Gospel Story Finder

A friend of mine tells the story of coming to BYU for a job interview a few years ago when there was a huge hole in middle of campus for the underground addition to the library. This meant that many sidewalks were closed off and there were fences and detour signs everywhere. My friend had an appointment in the Administration building but he had parked by the student center. So he asked a freshman how to get there. The puzzled freshman furrowed his brow, thought about this for a moment, and then said: “You can’t get there from here.”
Too many young people feel this way nowadays about their own lives. They feel they can’t get through this assignment, class, or major; that they can never reach their goal to go on a mission, get married, have a family, qualify for a career, and so forth. In short, they can’t get there from here. So they are tempted to give up, feeling there is no hope; things will never get better; in fact, they’ll only get worse.
But there is hope! There is always hope! You CAN get there from here.

Some years ago a dear, faithful couple who are friends of mine were blessed with the arrival of a long-yearned-for son, for whom they had been praying for a long time. That home was filled with joy while our friends and their daughter, who was their only other child back then, enjoyed the company of the newly arrived little boy. One day, however, something unexpected happened: the little boy, who was only about three years old, suddenly went into a coma. As soon as I learned of the situation, I called my friend to express our support at that difficult time. But his reply was a lesson to me. He said, “If it is the Father’s will to take him to Him, then it is all right with us.” My friend’s words contained not the slightest degree of complaint, rebelliousness, or discontent. Quite the contrary, all I could feel in his words was gratitude to God for having allowed them to enjoy their little son for that brief time, as well as his total willingness to accept the Father’s will for them. A few days later, that little one was taken to his celestial mansion.

Janet: On my first night at BYU, I fell asleep in a daze of excitement for what was ahead, nostalgia for things left behind, and apprehension about the new chapter in my life. It is always hard to close the door on a segment of our lives until we find a window and catch a glimpse of the future.
During those first few weeks, I didn’t just love my classes, the mountains seemed to be closing in on me, I wondered where all the cute boys were, I missed the familiar food from home, my bed didn’t feel right, I had a hard time deciding how much time to devote to each class, there were ten thousand people in my biology section (imagine what I would have thought today), and my roommates didn’t like to go to sleep to my music.
I remember few times in my life when I was so discouraged. I used to walk from my dorm to the Eyring Science Center for my first class each morning almost on the verge of tears, thinking of how lonely and how far from home I was. “Was the fun part of my life over?” I used to wonder.
So many times now when I drive across campus I go past Heritage Halls, where I used to live. I think about the “me” of long ago, and I think about each one of you. Sometimes I drive slowly and try to see your faces. Occasionally, when I think I see a forlorn face, the motherly instinct in me wants to jump out and give you a hug and tell you it will be all right. I wouldn’t lie to you and tell you that life doesn’t have its disappointments. I would just talk with you about this all-important principle of perspective, and I would tell you what I wish I had known that first year: that life doesn’t have to be perfect to be perfectly wonderful.

In 2011, Elder Kevin W. Pearson spoke here at BYU–Hawaii and in illustrating the power of personal prayer, he shared an experience he’d had with his son who was born with a rare form of eye cancer called retinoblastoma. Despite prayers and fasting, when the surgeons went in to perform surgery on his 3-month-old baby, they found that one of his son’s eyes had been completely destroyed and the other had serious tumors that needed immediate treatment. Elder Pearson recalled the thoughts that entered his mind as he walked in the chilly San Francisco air outside the hospital that day, “There had been no blessing, and clearly the Lord had not intervened. Our faith it seems had been no more than vain hope. My faith was shattered. I began to question everything I had ever believed. As I walked, I felt betrayed and angry. I was overcome with pain.

“I am not proud of the conversation I had with Heavenly Father as I walked and wept that morning.” But as he walked the words of a familiar primary song entered his mind, “Heavenly Father, are you really there? And do you hear and answer every child's prayer?” In that moment, Elder Pearson said, “a tender mercy came. In my mind and heart, I felt these words: ‘Kevin, he is my son too.’”

Elder Pearson continued: “That moment has made a deep and profound impact on my life. We would face another six years of serious challenges as we battled our little son's condition to save his other eye and his life. But I now knew that Heavenly Father was aware and in charge.” [1]

I think the type of prayer Elder Pearson describes is likely one of Heavenly Father’s favorite kinds—where despite our hurt or our disappointment or our anger, we’ve still chosen to turn to Him. Where else would we go? He can handle that hurt and he can take our pain, He just wants us to turn to Him which leads me to my first point today: It is difficult to trust someone we do not know.

With that in mind, I go back to the story of Elder Pearson. A young father who had just learned that his 3-month-old’s eye would need to be removed. A young father weeping in the dark, damp San Francisco air.
I wish I could go back and show that young dad what I see every day as his son plays with our children. I wish he could’ve somehow known that I believe in many ways cancer is the thing that made his son so wonderful. That painful years of wearing goggles while playing sports made him empathetic and kind. That years of medical treatments and surgeries would instill in him a love and gratitude for his parents that make him a wonderful son and an incredible father. That his appreciation for life and the opportunities it gives makes my life so much better. And that his goodness, that no doubt stems from that moment His dad chose to trust God, is the thing that makes me fall in love with him all over again every day.
I wish that young father could’ve seen just for a moment what I see every day in his son. But if I could go back to that young dad, I would be spoiling a beautiful part of the story.

Striving to follow the example of the Saviour Jesus Christ in all areas of their lives, especially socially and physically, about 70 youth in Ethiopia, Addis Ababa united in planting 200 fruit trees.
This effort came after the Ethiopia, Addis Ababa Mission president, Robert J. Dudfield, and the president of Meganagna Branch, Birhanu Molla, reached out to the local government for an opportunity to serve.
“We reached out to see if there was a service opportunity in the local area and they came back with the desire [for us] to plant fruit trees,” said President Dudfield.
President Dudfield and President Molla proceeded to organize a youth conference, where the youth of the Church, full-time missionaries, and Church leaders from various branches in Addis Ababa, motivated by the yearning to help their communities, put forward their gardening tools and got their green fingers to work.
About six weeks’ worth of planning and planting under the scorching Ethiopian sun resulted in 200 planted apples, limes, mango, and avocado trees.
“[With] fruit much harder and much more expensive to get in Addis Ababa, the local government met our efforts with delight and gratitude. The fruit trees will feed the homeless in the local community,” President Dudfield said.
Testifying of the fruits of service, Elder Dylan Gilman, a full-time missionary serving in Addis Ababa said that the opportunity had helped unify the youth.
“It was amazing to see the youth come together to help the community. Planting fruit trees was [such] an uplifting experience, particularly seeing the youth have an opportunity to be united while serving others. Ethiopia is truly blessed with an amazing group of youth,” Elder Gilman said.
Hana Debebe Hailu, a youth from the Megenagna Branch, expressed her gratitude on the impact of service during the project.
“I liked how we were in a group during the activities, it was also great to see each of us helping one another. I met a lot of people and saw my friends. I was very happy about the experience and lessons too. The lessons made me feel great because it was about God, serving and loving one another. I will never forget this experience.”
Another youth, Moti Tegegn Lemma from the Summit Branch, opened up about how the fruit tree service helped him grow socially.
“In the service activity I have learned a lot of things, I can’t count how many. I have been able to meet many friends and I am very grateful to God for helping me to be able to spend time doing service and helping others,” Moti said.

Mondays are currently my favorite day of the week. Around 10 a.m. each Monday morning I get to read the weekly letter from our son serving his mission in Farmington, New Mexico. Later that afternoon I get to read another missionary letter from our son serving in Mesa, Arizona. I love reading their missionary experiences, reading how their testimony of the gospel is growing, and of course seeing their most recent pictures. Our sons express how they are loving their respective areas and more importantly that they are loving the people they have been called to serve. They often write how happy they are as a result of serving the Lord every hour of every day. The feelings I get when I read their letters contribute to my own abundant life experience. It is apparent that their experiences are bringing great blessings to them as well. The weekly letters we receive from our boys and their unique life-changing experiences are duplicated in the missionary e-mails we read from their teammates. Some mention providing many acts of service including giving priesthood blessings. They are all instruments in the Lord's hands, helping individuals come unto Christ, helping individuals become converted and being baptized. Many are involved in helping couples move closer to their goal of attending the temple and being sealed together as a couple and as families.

My wife and I often comment on the letters we read from our boys and their teammates and ask the question "Is this the same young man we knew a few months ago?" We know the answer to this question. The answer is: yes and No. The experience they had on the football team was one they will always remember and cherish but the experiences they are having on their missions have so much more significance experiences they will reflect upon for years to come. These young men are experiencing the blessings that come from achieving their goal of serving a mission and then faithfully serving. They are currently experiencing their own abundant lives and are helping many others do the same. They are experiencing the abundant life that comes from setting goals with eternal significance and focusing on things that matter most.

One day in May the citizens of that last great earthly kingdom got together to visit their inheritance from the Moslem kingdom of Granada. The young men and women of the Granada Branch went to the Alhambra. They passed through the Pomegranate Gate, the woods, the Gate of Justice, the Court of the Cisterns, the Wine Gate, the Esplanade, and into the Alcazares, the royal palace of the Caliphs of Granada.
They found chamber after chamber of exquisite beauty. The walls and ceilings were decorated in a lacy filigree of plaster, as lovely as ivory. The plaster writhes and vibrates with flowers, leaves, Arabic poetry, Koranic quotations, and interweaving arabesques of pure design. Many walls are also bright with mosaic tile.
They passed through the court of the Myrtals where a long pool reflects a fantasy of arches and pillars and the Court of the Lions where 124 slender pillars surround a fountain supported by 12 stone lions who spurt water from their mouths. Reflected in the fountain, ornate archwork bursts from the tops of the pillars.
The young men and women explored a fairyland of courts, chambers, and patios with such intriguing names as the Hall of Secrets, Hall of the Boat, Hall of Kings, Court of the Cypresses, and the Royal Baths, each a wonderland opening onto other wonderlands.
Decorated as they are in the perishable medium of plaster, these halls were clearly not built as a monument to the ages, but as the tribute to present beauty—beauty that has defied the ravages of time and lingered down the ages as fresh and sweet as when birds first sang outside the windows of Caliph and courtiers.
For a long while the young people wandered through the cool halls and passageways where pillars grow in forests of airy delight, full of sunlight and shadow. Intricately carved stalactites of wood and plaster hang from ceilings as if from some enchanted cavern. Subtle breezes and silvery echoes, the hush of leaves and rippling waves of light eddy about pools of shadow and silence. Through lacy windows in the outside walls could be seen sun-wrapped Granada and the gypsy caves of Sacromonte. From geometric portals cut in domes high overhead, sunlight speared down in shafts of glory.
It was hard to imagine a palace more delightful than this, and yet a splendid melancholy seemed to brood over the whole scene, a delicious yearning for magical times past. There was, as the poet Angel Ganivet once said, a “profound sadness that emanates from a deserted palace, forsaken by its inhabitants, imprisoned in the impalpable thread woven by the spirit of destruction, that invisible spider whose feet are dreams.”
After sharing their testimonies and finishing their visit to the palace complex, the group passed through the palace of Carlos V and then into the military fortifications known as the Alcasabar, which rear their battlements on the brow of the hill. They climbed to the top of the Watchtower, whose bell was rung of old at times of alarm or celebration. Ringed all about by the wild and ancient sky, they gazed southward at the mounting Sierra Nevadas and all around them at the rose and alabaster glory of Granada. Rinsed and burnished and transfigured by the high, fierce Andalusian sun, it seemed to be a glimpse of the afterlife Muhammad had promised the devout.
Next the young men and women passed into the Generalife—the exquisite series of gardens on the slope above the Alhambra, a world of green and shadow rich in roses, oleanders, rhododendrons, and lofty cypresses, and everywhere the song of water.
The waters speak, and they weep
Beneath the white oleanders;
Beneath the rose oleanders,
The waters weep and they sing
For the myrtle in bloom
Above the opaque waters.
Madness of singing and crying,
Of the souls, of the tears!
These lines by Juan Ramón Jimenez capture the beauty and mystery of these beautiful gardens. Among the white buildings, the dignified towers, the hedges, and the flowerbeds are some of the world’s most beautiful fountains. They are not spectacular or large. They are not adorned with beautiful statuary. But in them is perfected the charm of the simple elegance of water, delicate and refreshing and musical, made by a people with a desert heritage who knew how to value water as something precious in its own right.
The youths wandered through a storybook realm of flowers and hedges and pools and pavilions, where caliphs once strolled in the cool of the evening. Symphonies have been written about the Generalife, but none is more beautiful than the place itself. The sun-entangled trees brought to mind the words of Federico García Lorca:
How hard it is for the daylight
To take its leave of Granada!
It entangles itself in the cypress
Or hides beneath the water.
Earthly days pass even more swiftly than earthly kingdoms, and the young people finished their visit to the Alhambra and returned to their homes.

After it snowed all day, my neighborhood was covered with over a foot of slushy snow. I wanted to be alone and have some time to think, so I decided to go out and shovel driveways. I knew of several elderly widows who could use the help.
I went out and walked from house to house, shoveling driveways. Suddenly, I felt the love of our Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. It filled me with hope and the understanding that even though times were tough, everything would be OK. I have found that if we need help to overcome trials, one of the best ways is to help others. I also learned that if you are doing good things, you will be more receptive to the Spirit.
Jared L., Washington, USA

This time last year, I was sure that I had my summer figured out: after taking a few weeks of needed rest after the first year of my master’s degree, I would spend the summer months hiking with friends, being at home with my family, working as an intern for a landscape architect, and competing in a national flower show. Most certainly, it would involve me making the regular trip to the University of Nottingham to serve as a counsellor at For the Strength of Youth—an event that has become a summer staple for me, of a sort.
However, fast forward a few months, and my plans had changed entirely; with travel now prohibited and events cancelled or postponed, it was looking likely to be a very different summer. I’ll admit that it was initially hard not to feel disappointed, and I found myself wondering how this new normal would compare to what I had planned.
Enter the Rise and Reach programme, a summer initiative that brought together youth, young adults, and full-time missionaries across the UK as they participated in various online activities and performed acts of service. As part of this initiative, I was brought in as co-organiser and leader of a virtual choir, formally known as The Rising Generation Choir. I soon found that much of my summer was spent with other choir team members (a small group of five YSAs). We worked on arranging music, organising rehearsals, and creating promotional material to be distributed to wards and stakes across the country to encourage people to get involved.
Over just two months, the choir—now over 100 members strong—could rehearse, record, and perform multiple songs and group ensembles, which were broadcast during an evening of music through the Church’s primary social media channels in November. This feat—though incredible—was made more significant through the efforts and enthusiasm of those who participated.
Reflecting on those weeks, I can say that while it wasn’t the summer experience that I had initially wanted, the Lord had a perfect plan to give me the summer I never knew I needed: a summer of forming friendships, serving others, and strengthening testimony. Having the opportunity to participate in the Rise and Reach programme has strengthened my belief in the positive impact that service has in our lives; the Lord will bless and strengthen our efforts when we strive to do good.

Several years ago, I was asked to preside over a stake conference in British Columbia. Often we will ask stake presidents to arrange visits for us while we are in their area. The stake president took me to the home of a family who had emigrated from Cuba to Canada, seeking a new start and a better life. As we visited with this couple, I asked Sister Gomez to tell me her conversion story.

Sister Gomez serenely described their circumstances as they had tried to navigate the unfamiliar waters of a new place, a different culture, employment, language barriers, and a host of other difficulties. You can imagine how scary that would be. She said that in the midst of this turmoil in their lives, she became very depressed, feeling alone and forgotten. She began to wonder if they had made a horrible mistake by leaving family, friends, and a culture where she belonged. She felt she did not belong nor would ever belong in her new surroundings.

Sister Gomez recounted the day she sat in a park watching her children; her sadness was intense. As she watched her precious children, she worried for their well-being, and a cloud of despair descended upon her. She felt a tap on her shoulder and turned to see a woman. The woman asked if she could sit down and if their children could play together. Sister Gomez agreed, and over time and several play dates they became close friends as this woman listened intently to the difficulties Sister Gomez was facing with her family. Eventually this woman invited Sister Gomez to attend church, promising that she would find friendship and love there.

Sister Gomez accepted the invitation and was warmly welcomed. Eventually she received the missionaries and was baptized. “I have never felt as loved before,” she said. “My friend was like a savior to me.”

I have never met her friend, but I feel that she was a peacemaker in the truest sense. She offered peace to a very troubled soul by reaching out with a simple tap on the shoulder. Then she listened and listened and listened. With her friendship, she brought Sister Gomez peace by bringing her closer to the Savior.

“After making the decision to serve a full-time mission—and as I was waiting for my mission call—I received an opportunity from a well-known coach who wanted to send me a plane ticket and a visa so I could go play in Iran. I took three long days to think about the coach’s offer; but on the first day, I knew I already had the answer to my prayer—and that answer was to serve the Lord.
“I can truthfully say that I believe in my future and that serving a mission will help me make the dream come true.”

My wife, Harriet, and I love riding our bicycles. It is wonderful to get out and enjoy the beauties of nature. We have certain routes we like to bike, but we don’t pay too much attention to how far we go or how fast we travel in comparison with other riders.
However, occasionally I think we should be a bit more competitive. I even think we could get a better time or ride at a higher speed if only we pushed ourselves a little more. And then sometimes I even make the big mistake of mentioning this idea to my wonderful wife.
Her typical reaction to my suggestions of this nature is always very kind, very clear, and very direct. She smiles and says, “Dieter, it’s not a race; it’s a journey. Enjoy the moment.”
How right she is!

Certainly we shall never forget the fateful story of June, 1844. The Lord had informed him or inspired him to know that if he fell into the hands of the law at Carthage, he would be killed. Obedient to the revelation, he prepared to flee to the West and find a home for the Saints in the valleys of the mountains. He crossed the Mississippi to the Iowa side. The horses were ready; they were packed. But before the party could get underway, a messenger came across the river from his wife, Emma: “The people in Nauvoo are saying that you are running away. They say you are a coward, that you are leaving them to their fate.”

He turned to his brother, Hyrum, and said, “If my life is of no value to my friends it is of no value to me. We are going back.” As he rode from the city of Nauvoo toward Carthage, which was to be the place of his martyrdom, he stopped at a little rise and turning back, said to those with him, “Oh, that I could but speak once more to my beloved people!” Yes, he loved people.

As Joseph Smith rode from Nauvoo toward Carthage, he met Stephen Markham and was asked, “Joseph, where are you going?” Joseph’s answer rings down the ages: “I am going like a lamb to the slaughter, but I am calm as a summer’s morning. I have a conscience void of offense toward God and all men.” Would that all of us could say that!

To heal, and to be healed. These are separate gifts. The Prophet was called upon, over and over, to administer—sometimes with oil, sometimes not—to those who were sick, both in his own family and beyond it. On the occasion now known in LDS annals as “the day of God’s power” (July 22, 1839), he himself arose from a sick bed of cholera and went across the river to Montrose, Iowa.66 Dozens were instantaneously healed that day. His journal says only, “Many of the sick were this day raised up by the power of God.”67 He does not add, “and I was the major instrument.” We learn from others’ journals that he led that procession of faith.68

AUNT JANE, an AFRO-AMERICAN CONVERT, typifies the witness of thousands who saw the Prophet in life and death:
"We had come afoot, a thousand miles. We lay in bushes, and in barns and outdoors, and traveled until there was a frost just like a snow, and we had to walk on that frost. I could not tell you, but I wanted to go to Brother Joseph.
"I did not talk much to him, but every time he saw me he would say, "God bless you," and pat me on the shoulder. To Sister Emma, he said, 'go and clothe her up, go down to the store and clothe her up.' Sister Emma did. She got me clothes by the bolt. I had everything.
". . . . I could not begin to tell you what he was, only this way, he was tall, over six feet; he was a fine, big, noble, beautiful man! He had blue eyes and light hair, and very fine white skin.
When he was killed, I liked to a died myself, I felt so bad. I was sick abed, and the teachers told me.
You don't want to die because he did. He died for us, and now we all want to live and do all the good we can."

Through service to others, we develop a Christlike love and we experience joy. Service teaches patience and long-suffering as well as gentleness, goodness, and faith. The Bruce and Joyce Erickson family of Centerville, Utah, illustrates this process. The Ericksons were blessed with six children, three who are strong and healthy and three who suffered from a rare genetic disease called glutaric acidemia, which causes a spastic, permanent type of paralysis (see Bruce and Joyce Erickson, When Life Doesn’t Seem Fair [1995], 280–81).

The two oldest children, Michelle and Lara, were blessed with healthy bodies. Cindy, the third child, was normal for the first seven months of her life, but then the disease overtook her. For 18 years doctors were unable to diagnose the problem. Terror struck the family as they tried to understand and deal with Cindy’s suffering. Sister Erickson sometimes spent seven hours a day trying to feed her, and Cindy cried day and night and seldom slept more than 45 minutes in a 24-hour period. At the time of her death in 1995, Cindy was one of the oldest persons with the disease. She never was able to walk or talk. Her body was constantly racked by the twisting and contracting of her muscles, and she weighed less than 25 kilograms as a young adult.

When Cindy reached a point in her development that was a little less demanding, the Ericksons had a fourth child, Heidi, and then a fifth, Heather. Heather developed normally for the first six or seven months, but then she, too, started showing subtle yet troubling symptoms. Sister Erickson decided to take Heather to a doctor, but he could see nothing wrong. Unconvinced, Sister Erickson made an appointment for Heather to see a physical therapist.

A few days before the appointment, the visiting teachers came by. When they asked how the family was doing, Sister Erickson mentioned her concern about Heather’s development and indicated she was taking the baby to see a physical therapist on Friday.

“Little did I realize,” Sister Erickson writes, “but at that moment the ‘still small voice’ whispered to those wonderful sisters that I would need help on Friday. So, acting on that prompting by the Spirit, one visiting teacher volunteered to watch Heidi, and the other one later secretly called Bruce and arranged to get a key to our house so she could clean our kitchen while I was gone.
“Friday finally came. As I drove Heather to the clinic, I had a sick feeling in my stomach, a lump in my throat, and a prayer in my heart. I was trying to muster the courage to accept that which I had already suspected” (When Life Doesn’t Seem Fair, 17–18).

The therapist confirmed Joyce’s fears, and she felt devastated. After an hour with her husband at his workplace, where they shared a heartfelt prayer, Sister Erickson headed home. As she opened the front door, she was immediately hit by the aroma of freshly baked bread. She saw that the dishes were done, the kitchen counters were spotless, the floor was mopped and waxed, there was a new tablecloth on the table, and the stove and refrigerator were clean. The kitchen was immaculate! When she walked into the living room, she saw that the floor had been vacuumed, the furniture dusted, and freshly cut flowers in a new vase had been placed on the television. With a heart less heavy, she went upstairs. The beds were made, the bedrooms and bathrooms were spotless, and the laundry was done.

As she entered her bedroom to pray, her previously heavy heart was filled with gratitude and love—gratitude for the gospel and an immense love for her visiting teachers, who had followed the promptings of the Spirit and asked five other sisters to help.

“Although their cleaning my house didn’t change anything about Heather’s handicap,” Sister Erickson writes, “it helped me focus on something outside my immediate feelings of hurt and pain, and it helped me see that I really did have blessings to be thankful for. In a very real sense, it lightened my load and, in the process, taught me once again that the way we help each other is by serving and ‘bearing one another’s burdens, that they may be light.’ How grateful I am to have learned that lesson, for I believe it is central to the entire gospel plan” (When Life Doesn’t Seem Fair, 19).

I wonder what feelings the seven sisters had after baking the bread, cleaning the house, and doing the laundry. I have not heard their side of the story, but I suspect that peace and joy filled their hearts. Special feelings of love and gentleness must have pervaded their spirits. Increased faith must have swelled within them. The greatest miracle of the Atonement is the power Jesus Christ has to change our character if we come to Him with a broken heart and a contrite spirit.

“Wider, please.”
Lane was reluctant to show the tartar on his teeth to the cute, new dental assistant, but he had no choice. She pulled the overhead light closer. He admired her green eyes, all he could see of her face. The rest was hidden behind the surgical mask. He watched her gloved fingers juggle the little dental pick and mirror as she scraped at his teeth.
Lane was relieved to see that Rhonda, the regular assistant who had worked there for years, was not there. She was an older woman who had always been very nice to him, but she had a horrible case of dandruff and he could see the flakes all too clearly whenever she bent her head over his open mouth.
“You must be new,” he managed to say to the assistant. It was obvious, but it was all he could think of to say. “I’ve been coming to Dr. Hodges since I was a little boy, and I’ve never seen you here.”
“Mmmm,” she said, concentrating. “Just moved here. How often do you floss?”
“Uh, well, maybe a few times a month. I kind of forget to do it every day,” he admitted. Now he regretted being so lax with his flossing. He was probably not making a very good impression. He would have to hurry to change that. Once Dr. Hodges injected the anesthetic, his mouth would go numb. It would be impossible to impress her with a lopsided smile and garbled speech. He wondered how he could let her know that he had made the winning basket last year in the high school playoffs without seeming arrogant.
He missed his chance. The assistant squirted his mouth and suctioned the water out, dabbed his face with the paper bib pinned around his neck, then left. He heard his little brother Evan talking to her from the cubicle next to his. Evan would talk her leg off. Dad had predicted that Evan would grow up to be either a police negotiator or an auctioneer.
“Hey, my brother has to get his teeth fixed, and he already had a whole bunch of shots. I don’t think he cried. He’s getting a short haircut, and my mom and dad bought him a bunch of suits and ties.”
“Wow,” was all the assistant said, in a dull-sounding tone. She told Evan, “I’m putting some of this cleaning stuff on your teeth. It’s a little gritty, like sand, but it tastes like cherries. I’ll use this little tool and scrub your teeth with it, okay?”
“Oh, that’s like the cleanser I use on the bathtub on Saturday when I do my Saturday jobs. Except it tastes better.” There was a pause, and then Evan said, “Not that I ever ate cleanser. Yuck!”
It was quiet while the assistant scrubbed his teeth, but as soon as Evan’s mouth was free, Lane could hear him talking again.
Dr. Hodges came in. For a moment, Lane was distracted while the dentist examined his teeth and got ready to give him the anesthetic.
Lane could hear Evan as he continued to talk. “I’m getting baptized next Saturday. I’m eight, so I’m old enough because I mostly know how to tell right from wrong. Baptisms are in a big font like a warm swimming pool. I guess it’s like a bath for my spirit. Hey, you can come if you want. It’s at seven on Saturday night at Westbrook chapel, just a couple blocks from my house.”
Lane was thinking, Come up for air, buddy, even as his eyes squinted in pain as Dr. Hodges nestled the needle into the back of his mouth.
Evan kept talking. “My brother’s going on a mission. It’s for our church, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Some people call us Mormons because we have the Book of Mormon. It’s kind of like the Bible, but we read the Bible, too. Anyway, my brother will go to Argentina and baptize people there after he teaches them about the gospel. They put on white clothes and go under the water too. Nobody drowns,” he added.
Then Evan said, “He’ll be gone a long time. Two whole years. And nobody pays him. He usually doesn’t do things for free.” Lane could hear a smile in Evan’s voice when he said, “And I get his room.”
Dr. Hodges chuckled and said, “Your little brother’s quite a talker.” All Lane could say, with his mouth full of anesthetic, was, “Tell me about it.”
In the next cubicle, the assistant said, “Evan, we’re all done. If you want, you can wait for your brother here.”
“Okay,” Evan answered cheerfully. “I brought my Friend with me. Do you get the Friend?” Without waiting for her to answer, he continued, “I don’t think the dentist gets it because I didn’t see it with the magazines in the waiting room.”
Lane didn’t think the assistant understood Evan because she said, “Your friend, huh? What’s his name?”
Evan patiently explained, “No, the Friend isn’t a person; it’s a magazine for kids about my church. There are magazines for big people, too. You can look at mine and see what’s in it. There are stories and games. I was trying to find all the stuff hidden in this picture.”
Lane could hear the assistant putting instruments away and moving around in the cubicle. Lane’s attention quickly became focused on his own mouth as Dr. Hodges carefully drilled out his cavities and applied the fillings.
Evan was still talking. “My brother is going to explain about the Church on his mission to people like you who don’t know about it. You’d really like it. We learn about Jesus and how to be like him. I have my own Book of Mormon, but my grandma will give me a brand-new one with gold on the edges and my name on it when I get baptized. I think the dentist needs one in his waiting room. He can have my old one. I brought it to read the part about Jesus coming to America. My dad marked the place for me.”
Finally, the appointment was over. Lane tried one last time to talk to the assistant. “Sorry about my little brother,” he said, flashing his clean teeth in what he hoped was a brilliant smile, though he could feel only half his mouth curve upward. “He’s really a chatterbox.”
“No problem,” the girl said. “I think he’s cute.”
Lane refrained from asking what she thought of Evan’s older brother, though he was tempted. He hoped she thought he was cute, too.
She said, “Going to Argentina, huh?”
“Yes,” Lane said, quickly adding, “I’ll only be gone for two years. Do you plan to work here for a while?” She smiled and left to clean more teeth.
Evan picked out a toy dinosaur from the dentist’s treasure chest, then told Dr. Hodges, “I’m leaving you this book for your waiting room.” He held out his Book of Mormon to show him. “It doesn’t cost you anything.”
Dr. Hodges looked puzzled but nodded his consent and then went to attend to a patient.
On the way home, Evan suggested they stop at the store for some candy, but Lane said no. “You want to undo all the work we just had done? That’s how you get cavities! You keep it up and the only thing you’ll be able to eat will be soup.”
They rode in silence for a split second. “Is that how you got all your cavities?” Evan asked.
After the baptism, Evan changed into dry clothes and was talking to his grandpa when he looked to the back of the room and started waving furiously. “Hey! You came!”
Lane was startled to see Dr. Hodges standing near the back. Evan called out, “Hey, he’s my dentist!”
The boys and their parents made their way to Dr. Hodges and told him they were glad to see him. Dr. Hodges smiled at Evan and said, “You were right, Evan. You didn’t drown.”
To Evan’s parents, he said, “I hope you don’t mind my coming. My sister has been writing to me about the Book of Mormon, and she has been talking about getting baptized. Evan invited us to come to his baptism when he was at the office last week, and I wanted to see what your church was about. I’ve known your family for years, and I know you’re good people, but I didn’t realize you were Mormon until Evan brought in his Book of Mormon and told us about your church.”
He spoke to Evan again. “I hope you don’t mind that I took your Book of Mormon home with me. I’ve really enjoyed reading it.”
After they got home, Evan came into Lane’s room, where Lane was packing his suitcase. Lane had been quietly getting ready to go to the Missionary Training Center, thinking about Evan’s baptism. He was feeling ashamed. He had had plenty of opportunities to talk about the Church at the dentist’s office and didn’t. He was too busy hanging onto the last shred of his social life before leaving. He had thought it would be hard to be a missionary because he didn’t know what to say to people. But wasn’t missionary work just getting the word out and being happy about having the gospel, like Evan? It was that simple.
“Hey, buddy,” Lane said, hugging his little brother, “you are one terrific missionary. Think you might fit into my suitcase? I could be your junior companion.”

A true story from Canada.
Crunch, crunch, crunch.
Katie’s shoes softly crunched through the snow as she walked to the workshop. When she opened the door, the familiar smell of oil and grease came from the tractor her dad had been fixing.
“How’s my Katie?” Dad asked as she stepped inside.
“I’m freezing!” She stomped the snow off her boots. “What are you making?”
He turned to his workbench. Bits of wood were scattered around a doll cradle. Katie sucked in a big breath. Could it be for her? Maybe it was for her younger sister, Jane.
“It’s so cute,” Katie said. “Is it for Jane?”
Dad shook his head no. “Do you remember Mr. Roy, the man who worked with us during harvest time?”
Katie nodded.
“He and his family found a house to rent, but they’re going through a hard time,” Dad said. “He’s worried his three little girls won’t have much of a Christmas this year. But your mom and I have some special gifts for them.”
Katie walked over to the little cradle and rocked it back and forth.
Dad smiled. “If you were a little girl, would you like this cradle?”
She laughed. “I am a little girl!”
Then Katie realized who the cradle was for. It was for Mr. Roy’s daughters!
“Can I help?”
“You can help me paint,” Dad said. His eyes sparkled.
Dad had made three cradles, one for each girl. He opened some paint cans, and Katie got to work. She painted them soft pink, baby blue, and pale yellow. With each stroke of her brush, she felt more excited.
She turned to her dad. “When I saw the first cradle, I hoped it was for me. But helping is so fun. I hope the girls love the cradles as much as I love painting them.”
On Christmas Eve, Katie and her family went to the Roys’ house.
Tap, tap, tap. Katie knocked on the door and waited. When the door opened, she saw a girl about her age with white-blonde hair and a thin yellow dress. Two younger girls peeked around her.
A moment later, Mrs. Roy appeared in the doorway too.
“Merry Christmas,” Mom said.
Katie and her family carried in the cradles, three wrapped dolls, and a big box full of Christmas food. Mrs. Roy watched, tears glittering in her eyes as each of the girls chose a cradle. Slowly the girls overcame their shyness. With faces full of wonder, they wrapped their new baby dolls in the cozy quilts Katie’s mom had made.
Katie sat by the oldest girl. “What’s your name?”
“Flossie,” the girl said.
“I’m Katie. Do you like the cradle?” she asked.
Flossie smiled big. “It’s the prettiest thing I ever had.”
“I’m glad you like it. I helped paint it!”
“Thank you,” she whispered as she wrapped her small arms around Katie.
Dad closed the door as they left the Roys’ house. He squeezed Katie’s shoulder. “What do you think the best part of Christmas is?”
Katie looked up at her dad with a smile. “I used to think it was getting a gift, but now I think maybe it’s giving a gift to someone else.”
“We all can be instruments in the Lord’s hands and act compassionately toward those in need, just as Jesus did.”
Elder Ulisses Soares, “The Savior’s Abiding Compassion,” Liahona, Nov. 2021, 14.
Illustration by Melissa Manwill Kashiwagi

Peter had always heard in Primary and read in the scriptures that prophets feel a great love for Heavenly Father’s children. One hot summer day, he discovered for himself that it was true.
Peter and his family, who lived in Iowa, were spending the summer of 1999 in Salt Lake City, Utah, at the condominium of their grandparents, who were away serving a mission. On the afternoon of August 11, Peter and his sister, Robbin, stood on the balcony, looking across at the Church Office Building and the valley beyond.
As they watched, a huge windstorm engulfed the Delta Center (a downtown sports arena) in a towering gray-black cloud. They could hear angry pops as power transformers exploded and hail rattled down. Electrical wires snapped, sparking and wriggling like brilliant glowing snakes.
“Mom!” Peter called. “Come quickly! The Delta Center is coming apart!”
His mother appeared at the window, and they all watched as giant pieces of the Delta Center roof spiraled into the air. The day had turned nearly as dark as night as the swirling storm sucked up dirt and debris, growing ever larger. Something felt familiar about the spinning, funnel-shaped cloud that came churning straight toward them.
“That’s a tornado!” Peter’s mother exclaimed. “Quick, come inside away from those windows!”
Peter grabbed his sister’s hand, and they rushed inside. The condominium was on the corner of the building’s top floor, and the room where they stood had two walls of glass. Peter knew from tornado drills at school that flying glass could be deadly. They had to get out of there, but where could they go?
A deep rumbling shook the building, growing louder every second. The wind howled. Dirt, rocks, bits of cement and wood, and who-knew-what-else pelted the windows like fierce rain.
Could they make it to the hallway? What if the glass shattered first? “The bathroom!” Mother and Peter shouted at the same moment.
Grabbing each other’s hands, the three rushed into the bathroom and slammed the door. They clung together near the bathtub, waiting and listening. The wind’s shrieking grew so loud that it hurt their ears. There was a loud bang, and the electricity went out. The walls and floors trembled. It sounded as if a jet plane was trying to land on their heads. Peter wondered if the roof might be sucked off. He closed his eyes and prayed silently. In the darkness, noise filled the room, their ears, and their minds.
Suddenly it was gone. The winds died. The banging stopped. Peter breathed a huge sigh of relief and tried to stop trembling. They were safe.
Together they walked back out onto the balcony. Miraculously, none of their windows were broken. But across the street, huge trees lay on the ground as if toppled by a massive hand. Cars had been smashed. A gigantic yellow crane had fallen against the unfinished Conference Center. Some windows of the Church Office Building had been broken.
Robbin glanced at a nearby apartment building. “Look! Look!” she cried, pointing. “There’s President Hinckley!”
Peter turned and looked. There stood President Hinckley on his own balcony, gazing out over the damage. Peter forgot the chaos below and stood watching the prophet for a long moment. At last, rather slowly, President Hinckley turned away and went back inside.
Peter smiled and leaned against his mother. “Wow,” he said softly.
Mother nodded. “That was some storm. I mean, how often does Salt Lake City have a tornado?”
“No.” Peter quickly shook his head. “Not that. I mean President Hinckley. He came to see what had happened. And you know what?”
“What?”
“I could feel his love and concern from here.”
Mother slipped her arm around his shoulder. “Makes you feel good, doesn’t it?”
Peter gave her a quick hug. “I think he loves us just as much as we love him.”
Mother smiled. “I’m sure he does.”
Fire engines, police sirens, and helicopters drew Peter’s attention back to the destruction. But he felt only peace. He would never forget the day he saw a prophet watching over his flock.

Lisa loved to dance. Twice a week she went to Mrs. Joule’s ballet school for lessons. But no matter how hard she worked, Lisa felt she would never be as good as Susan or Jody, the best students in the class. The proof was in the mirrors that covered one whole wall of the huge ballet practice room.
Oh, those knees! thought Lisa as she stared at her reflection. Why do they have to stick out when everyone else’s are straight? Lisa worried because her toes didn’t point as gracefully or her legs kick as high as the rest of the girls’. She also believed that she was the only one who ever fell down while doing ballet turns across the room. Lisa wanted to be in the first line, where all the best dancers were, instead of the second or third line. If she became good enough, Mrs. Joule would move her up, but that seemed impossible.
One afternoon when Lisa reached into her bag for her pink ballet slippers, they weren’t there. She had left them at home. “Mrs. Joule,” she called, “may I borrow a pair of slippers?”
“Of course,” her teacher replied, and she brought in a big box full of slippers that she kept for such an emergency. Each pair was folded neatly and held together with a rubber band.
After sorting through a few pairs with Mrs. Joule, Lisa found a nearly new pair of pink slippers that were held with satin ribbons instead of strips of elastic as her own were. They were exactly her size! “How about these?” she asked.
“Fine,” Mrs. Joule responded, adding, “I remember these shoes. They belonged to Eileen Webster, who’s with a big ballet company now. I’m proud to say she is one of their best dancers.”
Lisa slipped the shoes on and tied the smooth satin ribbons around her ankles. How comfortable they were. In fact, Eileen Webster’s shoes felt wonderfully special. And so did Lisa. She daydreamed about being a great ballerina until someone shook her shoulder. “It’s time for class,” Susan said.
That afternoon Lisa danced better than usual. She did every step the best that she could. She wanted to be another Eileen Webster, and the shoes were helping her. The mirrors reflected a new Lisa. Mrs. Joule even called on her to demonstrate a particular dance step. For once, Susan and Jody were following her, and Lisa was careful not to make any mistakes.
After class Lisa went up to Mrs. Joule and asked, “If I give you my old shoes, do you think I could keep this pair?”
“If you’d like,” replied Mrs. Joule. “Do they feel all right?”
“They’re perfect!” said Lisa.
The next time Lisa went to class she exchanged her own worn slippers for Eileen Webster’s almost new ones. As time passed she started coming early so that she could practice before class. Sometimes she stayed later with Susan and Jody to work on different kinds of ballet steps and turns. And she was soon moved to the front line. She was also the first student to do two turns in place instead of just one.
“That was really good!” Susan said sincerely.
“Thanks,” said Lisa. She couldn’t tell Susan that it was the shoes that made her dance so well. That had to be a secret. There wasn’t another pair like them. They helped her leap higher, land more softly, arch her feet more gracefully, and twirl around like a toy top.
As dance recital time drew near when all the students in the class would present what they had learned before an audience of parents and friends, Lisa’s class met more often to rehearse their dances. Lisa noticed that her shoes were showing signs of wear. The once-smooth leather looked wrinkled, and the soft pink color was not so pink any more. The ribbons became unstitched and were resewed again and again. But because the shoes were so important to Lisa, Mrs. Joule did not insist that she get new ones for the recital. “Clean them up the best you can,” she said.
Shortly before the show was to start on the first night, Lisa was practicing her solo when she felt the bare floor against her foot. The sole of her shoes had torn, leaving a big hole! She had to find Mrs. Joule.
“Oh, dear,” sighed Mrs. Joule. “It’s a good thing I brought the box of extra shoes. You certainly can’t wear these. Not only do they look terrible, but this torn one is dangerous. Lisa, these shoes are worn out.”
“Mrs. Joule,” cried Lisa, her eyes wide with panic, “I have to wear them! Oh, please try to fix them. I’ll never be able to dance without them!”
Lisa felt sick to her stomach. Without those slippers, I’ll dance like the old Lisa. I’ll make mistakes and embarrass everybody. She shivered at the thoughts going through her head.
“All right, Lisa,” said Mrs. Joule. “I’ll see what can be done. Now go get dressed. I’ll bring your shoes to you.”
Lisa went to the dressing room. Nervously she touched her hair. Where, she wondered, is Mrs. Joule? She did several fast turns to see if her hair would stay in place. It was fine. What’s keeping Mrs. Joule? Her classmates were talking and helping each other with their costumes and makeup. Lisa put on her dance dress and checked around for her teacher.
“Don’t worry, Lisa,” said Susan. “She’ll be here.”
A few minutes before show time Mrs. Joule hurried down the hall. “Here are your shoes, Lisa,” she said breathlessly. “Now hurry! You girls are dancing first.”
Lisa put the slippers on quickly. “Oh, thank you,” she said, and gave her teacher a big embrace. “Everything will be fine now.”
Lisa hurried into the dance line between Susan and Jody, and one by one they danced out onto the brightly lit stage as the audience clapped.
The whole show went smoothly. Lisa’s class received extra applause for some of the more difficult dance steps that they did. Lisa had never danced better. She knew her family was proud of her.
When it was all over, Lisa and her parents went to say good night to Mrs. Joule.
“Thank you again for repairing my shoes,” said Lisa. “I couldn’t have done well without them.”
“But you did,” said Mrs. Joule as she held up Eileen Webster’s tattered shoes. “I couldn’t tell you before because you were so sure it was the shoes that made you dance well. Now you see it wasn’t the shoes at all. It was your own hard work, and you made me very proud tonight.”
Lisa stared at Eileen Webster’s worn shoes.
Mrs. Joule continued, “You may keep her shoes if you like, but please, from now on, wear your own. I just sewed ribbons on them for you to use tonight.”
Lisa pulled the ballet slippers she had been wearing out of her bag and saw her initials printed on the inside of each one. They’re the very same pair that I exchanged for those of the ballet star! she said to herself in amazement.
“Did you hear that?” she asked her mother. “It wasn’t the shoes. It was me all the time, and I didn’t even know it? Just wait until tomorrow night. I’ll do even better!”
And she did.