Gospel Story Finder

Four-year-old Hannah’s eyes popped open. Today was zoo day! She jumped out of bed.
“I’m ready,” she called.
“Ready for what?” Mom asked.
“Ready for the zoo!”
“Go look in the kitchen first,” Mom said.
Hannah hurried to the kitchen. There was an empty bowl on the table. Then Hannah remembered. Breakfast came before the zoo.
After Hannah ate, she handed Mom her bowl. “I’m ready now.”
“I don’t think so,” Mom said. “Go look in the mirror.”
Hannah ran to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. Her hair was tangled, and she had a big white milk mustache. Hannah grabbed a cloth and washed her face. Then she brushed her teeth and combed her hair.
“Now I’m ready,” she called.
“Not yet,” Mom said. “Look in your bedroom for something Grandma sent you!”
Hannah ran to her room. A new dress was on her bed. It was white with red cherries on it. Red was her favorite color. But Hannah frowned.
“It doesn’t have any sleeves,” she said.
Mom went to Hannah’s closet. She pulled out a bright red T-shirt that matched the bright red cherries.
“You can wear this under the dress,” Mom said. “Then it will be modest.”
Hannah quickly put the T-shirt on and then the dress.
“Now I am ready to go to the zoo!”
“Yes,” Mom said and smiled. “Now you are ready.”

“Do you believe in God?”
“Yes,” I stammered. I couldn’t believe it. Here I was sitting in front of four of my best friends and my high school biology teacher, and not one of them believed in God.
“But what about evolution?” my friends asked.
My biology teacher, who had a reputation for being stubborn and persistent, turned his head momentarily from his papers and said: “Now, let’s be logical here. Look at the facts. Where does the evidence point?”
I was tongue-tied. I have known the Church is true since I was very young. I felt it was true. However, at the same time, logic and reason were driving forces in my life.
As I sat there, trying to come up with an answer to their questions, the awkward silence gave them satisfaction. They thought I had hit a dead end in my reasoning, as they expected I would. Thinking of no arguments to counter their position, I silently said a quick prayer, pleading with God to direct my words toward these five people. Within seconds a thought crossed my mind: “It is not you who converts, but the Spirit.”
Upon hearing those simple words, I began to share my testimony with my friends. I said, “I know there is a God, and He has a Son who created the world and saved us all. Whether or not we have all the answers now doesn’t discredit the fact that there is a God. God works line upon line and precept upon precept. Until we prove our faith, God will not reveal more to us.” I finished by confirming my testimony of the Church and its leaders, forgetting to even address the original questions posed.
After I finished, they all sat in silence, staring at me. I could feel my face getting hot. Just then, the bell rang. I grabbed my bag, thankful for this escape route, and headed for the door. As I opened the door, my biology teacher swung his chair around and called my name.
I turned, anticipating a rebuttal and, to my shock, found a sincere face staring back at me. “Thank you,” he said.
My simple testimony had conveyed more convincing truth than any logical debate could have. I know that I did not dissolve their accusations and criticisms that day, but the Holy Spirit did.

President Wilford Woodruff tells of an interesting incident that occurred in the days of the Prophet Joseph Smith:
“I will refer to a certain meeting I attended in the town of Kirtland in my early days. At that meeting some remarks were made that have been made here today, with regard to the living prophets and with regard to the written word of God. The same principle was presented, although not as extensively as it has been here, when a leading man in the Church got up and talked upon the subject, and said: ‘You have got the word of God before you here in the Bible, Book of Mormon, and Doctrine and Covenants; you have the written word of God, and you who give revelations should give revelations according to those books, as what is written in those books is the word of God. We should confine ourselves to them.’
“When he concluded, Brother Joseph turned to Brother Brigham Young and said, ‘Brother Brigham I want you to go to the podium and tell us your views with regard to the living oracles and the written word of God.’ Brother Brigham took the stand, and he took the Bible, and laid it down; he took the Book of Mormon, and laid it down; and he took the Book of Doctrine and Covenants, and laid it down before him, and he said: ‘There is the written word of God to us, concerning the work of God from the beginning of the world, almost, to our day. And now,’ said he, ‘when compared with the living oracles those books are nothing to me; those books do not convey the word of God direct to us now, as do the words of a Prophet or a man bearing the Holy Priesthood in our day and generation. I would rather have the living oracles than all the writing in the books.’ That was the course he pursued. When he was through, Brother Joseph said to the congregation; ‘Brother Brigham has told you the word of the Lord, and he has told you the truth.’” (Conference Report, October 1897, pp. 18–19.)

My parents and grandparents were born and raised in Utah. However, my mother and father began their married life in Phoenix, Arizona. That is where my three brothers and I were raised. Almost every summer my father and mother would take all of us to Utah to get out of the Arizona heat and also to enjoy the association with our cousins and other relatives.
Our parents taught us early the importance of working, first with the various responsibilities around the home and later adding other work opportunities such as selling newspapers, magazines, doing gardening for the neighbors, and babysitting. When I was old enough to work for someone else on a full-time basis, I had desires to go from Phoenix to Utah alone and spend the summer there working and earning money. This was to be during the summer vacation. One spring before school was out I asked my father if I could go to Salt Lake City to work and then return to Phoenix at the end of the summer to be with my family and begin school again. After thinking it over, my parents decided it would be fine. When school was out in May, Dad took me with him to the Continental Bus depot and, since I had no money of my own as yet, bought me a ticket to Salt Lake City. I was somewhat taken back when I found out that he had purchased for me a one-way ticket instead of a round trip. He said he would take the responsibility to see that I arrived in Salt Lake City but it would be up to me to do what was necessary while I was there to purchase the ticket for a return home to Phoenix at the end of the summer. As you can imagine, I was most anxious to come back home after my work experience as I had burning in my memory the happy experiences we had always enjoyed in our home. I enjoyed the association with and loved my three brothers and was most happy and comfortable being with my parents.
When I arrived in Salt Lake City I immediately set about to find work. This I was able to accomplish, and as soon as my first paycheck was given to me, guess what I did. First I paid my tithing, and then I took the rest of the money to the bus depot downtown in Salt Lake City and purchased a return trip ticket to Phoenix. I wanted to be sure that when summer was over there would be nothing to stand in the way of my returning home. I loved my home very much. For the rest of the summer I was particularly mindful of taking good care of myself and doing everything necessary to insure my return home to Phoenix. More than anything else I wanted to enjoy again the experience of being with my family.

Jason fixed his gaze on the carpet below him.

It had been only two months since he had started going back to church after having been a runaway for four months.

A lot can happen in four months when you’re just going with the flow, doing whatever seems like a good idea at the time. He had done things he thought would make him happy—and yet, strangely enough, they eventually made him feel worse.

He had quit high school, left home, and moved in with some friends across town. One night late, after he’d been drinking, he was hit by a car as he tried to cross the street.

The next thing he remembered was the sound of a familiar voice. “I’m Jason Miller’s mother. How is he?” she said to the nurse in intensive care.

“So far he’s stable, but he’s still unconscious.”

“My husband will be coming soon. He was out of town when we got the news. I phoned him, and he’ll be here in an hour. Is it okay if I stay here with my son?”

“Of course. I’ll get you a chair.”

Jason felt her hand on his. “Jason, I’m here.”

“He can’t hear you,” the nurse said.

Jason could hear his mother though. He just couldn’t let her know. There was some kind of a barrier.

“Jason, I love you. I’m sorry about your accident. Everything is going to be okay. As soon as your dad gets here, he’ll administer to you. He’ll be here in just a short time.” She paused. “Jason, you don’t know how many times I’ve prayed for you. Every day, several times a day. I’ve prayed that when you grow tired of being rebellious, that you’ll know we love you and come back. We made some mistakes as parents. Maybe we were too critical of you, too quick to find fault, but we did our best. There are some things we’d do differently now, but we did the best we could at the time.

“There’s a story the Savior told—I’ve thought so much about it lately. A father had a son who wanted to be independent. He asked for his inheritance and took it to live in another town. He lived a wild life. But then there was a famine, and he ran out of money and was forced to get a job feeding swine. He was so hungry he thought about eating the husks he was feeding to the pigs. But then he thought about his father’s servants, how much better off they were than he was. He decided to return home and ask his father if he could be just one of his servants.

“His father was in the field the day the son came home. The scriptures tell us he saw his son from afar off and ran out to greet him, and when he saw him, he threw his arms around him and welcomed him back and requested the servants to prepare a celebration dinner.

“I’ll tell you a secret. It was no accident that the father saw his son from far off, because I think he looked down that road for his son many times every day. Like your father and I have. Sometimes we’ve left the lights on all night just in case you might come home during the night. We wanted you to know you were welcome, but you never came.”

His mother broke down crying.

“I’m sorry. It’s just that sometimes it’s hard to be a parent. You’ll find that out someday. It’s hard to wait for a prodigal son to come home. We love you, Jason. All we want is what’s best for you. Heavenly Father loves you. Jason, please, when you’re able, come home. Live the gospel. It’s not too late to come back.”

Jason had heard everything his mother said, but he couldn’t seem to make any movement to tell her.

Later Jason was aware that his father had come into the room with another man. He felt their hands being placed lightly on his head. And then they administered to him.

The next day Jason came out of his coma. A week later he was well enough to go home.

And now he was working with the bishop on plans to someday serve a mission.

Jason stood up, cleared his throat, and began his testimony. “I’m glad that Christ gave the parable of the prodigal son …”

Stewart woke up with an intense feeling of dread. It was Friday—dodgeball day in gym class. His stomach was already tying itself in knots. He ate no breakfast, and he was mostly silent while his mom drove him to school.
First period was art class, his favorite. He liked it because it was something he could do well. He also liked it because he didn’t have to compete with anyone. There was no winner, no loser, just everyone doing his very best. That’s fair, he thought.
Second period was English, a class that Stewart would have really enjoyed if it were not right before gym. He loved to read. It was a grand adventure to let his imagination whisk him off to faraway places. But today, just as he got into a story and started enjoying it, he remembered that in less than an hour he would be in his gym shorts and sneakers, waiting for all the other boys to be chosen for teams. Then someone would finally say, “Oh, great—I guess we’re stuck with Stewart!” He hated that part even worse than the actual playing of the game. Naturally, the biggest, most athletic boys were chosen first; Stewart understood that, but he didn’t understand why they had to make fun of him just because he didn’t play as well.
Third period came. Stewart walked across the football field to the gymnasium, dreading even the musky smell of the locker room. He and the other boys dressed quickly and took their places on the gym floor; the coaches didn’t like to be kept waiting.
“Line up; it’s dodgeball day,” Coach Warden shouted. “We need some team leaders!”
Stewart kicked at the chipped lines painted on the old gymnasium floor, wishing that the period was over and that he was eating lunch. He was startled when Coach Warden called his name—he had never been called on to choose a team before!
Soon he and three other boys were standing in a line facing the group. Then Coach Warden walked over, “Stewart, you go first.”
Immediately most of the boys began the usual ritual of jumping up and down, waving their hands, and yelling, “Me! Me! Me!” Dan just stood there with his arms folded across his chest. He didn’t have to jump up and down; he was the best athlete in the whole school and was always chosen first. He told Stewart, “Go ahead—pick me, and I’ll pick the rest of the team for you.” When Stewart hesitated, Dan looked puzzled. “Pick me—you know I’m the best.”
The entire gymnasium became silent in disbelief when Stewart said, “I choose Craig.”
Craig stepped forward with a look of amazement that turned into a big grin. “I’ve never been first pick before.” He had always been chosen just before Stewart—next to last.
The other team leaders made their first choices. When it was Stewart’s turn again, a pin could have been heard dropping as he called out, “Andy.” Andy had usually been chosen just before Craig.
At each subsequent turn, Stewart went on going up the ladder instead of down, choosing boys who were usually “assigned,” rather than chosen. The other team leaders chose the best athletes, as usual.
For the first time, Stewart enjoyed the game. His team came in last, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that every boy on the team felt wanted.
After the game, the boys went to change clothes. Stewart was tying his shoelaces when Dan towered over him and taunted him, “I told you to pick me. But you wouldn’t do it. You’re nothing but a loser.”
“Dan!” It was the authoritative voice of the coach. “Stewart is many things, but a loser certainly isn’t one of them.” Coach Warden made Dan apologize, sent him and the other boys on to class, then turned to Stewart. “I want to thank you.”
“Huh? What for?”
Coach Warden sat down on the bench, motioning Stewart to sit beside him. “For reteaching me a very important lesson. You see, whenever there’s competition, there has to be a winner and a loser. Everyone wants to be a winner, and nobody wants to be a loser. Today the other team leaders were thinking only about winning, so they chose the best athletes. You were more concerned with the boys themselves, with their feelings. It would’ve been very easy for you to have picked Dan and let him put together the winning team for you. But you didn’t. You were brave enough to choose those whom the others considered losers. But you were the real winner today, Stewart, and so were your teammates. I’m very proud of you.”
The coach walked with Stewart to the door, then went into his office and made a list of all of the boys. He cut the names out on individual strips of paper and threw them into a baseball cap, ready for picking the next day’s teams.

“Let’s go! They’re waiting for us,” I said anxiously. I was nervous, the crowd was waiting, and I was ready to perform.
My friends Carson, Mark, Tyson, Bryce, and I had formed a dance group called Saturday Knights. After performing well in a competition, our group had become well known in the community. Tonight we were dancing during the intermission of a scholarship pageant.
As we were about to go on stage, Mark suggested we say a prayer. We always have a prayer before and after each performance.
“No, let’s just go,” I said. “They’re waiting for us. We don’t have time.”
Mark looked at me intently and said firmly, “There is never enough time to thank the Lord for all He has given us. We have time to pray.”
I was struck dumb. I stood there feeling terrible. Correcting myself, I knelt with my friends, said a prayer of thanksgiving, and then went on stage.
Mark’s comment gave me a new perspective on gratitude. He was right. There really isn’t enough time to thank Heavenly Father for all of His countless blessings. Because of Mark’s example, my testimony was strengthened. I have never forgotten his words, and my life has been greatly blessed because of them.

Another faithful missionary was Carl A. Carlquist, born near Vänersborg in 1857. At age 17, he felt a strong desire to preach the gospel and was called to distribute Church tracts around Jönköping. He was poor, so members of his branch, seven widows and their children, obtained a suit coat and boots for him. Carl didn’t own an overcoat when the winter season came, but he was allowed to borrow one a few hours every day from some of the members when they didn’t need theirs.5

Carl later emigrated to Utah and married Hulda Östergren, a Swedish immigrant. He returned to Sweden two more times on missions, including as mission president of the Scandinavian Mission. Much of his last mission was spent correcting false reports published about the Church by Reverend P. E. Åslev, a pastor who had lived in Salt Lake City and was hired to promote anti-Mormon sentiment in Sweden. For instance, in 1912, Åslev wrote an article in the newspaper Svenska Dagbladet in which he claimed that Brother Carlquist was a polygamist.6 Carl’s efforts included meeting with King Gustaf V and refuting Åslev’s claims in public meetings.7

A few months ago, a friend came to our home under the pretext that he had some questions about the Church he needed help in answering. He said he had discovered the Book of Mormon was not the word of God and that Joseph Smith was not a prophet of God. He then proceeded to quote articles and books which were written by enemies of the Church. As he listed his sources, I replied that I also had read them and others, and they had only served to confirm my faith in the Book of Mormon and the Prophet Joseph Smith. He was surprised that I could have read the same things he had read and not believe as he believed. I suggested that he devote at least equal time to the right side of the issue, but he had come with a decision, not a question. His mind was made up. He did not want to know. His heart was closed. I thought of the children of Israel and their reaction to the Lord after he had guided them out of bondage: “And notwithstanding they being led, the Lord their God, their Redeemer, going before them, leading them by day and giving light unto them by night, and doing all things for them which were expedient for man to receive, they hardened their hearts and blinded their minds, and reviled against Moses and against the true and living God” (1 Ne. 17:30).

A special experience for me was meeting with my sisters. One of them, Ilona Kebrt, and her daughter, Olga, went with me to church. Olga was very impressed with the appearance and behavior of the full-time missionaries. “I have never seen boys my age act and look like this,” she said. “They look as though they came from a different world.”
Since my visit, I have learned that the gospel seeds I planted have started to bear fruit. My niece, Olga, has been baptized, and she is now living with a family in London, England. She wrote to me: “When you visited with us, I heard you share your testimony of the gospel, and although I didn’t completely understand what you meant, I wanted to know more. Now, as a member of the Church, I know. I feel as though I have grown in wisdom beyond my years. Life makes sense to me, and for the first time I know what to do.”

It was impossible to cheer up Aunt Mabel. I’d been with her all day, and she hadn’t even come close to smiling. I handed the mail to her and said, “A magazine and a letter from Cousin Ellen.”
“But no surprise package from anyone,” Aunt Mabel said. “What a bad day.” She set the mail on the table in the dark hall and turned to me. “Shall we go for a little walk, Judy?” she asked.
“Sure,” I said, happy to get out of her gloomy house. When we stepped outside, I smiled up at the blue sky. “What a bright, sunny day,” I said.
Aunt Mabel glared at the sky. “It’s too bright. It makes me squint. Now I’ll get more wrinkles. What a bad day.”
I looked down and saw something shiny on the sidewalk. “Look! A penny,” I said, stooping to pick it up.
“Too bad it’s not a dime or a quarter,” Aunt Mabel said.
We walked to the park and Aunt Mabel sat on a bench under a big, leafy tree. “Isn’t it nice here in the shade?” I asked.
Aunt Mabel shook her head, gazing uneasily at the branches.
“Those leaves are probably full of caterpillars, and one might fall on me. What a bad day.”
I sighed and sat next to Aunt Mabel, but no caterpillars fell from the tree. After a few minutes, Aunt Mabel stood up. “Let’s be on our way,” she said.
We walked beside a garden that was filled with big yellow and orange flowers. “Mmmm,” I said. “Don’t those flowers smell sweet!”
Aunt Mabel rubbed her nose. “Makes my nose twitch,” she said, hurrying past the garden. “What a bad day.”
I slowed down and breathed in the sweet fragrance. My nose wasn’t twitching. I watched Aunt Mabel walk along the path and wondered how I could cheer her up. Skipping along, I caught up with her. “At least the sun’s not in our eyes, now,” I said, watching our shadows stretch before us.
Aunt Mabel buttoned her sweater. “Now the sun is hot on my back, but I’m cold in front. What a bad day.”
“We’re almost home,” I said as we turned the corner and Aunt Mabel’s house came into view. “You have a pretty house.”
Aunt Mabel looked up at her house. “It’s old,” she said. “The floor boards creak and groan.”
We climbed the steps and sat on the porch swing. “Shall I get us some lemonade?” I asked. Aunt Mabel nodded.
I carried two glasses of lemonade out to the porch. I knew what Aunt Mabel would say, and sure enough, after one sip she said it: “This lemonade is too sour. What a bad day.”
I was thirsty and drank mine right down. I thought it tasted pretty good. At last Mom’s car pulled up in front of the house, and I jumped up to leave.
“Did you have a nice visit?” she asked. I just shrugged. I didn’t want to lie and say I’d had a great time.
Aunt Mabel stood up and kissed Mom on the cheek. Then she gave me a hug. I hugged her, too, and she said, “Ouch! Watch out for these old bones!” I backed away.
“Did you have a good day visiting with your niece?” Mom asked her.
I waited for Aunt Mabel to tell Mom what a bad day she’d had.
“I had a very good day,” Aunt Mabel said. “It was nice to have someone to tell my troubles to.”
Mom and I got in the car, and before we drove away, I waved to Aunt Mabel. She waved back, and I was sure she actually smiled at me.
“You certainly cheered Aunt Mabel up,” Mom said.
“Yes,” I said. “What a bad-good day we had.”

Before the performance, the idea of trying to fill the civic arts center’s 1,800 seats was a major worry. There had to be a small charge to cover the rental of the building and the technical crew that worked for the civic center. However, the ticket price was much less than the price of a movie ticket, and for many members of the community, particularly those on fixed incomes, it was the first chance they had to attend a great production at the new civic arts plaza. The low ticket price also made it possible for whole families to attend a show together. And that’s who came—by the hundreds.
The night of the first performance was a sellout. There were lots of backstage nerves, but lots of excitement too. “I’ll never forget waiting in line backstage,” said Jenny Orme, Thousand Oaks Fourth Ward, “getting ready to go on stage and having that feeling of delight. All during practices, the performance seemed so far away, but now it was here and everyone was ready to show the audience what we could do and what we had worked so hard for.”
The show was such a success that people clamored for another performance. However, the encore performance did not go so smoothly.
Just hours before the second performance was to go on, the power failed. Nothing is darker than the inside of a theater with no power. The cast gathered for prayer. Together they asked for a miracle.
Still no lights.
The cast, already in costume, gathered on the stage. The mood was glum. Then Tina Johnson walked over to her friend Danielle Smith and asked her if she wanted to sing “How Great Thou Art” with her. The two girls’ voices filled the dark and others joined in. As soon as they finished that hymn, another was started. A great feeling of warmth and comfort and peace came over the cast.
Still no lights. That night the show had to be canceled.
“It was a very spiritual experience,” said Kit Regas. “Even though we didn’t get to do the show, I think everyone gained from that.”
Brother Brimhall explained to the disappointed cast members that many times in the Church’s history people have prepared and worked on something good only to be forced to leave it behind and never enjoy the fruits of their labors. He explained that being engaged in a good cause is always beneficial. It was a hard lesson for some of the young people, but only when the disappointment had faded did they come to appreciate just how wonderful it felt to be praying and singing together on a dark stage.
The second and final performance of Showtime was rescheduled. This time the lights stayed on, stage fright was nearly gone, and the word had spread that this was a very good show. No one worried about empty seats anymore.
The cast had become more than friends; they were more like one big family. The natural barriers between the ages broke down. The teens became good friends with the adults. The adults had a new appreciation for the youth. Tina Johnson said, “I’ll be with my friends at the grocery store, and I’ll see someone from Showtime. We just start talking. My friends always ask, ‘How come you are friends with so many grownups?’”
“Showtime was a really great experience,” said Jessica Seemann, Moorpark First Ward. “I made a lot of new friends, and I became closer to my old friends. My family brought seven nonmembers to the show. They loved it. I am so glad I decided to be in Showtime.”
Why spend all the time and effort to put together such a big show? Emily Benton, 17, of the Moorpark First Ward, knows. “I loved it! I met so many new friends. I love doing things like that and spending time with good LDS people. It was a great missionary experience.”
Now back to Marshall. Did he ever learn to sing and dance? His choreographer, Kathi Orme, says, “His part was not easy. He worked very hard, and he got it.”
But Marshall is harder on himself. “I wish I could say that I’m a better singer and dancer now, but I am still terrible at both.” But there he was, up on stage, trying to smile and concentrate on his feet at the same time. He did great.

I’m having the same problem right now and I’m in the middle of solving it. My mom gave me some great advice. I don’t know about you, but I can sometimes get offended pretty easily. She told me to stop that. She also said that most people aren’t going to stay your friend if you do that sort of thing. I have made a few friends since that talk. It really helped me to understand a lot of things.
Leah Puckett, 12,Grand Junction, Colorado

The first assignment in my sophomore English class was to bring “a signature item” the following Wednesday. “A what?” the class chorused. “A signature item,” the teacher explained, “is something that represents who you are.”
Uh oh, I thought. Something deep—what if I don’t know who I am?
Within my heart lay a desire to live a life that would matter. I wanted to make a positive impact and to know that my life was not lived in vain. Something within me told me that this was possible but did not say how. My confidence was lacking, and I was unsure how I, of all people, could do it.
Since I was originally from Utah, people often asked me if I was a Mormon. Each time, I would answer in a different way: “I don’t know.” “I was baptized, but I don’t go to church.” “No, but I should be.”
For some reason, I felt a responsibility to God to be a Mormon. But it didn’t make sense because I didn’t quite believe in God. At times, I would look out at the starry night and feel strangely alone, yet not alone. The universe filled me with a sense of longing and inexplicable familiarity. When I overheard people talk of how many wonderful blessings they had received from God, I listened with stoic nonchalance. Yet I had wonderful dreams, dreams of courage and honor.
My oldest sister, Lark, was the only active member of the Church in our family. When she moved to Seattle, Washington, with her new husband, Tim, they invited me to attend church with them in the ward they would be moving into, a half hour’s drive away. It was something she wanted me to do, and I somehow knew it was something I was supposed to do. So I decided to go.
With my life fluctuating and with the decision of who I would become hovering before me, I plunged into high school. I recognized that I had a slate wiped almost completely clean. The teachers didn’t know me. Neither did most of the students. The opportunity was excellent for me to redefine who I was, both to others and to myself. I had mixed emotions about popularity, but thought I might have an outside chance at it if I played my cards with precision. This was when the signature item was assigned.
Needless to say, I had not come up with a signature item on Monday. Nor had I come up with anything before going to the weekly Tuesday night youth activity in my sister’s ward. She made some suggestions on the way to the meetinghouse, but none of them satisfied me.
The events of the combined activity had been kept secret, so it was with curiosity that I viewed the cultural hall after my arrival. My first glance revealed tables that appeared to be set for dinner. A second look revealed that there was no food on the tables. Instead of plates containing physical food, there were copies of the Book of Mormon containing spiritual food; instead of eating utensils, there were writing utensils; and instead of napkins, there were sheets of paper. As I took a seat, my attention was captured by this riddle that had been set before me.
Two missionaries were the central speakers. Each bore his testimony of how he came to learn that the Book of Mormon was, indeed, the word of God.
When they turned our attention to a video which told the story of Christ’s visit to the righteous Nephites and Lamanites after his resurrection, an incredible feeling came over me. The way Nephi described the situation then is also an apt description of how I felt: “And it was not a harsh voice, neither was it a loud voice; nevertheless, and notwithstanding it being a small voice it did pierce them … to the center, insomuch that there was no part of their frame that it did not cause to quake; yea, it did pierce them to the very soul, and did cause their hearts to burn” (3 Ne. 11:3). Pure knowledge of the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon entered my soul that night, leaving a mark that would affect me eternally.
As Lark and Tim drove me home, I mentally went through my homework checklist. First period, algebra, done. Second period … Sixth period, English, signature item—uh, oh. What could I take?
In a still, small voice, the Spirit whispered, “The Book of Mormon.” I instantly recognized that it was not my physical ears that had heard this statement. This was the first time I had felt the Spirit with such distinction and clarity.
“Cool!” I stated with outright enthusiasm.
“What?” Lark said as she looked over her shoulder.
In awe, I explained, “I think the Book of Mormon should be my signature item.”
A smile spread quickly across her face, and she said, “Oh, that sounds great, but it will be really hard.”
That realization dampened my enthusiasm considerably. There goes my clean slate, I thought ruefully. Would I be giving up popularity and the chance of making friends in my high school life? Sensing my hesitation, Lark suggested that I pray about it before going to bed. The idea appealed to me, so I agreed. I thanked her for taking me home and went inside my house.
I placed the Book of Mormon with my school books. Then kneeling, I prayed, “Dear Heavenly Father, are you sure this is what you want me to do?” The answer I felt was an immediate yes, accompanied by the assurance of the Spirit. “Will you help me?” I asked. Another strong positive feeling calmed my nerves. Reassured, I went to sleep.
As my sixth-period English class approached, I grew more uncertain. The teacher gave instructions to the class. We were to state our name, what our signature item was, and why it was our signature item. The first two requirements I had down pat, but for some reason, I hadn’t thought about the third. I knew what my signature item was; I didn’t know why it was my signature item.
When the call for volunteers was made, one girl from the front row stood up and shared her signature item. Then the girl next to her stood up and took her turn. A pattern started developing in the order of volunteers. The third person on the front row stood to share her item. After that, the pattern was set. To the class, it was probably just an amusing way of alleviating the uncertainty and pressures of being called to the front of the room. But it meant that I would be the final person to share his signature item.
When my turn came, I slowly walked to the front of the room. I hadn’t written a speech or even made a mental outline of what I would say. I began with, “My name is Derek Tucker, and this is my signature item. It is the Book of Mormon.” From that time until I finished speaking, I felt the Spirit guiding my words. To this day I am not really sure what I said.
After I finished, I braced myself for a verbal assault. But to my amazement and gratitude, there was silence. What truly took me by surprise, however, were the facial expressions of the students. About one-third of the class had tears in their eyes. Others had stoic expressions. And still others were nervously looking away. Though not everyone may have felt comfortable about the subject, there seemed to be an atmosphere of respect.
I turned to walk back to my seat when suddenly my attention was turned to the teacher, whose face was streaming with tears. She whispered in a choked up voice, “That’s a strong testament.” I was stunned; time slowed as the statement penetrated my heart. I said, “Thank you,” and then walked back to my desk.
The Book of Mormon was now emblazoned upon my formerly clean slate, never to be erased. I had put my trust in the Lord, and he had helped me. I now knew who I was—a precious son of Heavenly Father. And I knew that by being his servant my life would have meaning and value.

In a meeting, I once told of a dentist in my ward who each year visited the Philippine Islands to work his skills without compensation to provide corrective dentistry for children. Smiles were restored, spirits lifted, and futures enhanced. I did not know the daughter of this dentist was in the congregation to which I was speaking. At the conclusion of my remarks, she came forward and, with a broad smile of proper pride, said, “You have been speaking of my father. How I love him and what he is doing for children!”

My parents often attended meetings after church, and I would watch my three younger brothers and help them make lunch—though they were often short-tempered and hungry. Usually if they started fighting, I could solve the small problem quickly. But sometimes it was hard to make peace once a fight had started because I’d get agitated.
One afternoon, my brothers were having an especially hard time getting along. I found that my efforts to make peace only made things worse because I was upset. So I just made my own lunch and stopped talking. Finally, I announced, “I’m going to pray. Can we please be quiet for a minute?” Once they settled down, I asked for a blessing on the food. Before I closed the prayer, I added, “And please help us to be peacemakers.”
At first, they seemed not to hear and began fighting again. I was annoyed but knew I needed to be as loving and calm as I could be because I’d just prayed for peace. After a minute, I felt very calm. I ate without saying anything, and the boys eventually stopped fighting. I realized the peace I felt was an answer to a simple prayer. I had prayed to be a peacemaker, and my Heavenly Father had helped me stay calm when it was so tempting to yell. I know that He can truly give us peace.

Annie Van Komen of Salt Lake City, Utah, took an unusual vacation last summer. Annie went with her father, who is a doctor, to South America to treat children in a large La Paz, Bolivia, hospital. Annie went armed with homemade blankets and slippers made by the Young Women in her stake, to give to the children.
“It took a real effort by the girls in my stake to make all the gifts I took. They wouldn’t have meant nearly as much if we had bought them at a store,” says Annie.
Annie acted as her father’s assistant during much of the trip. Although she spent most of her time in Bolivia giving to others, she feels she gained even more.
“Something like this makes you really grateful for your situation. You really appreciate all the things you have,” says Annie.

Mary had been a member of the Church for two years and was just starting to fill in her family tree. Her ward family history consultant helped her find ancestors the first few times she went to the temple. The next time she planned to attend the temple, she wanted to do some initiatory work and decided to see if she could obtain an ordinance card on her own.

Following the steps for Ordinances Ready outlined below, Mary logged on to the Family Tree mobile app to quickly find an ancestor who needed initiatory work, but she didn’t have a printer available. She saved the card to her cell phone photos, and a temple worker printed the card for her when she arrived.

John’s family had been a part of the Church for many generations. He wanted to go to the temple on behalf of a family member but assumed there wouldn’t be any persons with work left to do since his family had been active in temple work for such a long time. His ward family history consultant invited him to give Ordinances Ready a try.
John followed the steps, selecting the ordinance he wanted to perform. He was surprised and excited to see Ordinances Ready find a person—a fifth cousin, twice removed. He printed the card on his home computer and took it with him to the temple. With a special joy in his heart, John was able to perform the ordinance for a family member.

When I was older, I was on my high school’s football team. Before we played, I didn’t always button the chin strap on my helmet, and sometimes my helmet didn’t stay on. One time when my helmet came off, I got hit so hard that I was knocked unconscious. I was terribly embarrassed when I came to and saw my teammates looking down at me. From that I learned that we always need to keep our physical and spiritual protectors in place. Our spiritual protectors include our obedience to the commandments of God and to the counsel and direction of our parents.

Click! Thud! Thud! Thud! Wham! Squeak! That was my nightly routine for getting into bed. First I clicked off the light, then took three giant steps, and whammed into bed with such force that it caused my bedsprings to squeak. As soon as I hit the bed, I pulled the covers over my head so that I’d feel as safe as an eight-year-old can.
At night a snake I called Slither lived under my bed. His head was as big as an elephant’s ear, and his body was as round as a telephone pole. Sometimes Slither was visited by Crocky Crocodile. He was all mouth and teeth, with a short, squatty body. They didn’t make much noise, and my mom said that they weren’t really real, but I just knew that they were lying under my bed, waiting to snap at me the minute I put my foot or hand over the edge of the bed. That’s why I always slept in the middle of the bed and pulled the covers over my head.
I used to say my prayers kneeling beside my bed, but that was before Slither moved in. I was sure that he’d gobble me up if I knelt beside my bed, so I started to say them while lying under my blankets.
One Sunday morning my Primary teacher gave the best lesson on prayer. She said, “Always remember to pray to your Father in Heaven and talk to Him as if He were your best friend. Tell Him about all the good things that you are grateful for, and ask Him to help you when you need help. Don’t forget to pray each morning and night. It’s best to kneel by your bed and say your prayer out loud.”
I raised my hand and asked, “Is it OK to say our prayers while lying in bed?”
“It’s better to kneel,” she explained, “because it shows that we’re humble. That’s the way Jesus did it.”
That night as I lay curled up in the middle of my bed and began saying my prayer, I didn’t feel good about it. It was as though my prayer was being smothered by my blankets.
Then the image of my Primary teacher came into mind, and I remembered what she had taught us. I knew that I had to kneel, so I knelt in bed, pulled the covers over my head, and began to pray. But I didn’t feel any better. I let the covers slip from my head as I peeked at the floor, watching for Slither and Crocky.
I knew that no matter how frightened I was, I had to kneel by my bed. Slowly I slipped over the side of the bed and knelt beside it. I closed my eyes tightly so that I couldn’t see Slither and Crocky if they came out to bite me. Then I remembered my teacher telling us to pray for the Lord’s help, so I prayed that Slither and Crocky would go away and never return.
I finished my prayer and jumped back into bed and pulled the covers over my head. Then a peaceful feeling came over me, and I didn’t feel scared anymore. I pulled the covers off my head and leaned over the side of the bed. As I looked under it, for the first time the blackness seemed to be peaceful and calm. There was nothing to be frightened of—Slither and Crocky were gone forever!