Gospel Story Finder

Monday had finally arrived and Janet was excited. At last it was time for her first day of school in the city.
Janet sat up in bed and stretched. Then she started to unbutton her pajamas.
“Mother! Come quick!” she called.
Mother came running with the juice pitcher still in her hand.
“What are these red spots all over me?” Janet asked.
“You have the measles,” Mother said softly.
“Measles!” Janet echoed. “But I have to go to school!”
“I’m sorry,” Mother said as she tucked Janet back into bed. “You’ll have to wait at least a week to go to school. Now if you’ll lie still, I’ll bring your breakfast to you on a tray.”
Janet lay back on the pillow trying not to cry. “I wish we’d never moved to this new place,” she said to herself. “I’ll never have any friends now.”
“Are you itchy and uncomfortable?” Mother asked when she returned with Janet’s breakfast tray.
“No, it’s just—” A tear rolled down Janet’s cheek. She tried to brush it away, but another soon took its place. “Oh, Mother,” she cried, “I miss my friends so much! How will I ever make new friends when I can’t even go to school?”
Mother put her arm around Janet. “Remember what I told you a long time ago,” she answered. “The only way to have a friend is to be one.”
Janet looked up and asked, “How can I be a friend when there’s no one around?”
“Just keep your eyes open,” said Mother. “You never know when you’ll have the chance to be a friend.”
Janet spent a long lonely day in bed. The next morning she felt better, but the red spots still covered her chest, face, and arms.
After breakfast Mother told her she could put on her robe and sit by the window for a little change.
It seemed strange to look out and see only the wall of another apartment house instead of a beautiful backyard.
Suddenly there was a movement at the window directly across from her. Janet watched as a girl about her age settled herself in front of the window and began to read.
Janet waved to get her attention, but the girl did not see her. Janet had an idea. She took a large sheet of paper and wrote HI on it in large letters. Then she taped the paper to the window and waited impatiently to see what might happen.
A short time later the girl across the way stopped reading and glanced out the window.
In a few minutes she held up a large piece of paper with HI written on it. Under the paper stood a girl with a big smile on her face.
The girls waved at each other. Quickly Janet made another sign. My name is Janet, she wrote. I have measles. Under the words she drew a funny picture of a girl with red spots all over.
The other girl giggled at Janet’s sign. Then she disappeared for a few minutes. Soon she returned with a sign.
I’m Kelly, Janet read. I have a cold. Below the words she had drawn a face with a funny big red nose.
The girls exchanged several more messages. Then Janet asked Kelly for her phone number.
“Look, Mother, no more measles,” Janet said the next Monday morning. “Today I can start school!”
“You really sound happy about that,” Mother replied.
“I am!” Janet said. “I’ll be in the same class as Kelly. She’s going to introduce me to all her friends.” Then she added, “You were right—the only way to have a friend is to be one, and making friends in a big city isn’t any different than it is anywhere else.”

When I was elected junior class vice president of Edgemont High School, I wasn’t just surprised, I was in temporary shock. I had entered the race at the last minute for the experience. At least that’s what I had told myself. When I actually won, it seemed impossible, incredible! What seemed even more incredible was that I had apparently won by a landslide. At least that’s what Molly Pratt claimed.
“Boy, Mark, are you ever popular. You got almost every vote. I helped count them.”
I shook my head for the hundredth time. “I just can’t believe it. It’s incredible.”
“Not really,” Molly said smiling.
Although I couldn’t figure out how it had all happened, I did know one thing: I planned to do a good job—a great job. I didn’t want anyone to think he’d made a mistake by voting for Mark Bennion.
Just a few days after I’d talked to Molly, I was standing by my locker cleaning out some of the election handouts when I heard a soft voice behind me. I knew whose voice it was even before I turned around. Although she was in my history class, Rhonda Jackson had never spoken to me before, and I could feel my face getting warm. Up close she was even prettier than at a two-row distance. A sprinkle of small, delicate freckles peppered her nose, and her warm smile made me quiver.
“Oh, hi,” I said, trying to sound casual but sounding more as if I had just swallowed a baseball.
“We’re having a little get-together at my place tomorrow night,” she said. “We’re going to study for the history test. Well, just for a little while. Then we’ll have some fun. You know, talk a little, dance or something.” She touched my arm lightly with her forefinger. “Would you like to join our group?”
“I, uh, I can’t think of any reason why I couldn’t. Yes, sure.” I knew about her little group. Who didn’t? It was the elite group at Edgemont. The thought of being included seemed unreal. Just last week I had thought of myself as a Joe-average with just a few friends, like the guys I palled around with in the neighborhood. Now hundreds of students seemed to know me and find me important. And I had a chance, a real chance, to belong to the most exclusive group at school.
“Oh, by the way,” Rhonda smiled again and looked straight into my eyes. “We’ve got a copy of the test so you won’t need to bring your book. We’re just going to memorize the answers. We’ll probably be able to get copies of some of the other tests coming up, too.”
“Oh?” Her words hit me like a thud. “How did …”
“Don’t ask.” She put her hand over my mouth and giggled softly. “Let’s just say we have connections. See you tomorrow night.”
I watched her walk away. She turned and smiled, fully aware that I was staring after her. Wow, she was beautiful. I sighed. “Too bad.”
The next day I was prepared to tell Rhonda that I couldn’t make it to the get-together. I couldn’t afford to go and then make a fool of myself by being a goody-two-shoes and refusing to participate in the cheating. I wouldn’t say the word cheating or make any accusations. But when I saw her walking toward me with that appealing smile, the brave words began slipping from my mind. I wanted her to like me. Oh, how I wanted Rhonda Jackson to like me.
“You’re coming tonight, I hope,” she said, emphasizing the words “I hope.” There was a nice lilt to her voice.
“Well, I’d really like to, but …
“I’d really be disappointed if you didn’t come. You’ve just got to come. Everybody’s going to be there. Bill Spilker, Audrey Madsen, Nicki Simmons, and Frank, you know, Frank Lake. They’re all going to be there, and you really should get to know all of us better.” The names she had mentioned were familiar to me—familiar to everyone at Edgemont. They were the officers of the school, the “in-group” of in-groups.
“I have a little secret to tell you,” Rhonda began whispering in a confidential manner. “Frank said something about you.”
“What was that?” I asked, impressed that my name had even come up in conversation. Frank was the student-body vice president.
“He thinks if you play your cards right you could be president of the school.”
“Oh, sure.” I felt myself blushing in pleasure.
“You don’t know how popular you are, do you, Mark? You have a lot of power already. A little more, some friends in the right circles, for instance, could put the presidency right in your pocket.”
“You really think so?”
She looked down dramatically, then up into my eyes. “Believe me, I know so. See you tonight about eight or eight-thirty.”
As I watched her walk away I stood grinning. Again I sighed.
Come on, I thought. Me, president of the whole student body? Me, in Rhonda Jackson’s league? This is all too incredible. I shook my head. “Nah,” I said out loud. But then I began wondering. With some friends in the right circles, maybe—just maybe—it wasn’t so farfetched. I had won junior class vice president by a landslide. Maybe further miracles were also possible. I’ve been pretty naive, I thought. There are probably a lot of things going on in this school that I know nothing about. Everyone probably cheats once in a while to keep up the old grade-point average.
In my mind, I went over the people Rhonda had mentioned would be at her house. Slowly it began registering that everyone was matched up—except Rhonda. My face grew warm again. Could it be Rhonda had me in mind for herself? “Impossible!” My stomach did a backflip, and I walked to my locker to get rid of my history book. I wouldn’t need it tonight!
Later in the day, while I was on my way to study class, I passed my last year’s history classroom. Mr. Hancock was just closing the door to his room. As I nodded a hello, he motioned that he wanted to talk to me.
“What can I do for you?” I asked.
“I’m glad you walked by, Mark. An interesting thing happened that I wanted to tell you about. Can you come in for a minute?”
“Sure thing.” As I sat down by his desk, I looked around at the pictures of some of the presidents and other historical figures I could remember learning about in his class. My sophomore year in Mr. Hancock’s class had been quite the year for hero worship.
“I don’t know if this will mean anything to you,” he said. “But I thought you should know.”
“What’s up?” I asked. “What happened?” I was curious now.
“Well, a few days ago I gave a test, and my last question was ‘What great person, living or dead, would you most like to use as an example in your own life?’ I mostly got the kind of answers I was expecting: Abraham Lincoln, George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Ben Franklin; but a most peculiar thing happened.”
“Oh?”
“One of the boys put your name.”
“My name?” I was confused. “Why would he do that?”
“I guess he thinks you’re a ‘great man,’” he said, smiling. “Thought you might want to know.”
“That’s incredible,” I said, staring at him.
“Glad it makes a difference to you. You’ve been getting quite a bit of attention lately, and I wasn’t sure you’d care; but, well, I thought I’d tell you.”
I nodded and kept staring. Then I looked around the room and nodded again. There was a knot beginning to form in my stomach. “It makes a difference,” I said. “Thanks, Mr. Hancock.”
“Good to talk to you, Mark, and good luck to you.”
“Thanks again,” I said. I felt two feet taller as I headed toward the door. Without hesitation I turned down the hall in the direction of my locker. I had a history book to retrieve and some hard and fast studying to do. People were counting on me, wanted to be like me. There was no way I was going to let them down!

I will forever be grateful to my Heavenly Father, and to my father, Teodoro Alvarez, for always being with me and guiding me back into the fold of the Church. One day, my dad came to my house and said, “Daisy, my daughter, I’m going to church on Sunday.”
That day was fast and testimony meeting. He stood up, bore his testimony, and reintroduced me to the Church. He told the brethren, “Take care of my daughter.”
Since then, I have been attending church regularly, and I have always said that wherever the Lord tells me to work, I will be there.

Because of our financial needs, my father expected me to help earn money for the family. I wanted to serve a mission, but when I turned 19 years old, he asked that I wait one year to serve my mission so I could continue working to help my family. When I turned 20 years old, he asked that I wait another year to serve.
Just before I turned 21 years old, he wanted to request that I wait one more year. But my mother told him, “Let him go serve, and it will bless us.” This really happened. Before my mission, only a younger brother and I had worked to help support the family. As soon as I went on my mission, two more of my brothers and my two oldest sisters started working, so my family did better financially.

Santa missed my house last year. Not because the chimney was too small, or because we didn’t set out cookies and milk, or because we had been naughty. He just skipped over us. But Christmas without Santa wasn’t terrible.
I had known from the outset this wasn’t going to be a typical Christmas. One brother, Tim, was halfway around the world on a mission. My only sister was going to take advantage of the long vacation to have an operation and would be recuperating at my aunt’s in Salt Lake City. Medical bills and the expense of a missionary would not allow us to have a “normal” Christmas. Also, we had already celebrated our traditional family Christmas with my cousins, aunts, and uncles at Thanksgiving time because Grandma would be leaving to serve a mission in the middle of December.
With these factors, we looked forward to Christmas and wondered what we could do to make it special. Mom made a startling suggestion, “Why don’t we have Christmas without Santa this year?”
As a family, we talked about how we could have Christmas without Santa. The youngest in my family were ten-year-old twins, so we didn’t have to worry about destroying anyone’s belief in Santa. Mom liked the idea of no Santa because she said we were never sufficiently thrilled and delighted with our Christmas gifts to fulfill her expectations, and she usually felt a letdown on Christmas morning. Instead of gifts on Christmas, we would each get to choose something during the after-Christmas sales. We thought this was appropriate as Christ didn’t receive gifts on the day of his birth, but much later when the Wise Men came. Also, Christmas would be on Sunday this year, and all the excitement (and sometimes greed) that comes with gift opening didn’t seem appropriate for the Sabbath day. We decided it was time to put Christ back in Christmas.
It was “business as usual” with our other family traditions of cutting our own tree, making a gingerbread village, and baking goodies for our friends and neighbors. We also started a new tradition of stuffing each other’s stockings with small gifts. During December the stockings expanded steadily as we found small purchases or made gifts and secretly placed them in each other’s stockings. Through this service, our focus turned from the worldly idea of Christmas to our love for each other, and these small gifts meant more to me because they were carefully created for me personally.
On Christmas Eve, we went to the chapel, and my dad told us stories behind some of the Christmas carols and played them for us. Gathered around the organ with the most important people in my life, I felt an intense feeling of love for my family and for the Savior. The feeling that night was calm and peaceful. There was no wild anticipation about what tomorrow might bring. We were in no hurry to get up in the morning to open gifts. We read the story of Christ’s birth and went to bed.
The next morning, we didn’t dash to retrieve our gifts from under the tree as we usually did each Christmas morning. We had a relaxed breakfast and went to church. Attending my meetings, I felt an even deeper understanding of what Christmas should be. We had had Christmas with Santa before, and we would have it again. But for one day, Christmas wasn’t focused on gifts and commercialism, but on Christ. Celebrating the birth of Christ without the distraction of Santa helped me to realize why Christ came to earth and the sacrifice he made for me.
As we looked back on last year, we decided that it was one of the best Christmases ever. Last Christmas was filled with family, friends, love, and service. By focusing on the birth of the Savior we came to realize we could have Christmas without Santa. Celebrating Christmas this way, I found we had things money could not buy; we had family unity and love for the Savior, gifts that will last forever.

What you have done remarkably well together is to cherish, watch over, and comfort each other. I was a witness of that threefold miracle just one month ago in your service to one sister. As her father, I thank you and I want to extend my thanks to God, who guided one visiting teacher.

Our daughter Elizabeth, who lives in another state and time zone from us, was at home with her three-year-old daughter. Her other child was in her first week of kindergarten. Elizabeth was six months pregnant and looking forward to the birth of her third child, which the doctors said would be another girl. Her husband, Joshua, was away at his work.

When she saw that she was passing blood and that the flow was increasing, she called her husband on the phone. He told her to call for an ambulance and that he would meet her at the hospital, which was 20 minutes from her home. Before she could place the call, she heard a knock at the front door.

At the door she was surprised to see her Relief Society visiting teaching companion. They had no appointment for that morning. Her companion had simply felt she ought to come by to see Elizabeth.

She helped her into the car. They arrived at the hospital minutes before Joshua arrived from his work. The doctors decided in less than 20 minutes to take the baby by surgery to save Elizabeth and her baby. So a tiny girl came into the world, crying loudly, 15 weeks ahead of schedule. She weighed one pound, eleven ounces (765 g). But she was alive, and so was Elizabeth.

The words of Lucy Mack Smith were in part fulfilled that day. A faithful member of the Relief Society, prompted by the Holy Ghost, watched over, cherished, and comforted her sister in God’s kingdom. She and the tens of thousands of others who have given such inspired service over the generations have not only the thanks of those they helped and their loved ones but also of the Lord.

You remember His words of appreciation to those who receive little recognition for their benevolence: “And the King shall answer and say unto them, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.”

When I turned 21, I wanted to serve a mission. My great-grandmother, Margarita Sippo de Lallana, supported my decision even though that meant she would be alone. She had reared me since I was small, and I was concerned about who would care for her while I served.
We had been baptized in 1978, when I was 11 and my great-grandmother was 73. We soon quit attending our meetings, but concerned brothers and sisters from the Church came looking for us.
I became active again, and ward members looked forward to my ordination. “We’re going to have a deacon!” they would say excitedly. At that time our ward had no Aaronic Priesthood holders. I became the president of the deacons quorum because there weren’t any other deacons. I wondered why they would give me such a calling, but I came to understand that ward leaders were training me in priesthood responsibilities. As a result, I tried to be faithful.
My grandmother, however, remained less active, attending meetings only occasionally. But she supported my decision to serve because she knew in her heart the gospel is true.
When I turned in my missionary papers in 1990, most full-time missionaries called from Córdoba served in the Argentina Buenos Aires North or South Missions. I was sure I would be called to one of those two missions and not be too far away from my great-grandmother.
Later, when my stake president called, he told me that I needed a passport because I was going to Colombia instead! Despite my ongoing concerns, my great-grandmother encouraged me to go. Just before I left, she promised that she would return to church the very next Sunday and go to the temple before I returned. This was difficult to believe but made it easier for me to leave her.
While I was on my mission, she did exactly what she had promised. Although in her 80s, she not only attended all of her meetings but also arrived on time. And she prepared for and went to the Buenos Aires Argentina Temple.
After a 12-hour, all-night bus ride returning from that first trip to the temple, my great-grandmother arrived at our ward meetinghouse on Sunday morning at 8:30, shortly before Church meetings began. Our stake president, Rúben Spitale, told her, “Let me take you home so you can rest.”
“No,” she replied. “I’m going to church.” And she did.
After I returned from my mission, we attended the temple together three times before she passed away in 2000. Because of my mission, we were both blessed. Had I stayed home, I’m confident none of these blessings would have occurred.

by Spencer Garvey
What Christmas activity do you look forward to most? The Christmas caroling party? The family Christmas dinner? Seeing your mom open the Christmas present you’ve been slaving over for months?
The youth in the Orem 15th Ward, Orem Utah Sharon West Stake, have a unique activity that they think tops all others. It combines the joy of giving with the beauty of service, and capsulizes the message the Savior brought to earth. All by themselves, the youth throw a Christmas party for the mentally handicapped adults in the ward.
Within the ward boundaries are two group homes, sponsored by the American Fork Training School. Residents of the homes, one for women and one for men, have reached a certain level of achievement, and are free to go to church and participate in ward activities. Their favorite activity by far is the annual Christmas party, and they anticipate it for months.
The youth go all out to make it an exciting experience for their special guests. Each class takes charge of one aspect of the evening, from festively decking the cultural hall, to setting up chairs, to planning games and making sure each person from the group homes receives a gift. They buy things that the guests of honor have requested like slippers, books, dominoes, and tapes.
But the preparation is only half the fun. The real excitement starts when the guests arrive, and smiles light their faces brighter than any bulbs on the Christmas tree. The youth in the ward get busy mingling and making sure that nobody stands alone.
“It’s worth it to see their smiles,” said Becky Lant, 16, who was in charge of the affair. “This helps us learn the happiness you get from serving others, and helps us learn to love those we serve.”
Soon everyone becomes involved in a game. The guests joyfully bowl plastic pop bottles over with a basketball. With delighted energy, they throw a soft football through a tire suspended from a basketball standard. The youth are quick to make sure that everyone feels like a winner, even in musical chairs.
“They always come to our basketball or volleyball games and support us,” says Jeff Nelson, 16. “This is the least we can do for them in return. They’re special, they’re nice, and they deserve it.”
But at no time is the Christmas spirit so evident as when everyone in the group sits down together, arms intertwined, and starts singing Christmas carols. As they sing about the wonders of the birth of Christ, the youth and the guests seem to exchange intangible gifts of friendship and caring with each other and with the Savior at the same time.
Later Santa comes bounding in with a bag full of presents. But the gift the guests enjoy most isn’t in the bag. It’s a videotape of the festivities so they can relive them over and over in the coming months.
Soon the party is over, the hugs are hugged, tears of happiness mingle, and Santa leads the way out. His parting cry hangs in the air for all to savor and confirm. “Merry Christmas to all,” he chuckles, “and to all a good night!”

Fifteen-year-old Jacque Gray of Bountiful, Utah, looked like she was going to church. Everyone else in the East-Coast modeling contest looked like they were ready for a major professional fashion show. So how was it that Jacque walked away with the grand prize of $250,000 worth of scholarships and prizes?
Some people think it was the personality, poise, enthusiasm, and confidence Jacque developed by being a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. “Most of the other girls were wearing very sophisticated and expensive evening gowns and looked quite a bit older than their ages. Then Jacque came out in her flowered ‘Sunday School’ dress and just charmed the judges,” said one contest official.
Jacque, at five feet, four inches, couldn’t believe she was picked over 72,000 other contestants in the Kid Search ’92 competition. She was surprised when she first made it to the regionals in Denver and won the opportunity to travel to the national finals in New Jersey. She was just happy to be there and wasn’t at all tense about winning. That probably helped her be relaxed in her interview with the judges.
A New York modeling contract is part of the prize, but Jacque doesn’t plan to let that get in the way of being an active Mia Maid, or of using her scholarship money to study at BYU when she graduates from Bountiful High.

Growing up I thought the Spirit only spoke in an audible voice, which made me think very few people were privileged to hear that voice. So when I met with missionaries and accepted their invitation to pray to Heavenly Father for a confirmation that the gospel is true, I expected to hear an audible voice. And I was disappointed when I didn’t. Even though I felt their message was true, I was reluctant to be baptized because I had not heard the voice of the Spirit.
As my family members were baptized and bearing testimonies, I felt like I wasn’t doing something right, since Heavenly Father wasn’t “speaking” to me. When my mum and older brother went to the temple, I had a strong feeling that the temple was truly the house of the Lord and that I needed to prepare to go there one day. But I still didn’t recognize that my feelings were promptings from the Spirit.
One day I was reading from the Book of Mormon with the missionaries, and I had a strong feeling that what we were reading was true. I told the elders what I was feeling, and they helped me understand that the witness I felt was the Holy Spirit speaking to me. In that moment I realized I had been feeling the Spirit in so many ways, but I hadn’t considered He speaks with us all so differently. I accepted the invitation to be baptized that day.

Five Beehive girls had a surprise introduction into the Young Women program in the Twin Falls 11th Ward, Kimberly Idaho Stake.

The girls of the ward were worried that five of their friends were only partially active, so they planned a surprise breakfast.

But instead of inviting their friends, they decided (with the permission of the girls’ parents) to “kidnap” them. Each of the five girls was pulled out of bed and taken to their leader’s house for a big breakfast of bacon, eggs, and pancakes. While waiting for breakfast to cook, the girls played games. They vowed that this was one morning they would remember.

Elder Monte J. Brough of the First Quorum of the Seventy tells of a summer at his childhood home in Randolph, Utah, when he and his younger brother, Max, decided to build a tree house in a large tree in the backyard. They made plans for the most wonderful creation of their lives. They gathered building materials from all over the neighborhood and carried them up to a part of the tree where two branches provided an ideal location for the house. It was difficult, and they were anxious to complete their work. The vision of the finished tree house provided tremendous motivation for them to complete the project.

They worked all summer, and finally in the fall just before school began for the new year, their house was completed. Elder Brough said he will never forget the feelings of joy and satisfaction which were theirs when they finally were able to enjoy the fruit of their work. They sat in the tree house, looked around for a few minutes, climbed down from the tree—and never returned. The completed project, as wonderful as it was, could not hold their interest for even one day. In other words, the process of planning, gathering, building, and working—not the completed project—provided the enduring satisfaction and pleasure they had experienced.

Let us relish life as we live it and, as did Elder Brough and his brother, Max, find joy in the journey.

I gained my testimony of the power of prayer when I was about 12 years old. I had worked hard to earn some money and had managed to save five dollars. This was during the Great Depression, when five dollars was a substantial sum of money—especially for a boy of 12. I gave all my coins, which totaled five dollars, to my father, and he gave me in return a five-dollar bill. I know there was something specific I planned to purchase with the five dollars, although all these years later I can’t recall what it was. I just remember how important that money was to me.
At the time, we did not own a washing machine, so my mother would send to the laundry each week our clothes which needed to be washed. After a couple of days, a load of what we called “wet wash” would be returned to us, and Mother would hang the items on our clothesline out back to dry.
I had tucked my five-dollar bill in the pocket of my jeans. As you can probably guess, my jeans were sent to the laundry with the money still in the pocket. When I realized what had happened, I was sick with worry. I knew that pockets were routinely checked at the laundry prior to washing. If my money was not discovered and taken during that process, I knew it was almost certain the money would be dislodged during washing and would be claimed by a laundry worker who would have no idea to whom the money should be returned, even if he had the inclination to do so. The chances of getting back my five dollars were extremely remote—a fact which my dear mother confirmed when I told her I had left the money in my pocket.
I wanted that money; I needed that money; I had worked very hard to earn that money. I realized there was only one thing I could do. In my extremity I turned to my Father in Heaven and pleaded with Him to keep my money safe in that pocket somehow until our wet wash came back.
Two very long days later, when I knew it was about time for the delivery truck to bring our wash, I sat by the window, waiting. As the truck pulled up to the curb, my heart was pounding. As soon as the wet clothes were in the house, I grabbed my jeans and ran to my bedroom. I reached into the pocket with trembling hands. When I didn’t find anything immediately, I thought all was lost. And then my fingers touched that wet five-dollar bill. As I pulled it from the pocket, relief flooded over me. I offered a heartfelt prayer of gratitude to my Father in Heaven, for I knew that He had answered my prayer.

I had always wanted a horse, and I shared that desire with my father as we worked together on the farm. One day, Dad took me to a horse auction with him to buy a pony. We sat and watched as different horses were brought into the arena. Before long, four foals were shown. Dad started to bid and eventually was the highest bidder for a sum of eleven dollars. As highest bidder, he had first choice to buy any one of the foals.

He turned to me and said, “OK, Son, which one do you want?” I was so excited! My dream had come true. There were three healthy foals and one that was scrawny and thin. I picked the scrawny one. I felt sorry for her and told my dad, “She needs me.”

We didn’t have any way to get my new foal home, so we took the backseat out of the car, and my father sat in the back of the car, holding the colt while my uncle drove us home.

I named my new friend Lady. She was very tiny and young; I had to feed her from a bottle three times a day. She followed me around and was almost like a member of the family! She mimicked everything I did. If I squealed, she squealed. When I ran, she ran right behind me. I enjoyed graham crackers, and that was her favorite treat as well. She grew into one of the most beautiful, award-winning, and well-mannered riding horses I have ever seen.

Jeff’s dad tried to offer some sympathy. “Well, I think the coach made a poor decision,” he said. “But even if we could make him take you back, you know he wouldn’t play you. Just don’t let it get you down. When I was a freshman in high school I wanted to be a star baseball player, but I didn’t make the cut either. I was angry and disappointed like you, but instead of letting it eat at me, I got involved in other things and still had a fun four years. Just look at this as a kind of intermission,” Dad continued. “With the right attitude, you could still have a great second half.”

Oliver Granger was accustomed to having the authority to get things done. Before joining the Church in the 1830s, he had been a county sheriff, a colonel in the militia, and a licensed exhorter in his church. After joining, he served two missions and was a member of the Kirtland high council. But then Joseph Smith gave Oliver the almost impossible task of settling the business affairs of Church leaders who had been driven out of Kirtland.4
Feeling like a failure, Oliver went to Joseph and heard the Lord say, “I remember my servant Oliver Granger; … and when he falls he shall rise again, for his sacrifice shall be more sacred unto me than his increase” (D&C 117:12–13). From Oliver, we learn that the result God is looking for is not always for us to come up with the right solution to our challenges, but for us to grow from facing them.

On 18 September 1989, Marc Modersitzki and Bradley Saunderson entered Lesotho, the first young missionaries assigned to teach the gospel in this small mountainous kingdom. Three member families excitedly awaited their arrival: the Masseys, the Scotts, and the Daffendols. These three families formed a group with Brother Massey as the group leader. All were anxious to begin doing missionary work with the new elders. By the end of the first two weeks, the missionaries had 18 families in their teaching pool.
Elder Saunderson recorded in his journal, “I am impressed with the incredible potential that the area has: its fields are very white.” In the first month of tracting, they were refused only four times.
Sister Scott, the mother of one of the families who met the elders on their arrival, was so excited about the first convert baptism that she wanted it to take place at her home. However, the Scotts did not have a pool, so Brother Scott bought a lattice wall pool. The next problem was that there was no level spot on their property big enough to put the pool. That did not dampen their enthusiasm. With the help of Brother Lawrence Van Tonder, one of the first two to be baptized, they dug up the Scotts’ backyard to accommodate the pool.
Thanks to the many efforts of members and missionaries, there are now more than 1,300 members in Lesotho.

One day his aunt, a newly baptized Latter-day Saint, introduced his family to the missionaries. Soon the Liaos family joined the Church. “We were active for about a year,” Domingos says. “Then my parents stopped going. I kept on for a while; then I started to play cricket on Sundays. But my conscience kept nagging me that I should be in church.”
It was at this time that Domingos’s grandfather, who lived in Melbourne, suffered a stroke. He wasn’t expected to live. Domingos, 16, felt compelled to pray. “I told Heavenly Father that if he would give Grandfather a chance, I would devote my life to the Church. But I didn’t just wait for him to recover. When we returned home, I returned to church. I’ve been taught that if you promise something, you should do it.”
Grandpa did get better. And by the time he did, Domingos was going to church, not just to keep a promise, but because he truly believed it was the right thing to do.

For Candice, the sheer joy of dancing, moving, stretching, acting, performing, is something that motivates her life. She likes to do things well. “I remember going to a birthday party for one of my friends. They had hula hoops at the party, and the others were really good at it. They could keep the hoop twirling and could do some tricks with it.” Candice tried the hoop and it kept slipping off her hips and clattering around her feet on the ground. Frustrated but determined, she marched home and asked her mother if they could buy a hula hoop. “I was going to learn how to do it. I kept practicing until I was good at it.”

Let me share with you a personal experience that may be of some help to those who feel insignificant, forgotten, or alone.
Many years ago I attended pilot training in the United States Air Force. I was far away from my home, a young West German soldier, born in Czechoslovakia, who had grown up in East Germany and spoke English only with great difficulty. I clearly remember my journey to our training base in Texas. I was on a plane, sitting next to a passenger who spoke with a heavy Southern accent. I could scarcely understand a word he said. I actually wondered if I had been taught the wrong language all along. I was terrified by the thought that I had to compete for the coveted top spots in pilot training against students who were native English speakers.
When I arrived on the air base in the small town of Big Spring, Texas, I looked for and found the Latter-day Saint branch, which consisted of a handful of wonderful members who were meeting in rented rooms on the air base itself. The members were in the process of building a small meetinghouse that would serve as a permanent place for the Church. Back in those days members provided much of the labor on new buildings.
Day after day I attended my pilot training and studied as hard as I could and then spent most of my spare time working on the new meetinghouse. There I learned that a two-by-four is not a dance step but a piece of wood. I also learned the important survival skill of missing my thumb when pounding a nail.
I spent so much time working on the meetinghouse that the branch president—who also happened to be one of our flight instructors—expressed concern that I perhaps should spend more time studying.
My friends and fellow student pilots engaged themselves in free-time activities as well, although I think it’s safe to say that some of those activities would not have been in alignment with today’s For the Strength of Youth pamphlet. For my part, I enjoyed being an active part of this tiny west Texas branch, practicing my newly acquired carpentry skills, and improving my English as I fulfilled my callings to teach in the elders quorum and in Sunday School.
At the time, Big Spring, despite its name, was a small, insignificant, and unknown place. And I often felt exactly the same way about myself—insignificant, unknown, and quite alone. Even so, I never once wondered if the Lord had forgotten me or if He would ever be able to find me there. I knew that it didn’t matter to Heavenly Father where I was, where I ranked with others in my pilot training class, or what my calling in the Church was. What mattered to Him was that I was doing the best I could, that my heart was inclined toward Him, and that I was willing to help those around me. I knew if I did the best I could, all would be well.
And all was well.