Gospel Story Finder

Weeks had passed since my adult daughter had moved to a new city, and each Sunday that she missed church brought me the same concerns. Would she ever return to church? I tried everything I could think of to get her there: encouragement, logic, pleading, acting as her personal alarm clock, prayer, fasting, even calling her bishop. Since we lived 2,000 miles (3,220 km) apart, it was difficult for me to attend with her, but I even tried that!
I continually imagined that if I could just tweak the situation a little, my daughter would reestablish her spiritual trajectory. I felt I just needed the right person—her visiting teacher, her bishop, a friend or family member—to be placed in her path to say or do just the thing that would steer her back. But nothing was working. My head spun with worry, and my heart filled with guilt and anguish that I had failed her as a parent.
My daughter has not yet returned to church. But our goals are clear; we are both working to stay close. We talk frequently, and I know her LDS upbringing has helped her to become kind, disciplined, and thoughtful. While I would never have chosen for her to take the path she is currently traveling, I am grateful for the lessons we are learning along the way. And I have found peace as I embrace our unique positions in our journeys back home.

Vicky was curious when she arrived at the Rowes’ house on Sunday. First they sang a song. One of the children said a prayer. Then Mr. Rowe prayed and passed bread and water to each person. They said it was called the sacrament. After that their daughter Jessie gave a talk.
“Heavenly Father loves us. He speaks to us through the Holy Ghost,” Jessie said. “Sometimes the Holy Ghost gives us a peaceful feeling. Or sometimes He gives us a thought.”
The next day, Vicky walked to the store to buy bread. On her way home, she was about to pass by some trash cans when a voice in her mind stopped her. Stay away, it said.
Vicky stood still. Suddenly, a car came spinning around the corner. CRASH! It slammed into the garbage cans.
Vicky took a deep breath. She was so glad she listened to the voice!
Later, Vicky told Mrs. Rowe the story. “Was that the Holy Ghost?”
“Sounds like it. Sometimes the Holy Ghost warns us of danger.”
“God protected me,” Vicky said. “I’ll always listen to the Holy Ghost.”

May I share with you an example of Brother Clayton M. Christensen, a member of the Church who is a professor at Harvard University.
When he was 16 years old, Brother Christensen decided that he would not play sports on Sunday. Years later, when he attended Oxford University in England, he played center on the basketball team. That year they had an undefeated season and went to the championship tournament.
They won their games fairly easily in the tournament, making it to the finals. Then Brother Christensen looked at the schedule and saw that the final game was on a Sunday. He went to his coach with his dilemma. His coach told Brother Christensen he expected him to play in the game.
Brother Christensen went to his hotel room. He knelt down. He asked his Heavenly Father if it would be all right, just this once, if he played that game on Sunday. He said that before he had finished praying, he received the answer: “Clayton, what are you even asking me for? You know the answer.”
He went to his coach, telling him how sorry he was that he wouldn’t be playing in the final game. Then he went to his Sunday meetings.
Brother Christensen learned that it is easier to keep the commandments 100 percent of the time than it is 98 percent of the time.

“They’re putting the Angel Moroni statue on the temple!” cried Nicole. Joey, her three-year-old brother, ran to the window to see.
Nicole’s best friend, Kim, was visiting from next door. She and Nicole watched the machinery and workers swarming over the building as the statue was lowered into place. “Remember our tree house that used to be over there?” Kim said sadly.
“A tree house is for a little time,” Nicole said. “A temple is forever.”
“Not being a Mormon, I wouldn’t know,” answered Kim.
Nicole remembered watching day after day as the equipment crunched and leveled the desert. It had seemed like the groundwork had taken forever. But gradually the majestic, white Las Vegas Nevada Temple had risen at the foot of Sunrise Mountain. Six white spires reached toward the sky.
“They’re like fingers,” Mom said, “directing our thoughts heavenward.”
And now a great statue of the Angel Moroni, golden, with uplifted trumpet, was placed on the spire over the east entrance.
By November, grass, shrubbery, and flowers had all been planted behind a graceful iron fence. Trees were in place. The temple was completed.
Nicole invited Kim to go to the temple open house with her and her family.
“I’m not a Mormon,” Kim reminded her.
“Everybody is invited to the open house before the temple is dedicated,” Nicole assured her.
“My parents may not let me go,” said Kim. “They think Mormons are strange.”
“Do they think my family is strange?”
“Of course not,” said Kim. “They know you.”
Nicole laughed. “If they knew other Mormons, they wouldn’t think they were strange, either.”
“Let’s ask if I can go,” said Kim.
A few minutes later Nicole burst back into the house. “Kim’s mom said she could go to the open house!”
The next morning Nicole lay on her stomach in the living room. Using her new magic markers, she made a poster for Primary. Mom held Joey on her lap, reading a story about a tiger to him. When she finished, Joey asked to hear it “lots more.”
After Mom read it again, she closed the book. “It’s time to get ready for the open house,” she said.
Nicole called Kim, then scurried upstairs to dress. Mom and Dad were waiting for her when she came down.
“Where’s Joey?” Mom asked. “I dressed him in his new suit and told him to wait here.”
Nicole went to find him. She came back leading a squirming Joey. Everybody laughed—Joey had found the magic markers. He had bright orange and black stripes on his face and arms.
“I’m a tiger,” he announced.
“Tigers can’t go to the temple,” Mom said. “Temples are quiet places. Let’s wash the stripes off so that a reverent Joey can go.”
Just as Kim arrived, Mom returned with a freshly scrubbed Joey. They all walked across the street to the temple and waited their turn to sit in the rows of chairs where people helped them slip surgical booties over their shoes.
“These are to keep the new carpet clean,” Nicole explained quietly to Kim.
“No, Joey,” Nicole heard Mom whisper.
Joey had booties on both hands and feet. “A tiger has four paws,” Joey protested as Mom took the booties from his hands.
“Remember that the tiger changed his stripes back home—you’re Joey,” Mom reminded him softly as she tried to calm him down.
Nicole and Kim went ahead, followed by Mom, Dad, and Joey. Men and women dressed in white directed lines of people walking silently on the soft, rose-colored carpet.
Looking at lovely pictures on the rose-tinted walls, Kim whispered, “Why do you have pictures of Jesus everywhere? I thought you worshiped Mormon.”
“Our church is The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints,” Nicole whispered back. “Mormon was a keeper of ancient records and a prophet, but we don’t worship him.”
The two girls stopped to look at the beautiful white baptismal font resting on the back of twelve oxen. “We do baptisms for the dead here,” Nicole quietly told her friend.
Kim’s eyes widened. “You baptize dead people?”
“No, no!” whispered Nicole. “Everyone eight years of age or older needs to be baptized to live with Heavenly Father again. Many people have died without baptism, so living people come to the temple and are baptized for them.”
Nicole and Kim passed elegant tables on which were beautiful vases with lovely flower arrangements. Nicole was happy to share this quiet beauty with her best friend.
The two girls peeked into a sealing room. “This is where I’ll be married,” Nicole said softly. “I’ll be dressed in my white wedding gown, and my Church friends and family will be with me.”
In the celestial room, Nicole gazed at the crystal chandeliers sparkling overhead. Sunshine sifted through the cut-glass windows, splashing bits of rainbows about on the room’s furniture and white walls.
“Where’s Joey?” Mom whispered worriedly. “He slipped away from me at the door.”
Nicole began a frantic search. She turned when she heard a low growl. There was Joey’s head behind a big potted palm!
“Never bother a tiger!” he growled softly.
Nicole took his hand and said calmly and quietly, “Tigers are not allowed in the temple—only reverent people. You changed your stripes. You’re Joey, remember?”
Dad carried Joey the rest of the way. At home, he said, “Now you can be a tiger again.”
“This tiger changed his stripes,” said Joey. “I’m Joey now, and when I grow up, I’m going to the temple again.”
The next day when Kim came, she said, “I told Mom and Dad all about the temple, and we’re all going to the open house today!”
After Kim left, Nicole ran to tell Mom. “Do you think they might join the Church?” she asked.
Mom took hot loaves of date nut bread from the oven. She sliced one, spread honey on three slices, and gave one to each of them and to Joey, who had followed his nose to the kitchen. “We can hope so, but you and Kim will still be friends if they don’t, won’t you?”
Nicole smiled at Joey licking honey from his bread. “Yes, Mom, but you know—if a tiger can change his stripes, anything is possible.”

I know that you have a great feeling if you live the law of tithing. I remember a time just after my wife and I married; I was working my way through school, and I was working at the post office eight hours a day and carrying a full course of law. We had lost a baby, and we had a large hospital bill. I decided to quit the post office and start the practice of law. I quit in September and failed to pay tithing that month because I had built up a retirement benefit with the government that was to be paid to me in November; I felt I could pay my tithing with that. But it didn’t come in November, and it didn’t come in December. I had to report that year to my bishop that I had not paid a full tithe. But I did not feel good about it, so I kept a record and paid it in installments at eight percent interest until I had paid the deficit in full. I had a good feeling after I got it paid. I knew the Lord had understood and accepted my performance.

Nathan stretched, yawned, and opened his eyes. He hadn’t even gotten out of bed yet. Why was he so happy? Then he remembered. Mom had told him that they were going to do something really special as soon as his older brother and sister had left for school. Nathan got dressed as fast as he could so that he wouldn’t miss a minute.
He ran out to the kitchen. Mom smiled at him. “You’re all ready to go! Great!”
“Where are we going?” Nathan was so excited that he could hardly stand it. “Ice skating? Shopping? To the zoo?”
“We’re going someplace much more important,” Mom said. “We’re going to the family history center.”
“Family history center?” Nathan flopped down into a chair. “You said you were going to take me someplace special today. You go to the family history center every week. What’s so special about it?”
“It’s time for you to find out!”
Thirty minutes later, Mom unlocked a door at the stake center, and they walked in. Nathan had never seen anything like this before. The room was just like many he’d seen in their ward building, but this one was filled with machines, cabinets, and bookcases.
“This is our stake family history center,” Mom said as she started turning on computers. “I do a little of our own family history on Wednesdays, but mostly I help other people do theirs. People depend on me to have the center open so that they can find their ancestors. Then they can get the temple work done for them.”
“You mean this is what happens before Tim and Sherry do baptisms for the dead at the temple?”
“That’s right, Nate. Before anyone can be baptized for a person, someone has to find out who that person is.”
“How do they do that?”
“If you have a little patience, it’s not hard,” Mom said. “Would you like to find someone who needs to be baptized?”
“I guess so.”
“I was hoping that you’d say that,” Mom said. “I’m on the trail of finding your great-great-grandpa Oskar Pederson. He came to America from Sweden.” Mom took out a microfilm and threaded it in the reader. After a few turns of the handle, a chart appeared with old-fashioned writing on it.
“Do I have to read this?” Nathan frowned.
“You don’t have to read all the words. See this number here? That’s the birth year. Grandpa Pederson was born in 1885. Now, just look down this column until you see 1885. Whenever you do, look over here and see if the name is Oskar.”
Nathan nodded. “I think I can do that. Can I try to find him all by myself?”
“OK, Nate. Good luck.”
Nathan started slowly turning the microfilm wheel, looking at one page after another. Some other people came and started working on the computers. Mom went from one to the other and helped them. Every so often she came back to Nathan. “How are you doing? Are you tired yet?”
“No, I’m still looking.”
About an hour later, Nathan shouted, “Mom, I found him!”
Mom hurried over and looked at the bright page on the reader. “You’re right,” she said softly. “There he is. And look, Nathan, you not only found him, you found his mom and dad. They’re your great-great-great-grandparents!”
“Wow!” Nathan touched the names on the reader with his finger. “Does this mean that you and Dad and Tim and Sherry can be baptized for these people?”
“That’s right, Nate,” Mom said. “You’ve just pushed our family tree back another generation. These people were lost until you found them! I’m sure that they’re really happy right now.”
“This is neat, Mom! Can I come with you the next time I don’t have school?”
“Nathan!” Mom pretended to be shocked. “You mean this is better than skating?”
“Much better than skating,” Nathan said. And he meant it.

Wade remembers making the mistake of asking his brother for advice on what to wear the first day of junior high. “If you really want to make an impression,” his brother told him, “wear a suit and tie.” Wade believed him, donned the suggested attire, and set out for school. When he realized his mistake, he wanted to go home and kick his brother.
Even with such an embarrassing start, Wade managed to have a decent year. He realized that what you wear is not half as important to other people as it is to you. Most people hardly notice.

Sister Jodi King wrote of her own experience of past years:
“I never felt like I didn’t belong at church until my husband, Cameron, and I began struggling with infertility. The children and families who had typically brought me joy to see at church now started causing me grief and pain.
“I felt barren without a child in my arms or a diaper bag in hand. …
“The hardest Sunday was our first one in a new ward. Because we didn’t have kids, we were asked if we were newlyweds and when we planned on starting a family. I had gotten pretty good at answering these questions without letting them affect me—I knew they weren’t meant to be hurtful.
“However, on this particular Sunday, answering those questions was especially hard. We had just found out, after being hopeful, that we were—yet again—not pregnant.
“I walked into sacrament meeting feeling downtrodden, and answering those typical ‘get to know you’ questions was hard for me. …
“But it was Sunday School that truly broke my heart. The lesson—intended to be about the divine role of mothers—quickly shifted gears and became a vent[ing] session. My heart sank and tears silently flowed down my cheeks as I heard women complain about a blessing I would give anything for.
“I bolted out of church. At first, I didn’t want to go back. I didn’t want to experience that feeling of isolation again. But that night, after talking with my husband, we knew we would keep attending church not only because the Lord has asked us to but also because we both knew that the joy that comes from renewing covenants and feeling the Spirit at church surpasses the sadness I felt that day. …
“In the Church, there are widowed, divorced, and single members; those with family members who have fallen away from the gospel; people with chronic illnesses or financial struggles; members who experience same-sex attraction; members working to overcome addictions or doubts; recent converts; new move-ins; empty-nesters; and the list goes on and on. …
“The Savior invites us to come unto Him—no matter our circumstances. We come to church to renew our covenants, to increase our faith, to find peace, and to do as He did perfectly in His life—minister to others who feel like they don’t belong.”

Kent Madrian is carefully maneuvering his six-foot-six-inch body and an old Kirby vacuum cleaner over grandma’s best rug. Grandma is keeping a watchful eye on her furniture.
Bump. Kent runs into the easy chair and starts to go around it.
“You’ve got to move the chair,” Grandma says. “To get underneath.”
“I know, Grandma.”
After a few more turns around the floor Kent hits the switch and the machine’s rumble dies. “What do you want for dinner, Grandma?” Kent asks.
In case you haven’t noticed, there is something unusual about this scene—grandparents usually take care of grandchildren, not the other way around. But in this house, things have changed for a while. For four months Kent has been living with his grandparents, helping them out when they couldn’t take care of themselves.
Then in January Kent’s grandma hurt her arm and wasn’t able to do normal tasks around her house. Grandpa had been confined to a wheelchair and was also unable to help.
Though preparing to leave on a mission to Italy in April, Kent moved in. “My grandparents had always been there for me, so I saw it as an opportunity to pay a small part back,” he says.
Kent moved in with the idea he would be cleaning, cooking, shopping—and he did all those things. But ask him about peeling potatoes or making breakfast and he’ll change the subject. He’d rather tell you what Grandma and Grandpa taught him.
“Grandma got me ready for my mission in a lot of ways,” he says. “She taught me how to iron and cook, but more importantly she helped me spiritually. I had a lot of time to read in the scriptures and I talked to her about what I was reading.
“Grandma taught me a lot of the gospel is learning to think about the other guy,” says Kent. “And that’s how you find yourself, by serving others.”
So, he says he came away a better person by just being around Ruby and Delos. Then again, he was a pretty decent guy to start. Let Grandma Ruby give you an example. “At first, Kent slept in a sleeping bag at the foot of Grandpa’s bed. Kent wanted to be there if Delos needed to get up in the night. After a few nights I made Kent sleep in another room because his back was hurting.”
Or Ruby will tell you how Delos enjoyed watching baseball games on television. Delos and Ruby couldn’t afford cable service so Kent dipped into his college savings to pay for a sports channel so Delos could watch Cincinnati Reds’ games.
But as close as the three got in those months, Kent faced the same challenges most young people do in relating to older people. When asked if he had to listen to the same story more than once, Kent flashed a gee-whiz grin and nodded. “I’d hear the same story like six times over. I’d just be nice and listen.”
That, however, was a small price to pay. Kent now believes he knows his grandparents.
“I have always loved them,” says Kent, “but I guess I never really understood them. I think I do now. They are just like all of us. They have the same needs. The only difference is they have a lifetime of experiences to tell you about. If you get to know them, they can be some of the best friends you have.”
Kent has now left on his mission, but the memories he has of those last months with his grandparents cannot be erased. “It was hard leaving when you know you’re needed,” he says. “But I’m needed in Italy too. They understand that.”

Paul was looking for a book when someone pushed him into the shelf. The shelf wobbled, and several of the books almost fell. He turned around. Danny stood a few feet away, pretending to look for a book. He had his softball glove under his arm.
“Why did you do that?” Paul asked angrily.
Danny shrugged and started to walk away.
Paul caught him by the arm. “Why did you push me?”
“Don’t touch me,” Danny said, grabbing Paul’s arm.
Paul tried to pull his arm away, but Danny wouldn’t let go. They pushed and pulled until they both crashed into the shelf and fell, while books rained down on top of them.
“Paul, Danny, stop that right now,” the teacher said. “Stop fighting and pick up those books!”
“He started it,” Paul said as he stood up.
“Did not,” Danny said, still on the floor. He kicked at Paul’s leg from behind a desk where the teacher could not see.
“I don’t care how it started,” the teacher replied. “I want it stopped. Clean up that mess and go back to your desks. If I see you boys fighting again, I’ll send you both to the principal’s office.”
They picked up the books without looking at each other.
Paul sat at his desk with the book he’d picked out open in front of him, but he was too angry to read it. He looked over at Danny, who sat at his desk, picking at the stitching in his glove. Why was Danny out to get him all the time? Couldn’t the teacher see what was happening? Why did he have to get in trouble for something Danny did?
Paul felt miserable. He closed his eyes and whispered a prayer. “Heavenly Father, please bless me that Danny will get in trouble for bothering me, so he’ll leave me alone.”
He opened his eyes. He still felt miserable. Then he remembered the words to one of the songs he’d sung in Primary—“‘Jesus said love ev’ryone.’”*
Paul frowned. He didn’t want to hate Danny. But he didn’t want to love him either.
Recess came and his classmates started a softball game in the field. Paul stayed on a bench at the other end of the schoolyard. He had his softball glove in his backpack, but he didn’t want to play. Not if Danny was playing.
He looked down the field and noticed Danny wasn’t playing either. He sat at the edge of the field with his softball glove beside him.
Paul remembered the Primary song again—“‘Jesus said love ev’ryone.’”
His stomach twisted itself into a knot. He couldn’t go and talk to Danny. They’d get in another fight, and he’d be sent to the office. But as he thought of the words, “‘Jesus said love ev’ryone; treat them kindly too,’” he knew what he had to do.
Paul got up. He pulled his softball glove out of his backpack. He picked up one of the extra softballs and went over to Danny.
“Hi,” he said.
“What do you want?” Danny asked.
Paul held up the ball. “Do you want to play catch?”
Danny looked up at him for a moment. Then he picked up his glove. “OK.”
They started to toss the ball back and forth. Paul couldn’t throw very well, and said “sorry” every time he threw too short or too far to one side.
Danny didn’t complain. He just retrieved the ball and threw it back to him. He threw the ball better than Paul and didn’t miss as often, but after a while he started saying “sorry” as well whenever he threw it too far.
Paul didn’t feel miserable anymore. He started to relax and enjoy himself. He smiled. He knew that Heavenly Father had answered his prayer, just not the way he had thought he wanted.
When the bell rang and they had to stop, Paul noticed that Danny was smiling too. Paul hummed the Primary song to himself on his way back to class— “‘Jesus said love ev’ryone; treat them kindly too. When your heart is filled with love, others will love you.’”

“I had been inactive for at least six years when my husband and I moved to a new town. My new Relief Society president visited me, asking if she could send a sister to visit me. With some trepidation, I agreed. This sister visited me every month, despite her allergy to dogs—and I have a very affectionate dog! Her ministering continued for two years, and it had an enormous impact on me.
“Though her visits were usually purely social, occasionally she asked me questions that led us to spiritual conversations. These made me a little uncomfortable, but they prompted me to decide whether to go forward in the gospel or stay where I was. This decision was a struggle for me, but I chose to visit with the sister missionaries.
“On the day I went to attend sacrament meeting for the first time in six years, I was scared to go inside. When I walked into the church, my ministering sister was waiting for me, and she walked with me into the chapel. Afterward, she walked me back to my car, asking me what she could do to help me best as I grew closer to the Savior.
“My ministering sister’s time and love helped guide me back to activity, and I hold her efforts as one of the greatest gifts ever given to me. I’m so grateful she was there at my side on my journey back to the Savior’s Church.”
Name withheld, British Columbia, Canada

Catherine’s faith was mighty, and she had many occasions to exercise it. On one occasion when Miles was away, three-year-old Junius, their third child, suffered so terribly with an ear infection that she feared he would die. Desperately she prayed for help and felt inspired to ask the stake patriarch to bless him. Wrapping up her son, she carried him to the patriarch who, in the blessing, promised Catherine that if her faith was strong enough, Junius’s ear would bother him no more and that he would become a great leader in the Church. Even while he spoke, Junius stopped crying and fell into a deep sleep, for the first time in weeks. He raised a family of six children and became president of the Juarez Stake in Mexico before he was thirty.

Chandra’s little brother, Kendall, was a wiggle worm. He couldn’t sit still in church for five seconds. He crawled under the benches, and he dropped the hymnbook on the floor to listen to it thud. One Sunday he even escaped and went running down the aisle, laughing and giggling. That made Chandra want to crawl under the bench herself. “I don’t want to go to church next week,” she told her mother as they drove home in the car. “It’s too embarrassing when Kendall is such a wiggle worm.”
“It is embarrassing,” admitted mother, “but remember that it’s hard for a three-year-old to sit quietly for a long time. What could we do to help him?”
“I don’t know,” Chandra said crossly. “He’s just impossible.” When she got home, she changed her Sunday dress and went to the kitchen to set the table. There was Kendall doing puzzles. He was very quiet and seemed to be thinking intently. Chandra watched him for a minute. He can be quiet when he has something quiet to do, she thought. All of a sudden a great idea hit her. “I know how to de-wiggle this worm!” she exclaimed.
That afternoon while Kendall was napping, Chandra began. Her mother gave her some old magazines and Church manuals, and Chandra found pictures of things that Kendall liked—trucks, animals, and food. There were pictures of Jesus and of reverent children too. She glued them all to stiff paper, then cut them into puzzle pieces—but not very many, because she knew that three-year-olds need easy puzzles. She got some envelopes and carefully put each puzzle’s pieces into a separate envelope. She smiled as she looked at the puzzle of Captain Moroni. Kendall loved soldiers.
Now what? Chandra thought for a minute. Then she got out old coloring books, cut out pictures of animals, and glued light-colored flannel on the back of them. She made two of each animal by gluing plain paper to flannel and using the first animals as a pattern, then using a black marker for their outlines and simple details like eyes. She found some dark-colored flannel and cut out a large ark-looking boat. Putting all the pieces in a large manila envelope, she mused, Maybe Noah will help Kendall be quiet.
By this time Chandra was getting tired, but she had one more idea. She found an old sock that didn’t have a mate. She cut two eyes, a nose, and a mouth out of leftover bits of flannel and glued them onto the sock to make a puppet. She didn’t know how to put yarn on for hair, so she decided it could be bald. A bald bishop! That sounded good. She put her hand into the sock. The bald bishop looked very wise. “Thank you for your reverence during the sacrament,” he said.
After she put all the finished projects inside a book bag, she couldn’t wait any longer. “Mom!” she called. “Come see my Wiggle Worm Kit! It’s going to help Kendall be reverent in church.”
When Mother saw all the things Chandra had made, she was impressed. “I think this will really help,” she said. “Could I also put in a Bible storybook and some stickers? Maybe some drawing paper and a pencil would be good too.”
When everything was in the bag, Chandra heaved a sigh of relief. She was proud of her work. Thanks to the Wiggle Worm Kit, Kendall would be able to sit still longer and make less noise. “I wish Sunday was tomorrow!” she declared happily.

“May I open it?” Rachel* could hardly contain her excitement as she watched Mom turn the white envelope over in her hand. Rachel was often allowed to help open the mail.
Mom smiled and handed her the letter. “I’m afraid it will never make it in time at this late date. I wonder how it ever came to be in our mailbox?” Rachel wasn’t sure what her mother meant.
Taking the envelope, she slit it open carefully so as not to disturb the New Hampshire return address. Mom took the letter and read it silently. Rachel could see tears in her mother’s eyes.
“Is it sad, Mom?” Rachel felt her own eyes start to sting.
Mom gave the letter back to her. “Why don’t you read it aloud?”
Rachel was just learning to read cursive. Slowly she began.
“‘Dear Santa,’”—Rachel paused—“Mom, is this what you meant when you said it wouldn’t make it?”
“Yes, Rachel. It’s already December 22. I want you to know that as I held the letter, my first thought was to return it to the post office, but the Holy Ghost whispered to me that I should open it.”
Rachel continued to read: “‘I am a single mother on welfare. I have one child, a boy, four years old. I can’t afford to buy him Christmas presents. Will you please help me? He is in need of clothes and shoes. His shoe size is 9 1/2, and in clothing, he is a 4 or 5. He also needs a winter coat, gloves, boots, and socks. Sincerely, Salina ReabaldP. S. A toy or two would be nice. Thank you.’”
Rachel set the letter down and threw her arms around her mother. They were both silent for a moment.
“We have to help them,” Rachel said finally.
“I know,” Mom agreed. “I noticed a return address—534 Pilgrim Street, Salem, New Hampshire. That’s a long way from southern Utah. How did it ever get here?” Mom stopped. “Rachel! Look at this. The letter is addressed to Santa, in care of The North Pole 84745. That’s our zip code!”
Rachel stared at the envelope. “Did you notice that she didn’t ask for anything for herself?”
Mom put an arm around her. “How would you like to play Santa this year?”
“Oh yes! Do you think we have enough time? There are only three days until Christmas.”
“I have an idea.” Mom walked over to the phone and punched in a number. “Hello. This is Sister Marjorie Banks. Would you please connect me with the Missionary Department?” Rachel waited quietly. “I was wondering if you could give me the name and telephone number of the New Hampshire Mission president. It’s important that I get in touch with him right away. Thank you. I’ll hold.”
Mom picked up the letter from the table and wrote quickly on the back as the information was given to her.
“Well, young lady,” Mom exclaimed as she hung up the telephone a second time, “we have our work cut out for us! President Hafen of the New Hampshire Manchester Mission will help us locate Salina and her son. If we can get a package together and send it by overnight mail to the mission home, he will see that it is delivered.”
They canceled all their plans for the day. Rachel even gave up the afternoon she had planned with her best friend.
Together Mom and Rachel bought some nice clothes and shoes for the little boy. Mom got a gift certificate from a nationwide clothing store for the mother. Rachel’s little brother, Alma, gave up one of his favorite toys for the package. Tucked inside two bright-red, fur-trimmed stockings were several pieces of Mom’s wonderful Christmas candy. After a trip to the local bookstore and toy outlet, the package was almost complete.
“Rachel,” Mom said as she wrote the address of the mission home on the package, “do you think you could write your testimony on this stationery? I’ll glue it to the inside cover of the scripture reader we bought for the little boy.”
Rachel took the stationery and wrote in her best cursive:
Dear Friend,I know you don’t know me. I am a little older than you. I am going to be eight in just one month. This is a special age for me, for I will be baptized into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. You probably don’t know much about my church, but I love it! I want you to know that I love Jesus and Heavenly Father. They are always there to look out for me. I know that They love you, too, and will keep you safe. Merry Christmas! Love, Rachel
Rachel watched as her mother tucked her own testimony into a Book of Mormon for Salina.
“Mom,” she said quietly. “Do you think they will understand how much we love the gospel?”
“There’s really no way of knowing,” Mom said, giving Rachel a big hug. “Perhaps if they feel the love of someone who sincerely cares, they will accept the truth when it is presented to them. Now, what do you say we get this in the mail?”
Two days after Christmas, the mission president in New Hampshire called.
“Sister Banks? This is President Hafen. I wanted to let you know. …” President Hafen said that the package had been delivered by two fine young missionaries on Christmas Eve. When the young mother saw what was in the box, she was overcome with gratitude. Tears of joy streamed down her face. The box was the only Christmas gift she would have, but at least now she had something to share with her small son.
President Hafen went on to say that it was a very touching moment for the elders. They asked if they could call on her after the holidays, and she gladly said yes. The mission president added that the woman was very grateful and wanted to express her thanks for the nicest thing that had ever happened to her.
“And let me thank you, too,” President Hafen told her, “for making this one of the most memorable Christmases we have ever had.”
Mom hung up the phone and wiped her eyes.
“Do you think she will join the Church?” Rachel asked.
“I don’t know,” Mom replied. “But I do feel that the Lord had a hand in that letter coming to our mailbox.”
Rachel beamed. “This is the best Christmas I’ve ever had!”
“Me, too,” Mom said, gathering her daughter into her arms. “Me, too.”

Elder H. Burke Peterson, then of the Presiding Bishopric, related the experience of a group of teenagers who were picnicking in the desert outside Phoenix, Arizona. One of the girls was bitten by a rattlesnake. Instead of immediately seeking medical attention, the group pursued the snake and sought revenge by killing it with rocks. Unfortunately, during the precious minutes that the group wasted in exacting revenge, the poison had time to move from the surface of the girl’s skin into the tissues of her foot and leg; her leg later had to be amputated below the knee.
“It was a senseless sacrifice, this price of revenge. … The poison of revenge, or of unforgiving thoughts or attitudes, unless removed, will destroy the soul in which it is harbored,” said Bishop Peterson.

“Blast that girl!” said Arnie to himself. “Blast me, too! And blast everything that has to do with that stupid art show.”
He glanced upward towards heaven. “Why?” he asked. “Why on the day before the biggest art show of my life does she have to come to my school? What did I do wrong? What did I do to deserve this?”
Not receiving any answer, Arnie looked down at the pad he held in his hand. The beginnings of a little boy playing in the sand were sketched lightly in blue. Oh, yes, the picture would be a good one, one of his best. It would make a nice finale to his entry in the contest. But it was nothing compared to Jana Lee Smithy’s paintings in oil!
Arnie grimaced. If only she had arrived two days later! Then the judging would have been over and the art student-of-the-year award would have been his. After that Miss Jana Lee could have been the best art student in the school; it wouldn’t have mattered. But no. There she was. And she was brilliant.
Arnie threw down his pencil and groaned audibly. He glanced around the small park where he drew many of his sketches and collected ideas. What a waste of a beautiful day! But how could he be content to turn in just four drawings? Jana Lee Smithy was going to show four completed oil paintings, each a vision of color and light. When her paintings were unveiled in the morning and the school compared hers to his slight “sketches,” Arnie knew how his classmates would react. “Well,” they would say, “Arnie’s not quite as good as he makes out to be, is he?” And people would nod in assent and then never stop talking about what a genius Jana Lee was.
Arnie looked at the small boy who was unknowingly modeling for his sketch. Hurriedly and quietly the boy was building himself a castle. Tiny hands moved quickly and knowingly through the granules of yellow dirt. Wary of sand too dry or sand too wet, the boy’s small fingers gathered piles of sand together and molded them into turrets and walls. Broken twigs served as posts and pillars and flags for the castle.
Arnie wasn’t sure what everything the boy made was, but it was certainly immense. When Arnie began his drawing, the little fellow had just begun the main building. Now stables, dogs’ houses, an armory, and finally a great wall had been formed. The child was amazing. Or, thought Arnie, he would be until something better came along. Then the castle would be merely a trifle, something to be forgotten—like Arnie would be after tomorrow.
Arnie frowned and looked at his drawing. Despite its unfinished quality, he felt tempted to just leave it as it was. Nothing could help him now. Numbers of drawings couldn’t change the quality of Jana Lee’s work. Finally, discipline got the better of him. He picked up the blue pencil and finished the final details of the picture.
After another 45 minutes the picture was finished. Arnie smiled at the little figure in the drawing. The contentment on the child’s face was contagious, and Arnie grinned. It was a futile effort, he knew, like the sand castle whose immortality would lie in the little boy’s heart rather than in the park. But, like the child, Arnie felt a glow at having done a good job. The glow wasn’t big enough to fill the emptiness he felt at being a failure, but it was nice nonetheless. He gathered up his pencils and put them in their case. Carefully, he stood and, with a nod to the little boy, headed for home.
By the time Arnie reached his street, the slight high that finishing the drawing had given him was gone. Even the coziness of the familiar, flower-lined path that led to his front door had no effect. There’s not much that can make a failure happy, he reflected. The sounds of family that echoed in the air didn’t help, either. In fact, the thought of seeing his hopeful mother, proud father, and admiring sister made him want to hide. They’d all had such high hopes for him. And now he was letting them down. Arnie stood on the doorstep for a second trying to decide whether or not to tell them that he’d seen the winning entries, halfway hidden behind Mr. Olsen’s desk, and they weren’t his. Arnie shook his head. He didn’t want their sympathy. He opened the door.
“I’m home,” he called.
Sheryll, his sister, bounded past him on her way to the kitchen. “You don’t say?” she laughed over her shoulder. “I never would have guessed.”
Arnie grimaced at her. Sisters. Freshmen. Two deadly ingredients when combined. He put his supplies down on the floor and headed for the stairs. His mother’s voice caught him two steps up.
“You’re not going to leave your things here in the hall, are you?” He turned around and looked into his mother’s warning brown eyes. Arnie grinned sheepishly.
“Me?”
She nodded. “My visiting teachers are coming over tonight.” Arnie looked knowingly at her. “Not,” she said, raising her voice as well as her eyebrows, “that that should make any difference.”
“Of course not, Mom,” Arnie replied. He gathered his things up and took them with him to his room. Carefully, he put the drawing on his desk and his kit on the floor. Shutting his door carefully behind him, he made his way to the bathroom where he washed his hands. As he did so, he tried to smile in the mirror. It didn’t do any good. His brown hair looked unruly, his eyes dim, and his face ruddy. What a depressing sight! If my eyes looked any redder … He shrugged off the thought. What had he to complain about? He wasn’t hoping to make a living with his face, just his hands.
“Which,” he said to the face in the mirror, “are proving to be betraying assets.” Arnie went down to dinner.
As the family took their places after the prayer, Arnie’s father looked over the mashed potatoes at his son.
“So, are you ready for tomorrow, Arnie?” he asked. Arnie choked on a pea.
When his coughing had subsided he replied, “About as ready as I’m going to get, Dad.”
“Then you should be plenty ready,” said his mother.
“What were you doing this afternoon?” asked Sheryll.
“I was drawing at the park.” Arnie looked down at his plate. “I thought one more piece might help me in the contest.”
“That smacks of overkill,” said his father.
“I wouldn’t worry about that,” said Arnie.
“Besides,” said Sheryll, “everybody in school knows how good he is. All my friends like his stuff. One more drawing will be …”
“One more drawing,” interrupted Arnie. “Enough. Isn’t there anything else to talk about?”
His mother looked at him with concern. “Are you feeling all right, Arnie?”
“Just nerves, dear,” said his father. But still, even as he spoke, Mr. Wells looked at his son with a searching look.
Arnie ducked his father’s gaze and stuck his fork into his mouth. Oops, he thought as his father’s look changed to one of amazement. I should have put something on the fork first.
“Arnie, if there’s anything …”
Frustrated, Arnie stood up. “May I be excused? I’m finished. And I’ve got to mount this last drawing.”
He could see by the surprised looks on the faces of his family that they were amazed by the sudden outburst. He continued, “I’ll be in my room.” Arnie backed out of the room and fled up the stairs.
“Well, at least they only doubted my sanity,” Arnie said to himself as he shut and locked the door behind him. “They don’t have to doubt my abilities until tomorrow.”
He looked forlornly at the drawing on his desk. “Ah, friend, if you only knew what humiliation you will face tomorrow, you wouldn’t smile so much.”
The little boy grinned at him happily. The scripture in 2 Nephi flashed into Arnie’s mind. “And men are, that they might have joy” (2 Ne. 2:25). Arnie frowned. Well, he thought, joy certainly hasn’t been my cellmate these last few hours! What’s there to be joyful about? Instead of a talent made out of silk, I get one made of a sow’s ear. And I’m supposed to be happy! He shrugged and set about making the results of his poor talent presentable.
When he finished, Arnie put his five entries on his bed and looked at them one at a time. Each of them was pleasant to look at. The laughter and light in them was enough to make any viewer smile. Each drawing represented a lot of effort. It was a pity that they would go to waste. Arnie shook his head and readied himself for bed.
After placing the five drawings and his books near the door, Arnie knelt to say his nightly prayer. “Heavenly Father,” he began. But his mind went numb. Arnie had always trusted his Father in Heaven, but this night he found it difficult to bare his soul. Before, he’d always known of his worth as a child of God. He’d never had any reason to doubt. But now, Arnie wasn’t everything that he thought he was. It was a little difficult to explain to Heavenly Father that things were different and that Arnie wasn’t quite the person he thought he had been.
Finally, after many minutes of silence, only one thing came to his mind. “I don’t understand,” he said softly, “why I am what I am. But I must be of some importance, despite my faults. Help me be happy.”
Arnie paused, then closed his prayer. He climbed slowly into bed, and after tossing and turning for a long while, drifted into sleep.
The next morning dawned much too early for Arnie’s likes. I’m not any happier, he thought, than I was last night. But he did feel a little more distanced from the despair than he had felt the night before. His drawings, as he looked at them one more time before leaving the house, didn’t look quite as inelegant as they had seemed. Still, they weren’t going to win any awards. Arnie still wasn’t quite good enough to be what was expected.
Despite Sheryll’s chatter in the car, Arnie maintained a stony silence on the way to school. Luckily, his lively sister was so excited about the competition, the weather, and her best friend’s new boyfriend, that it would have been impossible for him to have said anything had he wanted to. Finally, the ride was over. He said good-bye to his father and sister and escaped down the hall to the art department.
Voices could be heard behind the wood door as Arnie approached. He really didn’t want to see anybody just yet and was about to turn away when the door opened.
“Ah, Arnie,” said Mr. Olsen. “I’m glad you’re here.”
Arnie smiled weakly.
Mr. Olsen beamed at him. “I was just going to take Jana Lee down to where she’ll be hanging her paintings. But maybe you can show her.”
Great, thought Arnie, now I’m a glorified hall monitor.
Mr. Olsen continued. “Since you and Jana will be hanging your works next to each other, that should I make things easier for all of us. That’ll be all right, won’t it?”
Arnie nodded.
“Good.”
Arnie sighed and turned around. He heard the sound of Jana Lee’s feet behind him.
“Wait a second, Arnie,” she said as she reached his side. Arnie turned to give her one of his pained looks. But when he saw her he stopped.
Jana Lee smiled and adjusted the paintings which had started to slip. But that wasn’t what stopped him. It wasn’t the paintings either, though they were as magnificent as ever. It was something that he saw in her eye, something that he recognized. Her eyes were as red-rimmed as his own.
Why? he thought. What had she to worry about? When she was ready, they headed towards the library. Neither said another word, though Arnie saw her looking at him once as he glanced at her.
As Arnie thought about what he had seen and what it meant, something occurred to him that he had never thought of before. In the parable of the talents, different talents were given to the servants: five talents, two talents, and one talent. Arnie had always just assumed that some people were five-talent people and some people were two-talent people. But what he knew when the image of Jana Lee’s overworked eyes sank deep into his heart was that most people started out with both talents and potential for talents. Just because you didn’t have five talents the first day didn’t mean you couldn’t have them—if you worked. Didn’t the Lord say, “Well done, thou good and faithful servant” to the man who began with two talents? He had started with two and had come away with four. He had done good work.
Arnie was also a worker. Perhaps, today, Arnie had two talents. But, as he thought back, he’d only begun with one. Perhaps next time, at the next competition, Arnie would have a five-talent art like Jana Lee. She, as he saw in her eyes, had worked for hers. He, as he knew in his heart, could work for his. And with that revelation, being pleased with his own work, Arnie was, for the first time in a long time, content.
He and Jana Lee reached the wall where they would hang up their works. After he helped her with the paintings, Jana Lee helped him with his drawings. When they reached the last one, that of the boy in the sand, Jana Lee smiled.
“This one’s really good,” she said. “Who was the model? He’s got such a knowing look on his face.”
“I don’t know who he was,” replied Arnie. “But he was a smart kid. And he built a great sand castle.”

One of the projects that the students at Mount Si really had to work hard to complete was the painting of the school halls. It was a huge job, but Sue and other student government officers decided it could be done. They needed more than 200 students to come and help with each step of the project—preparing the walls, applying an undercoat of paint, then the main coat of paint, and finally, the colored trim.

The assistant principal, said, “I walked into the first meeting, and I knew right then that they were going to succeed because Sue was organized and ready to begin. In a notebook she had inspirational sayings and a list of what needed to be done and a schedule for each step. And she had invited all the right people to the meeting. She had invited some students that she saw as leaders. She had invited someone from the school’s maintenance staff. She got me there. She understands organizational skills.”

The big painting project was successful, but not before Sue managed some last-minute crises. The first day of the four-day project was bright and sunny. For that time of year, a sunny day was rare. “Suddenly I panicked,” said Sue. “Who would want to come paint the school on a nice day like that?”

But people did show up—in time for the second crisis. After the walls were prepared for painting, it was time to apply the undercoat of paint. Just as more than one hundred students were ready to start painting, the school custodian rushed up to Sue and showed her the label on one of the cans. The flammable undercoat was supposed to be used only in well ventilated areas. They opened every window and door, turned off the electricity to avoid sparks, and covered all the electrical outlets. In the meantime, Sue had retreated to ask for some additional help. “I found an empty room, and got down on my knees.” Everything went smoothly. The danger was avoided. And the group had a great time. It was hard work but really a lot of fun too.

After giving the school halls a new coat of pale gray paint with maroon trim, the students under Sue’s leadership took new pride in their school. Now, if anyone even thinks about defacing or vandalizing the walls, they are warned by other students, “Don’t do it. I painted this wall, and nobody is going to write on it.”

A lot of teenagers today don’t even carry a handkerchief. But when I was a young man, having a handkerchief ready for an emergency (like someone crying, for example) was considered important. At least, my mother certainly thought so.
I was going on one of my first dates and was halfway out the door when I heard my mother’s voice calling my name. I went back inside to find her with a white handkerchief in her hand.
“Do you have a clean handkerchief?” she asked. “Mom,” I said in that special voice reserved for mothers by exasperated sons. I took the handkerchief because I was anxious to be on my way. I stuffed it into my pocket, and I was out the door and into the car without thinking more about it.
Today, a white handkerchief is probably the farthest thing from anyone’s mind before a date. Time tends to change many of our styles and customs, but the courtesy and respect that my mother taught me should exist in dating relationships are just as important today as they have ever been.
I don’t remember much about that date, but I do remember asking my mother afterward why a clean handkerchief was such a big deal. This led to a conversation between us that taught me a lot about establishing good relationships with young women.
Now, I don’t mean that I treated girls like they were just one of the guys; but I had a lot to learn. My mother explained, for example, that as a sign of courtesy young men should (1) walk ahead of a date in a darkened theater or room, (2) walk on the outside of the sidewalk, next to the road, (3) stand when a girl the same age or a woman enters the room and stand when she leaves, (4) stand until all women have been seated and help them be seated before seating themselves, and (5) take a young lady back to her seat and thank her after a dance. I did know, without my mom telling me, that opening car doors and helping girls out are also signs of respect.
At first I suspected my mother’s suggestions that all young men should obey the rules of etiquette might be a female conspiracy transmitted from generation to generation in order to control men. Later, as I listened to my wife make suggestions to our sons, I realized there were some time-honored ways for young men to act, and that young women usually like to be treated in those ways.
After I dismissed the conspiracy theory I selfishly thought that if men did all those nice things for women, we would be the only ones doing all the nice things. “What are they doing for us?” I thought. Girls usually don’t have to ask for dates and risk being turned down, and they don’t have to keep standing all the time, or help seat boys at the table.
Because of my suspicions and selfishness I was undecided about whether I wanted to try all of my mother’s ideas. But I soon learned that when people go on dates there are doors, cars, dances, meals, rooms to stand in, introductions, and movie theaters. There are times during each of these situations when someone needs to do something, and if no one does there is a silent awkwardness which makes you feel like a true klutz. I know.
I was at one of my first dances and somehow I’d gathered the courage to remove myself from the wall to ask someone to dance with me. The young lady I asked said, “Yes,” and suddenly I found myself out on the dance floor feeling rather uncomfortable. Fortunately, however, some of my friends had found partners also and joined us. As we danced, my friends and I made comments to one another and before I knew it, our talking had turned into a full-fledged conversation that excluded our partners. Immersed in the discussion, I became oblivious to the young lady I was dancing with and somehow drifted off of the dance floor without even realizing it. Back at the wall again I glanced out at those still dancing and, to my embarrassment, saw my partner out on the floor, alone. An uncomfortable feeling settled itself in my stomach. I wanted to do something, but I didn’t know what or how to even go about it in an awkward situation like this. So I did nothing. That night I decided that some of my mother’s ideas might be worth trying.
As I did so, the first thing that happened was unexpected. Girls I dated began to think I knew what I was doing and relaxed around me. The nervousness I sometimes felt disappeared too, and I started having more fun. The more we relaxed, the easier it was to talk. Talking comfortably might not seem very important, but it is the way friendships and liking begin and continue. By communicating well, I also began to get to know girls better.
I’ll admit that when I first started dating, I wanted to be seen with girls who wouldn’t tarnish the social image I thought I had to protect. However, after spending time with some young women, having long talks with them and my mother about many things, I found out that girls could be friends (without worrying about all the romantic stuff). In fact, some of the dates I enjoyed most were with girls who were fun and were not worried about trying to make boys like them.
I soon found, though, that I felt better around and preferred the company of some young women over others. After talking about it, my mother suggested that I needed to learn how and why I got along better with some than with others because it would help me when it came time to get more serious about finding someone to marry. So I learned to be observant on a date, to think about why I did or did not feel comfortable.
I began to look at those I dated for the characteristics I thought important, like how well they communicated, their sense of humor, what they believed about religion and what they thought about themselves. I didn’t think much about it then, but I know I was storing up ideas. More important, I also found out that most girls start out wanting to have genuine, fun friendships because they are evaluating young men too. What’s more, as we evaluate others, we’re also evaluating ourselves. Most people feel complimented by genuine interest and questions that give them an opportunity to talk about themselves.
My willingness to treat a young woman with genuine interest and to stop trying too hard to impress her helped me discover that I was often guilty of prejudging. I found after talking to some girls that what I had thought about them at first was later proven untrue.
My mother also taught me that courtesy and acceptance are ways of showing respect, not only toward girls, women, and even toward other men, but also for myself. This knowledge and skill has helped me many times because it has increased my confidence around others. I believe I am less afraid to meet new people, enter new situations, speak in public, and carry on private conversations because manners help me know what to do. Manners have helped me, and many men, overcome a natural shyness.
Women deserve the respect of men. Both men and women are warmed by it and helped to feel secure. In an age when there is much concern about equality of the sexes, some women are receiving unequal amounts of rudeness and disrespect. Many men are using the idea of female equality as an excuse to neglect courtesy.
My mother helped me to learn and show respect for her, and consequently taught me that all girls and women are deserving of it. No one benefits by demeaning or rejecting another person. When young women are ennobled by the respect young men show them, both are elevated.
It never occurred to me as a young man that if a boy treats a girl like a queen, he is raising himself to a higher level too. All men and boys can learn an honest courtesy. And all young men can be known as “good dates,” not because of their social standing or good looks, but because of the respect and kindness they show to those they date.

I experienced this true principle with my wife and two children. On Christmas morning in 2016, while I was serving as a stake president in Lubumbashi, the four of us knelt and begged Heavenly Father to bless us with a spirit of peace, simplicity, love, and generosity. We followed President Hunter’s example and shared with our friends, brothers, sisters and our parents all that we had—and what we felt by the end of that Christmas Day was wonderful. Yes, we did experience joy and peace on that special Christmas day, and ever since, that spirit has always led my family.

In many ways, Ricardo has already begun his missionary service. “He was an example to me because he always went to church,” says Ricardo’s grandmother, Mavila Ruiz Cárdenas. For several years she had listened to the missionaries who came to visit with the family. And all the while Ricardo was there: sitting in and listening to the discussions, faithfully attending church each Sunday, even teaching his grandmother the hymns.
When he was eight years old and attending church by himself, he had not felt prepared for baptism. But, says Ricardo, “when my grandmother said she was ready to be baptized, then I was sure I was ready also.” So when Ricardo was 10, he and his grandmother were baptized on the same day.