Gospel Story Finder

Gil Ja had learned service by example. Her mother always lived by that principle, serving Church members even before she became one herself.
Her mother had come to love the members of the Church and the sister missionaries who wanted to teach her. But it was difficult to give up her traditional religion. In her closet she had a small statue of Buddha to which she prayed each day. The turning point in her conversion came after she dreamed that she was praying to her Buddha when it began to cry tears from its painted eyes and slowly turned its back on her. She understood that the dream meant it was time for her to follow a new religious path.
Three years after her baptism and confirmation, her husband—by then the lone member of the family who was still outside the Church—finally consented to listen to the gospel and was converted. After he joined the Church, he became a changed man, his children say—sweeter, kinder, more tolerant.
Some 26 years after Cho Joong Hyun’s baptism, all of his family were at last members of the Church. It was a high point for the family when their mother and father were sealed in the Seoul Korea Temple. A touching moment for the entire family came at a later gathering when the Cho children sang to their father the lullaby he had sung to them when they were small.
Their mother served faithfully in the Church until the end of her life. Even in the hospital, suffering from stomach cancer, she was a missionary to the young woman in the next bed, introducing her to the gospel.
Her sons and daughters carry on the tradition of service. There are two President Chos in the family. Yong Hyun, the CES coordinator, has served in a variety of priesthood leadership callings through the years and is currently president of the stake in Gwangju. Cho Joong Hyun, who led the way into the Church for his family, has also served in a variety of leadership roles in Suncheon, including district president. He is currently president of the Suncheon Branch. Cho Gil Ja has served for more than 16 years as president of the Relief Society in the ward and stake. Other brothers and sisters in the family are active in their own areas as well, and all are married to active members.
Seven of the Cho children and grandchildren have served as missionaries so far, and still others are preparing to serve. Several of the children and grandchildren have married returned missionaries. Now the fourth generation of Chos is beginning to be reared in the Church. Their days have not been free of life’s difficulties, but blessings have come through their obedience.
The missionary who handed that pamphlet to a young postal worker nearly four decades ago could not have known what would grow from the small seed he planted. But the harvest has been plentiful—and it may be only beginning.

One experience in particular strengthened Tina’s testimony of prayer. One day Tina and her younger siblings were playing in the church garden when they accidentally locked themselves inside. “We were just playing, and then we realized the door was locked, and we couldn’t get out. We started panicking because no one was inside the church to hear us,” Tina recalls. Her younger brother, knowing that they needed divine help, decided to pray. “He just said, ‘Heavenly Father, please help someone hear us and open the door.’ And then, not long after, the bishop just walked by and heard us!” she says. The bishop quickly unlocked the door, and they were freed. “That experience made me realize that Heavenly Father listens to us,” Tina reflects.
This experience deepened Tina’s understanding of the power of prayer. She realized that just as Heavenly Father helped them in that moment, He is always ready to provide guidance and comfort when she turns to Him. “That day, I learned that prayer isn’t just for big things. It’s for everything, even the small stuff. Heavenly Father listens,” she shares. Since then she has made prayer a more consistent part of her life, knowing that it is one of the greatest privileges of being a child of God.
Tina’s relationship with her younger brother also grew stronger through this experience. She saw his faith in action, and it inspired her to trust in God even more. “Seeing my brother pray with so much faith reminded me that we don’t have to go through challenges alone. We can always turn to the Lord,” she says. Their mutual encouragement has continued, especially in their efforts to stay active in the gospel. When one of them feels unmotivated to attend church or seminary, the other steps in to encourage and uplift. “If I don’t feel like going, my brother’s like, ‘Come on, let’s go.’ And if he doesn’t want to, I tell him the same thing,” she adds.

Soon after, the bishop called me into his office and asked me to prepare to go on a mission. Since I was so shy, the idea overwhelmed me. I stalled.
Another school year ended, and I returned again to Rio Blanco. But I was the only member there, and I felt lonely. If the Church is really true, I reasoned, maybe I should tell others about it. I began to visit my friends and relatives in their homes each day after work to teach them the gospel. Several of them wanted to join the Church. I called mission president John F. O’Donnal and told him that there were eight persons in Rio Blanco ready for baptism. He was delighted to come and make the arrangements.
Like my bishop, President O’Donnal asked me to serve a mission. As a delaying tactic, I explained that there were no priesthood leaders in Rio Blanco. I told him I would go on a mission after he sent someone. He transferred two missionaries there the very next week. So I reluctantly filled out my mission papers.
As I expected, my mission was very demanding. But I have never regretted the decision to serve. Although my father has died, my mother is now a member of the Church, as are all but two of their fourteen living children. Four of their sons have gone on missions, and two more are preparing. Most of us have church callings.

When the doctor released Tracy’s father from the hospital, it was to send him home to die. The cancer had been discovered too late and was too widespread for there to be much that could be done.
It wasn’t entirely for his father’s benefit that he wasn’t told he was terminal; his mother needed some time to deal with it before she approached her husband.
Tracy, then 18 years old, numbly endured the last few weeks of high school. During graduation exercises and the dance afterwards, it was as if there were a shell around him preventing entrance to any shared student happiness.
Then it was summer, and he worked on a state highway department survey crew, which left him his weekends free—to wait.
His three older brothers and their wives each took turns flying into town on weekends, spending a day or two with their father before returning to their jobs in faraway places.
One day his father called him into his room. It was dimly lit and smelled of pain; the bedside stand groaned with glasses and bottles of pills.
“Have I ever lied to you?” his father asked.
“No.”
“Then don’t lie to me. Am I dying?”
Tracy felt his throat clamp shut. He tried to remember the hopeful platitudes about “being up in no time” that his brothers and their wives had tossed around so easily. But it was no use.
“Am I dying of cancer?” his father again asked.
“Yes,” Tracy answered.
His father sighed and said quietly, “That’s what I thought.”
Over the next few weeks, his father made all the necessary preparations—calling in a lawyer to complete the will and other financial matters, and picking out a reasonably priced casket and a lot for his burial.
Then he lay back and patiently waited to die. But death, like sleep, does not always come when invited.
He even seemed to improve a little.
One warm summer day in July, he looked out his bedroom window and said, “I want to go fishing.”
Of course, it was impossible; that was what his mother said; that is what the older brothers and their wives said; that is what the neighbors said.
The doctor said, “If he feels up to it and somebody can go along to do most of the work, why not?”
Tracy was put in charge of taking his father for one last trip into the mountains. After a flurry of planning and buying groceries and stocking up on pills and reading his mother’s never-ending list of how to care for his father, finally one Saturday morning, Tracy stepped inside the small camping trailer to make his last check before getting his father.
For all the years I was growing up, he thought as he looked at the worn path in the cracking linoleum floor of the camper, this has been dad’s church.
For as long as he could remember, his father had been inactive in the Church. Long ago someone in the Church had offended him—about what and by whom no one could now remember. But it had been enough to keep him out of church, except to watch his sons perform, for 20 years.
For all the years that Tracy had been alive, his father treated Sunday as his day. “I work hard six days a week. At least one day I ought to be able to do what I want to do.” And that was fishing in the spring and summer, hunting in the fall, and home shop and carpentry in the winter.
Tracy drove and his father sat in the front seat and silently watched the twisting mountain stream beside the road.
“I’d forgotten how beautiful it is up here,” his father said, looking strangely out of place in the now-too-large sweater his mother had insisted he wear. “I know this country as well as anyone. Every road, every peak, each turn in the river—I know it all. See that place where the river goes under the railroad bridge? Right down there on that point is a good place to fish. You can see that the water’s swift, so you need about eight split shot weights two feet from the hook. You do that, and I’ll guarantee you two or three nice brown trout.”
“You make it sound easy, dad, but it never is when I try it.”
“Well, I’ve spent the last 20 years fishing this river. I should’ve learned something. You know, I should write down all the good places for you. Somebody ought to benefit from all I’ve learned about this river.”
They drove in silence for several miles as his dad studied the river and the condition of every fishing hole.
Tracy had never learned to like fishing. When he was little and had gone with his father, he was always being told to be quiet and to quit throwing rocks in the water, and then after he got bigger, he was constantly being scolded for not keeping enough tension on the line, or not keeping his rod up when reeling in.
He wasn’t sure if his father knew that he didn’t care at all about fishing.
“We should’ve come out here more often, just father and son.”
“Mom never would’ve let me come on Sundays.”
“No, she was very strong on that.”
“But we could’ve come on Saturdays, dad.”
“Sure, we could’ve done that,” his father said wistfully, “if I’d ever had an assistant manager I could trust to leave the store with. You know Saturday was our busiest day.”
“I know; that’s what you always used to say.”
We’re strangers, Tracy thought as he drove. I know less about my own father than I do our milkman. And what does he really know about me?
By 11:00 they were at the lake. They discovered that the campsite, which for years had been his father’s favorite, was still vacant. It was the last one along the road to the lake and sat up on a hill, giving a good view of the lake and mountains.
After lunch his father took his pills and lay down for a nap.
About 3:00 he woke up. “I feel terrific!” he announced happily. “This mountain air has done more for me than all the doctors in the world. Let’s go fishing!”
First Tracy carried down two lawn chairs, next the fishing equipment, and after that a sunshade that his mother had made him promise he’d set up for his dad. After everything was set up, he escorted his father down the trail to the lake.
Not much happened until 5:30. Tracy by then had given up and was sitting looking at a girl across the lake dive from a cliff.
Suddenly his father shouted and his rod bent over sharply. At the same time a hundred feet out into the lake, a large trout jumped out of the water, shaking its head back and forth in an attempt to shake off the hook. Back into the water it made its run. The reel, set to release at a certain tension, hummed as new line fed into the water.
“He must be 20 pounds!” his father yelled excitedly.
It was a long seesaw battle. When the fish let up, the slow, steady reeling brought it closer to shore. A couple of times it was within 20 feet of them before it powered its way back into deeper waters.
“Dad, I can see it now. It’s huge.”
Finally it was over.
“Get the net, Tracy. Careful now.”
Tracy stood near the water and waited for the fish to get close enough, then dipped the long-handled net into the water and pulled the exhausted fish into the air, causing it to frantically writhe.
“It’s beautiful,” his father said reverently.
Tracy picked up the large knife and prepared to strike the fish sharply on the head with the handle to put it out of its suffering. That was something his father had taught him.
“Don’t kill him!” his father cried out. “I don’t want to keep him.”
“No?”
“I want him to stay alive. He belongs in these waters. He fought too bravely to die. Can you remove the hook very easily?”
Tracy grabbed the fish by the gills and looked to see where the hook had lodged. It was deep in its throat.
“He swallowed the hook, dad. I can’t get the hook out without killing him.”
“Then cut the line and put him back in the water. Quickly now.”
He took his knife and cut the line a few inches from the fish’s mouth, then gently lowered it into the water. For a second or two, it just lay still; then sensing freedom, it shot away from them into the deep.
Tracy looked back at his father wondering why he let loose the largest fish they’d ever seen in the lake.
“He’s free now, isn’t he? Free to move through these waters. He can go places we’ll never see. I’m glad we didn’t keep it, aren’t you?”
Since anything else after that fish would be anticlimactic, they quit and packed everything back to the trailer.
“How’d you like to go to California with me for a few weeks this summer?” his dad asked, the excitement of catching the fish still bubbling over. “There’s a hospital there where they treat people with diseases like mine. We could drive down there. They claim they can cure people even worse off than me.”
His father was as positive as Tracy had seen him for years.
“We can fight back, can’t we? We don’t have to just sit and accept defeat, do we? We’ll leave in a week or two, just you and me. And when I’m all cured, we’ll have mom fly down and meet us. We’ll show her all of California—take a little vacation, just the three of us. Maybe we’ll even go down to Mexico and Central America and take a boat through the Panama Canal. How does that sound?”
Even as Tracy cooked supper, his father talked about visiting Mexico. He cooked hamburgers and opened a can of pork and beans. His father took the pills and then they had their meal.
Thick clouds had moved in during the late afternoon, and by 7:00 they were in the middle of a violent thunderstorm. Looking out, Tracy watched the wind drive sheets of rain across the lake in sporadic patterns. Several times lightning crashed around them.
His father, suddenly looking much older, his forehead drenched with sweat, went to bed after taking his pills. Tracy stayed up until 10:00 reading a western paperback.
At 11:00 his father woke up coughing and lost his supper.
Tracy got out of bed and turned on his flashlight. His father was sitting up, his body hunchbacked with pain.
Tracy got a pan of water and a towel and began to clean up the mess on the floor.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” his father repeated over and over again. “It must’ve been the pills.”
Tracy finished with the floor and then took a wash cloth and cleaned up his father as best as he could. They got him out of his sweat-soaked pajamas and into a pair of old pants and a shirt.
At first his father was afraid of taking any more pain pills that night. As the night progressed, he sat on the edge of the bed and rocked back and forth, his head down, his teeth clenched, fighting against the pain of his cancer.
Finally, at 1:00, unable to stand it any longer, willing to risk throwing up again, his father asked for a slice of bread and his pills.
“Does the fish hurt tonight?” his father asked after taking his last pill.
“I don’t know, dad. It’s only a fish.”
“It’s out there swimming around with the hook digging in with each breath.”
“It’ll be okay.”
“Do you think it’s grateful to me for sparing its life, or is it cursing me for allowing it to continue to suffer?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Every time it tries to eat, every time it swallows, the hook will be there, tearing at it. Maybe it’d be better off dead. Maybe we should’ve let it die.”
“Dad, please, you’ve got to sleep.”
“Maybe it’s already dead; maybe it’s floating belly up in the water.”
His father stood up and walked to the window to look out at the lake. The rain had turned to a steady drizzle.
“It’s so hard to know what we should’ve done—so hard to play God even for a fish.”
Tracy lay back in bed, hoping his father would soon go back to his bed and rest, but he remained standing there by the window looking out into the blackness of the night.
Tracy must have fallen asleep, but a few minutes later, he heard the door shut and his father walk out into the darkness.
He jumped out of bed, got dressed, and ran out.
A few minutes later, he found his father standing on a dock at the lake, flashlight in hand, shining the light across the surface of the water.
“Dad, what are you doing down here?”
“I want to know if the fish is dead.”
Suddenly Tracy was terrified. He knew he couldn’t forcibly move him up to the trailer. He was too big.
“Dad, please go back inside. It’s raining.”
“I know it’s raining,” his father said, shining his light in progressively more distant patterns across the water.
“You know mom would be mad if she knew you were out here in the rain. Please go back.”
Finally satisfied, his father turned around to face Tracy. “He’s not belly up. He must still be alive. We can go back now.”
Tracy put his arm around his father’s waist and helped him up the trail.
“Do you ever pray about me?” his father asked.
“Yes, I do.”
“What do you pray about?”
“That you’ll get better.”
“Don’t pray for that anymore. Pray that God’s will be done. We’ve got to trust him to know what’d be best. You and I can’t even figure out that for a fish.”
Back in the trailer, his father slept the remainder of the night.
When Tracy woke up, he discovered a gray, dull, rainy day. His father woke up at 10:00. Tracy fixed them both some hot cereal and his father a cup of instant coffee.
“This is Sunday, isn’t it?” his father asked.
“Yes, it is.”
“It’s the first Sunday I ever recall you missing church. I shouldn’t have come up here with you. Especially with this weather. We’re not going to get much fishing today, are we? Of course, fishing is sometimes very good when it rains—if you want to.”
“No, that’s okay.”
“I’ve been thinking about what I said yesterday—about going to California. It’d take all our savings if we went. One thing’s for sure, the insurance’d never pay for it. And if it didn’t work out, if the treatment is no good, then where would your mother be without any money?”
Tracy ached inside as he realized that California was his father’s last hope for recovery, and that it had slipped away.
“I guess I’ll never see the Panama Canal, will I?” his father said, looking up from his cup. “Well, we’ll just have to make the best of what we’ve got here while we can.”
Tracy, still drying the pan he’d cooked the cereal in, looked away as the tears fell.
“I’ve got some money set aside for your mission and part of your schooling, but if there’s anything else you need from me, let’s talk about it now, before we head back home.”
Tracy knew what he wanted but didn’t know if he dared to ask his father. He knew it wasn’t what his father expected him to say.
“Dad, I want a father’s blessing.”
His father sadly shook his head. “You know I can’t give you that. I’m not an elder. Why do you want that?”
“All my life I’ve been ordained and given priesthood blessings by other men, sometimes by men I don’t even know, but what I wanted was for you to do that, my own father.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know it meant so much to you.”
“I used to think that if I tried hard to be the best kind of boy that you’d see what the Church was like and become active again. Dad, I never did any of the things that other guys in school were doing. Why didn’t that make you love the Church?”
“I don’t know.”
“You didn’t even notice, did you? You took it all for granted. And now it’s too late. Dad, I want a father’s blessing.”
“I can’t do it. If you want a priesthood blessing, you’ll have to see the bishop or the home teachers.”
“They’re not my father. You are.”
“I can’t do it. I don’t hold the Melchizedek Priesthood.”
“Dad, you can give me a father’s blessing even if you don’t hold the priesthood, but if it makes you uncomfortable, just put your hands on my head and say a prayer,” Tracy pleaded.
“No, I can’t. Please don’t ask me. I don’t know how. God wouldn’t hear anything I say anyway.”
“I’d hear it. Doesn’t that matter to you? Please, this may be my only chance to receive a father’s blessing.”
His father sat on the kitchen chair and looked out the window for a long time.
“Please, dad.”
“What do I do?”
“Stay in the chair, and I’ll kneel down so you can put your hands on my head.”
Tracy kneeled down in front of his father.
“What do I say?”
“Just say a prayer.”
He felt the big hands of his father rest gently on his head.
“God,” he began slowly, “Tracy wanted me to do this. I don’t have the right priesthood, but he thought if I just said a prayer.” He paused for several seconds and then began again. “He’s been a good boy, always has been. No thanks to me, I guess. I should’ve been a better example for him, but there was always enough food on the table, and I taught him about honesty and about work. When he’s given a job to do, he does it. There’s a lot of people, even Mormons, who can’t finish a job.”
Tracy knew there were tears streaming down his face, but he didn’t care about that.
“I wasn’t everything I should’ve been, I guess you know that, but I think he’s turned out okay—well, better than okay. I think he’s the most wonderful boy a father could have. God, you better take care of him. He’s going to need that, because I’m dying. You’d better help him—that’s all I can say.”
Suddenly all the ache that had been locked inside Tracy was spilling out.
“Maybe he could remember,” his father continued with a strange calmness, “the good things I did as a father and not dwell on my failings. And maybe when he’s a father, he won’t be too busy to take his son out and play a little catch in the backyard. I used to do that, you know. And maybe he won’t be too eager to look down on people in the Church who drink coffee or have a beer now and then. Instead, maybe he’ll try to help them, and not be like those who sniff their noses when somebody who smokes goes to church.”
His father paused and then began again. “I want him to go on a mission, but only if he works hard. And I’d like him to be married in the temple. I never was, but I think it’d be a nice way to start a marriage. You’d better bless him. He’s a good boy, and I love him.” There was a long pause. “I guess I’m through. Tracy, how do I end it?”
Tracy told him, and his father ended the prayer.
Tracy wiped the tears away on his sleeve and stood up.
“Was it okay?” his father asked. Tracy silently nodded his head, unwilling to trust his voice to explain what it meant to him. Then he reached out and threw his arms around his father and hugged him.
“It wasn’t so bad. I just hope it takes,” his father said with a slight smile through the tears.
The rain continued through lunch.
After lunch, his father suggested that they head home, because if they left then, they could go as a family to sacrament meeting.
They went for the next three Sundays, and then the pain became too much, and they had the home teachers help Tracy with the sacrament each week for the family in their home until the Saturday before Labor Day, when his father died.

Last year, just before school started, the priests of the Ketchikan Ward were having a lesson on fasting. They started discussing how much easier it was for them to fast with a purpose instead of feeling like they were just starving. Russell Youngberg said, “We realized that school was about to start and a fast Sunday was coming up, so we sort of put the two together. The entire ward youth would fast for each other to be able to resist temptations and have a good school year.”

Forrest Allred remembers how they came up with the idea. “We were talking about how to make the youth stronger and more righteous. We were confident that fasting would work.”

The bishop also thought it was a great idea. He invited the Young Women to join in. Amanda Youngberg said, “The bishopric came into the Young Women classes and asked if we wanted to participate in the fast. We all did it together.”

They planned for the first weekend of September. They started their fast individually on Saturday afternoon. For some, having a distinct reason helped. Kaitlyn Skinner said, “Our parents could join us in our fast, but since the youth were fasting together, it was easier for me.”

The next day, fast Sunday, all the youth met after fast and testimony meeting in the seminary room. Adam Fitzgerald, one of the priests who talked about the original idea, described what happened. “I remember feeling the Spirit really strong. We all knelt, which was hard to do because the room was very full. The bishop gave the prayer for us. I remember him talking about us having a good year and that we would become bonded to one another and resist temptations throughout the year and continue our growth and development. Personally, as he was saying those things, I knew that it was going to be that way.”

Ryan Gray was on the student council at Ketchikan High School and noticed that the LDS students were more connected after their fast. “In this school, we’re small in number. We all have our own friends, but we’re all friends at the ward. We’ve got strength. Fasting for each other was a good way to start the year.”

This unity, these friendships, these positive choices are the very things the teens were fasting for.

Russell says, “I think our fast made a difference, at least it has to me. It seems whenever any member sees another member at school, we stop and talk on the way to class. It feels like there is a stronger bond in the youth group. As for the fast, my stomach did the same stuff as always when I fast, but we all had a purpose for fasting, and that made it a lot different.”

I have been in the Air Force for two and a half years and a member of the Church for two years. My wife has been a member all her life. Five months ago I was shipped off to Turkey. We have five members here and lots of time on our hands. My wife was unable to come with me, but she subscribed to the New Era for me. My spirit and morale have been lifted tremendously by the New Era. I wish to thank my wife and the New Era for all the inspiration I have received while being so far away from home.
Mark E. CardwellDijarbarkir, Turkey

It was Saturday morning, and that meant it was time for weekly chores.
“Olivia, it’s your turn to pull weeds,” Mom said.
Olivia scrunched her face into a frown. “I don’t like weeding.”
“It can be fun if you change your attitude,” Mom said with a smile. “And you can get it done quickly if you get to work!”
Olivia trudged outside and plopped down on the bottom stair on the side of the house. She glared at the weeds in the flower bed. After a minute, she slowly got on her knees and began to pull a weed.
Forty minutes later, Olivia had pulled only a few weeds. She had spent most of her time daydreaming about ice cream and games she could be playing with her friend Lily. The tiny weeds that were left to pull looked like an entire forest to Olivia. She sighed. She was hot, and this was boring!
“It’s not fair!” she said to herself. She thought of her younger brother, who had been assigned to dust the furniture. “Why doesn’t Brian have to weed? He always gets the easy jobs!”
After pulling a few more weeds, Olivia was tired and ready to quit. She sat back and looked at her family’s cat, Link, who was sunning himself on the driveway.
“Here, kitty kitty kitty!” she called.
Link ran to her and rubbed his face against her arm. Running her fingers through his silky fur, Olivia quickly forgot about her weeding. She tipped her head sideways, making her ponytail wiggle so Link would bat at her hair.
Then she heard Mom’s voice from the kitchen window: “Olivia, are you done weeding?”
Hoping that Mom was too busy to check her work, Olivia opened her mouth to say yes. But as she did, a bad feeling came inside her. She hesitated. She thought about being baptized a few days before. She knew she had promised Heavenly Father that she would obey His commandments so that she could have the Holy Ghost with her. She remembered that she could not feel the Spirit if she lied.
Suddenly, Olivia really wanted to tell the truth. She knew this strong feeling was from the Holy Ghost, and it filled her with courage.
“No,” she said. “I haven’t finished.”
“Well, you’d better finish or you won’t have time to play with your friends today,” Mom said.
Olivia still didn’t want to finish weeding, but she felt happy anyway. She thought Heavenly Father would be glad that she had decided to be honest. She jumped up and ran into the house.
“Mom, Mom!” Olivia said. “Guess what happened?” She told Mom about wanting to lie but then deciding to tell the truth. “I chose the right! I stayed clean, and I feel so good!”
“I’m proud of you,” Mom said.
Olivia smiled and hugged Mom. Then she skipped outside to finish weeding.

When I was 17, Sabrina and I went to the same boarding school in Uruguay. I was going through a difficult time and didn’t want to have anything to do with anybody. But I did make a few friends.
Sabrina in particular stood out. She was nice to everyone. She invited me to play volleyball at her church, and she smiled even when I made excuses not to go. As I felt more comfortable with her, I thought maybe I should go.
Then one day I was rushed to the hospital with appendicitis. After surgery, I couldn’t go to school for 15 days. When I returned, Sabrina wasn’t there. She had moved back home. School wasn’t the same without her, so I wrote her a letter.
I asked her to forgive me for not playing volleyball. I told her that I’d always felt good around her and that I missed her.
Soon I received a letter and a package. In the letter, Sabrina told me she was happy that I’d written to her. She also told me about a tragic bus accident in which several people she knew had been killed. Then she wrote something that would change my life:
“We should always be at peace with God, because we never know when He will call us to His presence. Please read the book I sent with this letter. Ask God if it is true.”
In the package was the Book of Mormon. I started reading and I did ask if it was true. I felt so wonderful I thought my heart would burst. I’d never felt that way before. I went to church and started meeting with the missionaries. Soon I became a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
That was 15 years ago. Today I still have a firm testimony. Thank you, Sabrina, for inviting me to play volleyball. Even though I never did come to play, your example helped to bring me to Jesus Christ.

Whilst my wife and I were serving as leaders of the Fiji Suva Mission, we would monitor the storm weather sites from November through April to be aware of any cyclones that may affect our missionaries serving throughout the islands.
In early-April 2018, tropical Cyclone Keni developed into a category 2 cyclone which, on its projected course, would track several hundred kilometers south of the island of Kadavu. As we drew closer to the 11th of April 2018, instead of staying on its predicted course, Cyclone Keni veered northward and increased in intensity to category 3 with winds gusting up to 215 kms per hour, which tore through the island of Kadavu.
Elder Tupe and Elder Christensen served on that island, and I was extremely concerned about their welfare and that of the community of Saints there. With the power knocked out, communication was impossible for many hours. Finally, the elders were able to get a call out. The first thing I heard was, “President we’re okay.” Oh, what relief and joy filled my heart along with humble prayers of gratitude.
They shared that their accommodation was destroyed, and they had to shelter in one of only a few concrete block homes on the island, this one owned by Brother Lal (a counselor in the branch presidency). They had lost most of their belongings but had scoured the forest and reclaimed some clothing.
With their welfare in mind, I started the arrangements to evacuate these elders off the island. When I called the next morning to give them more details, Elder Tupe and Elder Christensen asked without any thought for their own needs, “President, can we stay? The members and families on the island need our help to rebuild their homes.”
As they expressed this desire, my heart swelled with admiration for these humble servants of the Lord who put their own needs aside to offer much-needed help to others.
Over the next two weeks they laboured tirelessly to clean debris from damaged dwellings and assisted with the repairs to several homes. These young missionaries exemplified the scripture: “Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me” (Matthew 25:40).
After these two weeks, Elder Tupe and Elder Christensen returned to Suva to be assigned to a different area, until the mission quarters on Kadavu could be rebuilt. As they entered the mission home, they looked different. Yes, their clothes were a little untidy, because no washing machine or iron was available, they had all disappeared in the cyclone, but their countenances shone brightly as they recalled numerous experiences of assisting members and nonmembers alike.
Their service brought a great feeling of unity to the people in Kadavu and prepared many hearts to receive the message of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ. Indeed, these young missionaries exemplified this verse of scripture: “And behold, I tell you these things that ye may learn wisdom; that ye may learn that when ye are in the service of your fellow beings ye are only in the service of your God” (Mosiah 2:17).
I will be forever grateful for the example of Elder Tupe and Elder Christensen. They exemplified so beautifully what it means to truly keep the second great commandment, to “Love thy neighbor as thyself,” (Matthew 22:39).

In 1979, while serving as Sunday School general president, I was invited to attend a Regional Representatives seminar during which President Kimball gave an inspiring address about opening the doors of nations then closed to the Church, such as China. He challenged all present to study the Mandarin language so we could offer our professional skills to help the people of China.
To me, President Kimball’s challenge seemed like a prophetic mandate. So that very night I asked my late wife, Dantzel, if she would be willing to study Mandarin with me. She agreed, and we found a tutor to help us. Of course we didn’t learn to speak Mandarin very well, but we learned enough so that when I was invited the very next year (through a series of highly unexpected events) to go to China as a visiting professor to teach open-heart surgery, I was in a better position to accept the invitation.
Fast-forward five years to 1985, the year after I had been called to the Quorum of the Twelve. One day I received an urgent request to go to China to perform open-heart surgery on that nation’s famous opera star, regarded throughout China as a national hero. I explained that my full-time ecclesiastical responsibility prevented my coming, but the doctors in China pleaded with me to come at once to perform the life-saving operation.
I discussed the matter with my quorum president and the First Presidency. They felt impressed that, as a favor to the people of China, I should make the trip and perform the operation.
That I did. Gratefully, the operation was a success! Incidentally, that was the last open-heart operation I ever performed. It was in Jinan, China, on March 4, 1985.
Now fast-forward again, this time to October 2015. Wendy and I were invited to return to Shandong University School of Medicine in Jinan. We were amazed when I was warmly welcomed as “an old friend” of China and was reunited with surgeons I had taught 35 years earlier. A highlight of our visit was meeting with the son and grandson of that famous opera star. All of these amazing experiences were enabled for one reason: I heeded the counsel of a prophet to study Mandarin!

During my first Christmas as bishop, a single mother with three small children lived in our ward. This young woman had a strong testimony of the gospel and lived it to the best of her ability. She cleaned homes and did sewing to try to make ends meet, but often she could not.
Single-handedly raising three boys under the age of eight was a real challenge. These active, energetic youngsters always seemed to be in trouble of one sort or another. I remember pulling them from more than one tussle with their classmates.
Several good people helped this struggling family. I’ll never forget the brother who came into my office one Sunday just a couple of weeks before Christmas, asking to speak with me privately. He was concerned about the young mother and her family, and he wanted to do something for them. Would I accept his contribution and use it in the best way I could to help them? As we spoke, I hardly noticed his small son who remained in the office with us.
The man explained that he did not know what the woman and her family needed. He just wanted to help and felt that I would be inspired to know what to do. He then entrusted to me quite a remarkable sum of money—not remarkable in the amount, but remarkable in terms of his modest means, of which I was well aware. I knew that this gift meant a real sacrifice of his own family’s Christmas, at least in the temporal sense. But this wise brother knew where real rewards come from.
Seeing the resolve shining in his eyes, I protested only gently. Then I cleared my tightening throat, thanked him for his unselfish gift, and promised to do my best to make Christmas a little brighter for the young mother and her sons. I also agreed to honor his request for anonymity.
The story might well end here and still be memorable. But the event that has etched this experience in my mind was yet to occur. It wasn’t the way I was able to help the family with the unselfish contribution—although that turned out to be most gratifying—but rather what took place in my office one week following that good brother’s visit.
It was just a few days before Christmas, and I was between tithing-settlement interviews. I heard a soft knock on the office door, and when I opened it, I saw, standing quite alone, the six-year-old boy who had sat quietly in my office while his dad and I had talked the Sunday before.
He asked politely if he could talk to me for just a minute. After we walked into the office—which I presume is always a bit of a frightening experience for youngsters—I invited him to sit down. He fidgeted with something in his pocket and, after some struggle, pulled out three small coins and laid them on my desk. He apologized that the coins were all the money he had, and they were a little old and dirty, since he had had them quite a while. The money, he explained, was for me to use to help his three friends, like his dad was helping their mother. As my heart swelled and my eyes became moist, he added that he felt I would know best how to divide his treasure among his friends.
What lessons culminated in that moment—a father’s unselfish example, the trust of a small boy in his bishop, and the humble, Christlike act of a child without guile. Only a few weeks before I had pulled this boy from a scuffle involving the soon-to-be recipients of his forgiving love and charity.
I hugged him, partly to hide my tears—and mostly to tell him how much I appreciated him and how much I knew his Father in Heaven loved him. I then walked him to the door, shook his hand, and assured him that I would do the best I could to help his friends this Christmas with his generous gift. As I turned to go back into my office, he whispered after me, “And remember, Bishop, don’t ever tell anyone it was me.”
Well, I never have told anyone until now, my young friend. I hope relating our special story in this way is all right so that others might feel a bit of the quiet Christmas spirit of love and charity that we felt that day.

In December of last year, the Kingstown Branch of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints joined with the National Emergency Management Organization on the World Day of Service to hold educational sessions for church members and their friends on food and water storage and disaster preparedness. In addition to the presentations, seeds were provided to all attendees so they could plant their own gardens.
The following month, district and branch presidencies in St. Vincent and the Grenadines encouraged members to refocus their efforts toward being self-reliant both temporally and spiritually. Members took this counsel to heart and did what they could to increase their food and water storage despite their limited financial resources. Some even planted their own gardens. Since then, there have been many reminders to start preparing, even in small ways. Some sisters began purchasing water bottles and sharing them with others who showed interest. Others planted gardens and added to their food supply.
These preparations have been very beneficial as they have been used since the La Soufriere volcano began erupting on April 9, spewing ash into the air.
Sister Nichole Franklyn, Relief Society president in the Kingstown Branch, recalls, “We started a kitchen garden. We were happy, but it took a lot of work. We prayed each night over the crops, and Heavenly Father heard our prayers and blessed them.” Their simple garden has grown and is producing.
Not all the produce in their garden is ready to harvest, but they are reaping cucumbers and sweet peppers. They were worried that the ash fall would ruin their garden as it has much of the agriculture on the island. “Many crops have been completely wiped out, but God has spared ours. We were able to reap cucumbers. Right now, we can sell our cucumbers for five dollars per pound, but we opted to share with three shelters,” Sister Franklyn said.
The members were also encouraged to become spiritually self-reliant. Following the example of a group that started in St. Lucia where a group of sisters are meeting for prayer and scripture study at 5:00 am each morning from Monday to Saturday, the sisters in St. Vincent also began in earnest. They meet on Zoom with other members of the Church in the Caribbean Area at the same time. Despite the prevailing circumstances, the members are strong and without fear, and they continue to meet morning after morning.
Sister Franklyn is grateful for the blessings that her garden has brought to her family and to those in the shelters. “The Lord watches out for His children and provides when we are able to follow His teachings through our leaders,” she said. “It really feels good to give rather than to receive at this time.”

About 10 years before I joined the Church in 1976, I had a dream. In my dream I saw my father, who had been dead for some time. He called me by my nickname, “Mya, you will later do something in a foreign country that will be very important for your family.” It was a dream I could never forget—what did my father mean?
It was a remarkable day when the missionaries knocked on my door for the first time. I had always been very open and ready to listen to everyone who wanted to talk about religion, but I would often try to contradict and ask a lot of questions. But this time, it was like God was telling me: “Now listen! Don’t interrupt them, just listen!” I wanted to find the right place, the right church, so I listened.
After they left, I paced the floor and kept saying, “Truly, these are the servants of the Lord! I can feel it.” I listened to them and learned from them. Many things I hadn’t understood before started opening up for me, but nothing had as much effect on me as did their teaching about baptism for the dead.
I decided, after a few lessons, that I would be baptized. But it was not easy—I stayed awake many nights and prayed. Whenever I prayed I found peace and felt as if the arms of the Lord were holding me.
My five children were positive and supportive of my decision to be baptized, but my husband was very much against it. He gave his permission, but it became very obvious how much he was against it after I was baptized. Even my friends criticized me for turning against my husband, but somehow I always received the strength I needed.
When I had been a member of the Church for only six months, I was called to be the first Icelandic Relief Society president. It was a difficult time, but I knew I was serving the Lord. There was no one to teach me what to do—we were all so new. We had a manual and a handbook in English, but they were of no use to me because I could not speak or understand that language. Sister Sveinbjörg Gudmundsdóttir translated the lessons each week for the teachers. That was the first Church material I had ever seen in Icelandic! I loved getting those lessons, and I read them over and over again. As I look back, I think that perhaps the best times were when it was most difficult—it was then that I had to get on my knees and seek the Lord.
Throughout my life, I had always been very interested in my family history. After I became a member of the Church, I had another dream. In this dream, I was receiving some guests—very distinguished people. I had prepared a salmon, but I needed to put some plates on the table for the guests. There was always some interruption when I tried to add more plates, but I knew there should be many more. I awoke for a time after the dream but still felt very sleepy. I went to sleep again—and the dream was repeated. I felt I was being told that I had the salmon (which I understood represented the gospel)—I just needed to make it ready for others. I knew that I needed to get names to the temple!
That was the beginning of many hours in the family history library, searching out family records. Time did not exist while I was working there. I had a distant goal of some day being able to take these records to the temple, but I was afraid I would never realize this goal because of the language barrier.
I was so excited when I heard that the temple ceremony had been translated into Icelandic! For 19 years I had worked on my genealogy but never dared to dream that I would be able to go to the temple. And now—somehow—I had the feeling that I was not worthy, and I was afraid my husband would never allow me to go. I watched as members of the branch planned for the trip and went for their temple recommend interviews.
When President Ólafur called me into his office one Sunday and asked why I hadn’t asked for a temple recommend, I told him of my fears and misgivings. He said, “Why do you judge yourself so harshly? Will you believe you are worthy if I, as a servant of the Lord, tell you that you can go?” President Ólafur also told me he would visit with my husband to ask him permission for me to go. I was so happy when I left his office, I embraced everyone I saw. I was still happy when I got home, but the fear came back. I told my husband what had happened, and he said, “Of course you will go!”
When I finally entered the temple in London, my father’s words in that dream 29 years earlier suddenly became clear to me. Here I was, in a foreign country, prepared to do temple ordinances for my ancestors. There are not words to describe the feeling I had at that time. When I came into the celestial room after my own endowment, I felt like Simeon of old when he saw the child Jesus in the temple (see Luke 2:29–30). I, too, felt that after this experience, I could die in peace.
Truly, this was a dream come true!

One day when they had very little to eat, Agnes’s mother sold a quilt and a bedspread and used the money to buy food. She often traded trinkets and gifts to the Native Americans for dried meat, which proved to be a great help, especially when the cold wind was blowing and they couldn’t build a fire to cook food. On such days, she would give each of her children a piece of dried meat and some bread. Sometimes she took a small piece of meat and made a stew, thickening it with a little flour and some salt. It tasted so good on a cold night!
Agnes marveled as she watched her mother find a way to bake food out on the prairie. Mother dug a hole in the ground, placed the food in a heavy iron kettle with a tight lid, then set it in the hole and covered it with burning buffalo chips or small pieces of wood. She prepared many meals in this way.

“Mary, what do you see?” Mary’s stepmother spoke softly from her sickbed.
“The fighting seems to be getting closer,” said Mary, looking out the window. The American Civil War was being fought just a few miles away. The sound of gunshots had filled the air since morning. Mary turned to her stepmother. “I’m so sorry. I don’t think we can leave the house to get the doctor.”
“Come closer.” Mary sat next to the bed and took her stepmother’s hand. “I know your father is still not well,” Mary’s stepmother said quietly, “but you need to take the family to Zion—your brother, your sister, and the twins. Don’t give your father any peace until he goes to the Rocky Mountains! Promise me!”
Mary knew how much her family wanted to go to Salt Lake City. After they heard the gospel and were baptized, they had left England to join the Saints in Zion. But would it even be possible? She glanced at her father, who sat silently in his chair. Three years ago, Father had suffered a terrible stroke that had paralyzed his left side.
Mary took a deep breath. “I promise,” she whispered.
Soon Mary’s stepmother closed her eyes for the last time.
One morning soon after, Mary decided it was time to tell her father about her promise. “I know I’m just 14,” she said, “but I must take our family to Zion.” She heard the twins waking. “I need to go get breakfast started,” she said. “But just think about it, please.”
A few days later, Father called Mary over. “It’s all arranged,” he said. His speech was still slurred from the stroke. “I’ve sold our land and the coal mine so we can buy a wagon, some oxen, cows, and a few supplies. A wagon company is leaving soon for the West. They’re not Latter-day Saints, but we can travel with them as far as Iowa. When we get there, we can join a party of Saints going to the Salt Lake Valley.”
Mary threw her arms around him. “Thank you, Father.” Soon they would go to Zion!
The days passed quickly as Mary helped get the family ready for their travels. “Everything is going to be all right,” she told herself. “Soon we’ll be in Zion.”
But then Father fell ill. From the way his mouth drooped on one side, Mary feared it was another stroke.
“He’s too sick to travel,” she told the leader of the wagon company. “We just need a few days for him to recover.”
“We can’t wait,” the man said briskly. Seeing Mary’s face, he softened his tone. “You can stay here until he’s ready to travel, and then you can catch up with us.” With no other choice, Mary agreed.
A week later, Mary got her family ready to travel again. “The twins and Sarah can ride on the oxen,” she told Jackson, her nine-year-old brother. “Father can ride in the wagon, and you can help me drive the oxen.”
“I’m scared,” Sarah said in a small voice. She was only six, and she looked tiny on the ox’s broad back. The four-year-old twins looked at Mary with wide eyes.
“We’ll just make good time and catch up with our group!” Mary said with forced cheerfulness.
On and on the Wanlass family traveled, for miles, and then for days. Finally, even Mary had to admit the truth.
The wagon party had not waited for them. Mary and her family would have to travel to Zion alone.
To be continued …

As we grow, everything we learn can be used by the Lord to bless someone, somewhere.
As a Scout I learned Morse code. Years later, while I was on my mission, an investigator came into sacrament meeting, and I felt inspired to write him a short note in Morse code which said something like, “Welcome to sacrament meeting. Happy to see you here!”
It turned out he was a radio operator, and it was a great delight to him to have somebody write him a note in Morse code. Imagine how happy I was when this investigator, with a big smile, said, “I’m so glad that you wrote me this message in Morse code!” I was amazed that something I had learned years earlier could help me on my mission to reach a certain individual in a particular way.
As we are open to new things and to learning in our lives, the Lord knows what we have learned and can use us to bless others. Morse code is a specific example, but if we are willing, the Lord can use us as instruments to bless the lives of others and bring joy to their lives and our own.

“What’re you doing with my ball?” Rodney Sims growled at me as I stood under the huge sycamore tree at the park, admiring the new football I’d found on the grass. He stomped toward me, his face red and sweaty from playing ball in the sun.
I nodded at my friend Frank. “We were just riding past on our bikes and spotted it lying here. I figured somebody lost it.”
“Well, I left it here,” Rodney barked, snatching the ball from my hands and tucking it under his arm. “It isn’t lost, and I don’t need anybody ripping it off, either.”
“I wasn’t trying to steal it,” I said, climbing back onto my bike. “It sure is a nice ball, though. If it were mine, I’d write my name on it so I wouldn’t lose it.”
“Hey, kid, you want to buy it?” Rodney’s tone was suddenly friendly. Surprised, I turned to face him. “I have another one.” He nodded at the guys who were still playing football. “If you like this one, I’ll sell it to you.”
I laid my bike down again and took the ball, a red and gold San Francisco 49ers ball. It fit my hand perfectly. I had seen some just like it at the Sports Haven, a big sporting goods store downtown. The 49ers were my favorite pro football team, and I had wanted a ball like this one, but it cost ten dollars.
“I like it,” I said, gripping the ball tightly, cocking my arm and pretending to throw a pass. I shook my head and handed it back to Rodney. “But I don’t have ten dollars.”
Rodney studied the ball as he rolled it in his hands. “I’ll sell it to you for five.”
“Five dollars?”
“I have my other ball, and I’m a Dallas Cowboys fan, anyway.”
My mind began to race. I had four dollars at home in my drawer, and I could borrow a dollar from my little sister, Stephanie. I licked my lips and grabbed the ball again, searching for flaws. There were none.
“I’d have to go home for the money,” I explained, picking up my bike. “It’ll take me fifteen or twenty minutes.”
“I’ll be here. But the price is five dollars. And no refunds or returns.”
I sped home so fast that Frank had a hard time keeping up with me. Stephanie agreed to lend me a dollar until my next allowance. I snatched the other four dollars from my drawer.
“You’d better think about this,” Frank warned as I crashed out the front door and leaped for my bike. He was still straddling his bike in the driveway.
“What do you mean, think about it? I’ll never get another deal like this! Five dollars, Frank, for a ten dollar ball! And if I bought it at the Sports Haven, I’d have to pay tax too. I can’t pass this up.”
“Something’s fishy, Joshua,” he cautioned me again. “Has Rodney ever been nice to you?” I thought a moment and shook my head. “So why’s he suddenly doing you this great big favor?”
“He has an extra football and he doesn’t like the 49ers. I’m just helping him out,” I answered defensively.
“Something has to be wrong with the ball. Maybe it has a slow leak. Have you thought of that?”
“I checked the ball out really well, Frank. It’s brand new. Nothing’s wrong with it.”
“I wouldn’t buy it if I were you, Joshua.”
I stared at my friend. “You’re just jealous because he’s not selling it to you. I’m getting that ball before Rodney changes his mind.”
Rodney was waiting for me under the sycamore tree with one of his buddies. The others had left. He had the new 49ers ball and another one that was a bit scuffed up. I held the money out, and Rodney snatched it. As soon as he was sure it was all there, he handed me the football. “You just bought yourself a ball, kid.” He laughed and slapped his friend on the shoulder. “Come on, let’s head out of here.”
Holding the ball, I watched the two run off. They were smirking as they glanced over their shoulders in my direction. An uneasiness stirred inside me. I thought of Frank’s warning. Maybe there was something wrong with the ball. I tossed it around a bit. It felt good. I squeezed it to see if it was losing air. It seemed firm enough. If there was anything wrong with the ball, I sure couldn’t tell what it was.
For the next two days, my friends and I played with my 49ers ball. It was everybody’s favorite. It didn’t have a slow leak, either. It was brand new, just like it looked. I kidded Frank about being worried and asked him if he wished he had come up with the five dollars. He shook his head, but I still figured he was jealous.
One afternoon as I sat on the front steps, tossing my ball in the air and catching it, he rode up on his bike, looking serious. “I found out something about your ball,” he said.
I grinned. “Are you still worried about this ball, Frank?”
Frank didn’t smile. “My brother Derek runs around with one of Rodney’s friends. According to him, Rodney ripped that ball off.”
“What do you mean ‘ripped it off’?”
“Rodney stole it from the Sports Haven. A couple of his friends covered for him, but he was the one who sneaked it out of the store. That’s why he wanted to sell it.”
It felt as if Frank had punched me in the stomach. I looked at the football. “Maybe this isn’t the same ball,” I argued, feeling myself get angry.
“Rodney stole a 49ers ball the same afternoon you bought it from him. This is the one, all right.”
“Well, I didn’t steal it,” I snapped at Frank. “I paid for it, so it isn’t my problem. And I didn’t know it was stolen when I bought it from Rodney. He’s the thief, not me.”
Frank shrugged and turned away. “I just figured you ought to know.”
I was angry at him for telling me about Rodney’s stealing, because I liked that ball and I wanted to keep it. “Are you going to tell anybody?” I shouted after him. He turned back and stared at me. Slowly he shook his head.
After he left, I put the ball away. When Stephanie asked me to play catch, I said no. I kept telling myself that the ball was mine, fair and square, and that I hadn’t done anything wrong. But I still didn’t feel good about having it. I didn’t even want to play with it anymore. And I sure didn’t want to tell Mom and Dad what Frank had said. They hadn’t been happy about my borrowing the dollar from Stephanie in the first place, but they’d only suggested I pray about it and left it up to me.
The next day I went looking for Rodney. He was riding his bike over in the school parking lot with a couple of his buddies. Walking up to him, I handed him the football. “I want my five dollars back!”
He looked at the ball and then at me. “I told you—no refunds and no returns. Besides, I’ve already spent most of the money. And,” he added, nodding down at the ball, “it doesn’t even look new, anymore.”
“You stole this ball,” I hissed.
The grin disappeared from his face. Jumping off his bike and letting it clatter to the pavement, he grabbed the front of my shirt and jerked me toward him. “Who told you that?”
“There are guys who know,” I rasped. “And I don’t want a stolen ball.”
“Don’t you go blabbing around that I stole that ball, kid, or you’re going to be in a bunch of trouble. Nobody can prove that I stole it. Besides, it’s your ball. You paid for it.”
“I don’t want it now.”
“That’s your problem. If you don’t want it, go throw it in the trash.” He gave me a hard shove, climbed onto his bike, and rode off with his friends.
My feet dragged as I left the parking lot, carrying the football that until yesterday had been such a prize. Now it was a cold, hard reminder of dishonesty. I saw the garbage dumpster in the corner of the parking lot. I considered throwing the ball away. But I couldn’t. I’d paid five dollars for it, and I still owed Stephanie a dollar. I couldn’t just get rid of it.
I tried telling myself that I hadn’t done anything wrong. I hadn’t known the ball was stolen when I bought it. I hadn’t been the one to take it. I had tried to give it back to Rodney. What else was I supposed to do? Was I supposed to lose my five dollars because Rodney had done something wrong?
I shook my head. All my excuses wouldn’t make the sick, guilty feeling go away. I thought of the Sports Haven. I had always liked going there and looking around. Now every time I even passed by, I thought of the stolen football. And even though I hadn’t been the one to steal it, the Sports Haven was still missing a ball. And I had it. I knew what Dad and Mom would say, and I knew I wouldn’t feel good again until I did it.
I walked home, climbed onto my bike, and rode downtown. It was tough walking into the Sports Haven. I asked for the manager, Mr. Turley. One of the clerks took me to his office in the back of the store.
“Well, hello, Joshua,” Mr. Turley greeted me as I stepped into the office. “How can I help you?”
I set the football in the middle of his desk and stared at it. “This ball was stolen from the Sports Haven,” I announced quietly. “I didn’t steal it, though,” I quickly added. I told him the whole story.
“So it’s not my ball,” I finally ended. “You might not want it, either, because it’s been used and I wrote my name on it in black marker.”
Mr. Turley leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. For a long time he thought without saying anything. Finally he leaned forward and took the ball from his desk and rolled it around in his hands. “Joshua, first of all, I want you to know that I’m happy that you had the courage to come in. I don’t expect that that was very easy.” I shook my head without looking at him. “It’s not always easy to be completely honest. In this case, it cost you five dollars. And you weren’t even the one who stole the ball. But being honest is more important than this football or the money you spent to buy it.”
Mr. Turley smiled at me. “I’m going to try to make being honest this time a little easier for you. You’ve already paid five dollars. I have some work around here that you could do to earn the other five. Then the ball would be yours.”
“You mean I could keep it?”
Mr. Turley smiled. “You just be here tomorrow morning.” Grinning, I turned and started for the door, the sick, guilty feeling gone. “Hey, Joshua,” Mr. Turley called out. I turned. He laughed and tossed me the ball. “You’d better take that with you, or someone might walk off with it.”

The home teachers had scarcely sat down and exchanged greetings with the family when their teenage son blurted out, “How can you say we’re the only true church when some of the best kids in school aren’t Mormons and they believe in their church just as much as we do?”
A quick glance at the young man’s father was met with a tired shrug, as much as if to say, “We’ve tried; now see what you can do with him.”
The older of the home teachers paused a moment, then said, “Well, Chris, that’s a fair question. It reminds me of something that happened when I was just a couple of years older than you are. When I first went away to college back east, I took certain notions along with me—prejudices, I guess. I thought I would be going from the shelter of simple farm life to a decadent city where my principles would be challenged every minute. But that didn’t really happen. I was surprised to find that most of my classmates were fine people. Some of them belonged to other churches, and some didn’t belong to any church at all. And as I observed their behavior, I sometimes wondered if I would have been as honest as many of them were if I hadn’t been raised in a Latter-day Saint family. Have you ever thought about that?”
Chris nodded, and the home teacher continued: “So when we say that ours is the only true church, we’re not saying that we’re superior to other people or that we’re the only people on earth who are concerned about doing good, but that this is the one church that the Lord has authorized through priesthood power to preach his gospel and perform the ordinances necessary for salvation. We want all people to have these good things. …”
The discussion continued calmly. After looking up “One Lord, one faith, one baptism” (Eph. 4:5) and a few other scriptures, Chris soon had a satisfactory answer to his question.

I must have recited the Young Women theme a million times before I had an experience that helped me learn to appreciate its importance.
In Young Women opening exercises, I usually recited the theme without really thinking about what I was saying. But one particular day, during my junior year of high school, those inspired words rang through my mind as I faced an important decision.
My teacher assigned our speech class group projects. Each group picked a scene from a play to perform for the class. We spent the next four days preparing for our performances, and we started to hear rumors that one group of boys had chosen a questionable scene dealing with morality issues. A lot of us were surprised when our teacher allowed them to keep their selection. He argued that it was a well-known play, and “for art’s sake,” he said, he must allow them to perform it.
On the day of the performances, our teacher again discussed the controversial play. He agreed it might be offensive. Then he added, “Those of you who feel uncomfortable have my permission to leave the room.” Jokingly, half the class stood up and pretended to walk out. Who wouldn’t want to take advantage of going to lunch early?
I began feeling a little nervous as the boys started their performance. At first, several of my classmates blushed and giggled uneasily, but as the scene went on, people began to relax. I was shocked to see no one leaving the room. I looked at a few of my Latter-day Saint friends, watching for one of them to give the signal for us to walk out together. But none of them did. I remained at my desk with my head down so no one could see my crimson cheeks. I felt very uncomfortable, but I was also afraid to leave. After all, it was art, right?
At that moment, the Young Women theme came into my mind: “We will ‘stand as witnesses of God at all times and in all things, and in all places’ (Mosiah 18:9).” Immediately, I knew what I was going to do. “All places” meant everywhere, even in a classroom with my friends.
Quietly, I got up and left the room. That was it. No one got up and followed me. No one applauded my valiant act. No one was converted by my example. But inside I knew I had done the right thing, even though people teased me for the next two weeks. I felt good about standing up for my beliefs “at all times and in all things, and in all places.”

Mark, Ben, and Corey were kneeling in the sandpile, building tunnels and roads for their cars and men. The boys were so busy that they didn’t see Patrick ride up on his bike.
He stood watching for a while. Finally he asked, “Can I play?”
“No. Go away, Patrick,” Ben said without even looking up.
“There’s no room in my sandpile for you,” Mark added.
The three boys continued playing and ignored Patrick.
“Anyone want lemonade?” Mark’s mom called from the open kitchen window.
“Yes!” Mark yelled enthusiastically. The other boys shouted yes too.
When Mark’s mom brought out four glasses of lemonade on a tray, Mark said, “He’s not playing,” pointing at Patrick. Patrick stood back and hung his head.
Mom gave Patrick a glass of lemonade. “He can still be thirsty, can’t he?” she said to Mark. When they had finished drinking, Mom asked Mark to help her carry the glasses back inside.
“Why won’t you let Patrick play?” Mom asked Mark when they were in the kitchen.
“He’s a thief, Mom,” Mark explained. “Everyone knows it. He stole one of my men.”
“Oh?” Mom raised an eyebrow. “When?”
“Last summer.” Mark hesitated. “He gave it back, but the guys are worried that he’ll take some more.”
Mom looked hard at Mark. “Haven’t you ever done something wrong and been sorry later?” she asked.
Mark squirmed. “Yes, I guess so,” he admitted. “But you always say it’s wrong to steal.”
“Yes, stealing is wrong. But it’s important to forgive too.”
“Maybe,” Mark said, unconvinced. He scuffed his foot impatiently on the floor. “Can I go now? The guys are waiting for me.”
Mom nodded, and Mark ran back outside.
That evening Mark hurried to clear away the supper dishes so that he could go out and play. In his haste, he bumped into the counter and dropped his plate. The plate shattered when it hit the floor.
“Gee, I’m sorry, Mom,” he said as he swept up the pieces.
Mom smiled understandingly. “I forgive you,” she said.
As he put away the broom and finished clearing the table, Mark thought about what his mom had said. She didn’t have to forgive him, he knew. He wondered how he would feel if she had stayed mad at him. Mark started thinking about other times when he’d had an accident or had done something wrong. Dad still lets me use his hammer, even after I cracked the handle. And I can still go camping with him, even though I lost his best flashlight the last time we went. Mark was suddenly very glad that his parents gave him a second chance when he made a mistake.
The next day, Mark and his friends were setting up some toy men on the front porch. Patrick came along and watched them longingly, but he didn’t ask to play. Mark looked at Ben and Corey, then at Patrick. He hesitated, then beckoned. “Come on over, Patrick. You can be on my side.”
“You’re letting that thief play?” Corey protested.
“He’s not a thief,” Mark said firmly. “He just made a mistake once. He can use some of my men.”
“Well, OK,” Corey grumbled. “But keep your eyes on him.”
“Thanks,” Patrick said, smiling. “I won’t take anything. I promise.”
Ben moved over to make room for him.
Later, as Mark helped his mom set the supper table, she said, “I’m glad you let Patrick play this afternoon.”
“I am, too,” Mark said. “Tomorrow he’s going to bring over some of his cars and men for us to play with. I think he’s learned his lesson about taking things.”
“Yes,” Mom said. “And you’ve learned a lesson about forgiving.” She gave him a big hug, and Mark grinned.