Gospel Story Finder

When I returned from the mission, Arthur was president of the Santa Barbara Stake created in my absence. When I was drafted by the United States Army, he suggested strongly that I should now serve my country, although I had been accepted for graduate work and could have obtained another deferment. I did as he suggested, and the army promptly sent me to Korea. There, instead of fighting in war, I had additional spiritual experiences. Today, at 90, Arthur remains my dear and close friend. In a coming day he will depart for a better world, but he will always be my friend, my teacher, and my example.

Finally, the ongoing Relief Society learning opportunities will be effective in the lives of sisters to the degree that learning and teaching are by the Spirit. Let me tell you of a sister who helped me appreciate teaching by the Spirit.
She was an older woman, one of many immigrants who had been able to come only as far as New York City on the way to Zion. She had not had great opportunity for learning and was having difficulty adjusting to a new culture. We were the only two in our department at stake leadership meeting one night.
The board member asked us each to describe how we prepared our lessons. I had been trained as a teacher and could say some things about lesson plans and objectives; but this lovely sister, haltingly, in a language newly learned, spoke of how she studied the material and then got on her knees and asked the Lord what in that lesson she should stress for the sisters of her ward, and she said, “He always directs me.” As I heard her speak and experienced the sweetness of her spirit, I felt sure that he did, because she taught me what I needed to hear. Though it has been many years since that night in Manhattan, I have never forgotten her nor her message.

Fortunately, like many of you, I came from a home where that kind of influence was available. Near my eighteenth birthday I was drafted into World War II. I found myself in an entirely new environment. I had always been taught in my home to take time out at night to pray, but I found this a little delicate, where in a typical barrack, there would be over fifty men on a floor. I used to try to get a bunk near the end of the room, where there would be a little privacy, and I would wait until the lights would go out before I would crawl out of bed to say my prayers.
I remember at Fort MacArthur everything went well for the first few nights and then finally one night, shortly after the lights went out, I crawled out of bed and knelt down to pray. About that time two half-stewed characters came in, flipped on the lights, and aroused all of us. A couple of fellows across the aisle from me saw me on my knees. Typical of that kind of environment, they started to poke fun. One of them, pointing to me, shouted so all could hear, “Hey, holy Paul, pray for me!” I felt a little chagrined and somewhat embarrassed and I thought to myself, “Now, what do you do?”
My mother had taught me a great principle. She used to say: “In delicate situations, use a sense of humor. It always helps.” So while still on my knees, I squared my shoulders, looked at both of the soldiers, and said: “Would you give me your full names because I don’t think the Lord knows you.” Later, I’m pleased to say, they did come to know the Lord because they too took time-out.

Cami felt her mother’s arm around her shoulders. As she wiped away more tears, she couldn’t help but notice how beautiful the cemetery was. The warmth of the sun felt good on her swollen eyes and calmed her as people came across the grass to hug her and her family once more.
“Give yourself time, Cami,” Sister Bowen, her Primary teacher, said. “These things take time.”
Cami nodded without really listening. She was thinking about how strangely peaceful it was here. It was like those pictures of Easter morning she had seen in Primary—the beautiful flowers, the smell of the lilac bushes, the breeze in her hair. It was very different from the hospital room where she had watched her father take his last breath. There, it had been like another planet with a room crowded with people who loved him and didn’t want to let him go, everyone softly crying and hanging on to whomever stood nearby.
“It isn’t supposed to happen this way,” she thought. “Dad was much too young to die. Dads aren’t supposed to die when you’re only ten years old.” But he had died.
She saw movement from the corner of her eye and looked just in time to see a white bunny and then a speckled one hop and stop, hop and stop from behind a gravestone, their noses twitching in the air. Then they scurried safely under some bushes.
“Are you ready to go, Cami?” Mom’s voice was tired. “We’ll visit here anytime you want to, sweetheart.”
Cami nodded. But as she rode in the car with her brothers and sister, she wanted right then to turn around and go back to the cemetery. Home reminded her of Dad when he was alive. Home made the sadness seem too huge to hold. She thought of Sister Bowen’s words, “These things take time.”
“How much time? How can I survive till then, whenever then is?” She forced herself to think good thoughts. Thinking about Jesus, about His Resurrection, and about the promise of her dad’s resurrection helped.
At home, she just sat all afternoon, not sure of what to do or how to feel or of how long before the next tears would fall. “Will I ever stop crying? What will it be like to have birthdays and Christmas and go on vacation without Dad? To have dinner, to go to church, to have family prayer without Dad?”
As evening came, the sadness seemed even bigger. She didn’t feel like praying, but she went ahead anyway, in her heart.
“Please, Heavenly Father, help me. I feel so sad and lonely. I know that I’ll see Dad again. I know that Jesus was resurrected after He died, and I know that someday Dad will be resurrected, too. But that’s someday. What about now? How do I get through today? Please help me know what to do to stop hurting so much.”
As Cami ended her prayer, she heard Mom calling everyone together for family prayer. Without even thinking, she went to Dad’s bedroom closet, pulled down his Sunday jacket, and put it on. It was gigantic on her ten-year-old body, but it was Dad’s. It felt like him, it looked like him, it even smelled like him. She pulled the collar up around her face and took in a deep breath. She felt safe. Now she could feel like he was near during family prayer.
When she went into the living room, the rest of the family was already kneeling. They looked up and stared at her. She didn’t care. She just went to the couch, knelt, and bowed her head.
No one started to pray, so she peeked to see what was happening. Her family was gone—but just for a minute. One by one, they came back. Her big brother had on Dad’s slippers. Mom had on his robe. Little Jimmy clomped in wearing Dad’s big shoes, and her older sister had on Dad’s favorite sweater.
Everyone knelt as Mom began to pray. She thanked Heavenly Father for the beautiful funeral services and for all the love that friends and neighbors had shown them. She thanked him for the good memories with Dad. And she thanked Heavenly Father that they could feel Dad close by.
It wouldn’t be easy with Dad living in heaven instead of at home with them, but for now—for tonight—with something he had worn close to each of them, waiting to see Dad again would be a little bit easier. For Cami, it was like being wrapped in his arms—just for now.

Every time I have the opportunity to direct myself to young people, I have a difficult time to keep from weeping. You see, once I had a boy, and when he had spent one year in college, he went to war. I like to think he went bravely.
When he was interrogated by the sergeant in charge, the sergeant said, “There are these schools.” And he named them—“radio, cooking, foreign language, intelligence, hospital. …” He named about eight of them. The young men were told that they could go to one of these, if they wanted to choose, before they went further into the army. He said, “You can go to one of these schools, or you can take combat.” And my son and one other young man with him said without any hesitation, “We’ll take combat.”
Later I said to him, “Why did you ask for combat?”
And he said, “Someone has to do the fighting.” He said that he did not want to have it on his conscience that he had deliberately dodged so that some other boy might have to take a chance on being killed. He said, “If anyone has to die in this war, I would feel terrible if I didn’t take my share of the risk.”
To me he is still twenty—about your age. And so perhaps you will allow me to speak to you as though I were speaking to him. The advice I would give you, I would give him.

I’m from France, but my sister and I spent a year in the eastern United States as exchange students. During that time, we met lots of people, but the one who left the biggest impression on me was a girl named Destiny. She became one of my best friends. We did all kinds of things together, during school and after school, and with my sister. Destiny was always happy. That was the thing I liked most about her.

Then one day I saw her in a troubled mood I had never seen her in before. I asked her what was wrong. She said she didn’t want to talk about it. Then I noticed a paper in her hand. I took it and read it.

Someone had written unbelievably mean things to her. The anonymous note said she was ugly, that no one liked her, that she didn’t have any purpose for being alive, and that she ought to go and kill herself. I would never have believed someone like her could be attacked like that. It affected me deeply to know the pain she was going through.

From then on, I made an even bigger effort to be Destiny’s friend—not just to spend time with her, but to always be there for her, and especially to be sincere. I explained to her that she is a daughter of God, blessed with a divine nature, worthy of admiration and capable of great things.

It’s difficult to try to love yourself when others treat you badly and criticize you. As I befriended Destiny, I learned that sometimes the best way to help others is just to love them and to help them know who they truly are.

At the end of the year, when I had to return to France, Destiny told me something I will always treasure. “Emma,” she said, “you saved me. Before you came, I wanted to kill myself. But then you and your sister helped me a lot, just by caring. Today I love myself, and I love you.”

WHAPP! The head of a sunflower toppled to the ground. “All’s well now, my lady. The Duke of Mogar’s cruelty to others is at an end.”
Jason and his older sister Emily were playing knights and ladies, a pastime of great imagination they both enjoyed whenever the weather and chores allowed.
“Gruuuk! Gruuuk!” crowed Marcus, seeming to approve of the good knight’s brave deed. Then with a single jump and flutter of wings, the rooster alighted on Emily’s shoulder.
“What do you think, Marcus?” Emily asked as she smoothed the bird’s feathers. “Didn’t my knight slay the duke handily?”
Jason beamed under his sister’s praise, and tucked the nicked and battered boomerang he used for a sword into his belt.
“Let’s have our lunch now, Jason,” Emily suggested, and she stopped under the shade of a large sycamore tree to spread the contents of a bundle she had been carrying. There were wedges of cheese the color of the Montana summer sun, hefty slices of oatmeal bread, some molasses cookies, and two McIntosh apples. While they ate their lunch, Marcus scratched up some grubs and other delicacies he fancied. Then when he left off scratching, he strutted about in his imperial manner, convinced of his elegance.
Emily tossed Marcus a piece of bread that was quickly eaten. She remembered when the rooster was still a feisty Rhode Island Red chick. Even then there was something extraordinary about his appearance and behavior. He was larger by half than any of the others of the same hatch and more assertive. And there was a certain nobility in his bearing that reminded Emily of the character of Marcus in a book about Roman gladiators she had once read. So Marcus he became and the name suited him perfectly!
Marcus followed Emily around from the start, accepting tidbits whenever she offered any. Mama and Papa were amused at first by the bird’s attachment, but when his loyalty persisted it was obvious that he was Emily’s protector as much as any watchdog could have been and just as faithful. And whenever the children played knights and ladies, Marcus included himself in the adventure.
On the way back to the house to do their chores that afternoon, the children heard old Bully snorting before they saw Papa, guiding his team up over a rise. They were heading for the barn, and Jason wanted Emily to race with him, to see if they could beat Papa home. But Emily had started coughing again. “We’ll race him tomorrow,” he said good-naturedly.
After supper that night Emily went to bed early. The next morning she was burning up with fever. When Papa called the doctor, Jason knew his sister was very sick.
“It’s pneumonia,” Dr. Delaney announced with a furrowed brow after his examination. “As bad a case as I’ve ever seen.”
For several days afterward an unnatural quiet settled over the house as Mama and Papa took turns caring for Emily. They spoke in soft whispers. Doors were eased shut lest the noise disturb the little patient. Marcus, too, sensed the change. He missed his mistress and hovered about the back steps, pecking and scratching disinterestedly in the gravel.
Although Jason might have had trouble expressing his feelings for his sister, he loved Emily and missed her dearly. Then one morning after Jason had been outside rolling a barrel hoop with a stick, he came running into the kitchen. “Mama! Mama! Come quick!” he shouted. “Something’s the matter with Marcus. He’s stretched out under the steps—funny-like. And he’s not moving.”
Papa came, too, when he heard the alarm, only half shaved and with his suspenders dangling. As soon as he stooped down and pulled Emily’s pet out into the light he knew what had happened. “A weasel,” he said through tight lips. The marks under the ruffled neck feathers clearly showed where the rooster’s lifeblood had been drawn off.
“Ever since Emily’s been down,” Mama said, “Marcus has hardly left the back steps. I guess he relaxed his vigil last night and the weasel took him.”
“How will we tell Emily,” Jason agonized, “feeling poorly like she is? I’d just like to lay hold of that old varmint!”
“No you wouldn’t, son,” said Papa firmly. “They’re quick as lightning and about as vicious as an animal can be. It was just an unequal contest, that’s all.”
The three of them sat on the steps with their own thoughts for a while. Finally, Papa sighed and said, “I’ll get a shovel.” Jason went with him and then they went around to the shady side of the barn.
After the soft earth had been smoothed over, Jason asked, “Can we say some words, Papa?”
“All right, son.”
Upstairs, Mama hesitated a moment before going into the bedroom. “Emily,” she asked, “are you awake?”
“Come in, Mama,” a husky voice answered.
“How do you feel, dear?”
“Better, thanks, Mama.”
“Want me to plump up your pillows and raise the shade a little?” Emily nodded.
Sitting down on the edge of the bed, Mama wondered how to begin. She fussed with a thread on the coverlet a moment, then she started. “Emily, you remember last fall when your papa’s saddle horse Jake turned up missing?”
“Yes, Mama, and I remember how bad Papa felt when he found him dead and the mountain lion tracks all around where they had struggled. It was awful.”
“That’s right, honey, it was awful and we all felt bad, knowing how much your papa loved that old horse. But somehow we get over those hurts. Memories are softened in time, and we can more clearly see why things happen the way they do. Our hatred for the big cat gradually changed to an understanding that he was only acting out of instinct and that he must have been very hungry to attack an animal as large as a horse.
“Emily, I’m telling you this to help you bear some more hurt. And I’m sorry to have to tell you when you’ve been so sick, but there’s never a good time to hear some things.”
After Mama had explained about Marcus and the weasel, Emily sobbed out her unhappiness while Mama held her close.
When Jason came to see his sister later that afternoon, any mention of Marcus was avoided. He tried to cheer her up and talked of a new place he had found by the creek for their play. “It would make a perfect place for a castle moat!” he said excitedly. Emily managed a wan smile, but Jason knew where her thoughts were. When he couldn’t bear to feel Emily’s sadness anymore Jason fidgeted, then hugged his sister tightly and left the room.
After doing his and Emily’s chores, Jason wandered into the barn where he could hear Papa hammering on the anvil. He liked to watch the sparks scatter when Papa’s powerful arm brought his hammer down with a ringing blow to shape a horseshoe.
Nero, one of their Percheron draft (work) horses waited patiently while Papa fitted him with new shoes. A gust of wind fluttered the horse’s wispy leg feathers as it turned his head to watch Papa. Nero and his harness mate Bully together weighed well over four thousand pounds. Bully was seventeen hands tall, half a hand taller than Nero. But in the pulling contests at the fair they were both champions. There wasn’t a team in either Gallatin or Jefferson County that could outpull them. Maybe even in all of Montana, Jason speculated.
When Papa plunged the red-hot shoe he held with tongs, sizzling into the water tub, an idea came to Jason as he watched the last of the water bubbles burst. “Papa, when you’re through with old Nero, can I talk to you about something—something to make Emily happy again?”
“Sure, son, just give me a few minutes,” Papa replied.
Jason was always amazed at how expertly Papa maneuvered the big horses into position with the slightest urging. They seemed to know by his touch and the sound of his voice how fond he was of them. And they returned their master’s good feelings. It didn’t take Papa long to finish, and then Jason told him his plan.
For several days Mama was curious about all the hammering that came from Papa’s forge behind closed doors. But whenever she asked Jason or Papa about the racket, they always managed to skirt around a direct answer. When she took Emily’s lunch to the upstairs bedroom and her daughter asked, “What’s Papa making?” Mama answered, “I honestly don’t know, dear. And I don’t know how much longer I can school my curiosity.”
At the supper table that evening, Mama noticed Papa wink at Jason as he excused himself and said expansively, “Nobody ever made dumplings like that before, Mama.” Then he lifted her lightly and together they twirled twice around. “Now, Jason and I have to finish something,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “And never you mind what it is. You’ll know soon enough.”
Out in the twilight gloom of the barn, Papa said in a loud whisper, “Fetch a couple of feed sacks, Jason. We’ll put the parts in one and the tools in the other. I’ll get a length of rope and a lantern.”
When they had climbed up the ladder pole to the loft, they lugged their gear down to the door at the end of the barn where they could barely see the hay hoist silhouetted against the starry sky. Papa went up first. Next, he pulled up Jason and the sacks. Then the two forms hunkered down on top of the barn ridge and, by the soft lantern light, opened the sacks.
There was an air of expectancy in the kitchen the next morning. And in spite of the fact that Mama served Jason’s favorite meal—flapjacks and chokecherry jelly—he didn’t seem to be giving it his full attention. Papa wasn’t doing justice to his breakfast either. When Mama said she was going to take Emily’s tray up to her, they both offered their help, so they all trooped up the stairs together.
Emily was much improved, but she still felt sad and listless. Next to the family, she had loved the old rooster best of all.
Before Emily could get to her tray, Papa suggested they move her bed closer to the window, and Jason was already tugging at the blind. “Let’s let in more light,” he said. When the bed was shifted, Jason let the blind go with a FLAP, FLAP, FLAP.
Mama stopped talking in mid-sentence, and when she had caught her breath all she could say was, “Well, I declare!”
There high on the peak of the barn and facing into the first rays of the morning sun was a near-perfect likeness of Marcus, only it was fashioned out of scrap iron and brass. “It’s a weather vane, Emily,” Papa explained, “and pretty near indestructible unless a tornado snatches it away.”
“Do you like it, Em?” Jason asked excitedly. “See how he cocks his head just like Marcus always did.”
Emily thought at first she was going to cry, but then a smile made in heaven settled on her face and bathed them all with its warmth.
When she could find her voice again, Emily threw her arms around her father’s neck and cried, “Oh, Papa! Papa!” And then with wet cheeks she turned to Jason and said, “Thank you, my good knight. Well done! Now, whenever I look up outside I can see my faithful sky watcher riding on the wind.”

Today the Church is in 37 African countries with many Church-­owned places of worship. These chapels are constructed with funds from the headquarters of the Church. This is the story of how the first LDS chapel was acquired.
When missionaries returned to Africa on October 16, 1904, Samuel Martin was the first to be baptized in Cape Town. He had been born in England. In Cape Town he owned a bakery. Like all early Saints, he longed to join with the Saints in Utah. He shared that desire with the mission president. The mission president promised Brother Samuel that if he would pay his tithing faithfully, he and his family would be able to emigrate to Zion. Having faith, Brother Martin negotiated the sale of his business, which provided more than sufficient funds for the family’s future. The Martins moved to Utah—only to return to South Africa when Samuel himself was called to serve as mission president from April 1926 through 1929.
And what of the promise made to Samuel about tithing? Tithing contributed from the sale of his business provided funds which were used by the Church to purchase a mission home—which became known as “Cumorah”—and which was the first Church-­owned property on the African continent. The building served many years as the mission home, later became a chapel, and was rebuilt in 1937. Today the Mowbray Chapel sits on that same property at the corner of Main and Grove Road in Cape Town.
Samuel Martin will always be remembered for his generosity and for his faithful payment of tithing. Indeed tithing is a principle with a promise.
Source: Evan P. Wright; A History of South African Mission Period I, 1903–1944

But there are times strength and patience might seem out of our reach. One such time put me flat on my back on my bedroom floor. It had been a rough day of mean mental comments and tears, and I was frustrated at my spiral of self-judgment. Self-love felt light-years away. I was sick of it, and all I could do was pour out my heart to Heavenly Father, begging for anything He could give me.
As I stared at the string lights on my ceiling, scripture stories flashed through my mind: Naaman the leper commanded to wash in the River Jordan, not once, but seven times to be healed (see 2 Kings 5:10–14); the Savior using first clay, then water when he healed the man born blind (see John 9:6–7); Christ teaching His disciples not to forgive seven times, but “until seventy times seven” (Matthew 18:22).
I wanted to heal from self-loathing right then. But thinking about those stories, I realized that healing can take time, repeated effort, and the Savior’s help. I felt like Christ was inviting me to repeatedly turn to Him with whatever energy I had. He was inviting me to discover the joy of daily repentance.2
That night on my bedroom floor, I didn’t magically start loving myself all the time. But I did learn an important lesson: developing love for myself is a process, not a one-time event. Through that process, whenever I make a mistake or have hurtful feelings toward myself, I can lean on the Spirit and the Savior’s love for me. “As we humbly turn to Him, He will increase our capacity to change.”3 Because I have experienced this for myself, I have confidence that He doesn’t see my repeated efforts as failures—He sees them as repentance (see Mosiah 26:30).

A couple in England was invited to attend a special seminar for those who had never been to the temple. “Each week we heard testimonies of many people who had been blessed by keeping the commandments of the Lord, of people who had had to change their lives to go to the temple. That really helped us. And we were given a different project each week concerning the gospel that we were to include in our activities and to achieve during that week.” When the seminar ended they felt prepared to go to the temple and had the necessary interviews. “On November 9, 1973, we were able to receive our endowments and were sealed with our children, Jon and Jamey, for time and eternity. That was truly the most glorious day of our lives.”

One teacher expressed thanks for the bathroom, the painting of the classroom, the fans and the cosmetology room for boys and girls. Another teacher exuberantly described how grateful she was for the fans. She said that prior to the donation of the fans, students complained about the heat and she tried on numerous occasions to share her fan with her students, but it was still not sufficient for all. Now they ask her to turn off the fans because they are cold. She is grateful to know the students are now comfortable while learning.

This story is recorded in the Newel K. Whitney family history about the arrival of Joseph Smith in Kirtland: “About the first of February, 1831, a sleigh containing four persons drove through the streets of Kirtland and drew up in front of the store of Gilbert and Whitney. One of the men, a young and stalwart personage alighted, and springing up the steps walked into the store and to where the junior partner was standing. ‘Newel K. Whitney! Thou art the man!’ he exclaimed, extending his hand cordially, as if to an old and familiar acquaintance. ‘You have the advantage of me,’ replied the merchant, as he mechanically took the proffered hand, ‘I could not call you by name as you have me.’ ‘I am Joseph the Prophet,’ said the stranger smiling. ‘You’ve prayed me here, now what do you want of me?’” (History of the Church, 1:146).

Lupe sat on the front steps of her apartment building. She was lonely. Her friend Ramona was away for the day, and Lupe had nothing to do and no one to play with.
I wish I had a pet, Lupe thought. But there was a big sign in her apartment building that read NO PETS ALLOWED.
Lupe saw her Uncle Jorge walking along the street with a package under his arm. He sat down on the steps beside her. “This is for you,” he said.
Lupe was excited. She opened the package. In it she found some wonderful treasures—a pad of white paper, crayons, colored pencils, and a little pair of scissors.
“Thank you!” cried Lupe. “Thank you, Uncle Jorge.”
Lupe had a happy afternoon. She drew with her colored pencils on the white paper. She colored with the crayons. She cut with the little scissors.
That evening Ramona came home. She and Lupe sat on the steps of their apartment building.
“I have a lot of pets,” said Lupe.
Ramona shook her head. “You can’t,” she said. “Pets aren’t allowed in our building.”
“But I have pets,” said Lupe. “I got them from Uncle Jorge.”
Ramona looked as if she did not believe Lupe.
“I’ll tell you about my pets,” said Lupe. “I have a brown and white giraffe, a black and white zebra, a black gorilla, an orange monkey, and a red rooster.”
“That’s impossible,” said Ramona. “Nobody has pets like those.”
“I have,” said Lupe. “I’ll show you.”
Lupe took Ramona upstairs to her apartment. In Lupe’s bedroom Ramona saw hand-drawn pictures of a giraffe, a zebra, a gorilla, a monkey, and a rooster.
“See!” Lupe laughed. “My pets are paper pets!”

The summer before my senior year of high school, my family moved from northern Virginia, USA, near Washington, D.C., to a small town in California. This was not an easy transition. I was looking forward to finishing high school with my friends. At 17 years old, I felt like my life was over!
My senior year wasn’t easy. I felt lonely a lot. But during that time, I learned the importance of finding good friends who support me and respect my beliefs. That has been helpful to me ever since.

I was raised in a community in the western valleys of Utah. The town, Tooele, was settled by pioneers. When precious ore deposits were discovered in the nearby mountains, people came in from southern and eastern Europe who had a different culture and different religious preferences. They came to work in the mines and at the smelter.
They settled just east of town and called their community “New Town.” From almost the beginning, there was division and suspicion and misunderstanding between the new residents, who brought with them their old-country customs, and the people of the more established community, who were mostly of pioneer stock. The two groups seldom mixed.
One year the high school hired a football coach fresh out of Utah State by the name of Sterling Harris. Coach Harris, as he came to be known, was outgoing and just a little irreverent. He went throughout the old town and the new town and made sure he got all the boys in school and then out for football. He had a nickname for everyone, and after a while it became a sort of status symbol to carry a Sterling Harris nickname.
It wasn’t long after that before he had the Gowns and the Whitehouses lined up next to the Savages and the Stepics, and the Ormes and the Melinkoviches running from the same backfield. He was tough but impartial, and he had about him a presence that made people feel important and want to do their best.
The team came together, and Coach Harris even took them to more than one state championship. But what was more important, in bringing the team together he brought the whole community together. Walls were broken down. People from diverse cultures learned they could build on mutual respect and appreciation. Sterling Harris had become a bridge.
Sterling Harris still lives in Tooele; he is ninety-one years of age. He went on to accomplish many other things in his life, including being superintendent of schools and a leader in the Church, but none was more important than helping a community to unite itself and reestablish the principle of respect for others of different backgrounds and cultures.
In the cities of this world, in the towns, in the neighborhoods, in the homes, we need more Sterling Harrises from every walk of life.

Robert Wood. Robby frowned as he read his name. All his friends called him Robby. His whole name looked strange and uncomfortable on the bright yellow Primary birthday calendar. It didn’t seem to belong with the names of the other kids. He wasn’t like them. He had been to church only about three times in his whole life. He wouldn’t have come today except his new teacher, Sister Jensen, had sent him a special invitation and offered him a ride.
Robby liked singing the songs. Sharing time was interesting, too. When his class was excused, he followed the other children to their classroom. They were ahead of Sister Jensen. She seems old to be a Primary teacher, Robby thought as she stopped to talk briefly to someone in the hallway.
Robby chose a seat at the very back of the room, but when he started to sit down, a boy kicked his chair out from under him. An ugly word popped out of Robby’s mouth. He was immediately sorry, and he blushed a deep red when he saw Sister Jensen standing in the doorway. She must have seen the whole thing.
The girls raised their hands and pointed at Robby. The boys snickered. Robby wanted to run home. But Sister Jensen closed the door and smiled at him. Then, turning to the girls, she said, “I just love to see so many volunteers for the prayer.” The girls put their hands down quickly, but Sister Jensen still assigned two of them to give prayers.
During class, Robby watched Sister Jensen. She smiled a lot. She made Robby feel he was just as important as the other children.
After class, Sister Jensen hugged the children as they left. When it was Robby’s turn, she quietly shut the door. Robby was alone with Sister Jensen, and he knew why. She was going to scold him for saying that angry word. Well, at least she hadn’t embarrassed him by doing it in front of everybody.
“I’m so glad you came today, Robert,” Sister Jensen said with a smile.
Robby looked down and traced on the floor with his shoe.
When he didn’t answer, Sister Jensen continued, “I know you’re embarrassed about what you said. If someone kicked a chair and made me fall, I would be pretty upset, too.”
“They wouldn’t do it to you,” Robby said. “They just do it to me because I’m not a church kid.”
Sister Jensen looked thoughtful as she bent to gather some of her things. When she straightened up, she was wearing her big smile again. “Sit down a minute, Robert,” she said, pointing to a chair.
Robby sat quietly while Sister Jensen pulled up a chair beside him.
“Do you like our bishop?” she asked.
Robby thought for a minute. He remembered the time the bishop came to his house when his mother was sick and couldn’t care for the family. After that, some ladies came by to help take care of his mother and his family. The bishop seemed really nice. “Yeah, I think he’s nice,” Robby said.
“Well, believe it or not, I used to be his Primary teacher,” Sister Jensen explained.
“Oh.” Robby nodded. “I guess you could have been; you are old.” Robby blushed when he realized what he’d said.
Sister Jensen laughed heartily. “That’s true! He was a sweet little boy, just like you. You and he have a lot in common—his parents never brought him to church, either. I used to pick him up all the time. He even sat with me in sacrament meeting.
“When he was about your age,” Sister Jensen continued, “he decided to make choices that would help him the rest of his life. He had a little problem with angry words, and he decided that when he became upset, he’d say ‘How exasperating!’ I told him that was a good start but he also needed to fill his mind with good things. That way only good things would come out of his mouth.”
Robby traced on the floor with his other shoe. “Well, maybe when I’m a grown-up, I can do that, too,” he told her.
“But now’s the time to make important choices that will bless you throughout your life, including your choice of words.”
“How can words bless me?”
“When you are careful with the words you choose to say, you show others you care enough about them not to offend them. Choosing good words helps you gain more friends, and you’re also not offending your Heavenly Father. Besides, when you have good words inside, good actions often follow.”
Robby nodded that he understood, and he helped Sister Jensen gather up the rest of her teaching materials.
The next Sunday, Sister Jensen picked Robby up in time for sacrament meeting. The bishop was conducting, and he seemed to be having a difficult time with some of the announcements. Finally he put down the paper he was reading, smiled at the ward members, and exclaimed, “How exasperating!”
Robby giggled as Sister Jensen nudged his arm. He leaned over and whispered, “That’s what I’m going to say when I’m mad, too.”
“Good for you, Robby,” Sister Jensen said with a wink.
Later, in the Primary room, Robby again noticed his name on the yellow birthday board. “That’s funny,” he said.
“What’s that?” Sister Jensen asked.
“Last week my name seemed different.”
Sister Jensen looked puzzled. “What do you mean?” she asked.
“Well, last week my name looked out of place up there by the names of the church kids. But today it looks like it belongs.”
Sister Jensen put her arm around Robby, and he noticed tears in her eyes. “That’s because you do belong here,” she said.

It was a hot July afternoon, and the chapel was filled for stake priesthood meeting. There was a young priest sitting on the stand in “contained nervousness,” and after the hymn the stake president announced him as the next speaker.

He spread out his notes, and as he did so his quivering hands betrayed his fear. He began to speak, but soon his speech quickened to a gabble, his words wild and repetitive. Worse followed as he began to stammer and then stopped speaking altogether.

A heavy silence settled on the room. Who has not felt the terror of standing before an awesome audience? Everyone thought he would sit down, but no, he stayed on his feet, his head down. A few ominous seconds ticked by, and then he squared his shoulders and blurted out: “Brethren, I ask for an interest in your faith and prayers that I might have sureness of speech.”

Then he went back to where he had left off, speaking quietly but clearly. Soon his voice rose to its natural resonance, and he delivered his message to its full conclusion. It was not so much his message that thrilled those who were there. It was the image of that young man, unflinching even though he felt himself teetering on a precipice of fear, taking up the banner of courage and rallying himself for the cause of truth.

When I was 30 years old, I was visiting the Nagoya mission as part of my work. After the meeting, the mission president kindly arranged for the elders to drive me to the airport. However, as we reached the intersection at the bottom of a long hill, a large truck came barreling down from behind us at great speed. It rammed into the rear of our car and propelled it forward more than 70 feet (20 m). The terrifying part of all of this was there was no driver. The rear of our car was compacted to half its original size. Fortunately, both the elders and I survived.
However, on the following day, I began experiencing pain in my neck and shoulders and developed a severe headache. From that day, I couldn’t sleep and I was forced to live each day with both physical and mental pain. I prayed to God to please heal my pain, but these symptoms lingered on for about 10 years.
At this time, feelings of doubt also began creeping into my mind, and I wondered, “Why do I have to suffer this much pain?” However, even though the kind of healing I sought was not granted, I strove to be faithful in keeping God’s commandments. I continued to pray that I would be able to resolve the questions I had about my trials.
There came a time when I found myself struggling with a few additional personal issues, and I was agitated because I did not know how to cope with this new trial. I was praying for an answer. But I didn’t receive an answer right away. So I went and talked with a trusted Church leader.
As we were talking, with love in his voice, he said, “Brother Aoyagi, isn’t your purpose for being on this earth to experience this trial? Isn’t it to accept all the trials of this life for what they are and then leave the rest up to the Lord? Don’t you think that this problem will be resolved when we are resurrected?”
When I heard these words, I felt the Spirit of the Lord very strongly. I had heard this doctrine countless times, but the eyes of my understanding had never been opened to the extent they were at this time. I understood this was the answer that I had been seeking from the Lord in my prayers. I was able to clearly comprehend our Heavenly Father’s plan of salvation and understand anew this important principle.
Let’s now consider that rear-end collision in Nagoya. I could have died in that accident. Nevertheless, through the Lord’s grace, I miraculously survived. And I know that my sufferings were for my learning and for my growth.5 Heavenly Father schooled me to temper my impatience, to develop empathy, and to comfort those who are suffering. When I realized this, my heart was filled with feelings of thankfulness toward my Heavenly Father for this trial.

The student council election results are in.
Matt told me the bad news. How are you doing?
I’m really disappointed.
I’m sorry you lost. But I’m also very proud of you.
Really?
Of course. You had some great ideas for your school, and you worked hard to get elected. You can feel good about that.
The next morning …
You’re right, Mom. I did my best. Now I’ll share my ideas with the new council. And next year I’ll start earlier, meet more students …
Will I be calling her “President Mandy” someday?

Martin was born in the United States. But then his family moved to a country in Europe called the Czech Republic. The people there spoke Czech. Martin knew some of the Czech words his Primary teacher used. He could say ahoj, which meant “hi.” But he mostly spoke English.
Martin loved his school. He had an English teacher and a Czech teacher. There was a big playroom with fun wooden toys.
One day Martin was playing with puppets when a new boy came into the classroom. The English teacher said, “This is Josef. It’s his first day of school. He doesn’t know much English yet.”
Josef had a worried look on his face. Martin thought he must be scared on his first day of school. Maybe Josef couldn’t understand the English teacher.
The teacher led Josef to a table with wooden puzzles on it. Without meaning to, Josef knocked over the whole stack of puzzles. Crash! The puzzle pieces flew everywhere! Josef looked like he might cry.
Martin wanted to tell Josef not to feel bad. It was just an accident. But Martin didn’t know how to tell him in Czech. He stopped playing with his puppets and walked over to the puzzle table. He smiled and started stacking one of the puzzles. He showed Josef how to put it back together. Soon he and Josef finished all the puzzles. They put them back on the table.
For the first time that day, Josef smiled. Martin felt very happy. He had made a new friend without saying a word.