Gospel Story Finder

When Sasha Strachova was 13 years old, she began to feel a yearning to know God. For months, she prayed, “Heavenly Father, I want to know thee more.”
The Lord answered her prayer. One day, two missionaries were invited to speak to the students in her school class in St. Petersburg, Russia. Something they said caught her by surprise and riveted her attention: “Men are, that they might have joy” (2 Ne. 2:25). What an unusual concept that was! “But I believed it,” says Sasha. “I felt they knew how we could have joy in life.”
Excitedly, she hurried home to share her discovery with her mother. But her mother, recently divorced and feeling burdened with life, dismissed her news and her excitement. Sasha begged for permission to attend Sunday meetings at the branch, even though it was far from where she and her mother lived. “Mama said, ‘Why do you have to travel so far?’ But I said, ‘Mama, I will go to this church.’”
The next Sunday, Sasha traveled alone by bus and subway to reach the branch. “I felt love there,” she says. “I felt life in the people. I was just starting to know about God, and I wanted very much to feel what they were feeling.”
Soon she was asking her mother if the missionaries could come to their apartment. “My mother said, ‘No, we don’t need missionaries.’ But I told her, ‘Mama, I will wash the floor every day. Please let them come.’” After a month of washing floors, Sasha convinced her mother to let the missionaries come. When they arrived, they were surprised to find the apartment crowded with 13-year-olds. Sasha had invited her entire school class! Three months later, she and two of her friends were baptized.
Sasha wanted her mother to enjoy the blessings of the gospel. “I fasted and prayed for her,” she says. “Every night I put notes on her bed. I wrote: ‘My dear mommy, God loves you so much. Please pray to him. He will certainly bless you today.’” Sasha has family home evening with her mother and still hopes she will eventually be baptized.

When each of my children turned eight, I took them on a backpacking trip. I’ll have to say they were great adventures that were full of triumphs and tragedies. Some of the triumphs include fording a stream with a backpack, climbing higher on the mountain than their brother, starting a fire, and just making it home alive. Some of the tragedies include skinned knees, muddy feet, overloaded backpacks, and unexpected snowstorms. As part of this tradition we documented the adventure with a picture wearing our backpacks in the front of our home. When my son James turned eight, he was very excited for the adventure. During the photo op in the front of our home he reached out and held my hand. To be honest, it melted my heart a bit. I thought that was sweet of him to do during the picture. However, during the entire hike that day and throughout the trip he frequently would hold my hand. Later that summer, I took James with his older brothers backpacking. To my surprise he continued to frequently hold my hand while hiking. At first his brothers didn’t say anything. Then, they teased him about holding my hand, but James ignored them. Finally, one of his brothers asked him why he held my hand during the hike. I will always remember his profound eight-year-old response. Without hesitation and unapologetically James said, “Because it makes me go faster.” He was right. It did make him go faster. As we hiked, I could support him, guide him, pull him along a bit and even steady him if he was a little off balance.

Let me share a story to illustrate. Several years ago, I was hiking in the North Central Cascades of Washington with our oldest son Jonathan. It was night, and we came to a part of the trail that bordered a steep cliff on the edge of an abyss. At that point, Jonathan (who was 10 or 12 years old at the time) became fearful and dared not go on. I urged him forward, but he refused. I then took him by the hand, and with the other hand on his shoulder, I said:
Jonathan, I am your dad; I will not let you fall. I will grip your hand and take two steps. You then will take two steps, and together we will cross this section of the trail.
Slowly, gradually, we crossed that portion of the trail because I had him by the hand and he trusted me as his dad. Similarly, each of us may--if we humble ourselves before the Master and exercise our faith in Him--figuratively take Him who has all power in Heaven and earth by the hand. And, with the "matchless power"[40] of God flowing to us, we cannot, we will not, fall or fail.[41]

Illustrations by Andy Elkerton
Sarah was unpacking a box in her room when Mom walked in.
“Can we paint the walls yellow?” she asked Mom.
They had just moved into a different house. Sarah had been able to pick out a quilt and curtains for her new room!
“Sure,” Mom said. “Yellow is a happy color.”
But Mom and Sarah didn’t always feel happy lately, not since Dad had died in an accident.
Sarah put a few of her favorite books on a little shelf by her bed. She put her favorite picture of Dad next to the books, where she could see it every morning when she woke up.
She heard a sniffle and saw tears in Mom’s eyes.
“I love you, Mom,” Sarah said, wrapping her arms around Mom’s waist and squeezing tight.
“I love you more,” Mom said.
The Saturday before school started, Mom and Sarah put on old clothes, moved the furniture to the middle of Sarah’s room, and carefully pushed paint rollers into trays of yellow paint. After a while, the walls were covered in yellow—and so were their faces and clothes!
“You look like you’ve got sunshine splattered all over you,” Mom said.
Sarah giggled. “And you look like a banana exploded next to you!”
They were still laughing as they cleaned up. But Sarah’s smile faded when she thought about going to Primary tomorrow and school the day after that.
“I’m worried about church and my new school,” she told Mom as they rinsed paintbrushes in the sink. “I won’t know any of the teachers or kids or anybody.”
Mom turned off the water and pulled Sarah into a hug.
“You’ll make friends,” Mom said. “You have a kind heart that will draw others to you. Be your wonderful self, and friends will come.”
Sarah felt a little better, but she was still nervous.
“I wish Dad were here to give me a blessing,” she said. “Like he always used to before I went back to school.”
Mom was quiet for a minute. “What about Uncle Wyatt?” she said. “I’m sure he’d be happy to give you a blessing.”
Sarah nodded. Maybe a blessing would help.
That night, Sarah’s uncle put his hands on her head to give her a blessing.
“I bless you to know that the Savior is mindful of you as you start this new chapter in life,” he said. “He will not leave you alone.”
Sarah paid special attention to the words new chapter. She loved to read and was always excited to start a new chapter in a book.
The next morning Sarah and Mom went to church. After sacrament meeting Mom helped Sarah find the Primary room. A girl smiled at her and said hello.
“You can sit here,” she said, patting an empty chair next to her.
“Thanks,” Sarah said. “My name’s Sarah. I’m new here.”
“I’m Melody. And I’m new too! This is only my second week.”
Soon Sarah and Melody were talking with the other Primary kids. Their teacher was really nice.
I hope school goes well too, Sarah thought as she went to bed that night.
The next day, Sarah rode the bus to her new school. She was excited to see a few kids from Primary in her third-grade class.
Thank you, Heavenly Father, Sarah prayed silently as she ate lunch with her new friends. Maybe this will be a good chapter, after all.

Alejandro Flores, 13, discovered the importance of doing as well as knowing. “Last Sunday,” he says, “my grandmother asked me to teach a family home evening lesson about dress standards, using For the Strength of Youth. Some of my cousins and I had the habit of following worldly styles, and I felt uncomfortable giving the lesson. But now my cousins and I are doing better in the way we dress.” His lesson and example helped prepare his cousins for an important event. “They’re getting baptized next week!” he says.

In graduate school I encountered several different experiences that were challenging for me. One of those experiences involved an initial review for my master’s degree in which I was asked to stand onstage and defend my work to the entire Art Department faculty. I don’t believe I was very articulate or persuasive at the time because I failed to pass the review. That experience was extremely disappointing to me and to Vicki, especially after we had encountered the challenges of moving 1,200 miles away and were scrimping to pay out-of-state tuition.

But rejection caused me to dig deeper and pushed me outside my comfort zone. Through additional research I became exposed to different points of view and different philosophies, and I was able to understand the context of criticism leveled at a large body of representational work. I also came to realize why it was possible to be drawn toward figurative work and how to develop a justification for doing so. Research allowed me to develop an informed justification and critical theory for what I was drawn to and what I wanted to explore as an artist. My work became more than rendering objects; it began to include interpretation and concept. My own experiences were projected into my work, and my work became more personal and symbolic. I think my art ultimately became more interesting, and I passed my second review.

During my second year of college at the fall opening social for the Tahitian Club, I met a brand new student. He was just off his mission and fresh off the boat with a radical farmer’s tan. At the social this new student with a thick accent kept asking me to dance all night. I learned that his name was Ramond but not much else because all he did was listen to me and smile or agree with everything I said. I was enrolled in French 101 that semester; Ramond was in EIL 101 just learning English basics so he was very kind to help me practice speaking French with him. The first time he called me on the phone he actually read a script his roommate had written out for him and then would repeat anything I asked him so his friend, like in the story of Cyrano de Bergerac, could tell him what to say in response. I had no idea this was going on. English is Ramond’s third language and his elocution was still pretty sparse when he first arrived but with help and encouragement form his mission president, he passed the Admissions criteria with help from on-high and we ended up becoming friends and regular study buddies.
As a result, we both improved in our foreign language studies.Within a year we were engaged to be married. We requested to have Ramond’s father, who is a sealer in the Papeete Tahiti Temple, perform our sealing ceremony here in the Laie Hawaii Temple. A petition had to be approved by the First Presidency to allow him to exercise his authority in a different temple. To our utter surprise and disappointment, the petition was denied. For me, it caused some second thoughts about what kind of sign we were receiving and if we had made the right choice.After several days of sincere prayer about what to do, we were walking together one evening when, through a window, Ramond saw into a room filled with people we didn’t know, many of whom were not observing the BYUH Dress and Grooming standards. Immediately Ramond received an impression that he was supposed to ask one of the men in the room if he would be our sealer. I was obviously not paying as much attention to the Spirit as he was because surveying the group I just said, "Sure, you go ahead and do that.” I was not brave enough to walk up to a total stranger and ask him if he was an LDS Temple Sealer, but Ramond was because the Spirit prompted him and he listened and trusted in the Lord to guide him. I sheepishly followed behind at a distance as he raced through the crowd and caught up to the man who was already walking out to his car. By the time I caught up to them, they had already established that the man was indeed a temple sealer and he had agreed to perform our ceremony for us. The experience that night was exactly what I needed as an indisputable answer to my prayers if our decision to be married was right for us. My confidence in our decision had returned yet it was still a confusing disappointment to have been denied the opportunity to be sealed by my future father-in-law.

What a tender mercy the Lord showed me by saying no to our petition as I eventually came to understand the wisdom in the First Presidency's decision. My Father-in-law speaks only in Tahitian and French so the ceremony would have been performed in a language not familiar to most in attendance. I had completed a total of 3-years of high school and college French classes but admittedly it would have been very difficult for me to understand the sacred ceremony with my rudimentary classroom French vocabulary. What a blessing it was to have both of our fathers there as witnesses to our sealing and to have the crystal-clear loving counsel of our sealer, Thomas Kekaula, who is someone who will remain very dear to us forever.

A couple of years ago, in Texas, a young man drove his motorcycle across the Mexican border. He was going up and down the sand dunes. There was a dune with about a twenty-foot drop, and he went sailing off into space. In the accident the top part of the skull was crushed and almost torn from his head, leaving his brain exposed. It was thirteen hours before help came to him. A helicopter took him to a Houston hospital, and the doctors said he could never live. If the accident didn’t kill him, the exposure and infection would.

They notified the family. He had a younger sister, twenty-five, who was married and had a four-year-old son. This little guy loved his Uncle Dennis. He thought the sun came up, went around his Uncle Dennis, went back down, and that was the day. He thought he was terrific. Uncle Dennis had taken time to take him for rides and play with him and do all the things that are done.

When the child heard about the accident, that his Uncle Dennis wasn’t going to live, he said, “Mom, can we have a prayer?” She answered that they were going to their grandmother’s house and the whole family was fasting and going to have a prayer. He said, “I mean, can you and I have a prayer?”

She said, “Well, I guess so. Sure.” They went into the bedroom and she was, about to say the prayer when he asked, “Mom, can I say the prayer?” She told him to go ahead. He said this prayer: “Heavenly Father, Uncle Dennis has been in a terrible accident, and no one expects him to live. But he is my favorite uncle, and I love him. Please don’t let him die. Let him live. Okay? In the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.”

Well, his mother was really concerned. It sounded like her brother was going to die, so she tried to prepare her son by saying, “Son, if your Uncle Dennis dies, you have to have faith and understand what that is all about.”

He replied, “Mom, Uncle Dennis is going to live.”

“Well, we hope he does, but if he dies you must not lose faith in prayer or in the Lord.”

“Uncle Dennis is going to live.” She didn’t know what else to say. She went into the kitchen and he followed her in. She was still trying to reason with him when he said, “Mom, do you know that Heavenly Father has a deep, soft, quiet voice?”

She asked, “How do you know that?”

He said, “Because when I said, ‘Heavenly Father, he’s my favorite uncle. Let him live. Okay?’ he said, ‘Okay.’”

Uncle Dennis walked into my office not too long ago. I could see where they had sewn him back together. He had a cane in one hand and walked with a slight limp, but his mind was good, and he is going to the University of Utah. He plays golf and the piano. No one would have known that except for the faith of a young man. That is the kind of people we are. We build bricks with that kind of straw.

It seems like not so long ago I was but a boy, young and green with eyes unmellowed, but believing I was indeed extremely wise. I was no expert at baseball, but my bedroom was adorned with photographs of baseball heroes—especially those of Pete Dillard. Pete was a famous professional player whose parents lived in our town, and he came every summer for a week with his family to visit them. It was kind of fun to see him around town, shaking hands with everybody and sometimes joining in a neighborhood game and signing autographs afterward. But I never seemed to get close enough to him to even say hello. One day when I was approaching a crowd of fans around Pete, I overheard a boy say, “Hey, Pete, how did you ever get so good at baseball?”
Pete shrugged his shoulders modestly, smiled, and said, “Lots and lots of practice.” But then he paused for a while as if he remembered something and added, “Maybe it’s because I once had a Sunday School teacher who loved me. All of us called him Chief.”
And then Pete was gone.
Most of my experiences with baseball consisted of playing games with my dad and a sprinkling of friends on hot summer evenings. When Dad didn’t have meetings or if he didn’t have to work late at the office, he usually spent some time with me. After dinner we often played catch out in our front yard until way after the street lights blinked on. I still remember his calm, deep voice as he called out to me, “Good throw, Son” or “A little higher, boy” or “Nice curve, John.”
Then other boys would come straggling over one by one and stand and watch us, and Dad would stop the game and invite them to join us. If we eventually accumulated enough people, we’d begin a game of baseball. Everybody liked my dad—almost as much as I did.
There was a boy who lived directly across the street from us, Homer Johnson. He had a mop of red curls, pale thin skin that revealed his veins clear through, and thick, thick glasses. He hardly ever came out of his house. My mother said that he had had a lot of illness. But every so often I’d see his piercing eyes watching us from an upstairs window as we played ball. I’d try not to feel those eyes, but I could not ignore them.
One day just when we had chosen up sides for a game, my team was short one player. But that didn’t matter, because I had all good players. Then suddenly Dad turned his head and said in his calm, deep voice, “Oh, hello there, Homer. Want to join us?”
I reeled around, and there was Homer standing across the street in front of his house, his hands in his pockets. He fidgeted a lot, but slowly he dragged his feet and crossed the street. As he neared, I noticed that he was thinner and smaller than he looked to be from his window … and he didn’t look very strong.
I turned toward my father. “Dad …” I tried to whisper. But he had already walked over and put an arm around Homer. Now they were both walking toward us.
“John needs one more man on his team,” Dad was saying. “You can be an outfielder for now.”
I felt my ears burn. Dad caught my eye, and I think he knew how I felt—he always did. But there was something in Dad’s look that silenced me. I picked up my ball and mitt and stomped off to my position.
The other team scored two home runs. And then it happened. Someone smacked the ball out into the field toward Homer. I saw him position his hands to catch the flying ball, and then … splaatt! His glasses flew, and he was holding his nose, with blood dripping from beneath his hands. Dad had him lie down on the grass to stop the bleeding. Then he sent him home to wash up. Fortunately his glasses hadn’t broken.
After Homer left, I said, “Dad, he’s no good as a player. He shouldn’t be on anyone’s team ’cause he’ll make it lose.”
Then in a low voice so no one else could hear, Dad said, “He’s a child of God, John. Always remember that.”
I didn’t want to make a scene in front of everybody, so I just tromped off and continued playing ball, but my ears were burning. I didn’t say anything else for the rest of the evening. I resented being preached to.
Homer didn’t return the next day or the next. But the following week he was back again, standing in front of his home, fidgeting and staring at us. As we pitched and threw and shouted on my lawn, I could not help but feel two penetrating eyes on us. Then I heard Dad’s voice inviting him to join us, and again I felt my ears turn hot. As I glanced over at my father, I saw a pleading look on his face as he gazed back at me.
That night I lay in bed, wide-eyed. I had thrown off the covers, and still my bedclothes stuck to my back. I heard a rustle. Standing in the doorway was Dad. “You still awake, Son?”
I nodded, and hoped that he could see my response in the dark. His large angular figure came toward me, his gentle eyes sparkling in the dark. I thought of Homer and looked away.
He sat beside me, and I felt a heavy hand on my shoulder. “Son …” he began softly. “Things are getting tight at the office, and I’ll have to stay late at work for a while.”
My heart fell.
“But I have one day reserved just for you,” he continued. “Pete Dillard is going to be in town in a couple of weeks, and they’ve asked him to speak at a fund-raising dinner for crippled children. I have two tickets for you and me.”
Suddenly I was smiling. “Dad!” I shouted. “You mean I get to see Pete Dillard for real! Boy, oh, boy! Wait until my friends hear about this!”
Even though I had this exciting event to look forward to from that day on, things were not the same when my friends and I got together to play ball on the front lawn. Without Dad, we often got into squabbles, and one of the fellows would go home mad. Sometimes Homer would stand at his front door, watching us. But nobody invited him to play ball. So he just stood there all the time with his piercing, piercing eyes.
At last the day of the dinner came. There was Pete in the front of the hall, shaking hands with people and looking really interested in what everyone had to say to him. I don’t remember what was served. My only thoughts were about the baseball that I set beside my plate for Pete to autograph after the dinner.
When it was time for Pete to talk, he arose confidently. He didn’t give the speech we all expected, but said only a few words. Again he mentioned Chief, the Sunday School teacher I had heard him talk about sometime ago.
“I was awkward and clumsy as a boy,” Pete said, “but it was the confidence that Chief had in me that gave me what I needed in my long struggle to become the person that I wanted to become.”
Then he sat down. People began crowding around for autographs. I picked up my ball and started up front. Suddenly I realized Dad was next to me, waiting to meet Pete too.
Finally our turn came. I held my ball up for Pete to autograph. But Pete was staring past me with a funny look on his face, arms outstretched.
“Chief!” he cried. “What are you doing here?” And he threw his arms around my dad.
“I’ve lived here for five years,” Dad replied. “I’ve tried to get hold of you every time you’ve been in town, but you’re an awfully busy man!”
On our way home in the car, many unanswered questions filled my mind. But somehow I couldn’t seem to find the right words to express them. All I could say was, “Dad, you’re great, you really are. Even Pete Dillard thinks so.”
The next evening seemed so empty without my father. I stood in front of my house, waiting for the neighborhood boys to start coming by to play ball again. Idly I tossed a ball into the air, marveling over the happenings of yesterday.
Suddenly I became aware of two piercing eyes upon me. I tried to ignore them, but they were there nonetheless. Then the scene of Pete Dillard embracing my Dad flashed through my mind, and the word Chief! seemed to ring out loud and clear. And I realized then that I yearned to be like my dad.
I found myself slowly crossing the street, walking up the steps of the house opposite mine, and knocking on the door.

An interesting way to practice what is preached about etiquette was discovered by the youth of the Murray Third Ward in Utah. An evening’s lesson on social awareness was given to Laurels and Explorers. A week later a full-scale formal dinner was hosted by MIA leaders and the bishopric. In a lovely home a long table was covered with fine linen, and crystal, silverware, and complete china settings were laid. Guests came in their party best. Boys had called the girls on the telephone properly for the date. Boys attended to the girls’ needs and even gave their “orders” to the waiters (members of the bishopric!). At the end of the evening each was warmly appreciative, seeking the hosts out to express thanks. (An extra touch of niceness is a note of thanks the following day.)

It was such a successful event that now everyone is wondering what they can learn next that they can put into practice with as much fun.

Some years ago Elder Marion D. Hanks told about a group of Boy Scouts who went cave exploring. The narrow trail was marked with white stones and lighted in sections as they went. After about an hour they came to a huge, high dome. Below it lay an area called the Bottomless Pit, so called because the floor of the cave had collapsed into a deep, gaping hole. It was hard not to jostle each other on that narrow path. Pretty soon, one of the bigger boys accidentally pushed a smaller boy into a muddy area away from the light. Terrified as he lost his footing, he screamed in the darkness. The ranger heard his cry of terror and came quickly. The boy let out another cry as the beam of the ranger’s light showed that he was right on the very edge of the pit.
In this story, the boy was rescued. But this does not always happen. So many times young people are enticed to go to the very edge or even beyond it. With only a precarious toehold, it is easy to be seriously injured or even die. Life is too precious to throw away in the name of excitement or, as Jacob said in the Book of Mormon, “looking beyond the mark.”

Eight young men in the Hamilton Ward, Stevensville Montana Stake, resolved a dilemma through their own initiative. The weight room at the high school was only open from 7:00 to 8:00 A.M., the time they were in seminary each morning. The bishop of their ward, Robert W. Wischmeier, offered the priests of his quorum the use of an old barn if they wanted to renovate it. “It was a mess back there,” the bishop reported.
The young men jumped at the chance. With volunteer labor and materials from people and businesses in the area, the barn was eventually converted into a weight room and opened for use to other high school students. And the young men can still attend seminary without missing their workouts.

One student said to me, “All my mature life I’ve had trouble with bad thoughts—even during my mission. Whenever I was asked the question ’Are you morally clean?’ I answered yes because I was considering my practices. But I always had some plaguing feelings about my thoughts.” We were walking into a final examination one day when he said, “Brother Covey, I can look you in the eye today and say, ’I am morally clean, right to my core.’” What did he do? For a period of several months he feasted on the words of Christ, asked the Lord for a heightened awareness of temptation, turned immediately at the very first onset of that temptation and did worthy things, went back to his divine purposes and his work. Elder Packer said, “Hum a hymn. Memorize a scripture.” And this young man did it. The Holy Ghost. I believe, purged much of that other disposition right out of his nature.

Chris stood next to the door to the Relief Society room. After what seemed a very long time, the door finally opened. Chris stood back and watched as the sisters left, chatting in twos and threes. He had learned over the years that it was easier to just wait for his mom in the hall, but today he really wanted to get into the Relief Society room.
He waited for just the right moment, then, ducking under Sister Brown’s purse, slipped in. He slid into an empty row of chairs and looked around. Just as I thought, he said to himself, there’s no fireplace in here.
“There you are, Son.” Chris turned when he heard his mom’s voice. “I was looking for you in the hall.” Noticing the confused look on his face, she asked, “Is something wrong?”
Chris handed his mom a sheet of paper he had been holding. “I came in here to see the fireplace.”
Chris’s mom read the first line on the paper out loud. “‘You and your parents are invited to attend a special baptism fireside.’”
“It says it’s going to be here in the Relief Society room, but where are they going to build a fire?”
Mom smiled. “A fireside is a kind of meeting,” she explained. “I’m not sure why it’s called that—maybe people really did meet around a fire at one time. But that rarely happens anymore.”
“Oh.” Chris was unable to hide his disappointment. “I thought maybe we would be roasting marshmallows or something fun like that.”
“It does say that refreshments will be served,” Mom tried to cheer him up. She put her hand on his shoulder. “Come on. Let’s go see how much longer your dad’s going to be.”
They walked to the clerk’s office, where Chris’s dad was busy helping Brother Watkins, a member of the bishopric, count the day’s tithing donations. “Did you get my tithing?” Chris asked excitedly. “I gave it to the bishop before sacrament meeting.”
Dad nodded. “We got it and just entered it into the computer. You’re well on your way to another year of being a full tithe payer.”
Chris smiled, thinking back to last year’s tithing settlement. He remembered the bishop saying, “Heavenly Father is very pleased with you for paying all of your tithing.”
Chris’s mom poked her head in. “How much longer are you going to be?”
“Not much longer. We’ll be finished in a few minutes. Do you want to wait for me, or do you think I need the exercise of walking home?”
“I don’t know. What do you think, Chris?”
Chris laughed. “I guess we can wait a few more minutes.”
As they waited on the couch outside the office, Sister Johnson came around the corner. “Chris—just the boy I need to talk to!”
“Me?”
“Yes. I was wondering if you would talk for a few minutes at the baptism fireside. I’m asking some of the children in your class to take a minute or two to tell what they are doing to prepare themselves for baptism. Would you be willing to do that?”
“I guess so,” Chris said nervously.
“Your mom and dad can help you,” Sister Johnson assured him. “I’m sure you’ll do a great job.” She turned to walk away, then turned back. “Oh, and one more thing. I want your whole class to recite the fourth article of faith together. Do you know that one?”
Chris nodded enthusiastically. “I know them all,” he said.
“I thought so.” Sister Johnson smiled. “Thank you for your help.”
“Your first fireside, and you get to be one of the speakers!” Mom said. “Good for you!”
Chris slumped on the sofa next to his mother. “But she wants me to talk about what I’m doing to get ready to be baptized. And I haven’t done anything. I should have told her to ask someone else.”
“I think you’ve done more than you know,” Mom said.
“Like what?”
Before she could answer, the door to the clerk’s office opened and out walked Dad and Brother Watkins. Brother Watkins held out his hand to shake hands with Chris. “And how are you today?” he asked.
“OK, I guess.”
“We were just talking about what a person should do to prepare for baptism,” Mom said. “Do you have any recommendations?”
Brother Watkins rubbed his chin. “Well, let me see. Someone who is interested in being baptized should be trying to learn about the gospel and trying to keep the commandments. Do you know someone who is interested in being baptized?”
“Yeah—me!” Chris said. “I’ll be eight next May.”
“That’s great!” Brother Watkins told him. “I think you’re doing a good job of preparing for baptism.”
“But what am I doing?”
“Well, I know that you attended your meetings today. And I saw that you paid your tithing. Those are two good things.”
Chris nudged Mom. “Go to meetings and pay tithing—I can say that in my talk.”
Brother Watkins went on. “Are you learning the Articles of Faith?”
Chris nodded. “I already know them.”
“Wonderful! Do you obey your parents?”
Chris smiled sheepishly. “Most of the time.”
“Do you remember to say your prayers?”
Chris nodded again.
“Do you read the scriptures?”
Chris’s smile faded. “No. Not really. I just read the kids’ ones. You know, the ones with lots of pictures.”
“The kids’ ones are a great start,” Brother Watkins assured him.
Chris’s smile returned. “I’m more ready than I thought,” he said happily. “There’s a baptism fireside next week. I’m supposed to tell what I’m doing to get ready to be baptized. I guess I always thought that all you had to do was be eight years old.”
“Thank you for your help, Brother Watkins,” Dad said.
“My pleasure,” said Brother Watkins. “When is the fireside?”
Mom looked at the invitation. “It’s at 6:00 P.M. next Sunday in the Relief Society room.”
“I think I’ll see if I can get myself an invitation,” Brother Watkins told Chris. “I’d love to hear your talk.”
“There’s going to be refreshments, too!”
“Excellent!” Brother Watkins grinned. “I do like refreshments.”
“This fireside’s only going to be missing one thing,” Chris said.
“What’s that?” Dad wondered.
“A fire. A perfect fireside would have a fire.”
“Hold that thought,” Brother Watkins told him, hurrying into the clerk’s office. He returned carrying his scriptures. “I think your fireside will be perfect.” He opened his scriptures. “What happens after you get baptized?”
“I don’t know,” Chris said.
“Sure you do. Tell me the fourth article of faith.”
“‘We believe that the first principles and ordinances of the Gospel are: first, Faith in the Lord Jesus Christ; second, Repentance; third, Baptism by immersion for the remission of sins; fourth, Laying on of hands for the gift of the Holy Ghost,’” Chris recited.
“So, what comes after baptism?”
Suddenly understanding Brother Watkin’s question, Chris answered excitedly, “The laying on of hands for the gift of the Holy Ghost.”
“That’s right. Now listen to this,” Brother Watkins said. “This is in Doctrine and Covenants 19:31 [D&C 19:31]: ‘Thou shalt declare repentance and faith on the Savior, and remission of sins by baptism, and by fire, yea, even the Holy Ghost.’ Chris, do you think that the Holy Ghost will be at the fireside?”
“I think so.”
Brother Watkins smiled. “I think so, too. You see, you’re right, Chris—a fireside really isn’t a fireside without the fire.”

I recently learned of a particular young adult sister who decided to serve a full-time mission. She had developed a capacity to connect with and relate to people from almost every belief system, political persuasion, and nationality, and she worried that wearing a missionary name tag all day, every day, might become an identifier that could impede her exceptional ability to establish relationships. Just a few weeks into her mission, she wrote home about a simple but meaningful experience:
“Sister Lee and I rubbed salve into an old lady’s arthritic hands—one of us on either side—while we sat in her living room. She didn’t want to listen to any spoken messages, but let us sing, loved us to sing. Thank you, black missionary name tag, for giving me license to have intimate experiences with complete strangers.”

Missionary work was also the emphasis in camp. Chris Johnson had been instrumental in introducing the gospel to her best friend and her friend’s family. Chris had yearned for her friend to grow in the gospel until she could bear her testimony to a group. In a small testimony meeting with the Adventurers, Chris said, “I do have a strong testimony. I love the Book of Mormon with all my heart. Missionary work strengthens you so much. “Then Chris heard her friend bear her testimony for the first time. “She told me that she loved me, and she trusted me. She said she knew she is a child of God. I’ve waited so long to hear that.”

This is especially true for parents. When my wife and I were expecting our first child, I called my uncle for advice. He is the one who introduced me to the Church, and I love him dearly.

“What can I do?” I asked. “How can I teach my children to help them grow and be strong?”

I was struck by what my uncle said.

“Don’t worry about them,” he said. “It’s about you. They will be with you and see you all the time. Try your best to obey the commandments. Be honest and worthy in all you do, and they will follow your example.”

Lesson 2
After understanding the reason for commandments and the need to seek forgiveness when we break them, I offer a second lesson. It is the other side of the forgiveness coin: Just as the transgressor seeks forgiveness as part of the quest for relief and peace, we need to forgive at least in part for the relief and peace it brings us. As angry as Troy and Deedra might justifiably have been over this terrible experience, they have felt that they should not withhold forgiveness for him who gave offense. At least part of that motivation was because Troy has spent these last five years of his life struggling with his role, accidental as it was, in the loss of nine-year-old Austen.
To carry that into this setting, there is not one of us anywhere on this campus who has not needed forgiveness for some mistake made. Our deed may not have been as severe as the kind we are recounting today, but we have all made mistakes, and some of them were very serious mistakes. Whatever the event, we all thank God for being the Father of forgiveness and for the gifts of mercy and relief He offers us—all of it ultimately coming to us through the majestic Atonement of His Only Begotten Son, the Lord Jesus Christ. We are to join in and participate in that offering. The Russells have done that. They have looked up to their God and, even in their anguish, have humbly but resolutely joined the Savior in extending forgiveness to one in need. Surely they have been “submissive, meek, humble, patient, full of love.” Without embarrassing them, surely they are becoming “saint[s] through the atonement of Christ the Lord.”

Thirty years ago I had responsibility for much of the work in the South Pacific. A Brother J. Vernon Monson was called, together with his wife, to journey to faraway Rarotonga in the Cook Islands, there to serve as district president.
Later, in a letter to me, he reported: “We are most grateful for the progress being made, and I would especially like to mention the goodwill and wonderful relations that have developed with the representatives of government and the business community toward us and the Church.
“One thing climaxed the development of this public acceptance,” he wrote. “It was in having our nephew and niece, Dr. and Mrs. Odeen Manning, render an outstanding service here in the Cook Islands. Dr. Manning is an ophthalmologist, and I wrote to him outlining a proposal whereby he might render service to the people of Rarotonga. My proposal included the following: (1) no remuneration; (2) he must pay his own expenses; (3) that he turn his practice over to the other doctors to handle for the three months he would be away; (4) we would furnish them free board and room while in Rarotonga; and (5) that he bring his own surgical instruments, as none would be available in Rarotonga.”
Brother Vernon Monson’s letter to me continued: “The Mannings airmailed their reply in two words: ‘Offer accepted.’ As preparations began, the government of the Cook Islands assigned competent doctors to assist Dr. Manning and to learn from him. In all, 284 patients were examined, with most being fitted for glasses. Fifty-three patients had serious eye operations, such as cataract surgery.
“The entire three-month program was wonderful and most heartwarming. Truly we were blessed. It has buoyed up the Saints, who gained new pride in being members of a faith which would bring medical service to these islands.” The letter ended.
Years later, my wife and I were guests on a BYU-sponsored cruise to the Holy Land. One evening as we were seated on the ship’s deck, the man sitting next to us turned to me and said, “Elder Monson, my name is Odeen Manning from Woodland Hills, California. I am an ophthalmologist by profession and served a brief medical mission to Rarotonga when my uncle and aunt were serving there.”
I acknowledged that I was aware of his sacrifice and his service. I asked Dr. Manning, “As you reflect on this experience, would you wish to share with me your feelings concerning it?”
He responded with emotion, saying, “It was the most spiritually rewarding experience of my life.”
I believe it was more than coincidence that my wife and I would be on the cruise vessel at that particular time and in that particular area of the deck, sitting next to a man we never before had met. Heaven was close as Dr. Manning and I embraced, and thanks were expressed for his service—not only to those who were blind and now could see, but also to our Lord and Savior. As Jacob declared, “Great are the promises of the Lord unto them who are upon the isles of the sea.”

“Time for family home evening!” Dad called.
I hurried to the living room. We always did fun things on the first family home evening of December.
My younger sister, Michelle, ran ahead of me and jumped into the soft blue armchair.
“No fair!” I exclaimed. “You got to sit there last week. It’s my turn.”
“I got here first, so I get to sit here,” she argued. “You can sit on the couch.”
“I don’t want to sit on the couch,” I snapped.
I stormed over to the rocking chair and turned it so I wouldn’t have to look at Michelle. She made me so mad sometimes! She thought she could have whatever she wanted. Whenever I complained, Mom told me I needed to be unselfish.
After our family sang a hymn and prayed, Dad said, “Christmas is an exciting time, and we need to remember the true meaning of the holiday. Tonight we are going to start with our gifts to Jesus.”
Our gifts to Jesus. I had forgotten about that!
“We celebrate Christmas because Jesus was born,” Dad continued. “He made it possible for us to receive the greatest gift—eternal life with Heavenly Father.”
“And what has He asked us to do in return?” Mom asked.
“To follow Him and keep His commandments,” my brother answered.
Mom gave us each a card and pen. We were supposed to write how we would show Jesus we love Him. That was our gift—to choose something we would do to be more like Jesus.
I knew immediately what my gift should be. Jesus taught us to love others, even if they made us angry. I knew Jesus wanted me to love my sister. I wrote, “I will be nice to Michelle.”
We put our cards in a box wrapped in gold paper. We put the box under the Christmas tree. Every time we looked at the box, we were supposed to remember the Savior’s gift to us and our gift to Him.
A few days later, I saw that Michelle had taken my favorite shirt without asking. I wanted to yell at her. Then I looked at the gold box and remembered how much I loved Jesus. I could show Him love by being kind to my sister. I said, “You look really pretty today, Michelle.”
She smiled. “I’m sorry I didn’t ask to wear your shirt. You weren’t there when I got dressed, and I wanted to look extra nice for my class Christmas party today.”
I felt warm inside. I was glad I had chosen to be nice to Michelle instead of getting angry at her.
For the rest of the month, I tried to remember that good feeling and my goal to be like Jesus. I got better at being patient and loving.
On Christmas Eve, Dad read the nativity story, and the rest of us acted it out. I decided to be the angel instead of arguing with Michelle over who got to play the part of Mary.
Next we opened the gold box and read our gifts to Jesus out loud. When I read mine, Mom said, “I’ve noticed that you’ve been extra nice to Michelle. I’m so proud of you!”
I was proud too. I hadn’t unwrapped any presents yet, but I had already received something special: a feeling from the Holy Ghost telling me I had done the right thing.