Gospel Story Finder

Our present-day prophet, Spencer W. Kimball, has a great love for all the children of the Church. AFriend reader wrote to share with you an experience that expresses our prophet’s love.
“My name is Margo Busch, I am seven years old and live in San Antonio, Texas. I have three sisters and one brother. Something very special happened to our family. When we were on a 747 jet flying from Salt Lake City to Augsburg, Germany, we saw the prophet on the plane. We wanted to talk to him, but the stewardess wouldn’t let us. We were sad because we really wanted to meet him. So my sisters and I drew some pictures and the stewardess took them to him, and he answered by writing back to us on the pictures. When the plane landed, we were the last ones to leave. As we got off the plane the prophet was there waiting for us to shake our hands. Spencer W. Kimball really loves children very much and everyone in our family loves him too.”

While living in Argentina, Luis’s Polish parents, though not Christian, raised him in a good, religious environment. Invited one day when he was 17 years old to talk to a seminary class about the Old Testament, he gladly obliged. He felt at home with the youth in the class and continued to attend the early-morning meetings to answer their questions. “I thought I was teaching them,” he says, “but they were teaching me.” Luis became interested in finding out about the Book of Mormon, and one day he began reading it. “As I read, it slowly came to me who Jesus Christ really was—the Messiah!” he recalls. “This affected me profoundly. I read all night long.” After receiving an answer to his prayers, he decided to be baptized, despite the strong disapproval of his family. “I had a great desire to study and make up for all I felt I’d missed,” he says. In time he married Laura Moltó, the daughter of his seminary teacher, and soon after began serving in leadership positions, first in the ward, now in the stake.

“It isn’t fair,” I moaned. “Christmas is a week away, and I don’t have anything for Caitlyn.”
“I thought you were giving her the wind chimes you made at school,” Mom said.
“I was going to give her those because I couldn’t think of anything else.” I sighed. “I’m not supposed to know, but I saw what she’s going to give me—a silver necklace with a tiny pearl in it. It’s beautiful! And what do I give her? Some wind chimes I made at school.” I shook my head. “Maybe it would be different if Caitlyn didn’t already have everything.”
“Caitlyn has everything?” Mom looked up from the Primary lesson she was preparing.
“Well, nearly everything,” I muttered. “Her parents get her anything she asks for.” I shrugged. “She doesn’t ever ask for much. She deserves more than wind chimes from me.”
“Caitlyn will get some really neat gifts this Christmas,” I told Mom. “She doesn’t know it, of course, but her parents are giving her a new music system for her room and a new bed that looks like something out of a fairy tale. Why would she ever want my silly wind chimes?”
“She loves things she can hear. You said she loves wind chimes.”
I shook my head. “I like bubbles, but I don’t think I’d like bubbles for Christmas.” I sighed. “That’s the problem with having a friend who has everything.”
“Everything?”
I knew Mom was talking about Caitlyn’s eyes. “Everything I could give her.”
I leaned back in the sofa and stared up at the ceiling, trying to imagine what Caitlyn’s world was like. I opened my eyes and looked over at Mom. “I know what I’d like to give her. My eyes. Just for a day. Just so she could see the world again. She’d have the memories of everything she had seen that day. I’d be OK, missing my eyes for one day, and that one day of sight would mean so much to her.”
Mom smiled at me. “It would be a wonderful gift. I wish we could both give her that. But we can’t. Caitlyn will know that you are giving her the chimes from your heart. That’s what will mean the most to her. And every time she hears them, she’ll think of you, even when she’s away at school.”
Mom helped me wrap the chimes. Then I went to my room, lay on my bed, and closed my eyes, imagining that I had magically lent my eyes to Caitlyn. I wished that Jesus Christ was here and that He healed Caitlyn’s eyes. I knew that He will come again one day, and He will do His miracles. One day Caitlyn will see again. I knew it. But I wanted her to see now!
While I was lying there, locked for a moment in Caitlyn’s dark world, it came to me what I could give her that would be special enough. I leaped from my bed and went charging down the hall.
Mom listened as I excitedly explained what I wanted to do. I needed her help. Smiling, she agreed, and for the next few days, we worked together—planning, preparing, practicing, pretending. Mom and I drove down the street, walked down the sidewalks, peered into store windows, and saw hundreds of other things all around us. I looked through my eyes as though they were Caitlyn’s. I saw things that I had never noticed before.
Two days before Christmas, Mom drove me to Caitlyn’s house. She was smiling wildly with excitement. “Ever since you called,” her mother said, “she’s been waiting for this evening. I don’t know what you have planned, but—”
“It will be wonderful, whatever it is,” Caitlyn interrupted, because Melissa is giving it to me.”
I led Caitlyn to the car, and we sat in the back. As soon as I closed the door, I announced, “I wanted to give you something wonderful for Christmas, something that came from me.” I reached out and touched her hand. “I thought if I could, I’d let you borrow my eyes for a day. And I’ve discovered a way to do it! Tonight I’m going to use my eyes to show you Christmas.”
Caitlyn nodded but looked confused.
“We’re driving down your street,” I started, my voice shaking with excitement. Mom drove very slowly so I could describe everything. “Right here at the corner is a gorgeous manger scene. Mary is by the manger, holding the Baby Jesus. Lights are shining from overhead. There are little gray donkeys walking across the snow and shepherds and lambs and …”
Mom and I took Caitlyn down several streets and described the decorated homes. We drove downtown to the Village of Lights. We walked up and down Main Street, peering in the big windows of the department stores and in the little panes of the small shops. When we stopped at a cute cafe to sip hot chocolate and munch cinnamon rolls, I described the tiny decorative elves perched on the counter, the holly hanging on beams overhead, and the mistletoe dangling from the ceiling above each booth.
Outside, we met Santa Claus, and we saw carolers. I didn’t want to miss anything, because I knew that if I didn’t see everything, neither would Caitlyn.
It was late when we returned to Caitlyn’s house. As she burst through her front door, she called out to her mother, “It was awesome! It was better than awesome! We went everywhere, and Melissa described everything. It was as though I could see again.”
Caitlyn bubbled with excitement, and I was so happy that I thought I’d burst. I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out the package containing my simple wind chimes. I pressed the small present into her hands. “This is also for you. Whenever you hear the chimes, you can remember tonight and everything we saw together.”
Caitlyn threw her arms around my neck and squeezed until I didn’t think I could breathe. “It was the best gift ever!” she whispered in my ear.

One day, Jonalin Y. received an unexpected phone call.
The groundbreaking for the Pago Pago American Samoa Temple was coming up, and area leaders asked 16-year-old Jonalin to share her testimony of the temple during the groundbreaking ceremony. There was only one problem. Jonalin had never been to a temple. She’d always wanted to go to be sealed to her family, but she didn’t know if that would happen anytime soon.
“When they announced that the temple was being built here, I wasn’t as excited or enthusiastic as everyone else,” Jonalin says. “I thought there wasn’t a point to be excited, because my dad is a nonmember and can’t come with us into the temple. A temple wouldn’t change the fact that my family isn’t sealed.”
Jonalin’s mother’s family has belonged to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints for multiple generations. Her mother taught her and her four siblings the gospel of Jesus Christ, and they were baptized when they turned eight. But her father has chosen not to become a member.
For as long as Jonalin can remember, her family has tried to help her dad become converted to the gospel of Jesus Christ. She and her mother, three sisters, and brother invite him to church, and he often comes when he’s not working. They also have home evening and invite him to Church activities. Countless missionaries have walked through their door, but Jonalin’s dad hasn’t decided to move forward in the gospel.
Because of this, Jonalin was confused about being asked to speak about the temple. It seemed like all her friends were more excited about the temple than she was and couldn’t wait to go there with their entire families. “I just remember thinking, ‘I’m the girl with a nonmember dad. Why me?’” Jonalin says.
Soon Jonalin’s feelings about the temple started to change. “What changed my heart was being picked to share my testimony,” she says. “It was like God’s way of helping me know the temple is a blessing. I knew it was His way to put my doubtful heart at ease.”
“I’ve heard the temple is nice, it’s peaceful,” she says. “I’d really like to feel that for myself. Preparing to share my testimony gave me the opportunity to think about how amazing it will be to have a temple built so close to home. And it gave me hope that one day, according to God’s timing, my family will be sealed in the temple.”
Jonalin does her best to trust in God’s timing instead of her own. “God works in mysterious ways,” she says. “He knew the right time to build a temple in American Samoa, a time when everyone is in despair because of the pandemic, a time when the temple is needed by so many, and a time when he knew of my longing for my family to be sealed. His timing is the perfect time.”
One reason Jonalin wants her dad to be baptized is that the gospel has been such a blessing in her own life. “I love applying gospel teachings at school, and it actually really helps,” Jonalin says. “I’m very grateful to be a member and am excited to be part of this great and marvelous work.”
Jonalin also tries to share the joy of the gospel with her friends, most of whom are members of the Church. “Whenever I’m anxious about something, I wake up early in the morning and go watch the sky. It’s very therapeutic,” she says. “Sometimes while I do this, I feel like I should take some notes, like lessons I’ve learned from church. Then I send those notes to my friends in a group chat. I have one friend that’s not a member, and to see her respond with such a big heart—it’s really nice, and I love it so much.”
As Jonalin shares her faith with her friends, she is still hopeful that one day her dad will be converted to the gospel of Jesus Christ. “God sees my heart and knows how much I want my dad to be baptized,” she says. But she also understands that her dad has agency to choose. “There were times when I asked God why it was taking my dad so long. But Heavenly Father’s response remains the same: be patient. So, I will be patient.”
“I pray that one day my family will be sealed for eternity. I know that the gospel is true. It has blessed my family in so many ways.”
“I pray that one day my family will be sealed for eternity,” Jonalin says. “I know that the gospel is true. It has blessed my family in so many ways. I testify that God hears our prayers. I’m blessed to be part of His work and will continue to live according to His will.”

My mother was hospitalized with a stroke. It shocked us, and I wondered why God allowed this to happen.
Despite our worries, we didn’t lose faith. We knew that she would recover. She was OK until a few months later when she had another stroke. She couldn’t walk or speak and had a hard time eating. We continued to pray for help from God.
My mom fought this condition until she passed away. I know that God was not incapable of healing her, but it was His will that she return to Him. I know that if I live my life according to the Lord’s commandments, I can be reunited with her and my family. I know that because of the Atonement of our Savior, we will be resurrected. Death is not the end for us.

The class presidencies of the Young Men and Young Women of the Oakland First Ward, Oakland California Stake, discovered that good leadership skills are developed first through training and then through experience. In a day-long leadership seminar, they learned the basics of conducting an effective meeting, understanding and choosing a proper leadership style, setting goals, and outlining specific activities for the coming year.
The participants were told to meet at a designated train terminal before taking the train into San Francisco. After the BART ride, the group walked to one of the more prominent skyscrapers in the city, where they found a conference room ready for them. Seminars on various aspects of leadership were held all day.
As a surprise conclusion to the day, the group was taken on a ferryboat trip to Angel Island for dinner and an active game of baseball. They made their way back to the train for the trip home after a full and busy day.

Many years ago in Cuzco, high in the Andes Mountains of Peru, Elder A. Theodore Tuttle and I held a sacrament meeting in a long, narrow room with a door that opened onto the street. It was night and it was very cold.

While Elder Tuttle spoke, a little boy, perhaps six years old, appeared in the doorway. He was naked except for a ragged shirt that went about to his knees.

On our left was a small table with a plate of bread for the sacrament. This ragged street orphan saw the bread and inched slowly along the wall toward it. He was almost to the table when a woman on the aisle saw him. With a stern toss of her head, she banished him out into the night. I groaned within myself.

Later the boy returned. He crept along the wall, glancing from the bread to me. He was near the point where the woman would see him again. I held out my arms, and he came running to me. I held him on my lap.

Then, as something symbolic, I set him in Elder Tuttle’s chair. After the closing prayer, much to my sorrow, he darted out into the night.

When I returned home, I told President Spencer W. Kimball about him. He was deeply moved and spoke of it in a conference talk. He told others of it and said to me more than once, “That experience has far greater meaning than you have yet come to know.”

I have never forgotten that little street orphan. Many times in South America I have looked for him in the faces of the people. When he comes back into my mind, others come with him.

Over the years, I have wondered what President Kimball meant when he reminded me of that street orphan in Cuzco and repeated, “That experience has far greater meaning than you have yet come to know.” One day he added, “You held a nation on your lap.”

Now in my 78th year, I understand what President Kimball was seeing; I know what he meant. That boy in Cuzco and the one in Japan and the other children about the world profoundly influence what I think and how I feel and what I pray for most earnestly. I constantly think of little children and their parents who struggle to raise them in ever more perilous times.

When Braeden started kindergarten, he loved meeting new friends and having fun with them. In his class he noticed one boy who was a little different than some of the other children. Sometimes the boy had a hard time sitting still, listening to the teacher, or behaving. Braeden knows that Jesus Christ loves everyone, and he really wants to be like Jesus. Braeden is kind to the boy in his class, just like Jesus wants him to be.

I love to read my own grandfather’s missionary journal. His first entries are classics. He wrote: “Today I married in the Salt Lake Temple the girl of my dreams.” The very next night the journal entry read: “Tonight the bishop called at our house. I have been asked to return to Scandinavia for a two- year mission. Of course I will go, and my sweet wife will remain at home and sustain me.” I am grateful for a missionary heritage.

Peter Ahgook sighed a huge sigh, his dark eyes watching the daily mail plane. The plane was circling high in the crisp Alaskan sky. Soon the pilot would land on the narrow dirt strip that served as Chalkyitsik’s airport.
Sitting in a log shelter that was the only airport building, Peter dreamed of the day when he too would fly a plane through the clouds and gracefully land it on the bumpy village runways of Alaska.
“Bush pilot,” he murmured to himself. “Peter Ahgook, bush pilot.”
He was surprised out of his daydreaming by the laughter of his friend Sam Pitka.
“What’s funny?” Peter asked, quickly lowering his gaze to his friend’s grinning face.
“While you were watching the plane, I was watching you.” Sam’s grin broadened. “Daydreaming again?”
Peter felt his face go red, and he turned his head to hide his embarrassment. He could feel his friend’s eyes on him. What is so funny about wanting to be a pilot? Peter wondered.
Suddenly Peter heard himself asking, “Well, what’s wrong with watching my friend Mike land his plane?”
“I didn’t know he was your friend!” Sam exclaimed in surprise.
“Sure he is,” Peter said, trying to look confident. He wished now that he had thought before he spoke, but it was too late. He would have to make the best of it.
“If you and that pilot are friends,” Sam asked hopefully, “could you get him to let us sit in his plane for just a minute?”
Before Peter could answer, four more children sat down on the bench. They too had come to see the plane land.
“Did I hear you say we can sit in the mail plane?” asked one.
“That will be fun!” another exclaimed.
Peter pretended to be so busy watching the plane land that he didn’t hear them. He kept his eyes fixed on the plane as it touched the dirt runway, bounced several times, and then taxied to the end of the dirt strip. The mail plane stopped just a little way from the log shelter. The pilot climbed out with the mailbag in his hand.
“Are you going to ask your friend?” Sam wanted to know.
Peter was miserable. He couldn’t ask such a big favor of a man he didn’t know. He stared at the plane a minute longer, then turned to face his friend.
“Sam, I guess I was daydreaming about that too. I don’t really know the pilot. I don’t even know his name.”
Peter didn’t notice that the bush pilot was standing near the log shelter. In fact, Peter didn’t notice anything. He hung his head as he sat on the bench. The other children ran off to get a closer look at the plane while Peter sat all alone thinking. He was angry with himself. Now that Sam knew he hadn’t told the truth, would Sam ever trust him again?
Peter turned his attention to the plane. It was a small four-passenger plane, blue and white with a silver stripe. He wondered what it would be like to sit in the pilot’s seat. His cousin Fred had written last week from Fort Yukon to tell Peter about a friendly bush pilot. The pilot had let Fred climb into the plane and even sit in the pilot’s seat right in front of the controls. Maybe sometime when this pilot is not too busy, Peter thought, just maybe I can make friends with him.
Peter did not know how long he’d been thinking, when suddenly he felt a big hand on his shoulder. He turned to see the pilot smiling at him.
“What’s your name, boy?”
“Peter—Peter Ahgook,” he managed to stammer.
“My name is Ben. I heard you talking to your friends. I want you to know I like an honest boy.”
The pilot’s big hand was still on Peter’s shoulder, and Peter suddenly felt happier. His words came tumbling out. He told Ben that he liked the blue and white plane and that someday he wanted to be a bush pilot himself.
The pilot smiled a friendly smile. “I’ll tell you what,” he said. “One of these days when I have a few minutes, maybe you could climb in and see the plane from the inside. Would you like that?”
Peter could hardly believe his ears.
“Oh, yes!”
“It’s a deal. But for now, how about carrying this mailbag for me?”
As Peter hoisted the heavy mailbag and followed his new friend across the airstrip, he was sure he had never been as happy. Peter grinned the very broadest grin that could fit on his nine-year-old face.

“Mint chip,” Erin thought. “No, strawberry.” She peered down at the rows of different flavors inside the ice-cream freezer.
“What are you going to have?” Erin’s best friend, Stephanie, asked. She was already licking her scoop of vanilla, the same kind she ordered every Thursday afternoon when the two girls stopped at the Ice Cream Castle after their tap-dance class.
“I’m still deciding,” Erin said. “They all look good.” Erin had just settled on a scoop of peanut-butter fudge when the bell above the store’s front door tinkled.
In walked Brad and Chris, two boys from school. Erin cringed. Brad and Chris were mean to everyone, and Erin was afraid of them. As the boys sat down at a table at the back of the shop, Erin breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe they hadn’t noticed her.
But when the girl behind the counter asked Erin what she wanted, Brad called out, “Hey, Stephanie, be careful Erin doesn’t eat all your ice cream.” He made an oinking sound, and Chris laughed.
Erin’s face got hot, and her legs started to shake. She wanted to run out the door as fast as she could, but she felt like she was superglued to the floor.
“Don’t pay any attention to them,” Stephanie whispered. “Just go ahead and order whatever you want.”
But a peanut-butter fudge ice-cream cone didn’t sound so good anymore. In a small voice Erin said, “Could I have a lemonade, please?”
“Are you sure that’s all you want?” Stephanie asked. “Don’t let those guys bother you.”
But Erin just nodded. It was pretty much impossible not to be bothered by Brad and Chris.
While she waited for her lemonade, Erin glanced down at her blue jeans and purple T-shirt. Leaving the house that morning, she had felt good about how she looked. Now she thought she looked horrible.
The next Thursday when they got to the dance studio, Erin and Stephanie changed into their stretch pants and shiny black tap shoes and started warming up on the scuffed hardwood floor. One whole wall of the dance room was covered in mirrors. When she caught a glimpse of herself—legs moving, arms waving—Erin thought, “I’m bigger than the other girls. I look terrible in these dance clothes.”
Erin remembered what had happened at the Ice Cream Castle the week before, and the knot in her stomach tightened. She was about to go call her mom to come get her when Miss Yvette, their teacher, came into the room. “OK, girls,” she said. “Let’s start with some flaps and shuffles.” She turned on the stereo, and jazzy music spilled into the room.
It was too late to escape. Erin fell into line with the other girls and started moving her feet. The silver taps on the bottom of her shoes clicked and clacked, and Erin let her arms swing in time with the music. She had been taking tap-dance lessons for only a few months, but she loved hearing the sounds her feet made when she moved them just right. Pretty soon, Erin was working so hard to keep up with Miss Yvette that she forgot about how sad she felt.
Toward the end of class, Miss Yvette said, “I want everyone to line up in the corner. We’re going to practice our turns across the floor.” As the girls in front of Erin twirled and leaped, Erin hopped a little, trying to get her feet to do what she wanted them to do. Because she was just a beginner compared to the other girls, she had to try extra hard to get things right.
When it was her turn, Erin started dancing toward the opposite corner. “Stomp-shuffle-step and turn,” Miss Yvette instructed, and that’s exactly what Erin’s feet did. She was doing it! As she turned, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror: blonde hair flying, body spinning, and biting her lip in concentration. As Erin reached the far wall, Miss Yvette shouted, “Bravo, Erin! Good work!”
By the end of class, Erin’s bangs were damp with sweat and her heart was pounding. Miss Yvette said, “You girls did great today. I want to congratulate Erin. She’s only been in this class for a little while, but she’s worked really hard to catch up with everyone. She wins the prize for most improved!”
The girls started clapping. From across the room, Stephanie shouted, “Way to go, Erin!” Just like at the Ice Cream Castle, Erin felt her cheeks start to burn. But this time it wasn’t because she was embarrassed, but because she was happy.
On her way out of the room, Erin watched herself in the mirror. “So what if I’m bigger than some people?” she thought. “Everyone is different.”
Erin knew Heavenly Father had given her her body. From now on, she would be grateful for all the good things her body could do.

My dad was stationed in Okinawa, Japan, so I was supposed to be baptized in the East China Sea. I was really sick on that Saturday in 1996, so the baptism was rescheduled for Sunday. On Sunday morning, I was still sick and throwing up, and to make it worse, it was raining. My mom said we were going to do it anyway, so we all prayed for the rain to stop and for me to feel better. After church, we went home for my baptismal clothes, then drove to Toguchi Beach. By the time we got there, the rain had stopped and I felt better.
The bad thing then was that the tide had gone out. My dad and I walked out to a little tide pool (see photo), and he stood on my toes (to keep them in the water) when he baptized me. My Grandma and Grandpa Taylor were there from the United States to see my baptism. After I was pretty dry, Grandpa confirmed me, and I was a true member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
I know that Heavenly Father helped me feel better and helped the rain to stop for my baptism. I got sick again on the way home, and it started to rain again. I hope that all of you who haven’t been baptized will be baptized and receive the gift of the Holy Ghost.
Thomas Taylor, age 11Drummond, Oklahoma

The pony’s brown hair was like a short-bristled brush, heavier and stiffer than Brian had imagined. And now that he was standing next to it, the pony seemed quite tall. Brian had to look up to see her eyes. “You wouldn’t seem so big to the other boys in my class,” said Brian, remembering how small he was compared to them. It was hard sometimes to be the smallest boy in class. The little horse suddenly jerked its head back and pawed the soft dirt. She’s almost as excited as I am, Brian thought.
The booming loudspeaker suddenly broke into Brian’s thoughts. “The next rider will be Jimmy Nelson, coming out of the white gate.” Brian scrambled up the sides of the red gate to watch. Jimmy sat three seats ahead of him in school. He was the biggest boy in the class, a great ballplayer, and had a horse of his own. If anyone can ride one of the wild ponies, it’s Jimmy, Brian decided. None of the other boys had been able to stay on their ponies, and only he and Jimmy still had a chance. He watched his friend settle down on the animal and grasp the wide leather cinch fastened around the horse’s middle like a belt.
Jimmy looked confident as he told the cowboys working in the chute that he was ready. The bell rang and the boy shot out of the gate on the brown and white pony. In an instant the pair were jouncing up and down. The pony kicked, twisted, and turned, trying to throw the rider from its back.
The crowd cheered as Jimmy hung onto his bucking mount. Suddenly the little horse reared back and violently rocked forward. Jimmy sailed straight over the horse’s head just as the buzzer went off. He landed on his shoulders in the soft brown dirt. But before the pickup cowboy arrived to help him, Jimmy was up, shaking his head and kicking the dirt in disgust. The crowd clapped for Jimmy’s good try as he walked across the arena.
Now Brian began to wonder if he should have signed up to ride in the Little Buckaroo Rodeo. He had been around horses before, but he hadn’t had much experience. If Jimmy Nelson can’t ride his horse, how can I ever stay on for eight seconds? Brian asked himself. He knew that all he had going for him was a powerful desire. “I’m going to try and hang on, and I’ll do it!” he declared under his breath.
“OK, son, it’s your turn,” said the big cowboy who was working the red chute. Then smiling at him, the man added, “Just remember to hold on with all your might and lean back as far as you can.”
Brian scrambled up the sides of the metal chute and stood for a second looking down at the pony. “I’m going to do it,” he told the little animal. “You’d better understand that right now.” He climbed over the top rail, kicked his leg out, and settled down on the pony’s back that was so broad Brian’s short legs didn’t come halfway down its sides. As he put his full weight on the pony, it jumped.
Brian slipped his left hand under the leather strap, and jammed his cowboy hat on his head with the other hand. Then he slipped his right hand under the belt and the big cowboy pulled it tight.
The announcer called Brian’s name and the boy leaned back and threw his legs up on the horse’s shoulders. “Let go if you start to fall off,” the cowboy warned him. He smiled and winked at Brian and asked, “Ready?”
“Ready!” shouted Brian as he grasped the strap with all his might and leaned back as far as he could. The bell rang and out jumped the pony. Brian imagined he was sitting still and the world around him was jumping up and down and spinning around. The little horse kicked and bucked as hard as she could, but this rider was not going to lose his hold. Up went the horse and up went the rider. The pony spun and kicked again, but Brian stuck to her like glue. Finally, the pony gave a violent heave and Brian’s cowboy hat went flying into the air. Although he slipped over a little to one side of the horse, the boy hung on with all his might.
After what seemed like an hour of roller coaster riding, he heard the buzzer sound, and then he let go and “bit the dust!” Slowly Brian got up, brushed the dirt from his face and clothes, and looked around, not sure where everything was. The pickup man pointed over to the side of the arena. He handed Brian his hat and said, “That was an awfully nice ride, cowboy; you had a real mean horse.”
Brian could hear the crowd cheer for him as he made his way from the arena. He was still spitting dirt as he looked up into the thousands of faces in the stands to see if he could locate his family. Then he saw them wildly waving their hands at him and smiling. Brian grinned and waved back.
“The winner of the pony bareback-riding event is Brian Johnson,” the announcer called.
The littlest cowboy had won!

During World War II, in the early part of 1944, an experience involving the priesthood took place as United States marines were taking Kwajalein Atoll, part of the Marshall Islands and located in the Pacific Ocean about midway between Australia and Hawaii. What took place in this regard was related by a correspondent—not a member of the Church—who worked for a newspaper in Hawaii. In the 1944 newspaper article he wrote following the experience, he explained that he and other correspondents were in the second wave behind the marines at Kwajalein Atoll. As they advanced, they noticed a young marine floating facedown in the water, obviously badly wounded. The shallow water around him was red with his blood. And then they noticed another marine moving toward his wounded comrade. The second marine was also wounded, with his left arm hanging helplessly by his side. He lifted up the head of the one who was floating in the water in order to keep him from drowning. In a panicky voice he called for help. The correspondents looked again at the boy he was supporting and called back, “Son, there is nothing we can do for this boy.”

“Then,” wrote the correspondent, “I saw something that I had never seen before.” This boy, badly wounded himself, made his way to the shore with the seemingly lifeless body of his fellow marine. He “put the head of his companion on his knee. … What a picture that was—these two mortally wounded boys—both … clean, wonderful-looking young men, even in their distressing situation. And the one boy bowed his head over the other and said, ‘I command you, in the name of Jesus Christ and by the power of the priesthood, to remain alive until I can get medical help.’” The correspondent concluded his article: “The three of us [the two marines and I] are here in the hospital. The doctors don’t know [how they made it alive], but I know.”

Vaha’i knelt by his bed to say his prayers. It was his first night at boarding school, and he shared a room with lots of other boys. None of them were members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, like he was.
Dear Heavenly Father … Vaha’i started to pray in his heart. But it wasn’t easy. The other boys were talking and laughing loudly.
“Hey, look!” one of his roommates, Akau, shouted. “He’s praying!”
Vaha’i shifted uncomfortably. He knew Akau was making fun of him. But he pretended not to hear him. He just kept praying.
Now that Vaha’i was away at school, he was determined to do just that. So he kept praying. Even when the other boys made fun of him.
One night when Vaha’i knelt down, he heard something different.
“Hey, be quiet! Vaha’i is praying,” someone said.
Vaha’i finished his prayer and opened his eyes.
Akau was sitting on his bed. “It’s really important to you, isn’t it?”
Vaha’i nodded. “Yes, it is.”
After that, the other boys were quiet whenever Vaha’i prayed. Soon Akau started kneeling with him. Other boys joined too. Eventually, all the boys in the room knelt to pray with Vaha’i each night.
Vaha’i felt happy. He had never had family prayer at home. But now he could have family prayer with his schoolmates!
One day Vaha’i had an idea. A big Church meeting was coming up. He could invite his friends!
After prayer, Vaha’i told everyone about the meeting. “It’s called district conference,” he said. “People come to learn about Jesus. You can all come, if you want!”
Since they would have to leave the school to go to the meeting, each of the boys had to sign a paper to get permission. Vaha’i was amazed when he saw the paper. There were 77 names on the list!
Vaha’i’s heart felt warm as he sat with rows of his classmates and listened to the talks at the conference. Akau and some of the others must have felt warm inside too. By the end of the conference, seven of them wanted to be baptized!
That night after prayer with his friends, Vaha’i said a prayer of his own. Thank you for blessing me with good friends, he told Heavenly Father. And for helping me be a good example.

Ashlyn read the story “Giving Our Best” in the September 2006 Friend about a family who gave food from their pantry to the local food bank. Ashlyn came up to me and said, “Mom, I want to do this.” I called our local food bank to find out what donations they would accept, and I talked to Ashlyn about the list. She picked out some bags to use and gave one to her little brother Cooper. They went to our pantry and picked out some things. Then we went to the store and bought baby cereal and other things. Ashlyn really enjoyed picking them out. Then we went to the food bank and gave the bags to the people working there. As we were leaving, Ashlyn said, “I feel warm inside. I feel happy. I did a good thing.”
Ashlyn R., age 7, Arizona

Family organization. I heard a young mother in a testimony meeting a few weeks ago bear witness to a new understanding of what the Lord had entrusted to her. She said how disappointed she had been with the change in the Sunday meeting program, which had taken her—a Primary worker—from the opportunity of attending Relief Society and Sunday School. She had almost determined to fall into inactivity rather than accept the change. One day while brooding over this situation, the light of inspiration touched her heart and she could see the vision of what was occurring in the Church. It was not the loss of attendance at Relief Society she was to be concerned with, but the new, glorious opportunities to have prime time on the Lord’s day to be with her husband and children to fulfill the greatest responsibility the Lord has entrusted to her—the responsibility of teaching and training her own. Now after much prayer, study, and planning with her husband, Sunday has become the most special day in the week.

In February 1846, more than three thousand Latter-day Saints fled nauvoo, crossing the Mississippi River into Iowa. Many left without adequate food and shelter, and suffered terribly from cold and hunger.
One of those Saints was Aurelia Spencer. When her family had traveled only thirty miles, Aurelia’s mother died. The grieving family returned to Nauvoo to bury her before continuing their journey west.
Aurelia’s father, Orson, was called to preside over the Church in Great Britain, so she, her three sisters, and her two brothers spent the next winters in Winter Quarters with only kind neighbors to keep an eye on them. During the first, harsh, winter, their horse and seven of their eight cows died. Most of the money their father sent never reached them, and they suffered great poverty.
They left for the Salt Lake Valley in May 1848 with President Brigham Young’s company. In the Valley, they lived in a log room their uncle built for them, until their father’s return.
In 1851 Aurelia married Thomas Rogers. They settled in Farmington, sixteen miles north of Salt Lake City. There Aurelia gave birth to twelve children, only seven of whom lived to adulthood.
Concerned because Farmington’s boys were often getting into mischief, Aurelia asked Eliza R. Snow, the sister of Lorenzo Snow, if there should not be an organization to help little boys grow into good men. Sister Snow relayed the suggestion to the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, the governing body of the Church following the death of Brigham Young. John Taylor, the President of the Quorum, gave his approval, and Sister Rogers was called upon to organize and serve as the president of the first Primary in the Church. She wisely decided that girls should also be part of the organization, and the first Primary was held in Farmington Ward on August 25, 1878.

One of those members was Jorge Leaño, who had been invited by a fellow employee to listen to the message of two North American missionaries. Jorge was so impressed with the account of Joseph Smith’s First Vision that he wanted his wife, Zorka, to hear it. Zorka’s sister had listened to the missionaries a year earlier in the central Bolivian city of Cochabamba, so Jorge and Zorka welcomed them into their home.

When the missionaries finished the discussions and challenged the family to be baptized, the Leaños told them that they could not be ready so soon. The missionaries again challenged the family to read the Book of Mormon and pray about the things they had heard. Until then, Jorge and Zorka had prayed only at the end of each discussion with the missionaries.

That night, for the first time in their marriage, Jorge and Zorka knelt together and prayed to Heavenly Father. They did so with sincere hearts, intending to do their Heavenly Father’s will as he revealed it to them. Both felt an overpowering witness that the message of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ was true and that the Book of Mormon was the word of God. The following day they told the missionaries they were ready to be baptized, and on 19 September 1965 they became members of the Church.

As he grew in the gospel, Jorge became convinced that God had indeed spoken to man again. “All my questions were answered as to where we came from, why we are here on earth, and what our eternal future will be,” he said.

When I was a boy, we lived in the city during the school term and lived on a farm in the summer. On that farm we had an apple orchard and a peach orchard and various other trees. When we were in our early teens, my brother and I were taught the art of pruning trees. Every Saturday in February and March while snow was still on the ground, we would go out to the farm. We attended demonstrations put on by the agricultural college. I think we learned something about pruning as it was taught in those days. We learned, for instance, that you could prune a peach tree in February and in large measure determine the kind of fruit you would pick in September. The idea was to prune in such a way that the developing fruit would be exposed to air and sunlight, uncrowded as it occupied its place on the branch of the tree.