Gospel Story Finder

A group of volunteers from the Pacific Area Office in Auckland, New Zealand completed a service project in the nearby Wenderholm Regional Park earlier this year.
About 25 volunteers worked to plant new vegetation on a steep hillside of thick grass. The going was tough, but the group planted about 600 trees and shrubs during their four hours of work.
Wenderholm was created in 1965 and was the first of 26 regional parks that surround Auckland.
Situated north of the city between the estuaries of the Puhoi River and the Waiwera River on the east coast of New Zealand’s North Island, it covers about 60 hectares and hosts camping, beach, and picnic areas among other activities. It is also home to many native bird species.
Phoebe Steele and Sydney Olsen, community rangers for the Auckland Council at Wenderholm, said that the planting project will help to diversify the vegetation which is important for attracting native birds and retaining moisture in the soil.
“It was great being part of a well-organized effort for planting so many trees,” said Glen Reid, a financial analyst. “It was nice to see how a few hands can make a such a difference for Mother Nature.”
Mike Ramirez, a video producer for the Publishing Services Department and one of the organizers of the project, said, “The tree planting activity is not only to give back something to the park but more importantly we were also able to give back something to the earth. Those trees will live longer than any of us and will stand as a monument for generations to see and enjoy!”
Albert Niuelua, Pacific Area human resources manager for the Church, said he was glad he came. “We had a good mix of employees from different departments. There was a beautiful spirit of service, comradery, helping each other, fun, and laughter. Everyone seemed to enjoy working outdoors in nature away from our devices and offices.”
He added, “One of our church leaders, Elder M. Russell Ballard [of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles], shared in some recent remarks that when we serve others, our hope in Christ increases.1
Julia Manuel, Auckland region assistant facilities manager, said, “One of my favourite M?ori words is kaitiaki, as it sums up our responsibility perfectly as guardians for the land, sea and air. And being here shows the beauty of creation and instantly connects me to my Father in Heaven and Saviour Jesus Christ. Oh, what a joy!”
The park played an important role in another Church activity last year. In the spring of 2020, a special choir was assembled—including Church members from the Auckland area—which recorded a performance of a much beloved Latter-day Saint hymn on the beach at Wenderholm.
The pre-recording allowed Church choirs from six different continents to virtually join a pre-recorded performance of The Tabernacle Choir at Temple Square during the Church’s April 2020 worldwide general conference. The COVID-19 pandemic didn’t allow for choirs to sing live.
The Pacific Area Office has responsibility for the operations of the Church in the South Pacific including American Samoa, Australia, Cook Islands, Fiji, French Polynesia, Kiribati, Marshall Islands, Nauru, New Caledonia, New Zealand, Niue, Papua New Guinea, Samoa, Solomon Islands, Tuvalu and Vanuatu.
There are over 570,000 Latter-day Saints in the Pacific Area. In addition to many congregations across the region, the Church operates schools and supports regular charitable and humanitarian projects.

I didn’t want to have anything to do with the Church when my wife asked if the missionaries could teach our sons. But I didn’t say no because she was already a member.
When the missionaries started coming to our home twice a week, I would go to my friend’s house next door. My friend was a strong member of another Christian church. Every time I visited with him, he wanted to talk about the Bible. I told him I was not into that sort of thing and didn’t want to study religion. But he kept trying to convince me, and I finally said yes. So for a long time I studied the Bible with my friend while the missionaries taught my boys.
One day it was time for the missionaries to come to our house. But instead of leaving, I decided to stay in the next room. As the missionaries started teaching my sons, I found myself wanting to hear more. I moved closer and closer to the door to hear better. They were teaching my sons about apostles and prophets.
Later I realized I wanted to learn more. I spoke with the missionaries and decided to take the discussions from them—privately. My wife was always there, but no one else knew about it.
So when the missionaries came to teach my boys twice a week, I would go to my friend’s house. Then, on a different day, they would teach me.
One day when my friend said something bad about the Church, I defended it. Like many people in the Marshall Islands, he did not know much about the Church and misunderstood some things Latter-day Saints believe. When he said other negative things, I again defended the Church.
That’s how it went for seven months. Then one day I realized that the Holy Ghost had been confirming to me that everything the missionaries were teaching me was true. I realized I needed to get baptized, even though I still knew so little about the gospel.
After my baptism in 2007, I was so happy. We started saving money to go to the temple in Hawaii, where my wife, our three children, and I were sealed in December 2008.
Being a member of the Church has made a huge impact on my life. I decided to quit my second job entertaining at a restaurant because I would come home late and my garments would be saturated with tobacco smoke. Despite the loss of that extra income, the Lord has taken care of us.
I know the Church is true and that Joseph Smith is a prophet of God because of the Spirit I have felt and the blessings that I have received.

With this prospect before us, consider the following story. A young man, full of ambition and energy, enrolled in a fine university. At the time, he was a priest in the Aaronic Priesthood. His goal was lofty—he wanted to become a doctor. His aim was ambitious—he wanted to be rich. He wanted to play football, so he sought out the coaches and eventually made the team. Now he could have the recognition and bragging rights unique in the world of university sports. Such were the notions in his head.
But he had given little thought to something that would ultimately dismantle his lofty and vain ambitions—he had failed to lay up in store. He had overlooked the importance of adequate preparation, the requirements of regular attendance and disciplined study, and the college chemistry class. The consequence was swift and merciless. It took less than 90 days. It happened this way:
The day he found his 5-foot 8-inch, 170-pound body on the line of scrimmage opposite a mammoth lineman from the varsity squad, he knew he was in the wrong sport.
Unaccustomed to rigorous study, his eyes and mind refused to function after a brief time in the books.
The capstone of defeat was the final chemistry exam. Suffice it to say that his random answers to multiple-choice questions did not even approximate the law of averages. He failed miserably.
Hard work, a mission that awakened in him a correct vision of life’s purposes, and unrelenting preparation eventually overcame the consequence of this brief period of foolishness. Even today, however, I still have nightmares about that chemistry class.

Jennifer and Melissa Peterson and Shawn Edwards, of the Council Bluffs Iowa Ward, Papillon Nebraska Stake were in the mood to win a contest, so they produced a video called “Glenn Miller: A Master Showperson and Arranger.” It won first place in their division of the International Student Media Festival.
Jennifer, Melissa, and Shawn wrote the narration for the video, mixed the music and narration, recorded still photos and film on video, and combined the video and sound. Glenn Miller might seem like an unusual subject for teenagers to pick, but they explained it this way: “We picked Glenn Miller because he was from Iowa and we like his music.” Their film won them the right to attend the International Student Media Festival Awards Conference in Orlando, Florida.

While watching a documentary on the Amazon jungle, I learned that missionaries from various religions had taught the Native Americans about Jesus Christ. I began to wonder about the salvation of the millions of their ancestors who had never heard about Jesus, the gospel, or saving ordinances like baptism. If the Savior came for the salvation of all humankind, why had so many throughout history been excluded from His glorious message?
I searched for answers in the Bible, but I couldn’t find anything suggesting that the Old World was even aware of the civilizations in the Americas. No pastor, priest, or Bible student could answer my questions.
One day I was moved by a hymn I heard. I learned the hymn in my own language, Portuguese, and as I struggled to translate it into English, I remembered that my Latter-day Saint neighbor, Jesuina, often received American missionaries in her home. I asked her if the missionaries could translate it for me. The next day they left a translation with a short note that read, “It was a pleasure to be able to help you. One day we would like to meet you.”
When I met the missionaries a week later, they invited me to visit their church. But I did not like Mormons. Members of my family and leaders of other churches I had investigated criticized them, calling them a dangerous sect. They made many absurd criticisms that I believed to be true. One rainy Sunday shortly thereafter, however, I awoke with a great desire to visit their church—to repay them for their kindness but also out of curiosity. During the first meeting, people went to the pulpit and testified they knew that the Church and the Book of Mormon were true and that Joseph Smith was a prophet of God. Somewhat disturbed, I left the meeting and went to Sunday School.
When the teacher mentioned scriptures or stories from the Bible, I was eager to participate. But when she spoke about the Book of Mormon, I remained quiet and pensive. Why another book if we already had the Bible? Before I left, the teacher thanked me for my participation and then surprised me by giving me her copy of the Book of Mormon.
When I returned home, I went to my room, knelt on the floor, and began a sincere conversation with Heavenly Father. I told Him that I felt something special about the Mormon Church but that I didn’t want the adversary to delude me. I prayed that He would help resolve my confusion and show me which church was true.
Afterward I felt a great desire to read the Book of Mormon. I prayed again for strength and direction. During my prayer, I felt a strong and good feeling—an interior warmth. I knew I was not alone at that moment. A thought came instantly into my head: “Read the book!”
I opened it and began reading. Before I had finished the introduction, tears began running down my face as the Lord revealed to me the mystery of the Native Americans. The Book of Mormon seemed prepared especially to respond to my concerns. I felt great joy to have my questions answered. It was as though the ancient Americans had spoken from their graves to tell me about their lives and to testify that they also knew Jesus and that He had suffered for them as well.
Amazed with my discovery, I sought out the missionaries and listened to their lessons. On Easter Sunday, March 31, 1991, I descended into the waters of baptism—the best decision I had ever made.
I feel immensely grateful to Heavenly Father for His mercy and great wisdom. I know that He is just, that He has not forgotten any of His children, and that He is eager to reveal His plan to all humankind. I know that the Book of Mormon is a sacred book. It is true.

Terry and Bruce came into my office shortly after Terry and their son, Seth, had a fight on the phone. Seth had been away at school for three years. He’d had a serious illness and had not yet been released from the doctor’s care. Because of his illness, he hadn’t served a mission. Terry and Bruce didn’t know where his testimony was or even if he attended church. They were worried that Jolyn, Seth’s new girlfriend, was not the kind of influence they wished for in Seth’s life. Both parents were distraught about the path he was following.
As we talked about what they could do, we discussed the parable of the lost sheep. The shepherd probably listened for the bleating of the lamb before he found it, loved it, and brought it back to the fold (see Luke 15:6). Terry and Bruce recognized that they couldn’t change Seth, but they decided to try listening to him, loving him, and inviting him home. They couldn’t choose his wife or his life path for him, but they could remind him of their family’s love for him and for the gospel.
Terry called Seth and apologized for the argument. She just listened as he told her he was embarrassed because he hadn’t served a mission. He wondered how he could date a girl from church. They invited Seth and Jolyn home during a school break.
Seth and Jolyn came. Seth’s sisters enveloped the couple. Both parents loved having Seth back home and told him so. Terry and Bruce connected more often with Seth. Terry texted several times a week. The family had a video conference each Sunday. Seth’s dad spent time golfing and fishing with him. It happened slowly, but Seth reassimilated into the family. Eventually, Seth decided Jolyn’s chosen path wasn’t right for him. He later married a wonderful woman whom he baptized.
Terry and Bruce found their lost lamb by listening, loving, and inviting him back into the fold.

Thank you for the interesting articles about decorating your room without spending a lot of money. I have found the ideas very helpful—especially in fixing up a shabby wooden desk and bookcase. My sister and I got a pale color to match the walls and painted both pieces; then we got a darker color and put on the edges of the shelves and around the edge of the top of the desk. It looks great.
Kathy OkerlundOrem, Utah

On another occasion we were at the visitors’ center on Temple Square with these same grandchildren. Two-year-old Ashley was tired and wanted to leave. Sister Mask asked her if she wanted to see a big Jesus like the one on our wall. She asked, “Is He as big as me?” “Even bigger,” Sister Mask replied. When that tiny, little girl looked up at the majestic Christus, she ran and stood at the feet and gazed up reverently for several minutes. When her father indicated it was time to go, she said, “No, no, Daddy. He loves me and wants to give me hugs!”

Lydia watched Mommy get ready for work. Mommy put on pretty pink lipstick. She looked beautiful.
Lydia looked in the mirror. She felt sad. “I don’t have any lipstick,” Lydia said. “So I’m not beautiful.”
Mommy hugged her tight. “Wearing lipstick isn’t what makes people beautiful. Being strong and kind makes people beautiful.”
“Strong like having lots of muscles?” Lydia asked.
Mommy smiled. “No. This kind of strong means choosing the right.”
“How?” asked Lydia.
“Well, you are strong and kind when your hands help others,” Mommy said.
“You are strong and kind when your heart loves everyone.
“And you are strong and kind when you smile. That makes everyone happy too.
“Being strong and kind makes you beautiful inside, not just outside.”
Lydia wanted to be strong and kind!
She used her hands to carry the mail in for Grandpa. She gave her last cookie to her cousin.
She felt love in her heart when she played with a new neighbor. And she felt love when she gave coins to a girl collecting money for people who didn’t have homes.
She smiled at people she saw. They all smiled back.
That night Lydia told Mommy, “You are right! I feel strong and kind. I used my hands and my heart and my smile today.”
Mommy smiled. “You are strong and kind, just like Jesus wants you to be!”

I suffered a tremendous collapse in my own life. Before my eyes, my beautiful, funny, full-of-life eight-year-old son was killed in an automobile-pedestrian accident. I held his body as his blood spilled out on the roadway and his spirit slipped away and returned to his heavenly home. I pleaded with my Heavenly Father to let him stay, but that wasn’t in my son’s life plan.
I was lost in the dark, overwhelmed with the burden of my grief. I was weary, unable to rest, as the problem of mortality clouded my eyes. I came to know that a broken heart is a true physical feeling. Where once I had a heart, there was now only a dark hole that was raw and painful.
I believed that I should just be strong enough to get over it. Many people had suffered more. But like the miners, trapped by the unmovable rock that held them captive, I could not lift the burden of my grief.
My rescue came when I was on my knees in the depths of grief over my son’s death. Like the miners as they entered the capsule, I was at a pivotal point: should I try to overcome my challenges with my own strength and knowledge, or should I reach out to my Heavenly Father and ask for help?
Oppressed by the weight of my grief, I decided to turn to God. As I appealed to my Father in Heaven, I told Him how weary I was and asked Him to please lift the burden of my grief. Before I stood again, the weight of my sorrows was lifted from my shoulders. I still had to work through the pain and loss, but the unbearable load was gone.
It was there that I came to know that the Savior stands by our side, waiting to lift us, waiting only for us to ask Him, waiting for us to lay our burdens upon His shoulders, waiting for us to put our hand in His so that He can rescue us.

Soon after I was sustained last October, I traveled to Pakistan on an assignment and, while there, met the magnificent and dedicated Saints in that country. They are few in number but large in spirit. Shortly after returning home, I received the following note from Brother Shakeel Arshad, a dear member I had met on my visit: “Thank you, Elder … Rasband, for coming to Pakistan. I want to tell you that we … Church members … sustain you and love you. [We are] so lucky that you were here and we heard from you. It was just a golden day in my family’s life that we met an Apostle.”
Meeting Saints like Brother Arshad was an overwhelming and humbling experience and, using his words, “a golden day” for me as well.
Shakeel Arshad, my friend in Pakistan, sent his support to me, his brother and friend. So have many of you. When we reach out to lift one another, we prove those powerful words: “[No one] goes his way alone.”

I remember so well how my father used to get us together in family prayer and how he would talk to the Lord. He just didn’t say a few words and off we would go to the fields. He kneeled down with us and he talked to the Lord. He told the Lord about some of our weaknesses and some of our problems, where we had failed, and he apologized for us. “Eldon didn’t do exactly what he should have done today. We are sorry that he made this mistake. But we feel sure, Heavenly Father, that if thou wilt forgive him, he will determine to do what is right. Let thy Spirit be with him and bless him that he can be the kind of boy we would like to have.”
My, that was a help! He used to say in the morning, “Let your blessings attend us as we go about our duties that we may do what is right and return tonight to make a report.” I used to think of that: “I am going to report to the Lord tonight.” It helped me materially in the kind of life I lived during the day.
Father thanked the Lord for our crops and for our home, for the country in which we lived, for one another, and for many, many things, and always asked the Lord to let His blessings attend us.
He told us about Joseph Smith’s prayer—how he went out into the grove to pray and the result; how God the Father and His Son Jesus Christ appeared to Joseph Smith, and he said, “That’s the kind of God we are talking to, boys.” We knew it as he prayed, and we learned to pray. We depended a great deal on the blessings of our Heavenly Father as we went through life.
I recall an experience while I was a deacon. I had a sister who had spinal meningitis, and a very severe case of it. I remember one night as we knelt in prayer Father said to me, “My boy, you hold the priesthood now; I wish you would lead in prayer, and remember Lillie.” She had been, and was at that time, very, very sick. They didn’t know whether she would live or not. As I prayed with the family, the feeling came to me that she would be made well.

The ongoing family remembrance of our little Patrick began at the time I dedicated his grave on a lovely August afternoon in 1972.
Patrick was born in Abington, Pennsylvania, and because of a complication at birth he lived only six days. We lived near a lovely little cemetery, but decided that he should be buried instead in a location near where we would want our eventual home to be—or at least in an area we could easily visit, since corporate assignments might require us to move frequently for many years.
We therefore held the funeral and buried him in Utah, where we grew up and where our parents lived. Since then we have moved to two different European countries on assignment, and then back to Utah. We are grateful for having made that decision.
In the prayer of dedication at the gravesite, I asked fervently that our family might live to be worthy to join Patrick someday in that perfect place where he now is. Six years later, we still pray often for that same blessing and find that it is a significant family encouragement and challenge to work toward that goal.
We not only pray that we might someday meet and again associate with this special son and brother, but we also feel it is appropriate to pray for his current success and welfare. Nevertheless, we know that all is well with him because of the promise of the Lord that little children who die in infancy are perfect and worthy of his kingdom.
Inasmuch as we are now fortunate to live close to the cemetery where Patrick is buried, we go there from time to time to have family prayer. Sometimes one of our children will say, “Can we please stop at Patrick’s grave to have prayer?” Whenever we do, it provides us with a special teaching moment to talk with the children about things important, sacred, and eternal.
Since Patrick is, we feel, as much a part of our family as any living earthly child, we believe there is value to be gained from remembering his birthday and even in sharing a birthday cake baked in his honor. To have the children thus see our total faith as parents that Patrick is real, that his little body will be resurrected, and that we may be joined again eternally as a family is an advantage that we as parents would not want to lose.
Because four of our children have been born since Patrick died, we are grateful for the white leather book of remembrance we compiled to remember him by. In it we have his certificates, photos from the hospital and of the funeral and burial, related correspondence, and other small treasures. As we show the children this book of remembrance, Patrick remains real to those who knew him and becomes real to the children who did not meet him here.
My wife, Sandy, and I are most thankful for the fact that the Lord allowed the birth and death of this little boy to be one of the most beautiful and spiritual family experiences we have been privileged to have since our marriage. The Lord made Patrick’s presence and even his death sweet to us, and we cherish not only the memory of Patrick himself, but also the memory of those few special and sacred days we spent together. At that time we studied as thoroughly as possible the doctrines and writings of the Church regarding little children who die. As parents and as a family we cannot express how grateful we are for those promises and the future they hold. I want to say that we do not as a family constantly think and talk about Patrick, but we make a conscious effort not to forget him, nor to forget the special family challenge and promise he has given us.

I grew up on a small farm in southwest Utah. To escape the heat, our family would sometimes drive up a nearby canyon where a creek flowed year round. I can still feel the dry desert air blowing in my face in the backseat of the car. As we entered the canyon, the air became cooler and more fragrant.
My favorite place to go was the Big Spring, the major source of the creek. At the base of an almost vertical canyon wall, a steady stream of clear, cool, sweet water burst from a cleft in a large boulder.
I learned how to get a drink by watching my father kneel on a large, flat rock and scoop water from the spring. He would never drink downstream, where the water had been fouled by surface runoff. Near the source, the water would always be pure and clear.
As a young boy I learned the difference between the common, muddy water that flowed past my home and the pure, clear water from the stream in the canyon. To obtain the pure water, I had to climb to higher ground. I had to walk the narrow path, and I had to kneel. The pure, clear, sweet water came only at the source of the spring, and it was constant.

In August of 1985, the Asia Area Presidency and our wives toured the main Asian countries in company with Elder and Sister Marvin J. Ashton and Bishop and Sister Robert D. Hales. I was finally participating in an “invasion” of Japan, but this time with love and a desire to share with the Japanese people the gospel of Jesus Christ. We later went to Korea and then to Hong Kong and finished our tour in the Philippines.
As a part of our activities in the Philippines, we were shown the great war memorial in Manila dedicated to those from our country who had given their lives during World War II. It was a sad but sacred experience. Sister Wilcox and I shed tears when we saw the name of one of our dear friends from Weber College who had been successful in entering the Air Force directly following Pearl Harbor. He was listed as “missing in action.”
Our experiences at the Manila war memorial reminded us of many personal friends who joined the services in the first years of that war and who did not return. Had I become a part of those early engagements, the possibility of losing my life would have been very great. Had I been willing to tell an untruth concerning my hay fever, I would have been immediately moved into the first bitter battles where so many lost their lives.
Looking back to that eventful day, I realized that I survived one of the greatest tests of my life in telling the truth about my hay fever. My life was spared. There had been a great temptation to tell a “little lie,” but the counsel my father had given me was sound and enduring and served me well. I share it with you humbly: always be honest.

“I need you to watch your baby brother,” Mama said. “Your pa and I are going to help someone who is sick.”
I looked up from sweeping the floor of our small house and nodded. Mama was the Relief Society president, and she often went to visit sisters in our ward.
“Thank you, Arlyn,” Mama said, kissing the top of my head. “John’s asleep. And there’s bread dough rising on the counter. Please don’t touch it.”
I watched through the doorway as she and Pa rode the wagon down our dusty road. I felt proud that Mama trusted me.
As I swept the kitchen, I stopped to look at the bread dough. I could hardly wait for Mama to bake it tonight. Usually we ate the fresh bread with homemade jam. But we had run out of jam three months ago.
Jam! The thought made me hungry for something sweet. I glanced up at the sugar jar, high up on the shelf. I knew Mama was saving it to make more jam.
But the more I thought about the sugar, the hungrier I felt. Finally, I pulled a chair up to the counter and reached up. My fingers just barely touched the jar of sugar. I pulled it closer to the edge of the shelf. …
And then the jar slipped right off the shelf! I tried to catch it, but it fell with a loud plop right in the middle of the bread dough. Sugar spilled all over the bread and counter and onto the floor.
“Oh no!” I yelled. That woke my baby brother up. He started crying. I wanted to cry too. What would Mama say about this mess?
After I got John calmed down, I did my best to clean up the sugar. I pulled the jar out of the dough and washed it. I wiped the sugar off the counter and floor. But there was nothing I could do to get the sugar out of the dough.
I thought about putting the jar back on the shelf. Maybe Mama wouldn’t notice it was empty. But I knew that wasn’t right. So I set the jar on the table and waited for Mama and Pa to come home.
When they got home, Mama noticed the sugar jar right away.
I took a deep breath. “I just wanted a taste of sugar. But I knocked the jar off the shelf. I tried to clean it up, but I couldn’t get it out of the bread dough.” The words rushed out as I looked down at the floor.
Mama was quiet for a minute.
“I’m so sorry,” I whispered.
Mama let out a sigh. “Well, I guess the bread will be extra sweet tonight,” she said. I looked up. She gave me a little smile. “Thank you for telling us what happened.”
As we ate the sugary bread that night, Mama and Pa and I talked about honesty.
“We all make lots of mistakes in life,” Pa said. “But when we are honest and try to repent, Heavenly Father and Jesus are happy. We will always be blessed for being honest—even if it seems harder at first.”
I was still sad that I had spilled the sugar. I knew we probably wouldn’t have as much jam this year because of my mistake. But I was glad I had told the truth. That was a sweet feeling no amount of sugar could give.

When Matt was in junior high, he was standing at the bus stop absentmindedly kicking rocks. One of them accidentally hit the shoe of a fellow classmate—the wrong classmate. He was smaller than Matt, and younger, but he just happened to be a member of a very wild gang. The boy began pounding Matt in front of all the other kids at the bus stop. Matt didn’t fight back, knowing that if he did he’d have the entire gang to deal with. He went home humiliated.
Matt got over the incident when he left junior high. Everything was much better in high school and got even better in college. What he learned was that, basically, there are very few situations in life that are permanent. Time heals wounds, and embarrassment.

Marci dropped her sleeping bag on the kitchen floor. “I was trapped!” she wailed to her mother. “Just trapped. What else could I do?”
“You really had no choice,” said Mother. “Anyway, I agree with Hoa and her parents. If you had Hoa spend the night with you, then you should be willing to spend a night with her.”
“But, Mom,” groaned Marci. “That’s different. They live in a one-bedroom apartment. Hoa, her little sister, and I will be sleeping in the front room. And that’s part of the kitchen!”
Marci didn’t expect an answer. She could hear the car in the driveway and knew Dad was waiting. Sighing, she picked up her sleeping bag. “Well, I guess I have to go. Hoa would be very hurt if I didn’t.”
As Marci entered the apartment where her friend Hoa lived, Hoa’s mother turned from the stove. “We are most glad you came, Marci. We thank you.”
Marci smiled and put her sleeping bag under the kitchen table. Hoa was pouring rice into a pot. “What are you doing,” Marci asked.
“I always fix the rice for dinner,” answered Hoa. A small face peeked from behind her legs. “This is my little sister, Truc.”
Marci knelt down and touched the little girl on the arm. “Hello, Truc,” she said. “I’ve wanted to meet you.”
Truc waved a few fingers at Marci, and Marci reached for her hand.
“She’s cute,” said Marci. “I would baby-sit her any day.”
Hoa’s mother turned around and asked, “What is ‘baby-sit?’”
“I would watch Truc for you,” answered Marci.
The mother smiled. “No need,” she said. “Where I go, Truc goes or Hoa watches her.”
“Vietnamese do not use baby-sitters,” explained Hoa. She winked at Marci. “But you baby-sit me. I always have to ask you what to do.”
Marci laughed. That was true. She had been explaining different things to her new friend for six months now, ever since Hoa had come to her school.
When the father came home, they sat down for dinner. Marci thought it was very quiet, not like dinner at her house. Everyone spoke softly, and Marci could feel her voice become quieter.
“Does your name have a meaning, Marci?” asked Hoa’s father.
“I don’t understand,” said Marci.
“Vietnamese names have another meaning,” explained Hoa. “Mine means flower. Truc means bamboo.”
Marci studied Hoa. She does look like a flower. Marci looked at Truc. She wasn’t sure she resembled bamboo. “I wish my name did have another meaning, but I don’t think the names of many people in the United States do.”
After dinner, Hoa’s mother began cooking again.
“What are you making, Mother?” asked Hoa.
“For Marci I would like to make pho,” she replied. “We will eat it in the morning.”
“Oh, good!” Hoa smiled and turned to Marci. “Pho is like a soup. It is made with beef and egg noodles. You will like it.”
Marci nodded. She was sitting on the floor and Truc was on her lap. Marci looked around the room. There were no toys. A small television set was perched on a low table, but no one seemed interested in turning it on.
“Truc, have you ever heard the story of Peter Rabbit?” asked Marci.
Truc shook her head, and Marci began the story. Then she told her the story of Cinderella. After that, she related some tales about Daniel Boone and Paul Revere. Hoa and her parents listened too. They had never heard the stories either. When Truc fell asleep, Marci looked at her watch. It was ten o’clock! Hoa’s mother took Truc away to get her ready for bed.
Hoa’s father stood up and bowed. “You are most welcome, Marci. We liked the stories. I hope you have a good time here. Goodnight.”
Marci stood up and made a slight bow back to Hoa’s father. “This is one of the best times I have ever had,” she said.
Hoa yawned and brought out a mat to spread on the floor. Marci pulled her sleeping bag from under the table and put it next to Hoa’s mat. After the girls were ready for bed, Marci crawled into her sleeping bag and looked at Hoa. The warm smell of pho filled the room. “Thank you for asking me,” she whispered. “I’m really glad I came.”

Claudia R. of Colorado, USA, tells how she held her ground:

“I feel like society is moving toward a gray area. For example, people will say about alcohol, ‘One sip isn’t going to kill you.’ That kind of rationalization is essentially playing mind games with yourself. And it’s in those situations—the ones that seem harmless—where agency is really tested.

“So you have to learn to stop, to put your foot down. Some people take what starts out as a gray area, and that gray area becomes really dark. And then you’re kind of stuck.

“I had gone on several fun dates with someone, but one time we were alone in the car in the dark, and he tried to pull a move on me. I knew that what he wanted to do could lead to other things. I was not going to let that happen, so I jumped out of the car.

“As single adults, when something goes against our standards, we have to take a stand. With dating, of course, you want to hold hands, hug, and kiss. But Satan wants to deceive us into thinking that the law of chastity is a gray area where partial obedience is OK.

“Our standards need to be firmer than ever. We need to decide before the difficult decisions come up. We have to put our foot down when things are wrong. I know our world isn’t easy; we have so many things going on. But the prophets and apostles have given us standards and guidelines. I carry a wallet-sized version of For the Strength of Youth with me, and it gets me through hard times.”

The Smith family and others in their area were given opportunities to heft the ancient record and feel its individual plates at the Smith family home in Manchester Township, New York. Joseph’s younger brother William, age 16 in 1827, had a vivid memory of witnessing the plates, which he later shared in a sermon: “When the plates were brought in they were wrapped up in a tow frock. My father then put them into a pillow case. Father said, ‘What, Joseph, can we not see them?’ [Joseph responded,] ‘No. … I was forbidden to show them until they are translated, but you can feel them.’ We handled them and could tell what they were. … Could tell whether they were round or square. Could raise the leaves this way (raising a few leaves of the Bible before him). One could easily tell that they were not a stone, hewn out to deceive, or even a block of wood.”

On another occasion, William provided further information: “I could tell they were plates of some kind and that they were fastened together by rings running through the back.” He also wrote that in addition to feeling the individual plates and rings, he had hefted the entire artifact: “I was permitted to lift them. … They weighed about 60 pounds according to the best of my judgment.”