor in the Jujuy stake presidency less than five years after his mission.