Gospel Story Finder

But it was Debbie Hanson, 16, of the Crystal Second Ward, who harvested one of the sweetest fruits of sharing:

“My parents knew some people from the Orient, and we kept spending time with their family,” Debbie says. “They had a girl my age named Ting Ming. We talked a lot about the Church, basically a testimony sharing thing. When the missionaries asked me if I would befriend her, I had to smile. We had already become good friends. Six months later, when Ting was baptized, she told me, ‘Thank you for giving me this beautiful truth.’”

Last year I was a Webelos Scout. When you’re in Webelos you try to get your Webelos badge and Arrow of Light. To earn them you have to get a certain number of activity badges. When I looked through the book of activity badges I saw a lot that looked fun. But then I saw one badge that I was afraid of: the Aquanaut badge. I was scared of it because I didn’t know how to swim. I thought I would sink. I decided not to try it.
Then my dad became my leader. He encouraged me to try to earn all of the activity badges. I was still scared of the Aquanaut badge. But I decided I’d earn all of them.
Dad said having faith in Heavenly Father would help me. We read 3 Nephi 18:20, which says, “And whatsoever ye shall ask the Father in my name, which is right, believing that ye shall receive, behold it shall be given unto you.”
I prayed every day that Heavenly Father would help me be brave so that I could learn to swim. I did my part by practicing. I would exercise at home to strengthen my muscles, and my dad would take me swimming. Then I finally felt ready to pass it off. I said a prayer for help. Before I knew it, I had done it! After I was done, I gave a prayer of thanks to Heavenly Father.
I know Heavenly Father listens to my prayers.

Seminary students in the Capitol Ward, Annandale Virginia Stake, had the memorable experience of assisting at the prededication activities of the new Washington Temple. Their duties were varied. Some of the young people were ushers, elevator operators, parking attendants, and errand runners. Many helped tourists in wheelchairs.
It was a special, spiritual feeling to help in the house of the Lord, and it was a thrill to hear the comments of the visitors as they viewed the magnificent temple.

When I was in the missionary training center preparing to go to Norway, President Dallin H. Oaks of the First Presidency came and spoke to us. He taught something simple that stayed with me my whole mission: “Focus on what you can do.”
What’s a Service Mission?
A few weeks after President Oaks’s talk, I was sent home to California for medical reasons. I was crushed. I finally felt like I was learning the language and was excited to enter the field.
I met with my stake president, and he asked me if I would like to serve a service mission.
A service mission? I had no idea what that even was.
I learned that service missionaries can choose from a variety of options of where, when, and how they’ll serve. Service missions focus on helping the missionary use their abilities in a way that will serve others.
A Good Option for Me
I decided a service mission was a good option for me to focus on my health and serve the Lord at the same time. Some of my assignments included:
Guiding tours as a docent in a museum.
Serving as a receptionist at the mission office.
Assisting at food banks and a Church camp.
Helping with wildfire disaster relief.
Serving in the temple.
My service mission allowed me to live at home and improve my health while serving. It was the mission I never expected, but I loved every minute. It helped me focus on what I can do and develop the abilities I had to bring good to the world.
Lifelong Lessons from My Mission
The simple yet powerful teaching from President Oaks impacted not only my mission but also my life. It changed my perspective. Instead of focusing on things that aren’t in my control, I now focus on bringing good into the world with the resources and talents I have. By focusing on the abilities we each have, we can change the world and those around us for good.

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.
No longer does Ricardo walk to church alone. Now every Sunday he puts on his shirt and tie, takes his grandmother by the hand, and they walk together. Who knows? In time, Ricardo will probably be leading others to church with him.

Little Evaline Burdick sat on the floor of her family’s small log cabin in Kirtland, Ohio. It was wash day, and there were clothes and bedding hanging outside on the line and drying on the lawn. She played happily while her mother tended to the washing.
Evaline saw a tall, handsome man with sandy hair walk up the steps of their front porch and enter the open door of their cabin. He greeted her mother and then picked Evaline up. He held her in his left arm and crossed the room to a large mirror. They both looked in the mirror and smiled at each other. Gently he set her back on the floor and asked where her father was.
When the kind man left the room, Evaline’s mother called her over and told her that the man was Joseph Smith, a true prophet of the Lord. What a good man he was! Evaline would never forget that experience.

Not long ago Elder David Haight of the Council of the Twelve had been assigned to a stake conference in Mexico. As he reached the border, he found that he did not have with him the necessary papers which would allow him to enter the country. In spite of his plea and the urgency of his mission, the officials had no authority to admit him without proper credentials. Therefore, he could not attend the conference.

So it is with our progress in the priesthood. We must be properly recommended and endorsed by those in authority before we can advance from one office to another, and we cannot receive the certification or proof of our advancement without being worthy, or meeting the requirements. It will be so when we want to enter the kingdom of heaven to join with others who have gone before, and live eternally with God, our Father.

Meet Amy Richardson and Amy Richardson.
That’s right, these girls are the same age and have the same name. They were introduced when they were both just a few hours old and fighting to stay alive in the University of Utah’s Newborn Intensive Care Center. (Both were born prematurely and suffered complications because of it.) The “Amys” got well and went their separate ways, one Amy living in Woods Cross, Utah, and the other in Murray, Utah.
But they doubled up again for a brief moment last year. It seems they share more than a name. They also share a vision for sharing the gospel and were reunited at the MTC, where they met by accident the night before Amy from Murray left to serve her mission in Latvia. Amy from Woods Cross left a few days later to serve in Dallas, Texas.

As a young boy, not quite 13 years of age, in September 1939, it was natural to have some momentary fear when I heard that war had been declared. Some of the children even speculated about the end of the world coming in those dark days that followed when the invasion of England seemed imminent and bombs were falling all around. We were not really afraid, however, for we had faith in God. We prayed and worked for deliverance, and miraculously it came.

Recently my family and I moved to a different state. About a month before the move, I was having some concerns and uncertainties about it. My parents felt that it was the right thing to do, but I wanted to know for myself that all would work out for the best.
I asked Heavenly Father to help me feel at peace. Then one night I received an answer to my prayer. I was reading in Doctrine and Covenants 98. Verse 18 stood out to me. It reads: “Let not your hearts be troubled; for in my Father’s house are many mansions, and I have prepared a place for you; and where my Father and I am, there ye shall be also.” Immediately I was overcome with love and peace. All my fears seemed to melt away as the words let not your hearts be troubled filled my mind. I knew that Heavenly Father was aware of what was going on in my life and that He would not leave me alone.
Looking back now, I see that moving has helped my testimony grow stronger. It wasn’t easy, but I have learned that if I put my trust in the Lord, He will direct my paths (see Prov. 3:5–6). I know that Heavenly Father hears and answers prayers. No matter where we find ourselves in life, He will always be with us.

When I was seven years old, my mom and dad befriended a less-active family in our ward that consisted of a single mother and her two sons. My older brother, John, and I were the same ages as the two boys, Robin and Shannon, so it seemed appropriate that we extend a hand of fellowship.
The family didn’t own a car, so my father offered to pick them up at their home in a nearby city and give them rides to and from church. I remember the days Dad summoned my brother and me to accompany him to pick them up. I begrudged it at the time, but despite my groaning, Dad continued to give them rides until they were actively attending church and had their own car. Robin and Shannon were soon baptized and confirmed, and their mom began participating in Relief Society. I didn’t realize at the time the positive repercussions that would come from this act of service.
A few months before I began eighth grade, my dad passed away. To compound my grief, I was insecure about my physical appearance and lack of friends. I began to succumb to feelings of despair, and I spent my lunch hours walking to my house and back because I couldn’t bear sitting alone.
That same year, the family we had befriended moved into our school district, and Shannon began attending my school. We became immediate friends. I felt accepted, and I was no longer so sad. Knowing that someone enjoyed being my friend boosted my confidence and self-worth. I no longer had to spend my lunch hour by myself.
Our friendship deepened during high school. When our older brothers left for college and missions, Shannon and I became surrogate brothers. We received our Eagle Scout Awards at the same court of honor, went to the same university, left on missions during the same summer, and became roommates afterward. We were both married in the Salt Lake Temple to wonderful women, and our first children were born within three months of each other.
One evening shortly before Shannon’s wedding, we began talking about our childhood. I told him how he had helped me overcome my insecurities and cope with the death of my father. It was his friendship, I added, that had helped me turn my life around. Shannon then told me that if my dad had not given his family rides to church, he would not have attended church, served a mission, and been sealed in the temple.
The Spirit touched me strongly during that conversation as I realized the blessings that a simple ride to church had on our lives. As I reflected on Shannon’s friendship, I realized that my father not only helped save Shannon’s family, but he also prepared a friend who helped save his own son.

Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, is a most interesting place. In company with Elders Richard G. Scott, Rex D. Pinegar, and Larry W. Gibbons, I presided at a regional conference there just a short time ago. The facility in which we met was packed with members of the Church and other interested persons. The singing by the choir was heavenly, the spoken word inspiring, and the sweet spirit which prevailed during the conference will long be remembered.
I reflected on my previous visits to this location, the beauty of the state song—“Oklahoma,” from the musical production of Rodgers and Hammerstein—and the wonderful hospitality of the people there.
This community’s spirit of compassionate help was tested in the extreme, however, on April 19, 1995, when a terrorist-planted bomb destroyed the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building in downtown Oklahoma City, taking 168 persons to their deaths and injuring countless others.
Following the regional conference in Oklahoma City, I was driven to the entrance of a beautiful and symbolic memorial which graces the area where the Murrah building once stood. It was a dreary, rainy day, which tended to underscore the pain and suffering which had occurred there. The memorial features a 400-foot reflecting pool. On one side of the pool are 168 empty glass and granite chairs in honor of each of the people killed. These are placed, as far as can be determined, where the fallen bodies were found.
On the opposite side of the pool there stands, on a gentle rise of ground, a mature American elm tree—the only nearby tree to survive the destruction. It is appropriately and affectionately named “The Survivor Tree.” In regal splendor it honors those who survived the horrific blast.
My host directed my attention to the inscription above the gate of the memorial:
We come here to remember those who were killed, those who survived and those changed forever.
May all who leave here know the impact of violence.
May this memorial offer comfort, strength, peace, hope and serenity.
He then, with tears in his eyes and with a faltering voice, declared, “This community, and all the churches and citizens in it, have been galvanized together. In our grief we have become strong. In our spirit we have become united.”
We concluded that the best word to describe what had taken place was compassion.

That care and love I have been fortunate to observe as the blessings of ministering were poured upon my family.
While I was travelling for work some time ago, my wife fell very ill and I could not immediately be with her and the children. Her situation became so dire that she was almost admitted to hospital. All I could do was to phone her and try to comfort her.
As soon as my wife missed this one Sunday when she was ill, I got a reassuring message from one of her Relief Society sisters: that they would immediately set in motion a chain of actions to help a sister in need.
I still get emotional as I re-read a series of WhatsApp messages of that very tough day. As soon as word spread that all was not well in my household, one of her ministering sisters asked on WhatsApp two simple but poignant questions: “Are the kids sick, too? Would you like a meal or two?”
Unsurprisingly, my wife felt helpless. All she could say was, “Yes.”
This “Yes” I now know was an affirmation of her belief that, with ministering, help is never far away. In the end I realized that not only was my wife ill that weekend, but our three children as well because everyone had contracted a very bad strain of flu.
The help was generous, and my wife assured me that it was sufficient enough that I would not have to cut my business trip short to rush home.
I knew these women who were her ministering sisters. Their diligence often inspired me to do my own ministering service as they never missed an appointment with my wife.

As a Brazilian, I was surprised when I received my mission call to serve not in Brazil or even in South America but in the Texas Houston South Mission in the United States. My surprise soon turned to deep gratitude.
Four days after I arrived in my first area, the bishop of the local ward invited my companion and me to go with him to the hospital to visit Brother Noel Stevenson, an older member who was ill with leukemia. When I met Brother Stevenson, I was amazed that he started speaking Portuguese. He told me he had served a mission to Brazil in the 1950s. He mentioned several cities where he had served, including Ponta Grossa in the state of Paraná.
“When you were in Ponta Grossa did you know Raul Pimentel?” I asked hesitantly.
With an expression of joy, he replied, “Yes, I knew Raul. I baptized him.”
I told Brother Stevenson that Raul Pimentel was my grandfather, the first member of the Church in our family. We embraced, and tears rolled down our faces.
Then I told him that my grandfather was 84 and still active in the Church. His 8 children were also active, all who are married having married in the temple and 5 having served full-time missions. And his 30 grandchildren were active in the Church as well. As we talked, the Spirit of the Lord filled my heart with joy and gratitude.
My grandfather was baptized in 1958 by two American missionaries. He had heard that the other elder had now passed away, but he had never had any news about Elder Stevenson. When my grandfather learned that I had met the missionary who baptized him, he was overwhelmed with joy.
He and Brother Stevenson began exchanging e-mail messages almost every week. Then the e-mails stopped abruptly. I received a telephone call telling me that Brother Noel Stevenson had passed away.
Although I felt sad, I felt even more grateful that the Lord had allowed me to meet the man who brought the blessings of the gospel to my family. This experience helped me be a better missionary and strengthened my testimony that mission calls are inspired.

Leaders in both organizations can work together to plan activities that will build friendships. In one ward, the young women wanted to learn to sew, so they asked the sisters in Relief Society to help. At a Mutual activity night, each young woman was paired up with a Relief Society sister who helped her make a skirt. Later the pairs finished the skirts at home. Then the young women invited the Relief Society sisters to a fashion show where the girls modeled their colorful new skirts.

In the first instance, the young women reached out to the Relief Society sisters, and in the second, the Relief Society sisters reached out to the young women. In both instances, the friendships continued and blessed the lives of all.

My throat felt scratchy, and my stomach was doing cartwheels as Mrs. Allen cleared her throat and prepared to read the last assignments for newspaper staff.
I didn’t know journalism class could be such an emotional experience.
“All right, we have only a couple of assignments left,” Mrs. Allen said cheerfully. “The student government beat is open.”
Student government? I don’t think so. Covering endless and pointless debates about crummy school food, keeping the water fountains free of gum, and ways to get drivers to slow down in the parking lot didn’t exactly bring to mind stories that would land my byline on the front page of the New York Times.
Mrs. Allen looked over her list again. “And we need an advice columnist to take Twila Terwilliger’s place. That was our most popular feature last year.”
Yes, I remember Twila’s column, “Tips from Twila.” No matter what the question, Twila had a spunky answer, which always ran along the theme of “Hang in there!” or “Keep your chin up!” or “Think positive thoughts and everything will be better!” Twila believed that a heavy dose of sugar could cure anything, and she poured it into her columns by the bagful.
Now, if I were the advice columnist, things would be different. Straight answers. No mushy, sensitive stuff. No coddling from Gabe Jeffries. Besides, for my first three years in high school, I hadn’t really found my place. I wasn’t an athlete or much of a scholar, and I never ran for school office. Having my photo in every edition of the paper with a big byline over my column, I had to admit, sounded more than okay.
“Any takers?” Mrs. Allen pleaded.
I raised my hand.
“Gabe? You want to take the column?” Mrs. Allen sounded a little surprised.
“Yeah, Mrs. Allen. I can handle a column.”
She seemed doubtful but said, “Okay, Gabe. Let’s give it a try. Maybe a male perspective would work in an advice column. Stay a few minutes after class. Some letters have already been sent in, and you can get to work on them right away.”
Success! My byline would never appear on a story about crusty spaghetti and runny sauce, or cross-country runners getting sick halfway through their race. My journalism career was looking up.
Later that night, at a desk in the corner of my room, I grabbed the small stack of letters and prepared to take on the problems of the cold, the weary, the downtrodden, the hopeless, the nobodies who inhabited my corner of the world.
To Whomever Is the New Advice Person:
I have a boyfriend, and what we do most of the time for our dates is sit on the couch at his house and watch football or basketball games or action movies. Like, we never do anything fun; we just sort of sit and watch games and eat, although he does most of the eating. If I suggest we go to a movie or on a walk, he just says he’s tired. But I really do love him, and we may get married after we graduate next spring. What do you think? Should I stay with him?
Signed,Wondering
I thoughtfully read the letter and asked myself, What would Twila say? She’d say, “Be perky, smile a lot, and things will get better before you know it.”
Of course, I didn’t want to even faintly sound like Twila. I sat at the keyboard of my computer and began picking at the letters. My answer came quickly.
Dear Wondering,
I have three words for you: Lose the loser. Fast forward a few years and think what life will be like if you hang in with this dude. Imagine, Friday night in the house, you have three noisy kids to deal with, and your husband is passed out in front of the TV. He’s 60 pounds heavier than he is now, hasn’t shaved in three days, and he’s sitting in his undershirt and sweat pants snoring. Is this the life you want? No way. Drop him. The sooner the better. You don’t want to be his girlfriend now and for sure not his wife. Get the picture?
Signed,The Answer Guy
I sat back and re-read my answer. Well, maybe it is a little rough, but someone had to steer this girl away from the wreck that was awaiting her. No one would ever confuse me with Twila, that’s for sure. No one would call me Mr. Nice Guy.
I sorted through the other letters Mrs. Allen had given me and picked out a couple more to answer. One from a guy who wanted to move out of his house (“What? Free room and board, the folks pay the utilities, and you want to leave? Are you nuts?”) and another from a kid who complained it was unfair that the 10th graders were assigned early lunch (“Quit whining. You’ve got to eat sometime, right? Stick with it, and maybe you’ll make it all the way to the senior class and get to eat with the grown-ups”).
Three letters, three answers, in 20 minutes. And I didn’t sprinkle any sugar.
I didn’t think much about my column until the newspaper came out a week later. Just before English class began, Adam Fletcher, who is among the very chosen in our school, a guy who would make anyone’s I-want-him-at-my-next-party list, flopped his hands on my desk, leaned over and said “Man, your column was great. Harsh. I really like it. Sixty pounds in an undershirt. That was money, man.”
“Uh, thanks. Yeah, it was. But I can do harsh. Really.”
Adam, who in the last three years of school had done little more than occasionally grunt at me, was actually paying me a compliment. He wasn’t the only one who noticed the column. A dozen more people said something about “The Answer Guy.” Even Mrs. Allen gave me a thin smile and mumbled, “Well, it looks like you’re not Twila, Gabe.”
Gabe Jeffries, columnist. The Answer Guy, a Someone. Maybe someday I’d have my own radio talk show, coast-to-coast, every weekday night, handing out advice like candy at Halloween. I would be wise, witty, clever, and above all, tell it like it is. My name would be heard in every household.
Two weeks later, I was back home reading a fresh stack of mail. A lot of letters had come in since my first column.
I grabbed a letter out of the middle of the bundle.
To the Answer Guy,
Since you’re a guy, maybe you can help me with this one. I went to homecoming last week, and the guy I was with seemed really annoyed when I ordered a salad for dinner. He got really quiet and seemed like he was upset. We were with a whole group of people at the restaurant, and he hardly spoke to me later on. I just wasn’t hungry and didn’t want to cost him a lot of money, so that’s why I ordered a salad. Did I do something wrong? Let me know.
Signed,Lettuce Woman
This is too easy, I thought.
Dear Lettuce Woman,
Of course the guy you went out with was annoyed. You are a Salad Girl. Guys do not like to take out Salad Girls. He takes you to a nice restaurant, hungry, ready to eat a big meal, and then you order a salad. He’s not impressed when you do that. It makes him feel stupid to order a steak with the trimmings if all you’re eating is a salad. You finish your salad and then all you do is stare at him while he eats, or he decides he’d better just get a salad too, so he doesn’t show you up.
Do everyone a favor: next time when you go out to dinner, order a T-bone, rare, and smack your lips all the way through it. Everyone will relax more. Leave the salads to the weight-challenged who really need to diet!
Not exactly Shakespearian, but I thought Lettuce Woman would get the idea.
The next edition of the newspaper came out, and my transformation to being a Someone rolled along. People who never paid much attention to me were becoming friendly. Sure, I would never be a great athlete, Harvard would never offer me an academic scholarship, and I’d never date a cheerleader, but through my column I was starting to feel accepted by the socials. And I liked it.
Of course, not everyone was ready to nominate me for a Pulitzer Prize. There was the cafeteria incident.
I was sitting among some of my new friends, at a table where mostly the popular hung out, and Rachel Patton came by with a sweet smile on her face.
“Hello, Gabe. I read your column yesterday,” she cooed. “And I just wanted to give you a little something.” Rachel is smart enough to be a doctor and gorgeous enough to be a model. Maybe she’ll end up being both.
“Uh, great,” I stammered. “Yeah. Thanks.”
She pulled out a salad from behind her back and dumped it on my head. “Just a little token of our affection, Gabe. Call it a little gift from all the Salad Girls. And I thought you were such a nice guy before.”
At least there wasn’t much dressing on it. Some people, I guess, just don’t know how to deal with celebrities.
The third edition of the newspaper was much the same, although I had to work harder at coming up with rude answers. The guys at school loved what I wrote. In the fourth edition, I answered a letter from a guy who thought his girlfriend was going to dump him (“Beat her to it. Dump her. It is much better to be the dumper than the dumpee, and she is not worthy of you anyway”) and another from a girl who worried about having no social life (“Millions of people don’t have enough food to eat, and you’re whining because you haven’t had a date since June?”).
After I finished my last answer, I sat back. Great stuff. How will I ever top it? The answer was easy: Just get a little more rude; find new ways of ripping others. Just keep those put-downs coming.
I picked another letter, handwritten on plain white paper.
Dear Answer Guy,
I’m kind of new to this school, and I am having a hard time fitting in. I feel lonely. Sometimes I wish I had a good friend or two. Sometimes, I just feel like giving up. What can I do?
Signed,No One
It was signed in an unusual style, small letters, backslanted, the way left-handed people often write. It was definitely a male’s handwriting. I waited a second for inspiration, then started my answer.
Dear No One,
You are a loser. That’s why you don’t have any friends. That’s why you sit by yourself at lunch, stay home on weekends, and sit in class too afraid to raise your hand and answer a question. You have no confidence, bud. I know your kind. I know everything about you. I know exactly what you’re like and …
And what? I stopped typing. What if this letter were real? What if someone was really asking me for help? What if I gave him rude advice when he needed a real answer? And why did I write that I knew exactly what he was like? Was it because, not too long ago, I’d sat in a class or the cafeteria and wondered where I fit in?
All of a sudden, I felt like a fraud. For too long, I’d been ignoring the gnawing feeling in me every time I wrote an answer filled with put-downs. Was I taking the chance of hurting someone just to get some attention?
I didn’t sleep well that night. I kept thinking about what I’d written. Every column was becoming more rude, more attacking. It was getting tougher to out-do myself. I could feel the expectations of others. In each answer, they wanted me to cut more deeply. Rachel’s words bothered me: “I thought you were such a nice guy before.”
And about midnight, when my eyes were wide open and my mind racing along, I finally understood that feeling inside. I didn’t like the kind of person I was becoming. Acceptance, at least the kind I was getting, wasn’t worth becoming someone else. Maybe I hadn’t been popular before, but at least I was a nice guy who wouldn’t hurt anyone. It was time for Gabe Jeffries to become Gabe Jeffries again.
I finally had come up with an honest answer.
In the morning, I took the letter to school. In study hall, I started writing another answer to the guy who could only call himself “No One.”
Dear No One,
I liked your letter. It took courage to write it. I can tell some things about you from your letter, and they are good things. But I must disagree about one thing. You’re not a No One. You are Someone—someone who is important, who has talent and ability, even though you might not recognize it. You’re someone I’d like to become friends with. I hope we meet. Until then, try to find some good in your life. I’m sure you have a few friends. I also hope you have a family who cares about you. You deserve that much. Things will get better. I know it.
I read through it again. For the first time since I’d become a columnist, I’d provided someone with a real answer.
Later that afternoon, I wrote a second letter. This one was to Mrs. Allen. I gave it to her at the beginning of class. She placed it on her desk and said softly, “I guess I’m surprised, Gabe. You have potential as a writer, and I’m sorry you’re resigning as the Answer Guy. Maybe we can find another place for you as a different kind of columnist.”
“If you still need someone to write about water polo, I guess I’m the one,” I said.
“We’ll find you something a little more exciting than that, Gabe,” she promised.
The following day in history class, Mr. Haney droned on about Germany’s economic collapse after World War I.
Suddenly, Mr. Haney said, “Okay, everyone, put away your books. It’s quiz time!”
The quiz was only 10 questions. When it was over, Mr. Haney told us to pass our papers to the person two rows to our right for correcting. Someone handed me a paper, and as I looked down at it, I almost fell out of my chair. I’d seen that handwriting before: small letters, backslanted, distinctive. No mistake about it. I was correcting “No One’s” paper. Funny, he’d been in my class three months, and I didn’t even know his name.
He nailed nine out of ten answers on the quiz, so I scribbled “Way to go!” on the top of his paper, then passed it back just as the bell rang.
I wasn’t sure what to do next, but I knew I had to do something. He was already out the door. I called his name.
He turned toward me, a look of surprise on his face.
I thought quickly. “Uh, a bunch of us are going to my church tonight to shoot hoops. Want to come?”
He smiled awkwardly. “You want me to play basketball? I’m not very good.”
“None of us are. That’s why we have so much fun. We don’t even keep score. And we only call fouls if blood is involved. You’ll fit right in.”
And the way he looked back at me, I knew he would. I could sense the changes taking place at that very moment: a “no one” was becoming a “someone.”
Well, the New York Times never called, begging me to work for them. I ended up writing feature stories most of the semester, one of which won a statewide writing prize; I even covered a couple of student council meetings, which were, of course, really boring. The next semester, I became the news editor. Mrs. Allen thinks I have a chance at a journalism scholarship. I asked Rachel Patton out, and she said yes, probably just a charity date, but she kept her salad on her plate and off my head at dinner, which I appreciated. On the doorstep, she told me I was a really nice guy.
I took it as a major compliment.
And the guy in history class, well, we still hang out, and I never have mentioned his letter to him. He seems happier now.
Yep, things are going great for me. It all started, I think, when I decided to not worry about trying to be someone else or pleasing others who didn’t really care for me. Everything I need to deal with any problem is all around me: home, family, church, and friends.
I guess I had the right answers all along.

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.
“You are strong and kind when your hands help others.
“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!”

Can you remember the last time you wore your old snow boots, the ones that are now a size or two too small? How about those cross-trainers you bought and then decided that you really needed running shoes instead?
Youth in Coeur d’Alene, Idaho, knew that there were plenty of perfectly good pairs of shoes in the closets of the members in their stake, shoes that were going to waste. So they requested donations from each ward and were overwhelmed when 1,200 pairs of shoes arrived at the stake center. But after the initial shock wore off, the youth got to work cleaning, polishing, and disinfecting the shoes for people who might otherwise go barefoot.
“The most enjoyable thing was to think that we’re sending these shoes to someone who really needs them,” says Paula Williams, a Laurel from the Lakeland First Ward.
The shoes are now being distributed to orphans in Romania and other countries. Shoes and boots were also donated to local charities in the Coeur d’Alene area.

Illustration by Michael J. Bingham
After World War II, my parents wanted to join the Saints in America. But first they had to escape with their five children from East Germany to West Germany.
My father, Walter, went by himself to determine where it was safest to cross the border. He traveled light but felt prompted to take his violin with him. An accomplished violinist, he had a spiritual impression that his violin would somehow aid him in his journey.
In February 1949, Dad took a train to a town still many miles from the border. After arriving, he ducked out of town, taking a path that led him into a wintry forest. Anyone caught heading toward the West German border was under suspicion of escaping and would be arrested.
Along the way, Dad saw another man trying to escape to West Germany. They decided to travel as a pair. Four watchful eyes would be better than two.
They proceeded cautiously as they passed a lookout tower. Suddenly, from behind a bush, a young Russian soldier jumped out and shouted, “Halt!”
My father and his new friend froze in horror as the soldier pointed a large rifle at them. The soldier said they were under arrest.
Slowly, my dad’s new friend opened his suitcase, revealing several fine food items. He motioned to the soldier that he could have them if he would let them go, but the soldier would not budge.
In broken Russian, my father told the soldier he loved Russian folk music. He pointed to his violin case and said he would like to play for him.
Dad took out his violin and started to play a sentimental Russian melody. After a short time, he saw tears forming in the young man’s eyes. When Dad finished the tune, the soldier asked him if he knew other Russian melodies.
Dad then played another melody. When he finished, the soldier was weeping. Hoisting his gun back onto his shoulder, the soldier said in Russian, “Travel with God.” Then he let both men continue their escape to the West.
My father soon returned safely to East Germany, thankful for inspiration that had led to his protection. Three years later, he escaped with his family by traveling to East Berlin and crossing the border there into West Berlin.

When I was 16, my mom allowed me to meet with the missionaries but told me I could never get baptized. I laughed. I didn’t need her to tell me that. I already knew I didn’t want to be baptized.
I first met the missionaries only to be polite. A friend asked me if I would be interested in talking with them, and I agreed because I didn’t want to hurt his feelings.
I kept meeting with the missionaries but didn’t take their lessons seriously, because I knew baptism wasn’t an option for me.
When the missionaries eventually invited me to be baptized, I said my mom wouldn’t allow it. My friend’s dad suggested we fast and ask Heavenly Father to help soften her heart.
I wasn’t convinced that fasting would change my mom’s heart, but I agreed to try. My friend’s family, the missionaries, and I all fasted for my mom to allow me to be baptized.
Shortly after our fast, my mom and I were having dinner together. Out of nowhere, she turned to me and said, “You know, if you want to get baptized, that’s your decision.”
I couldn’t believe what I’d heard.
She repeated herself. “You can get baptized.”
I was terrified. I could no longer use my mom as an excuse not to be baptized. I actually had to make the decision on my own. I started listening to the missionaries with an open mind.
When I started listening to the missionary lessons with real intent, I began to feel God’s love. It came as a feeling of peace and reassurance. Because of the love I felt for Him, I couldn’t bear the thought of being unclean before Him. I was willing to give up everything that was not in line with the commandments of God.
I remember thinking, “I wish I could redo my life.”
So when my friend casually mentioned that baptism was like being born again (see Mosiah 27:25), I could barely contain my excitement. I knew what I needed to do.
I was baptized and have since served a mission in Canada to help other people find the same joy I found in the gospel of Jesus Christ.
The joy I felt when I got baptized wasn’t a one-time feeling. I still feel that peaceful, clean feeling every time I pray for forgiveness.