Gospel Story Finder

When she saw me, my best friend knew immediately that something was wrong. “We broke up,” I told her quietly. I was coming home after a long conversation with the young man I had been dating. Although we were sad to part, we both agreed that it was right for us.
But as the weeks went by, I started to feel unsure about my decision. What if I never found anyone else to date and never married? What if I had made too big a deal out of our incompatibility?
I felt so lonely and unsure that I even considered seeing whether he was willing to give our relationship another try. I was, as Elder Jeffrey R. Holland of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles described, “dissatisfied with present circumstances and [had] only dismal views of the future.”1
One evening a few weeks after our breakup, I was reading about the Savior’s Resurrection. The Gospel of Luke recounts that on the third day after the Savior had been laid to rest, faithful followers went to anoint His body with spices. But they found that the stone covering the tomb had been rolled away and the body was gone. Two angels then appeared to them and said, “Why seek ye the living among the dead? He is not here, but is risen” (Luke 24:5–6).
The angels’ question struck me suddenly with powerful force. I had never thought about how the visitors to Jesus’s grave might have felt, realizing they were looking in the wrong place for their Savior. I had never thought about what a challenge it must have been for them to believe that Jesus had left behind the decay of the tomb and had risen in glory.
The scripture spoke a gentle rebuke. I realized that, like the Savior’s friends, I was looking in the wrong place for comfort. Wallowing in the past and “yearn[ing] vainly for yesterdays”2 was not consoling me or motivating me to fruitful action. I realized I needed to stop looking in the tomb of past experiences. I needed to replace my fear with faith and trust that the Savior could create life from the experiences of my past.

As a junior in high school, I played on my school’s varsity ice hockey team. Just weeks into the season, I broke my arm badly during a game against our rival school and was taken to the hospital. Reconstructive surgery was performed on my arm that night, and upon returning to the doctor’s office the next week I was told that I would miss the remaining five months of the season. I was devastated.
In the weeks following the injury, I puttered around using just one arm, trying to function as best I could. I couldn’t bathe myself. Feeding myself was very difficult. I couldn’t play the guitar. And I couldn’t write with my preferred hand. The whole time I thought, “Why me?”
Then about three weeks after the injury, my mom drove me back to the ice rink to get the gear I had left there on the night of my injury. My coach had the gear in his office upstairs, and while we were talking, he said something I’ll never forget: “Aaron, we’ll miss you this year; we sure could use you on the ice. But there’s Someone upstairs who’s watching out for you. This year, there’s something more important for you than hockey.” It had never occurred to me that God had something else planned for me, but He did.
I learned many things that year. I learned to be humble and to accept the help of others, especially Christ and His Atonement. I widened my horizons by becoming more involved in the school choir and learning to play lacrosse. I learned how to forgive people. But the most important thing I learned is that my Heavenly Father loves me and knows what is best for me.

Elder Juan Pablo Villar’s introduction to the Church came in Santiago, Chile, when his eldest brother, Ivan, announced to the family that he had been baptized without his parents’ approval and later said he planned to serve a mission. When asked why, Ivan shared his testimony and desire to serve.
“I didn’t understand all the meaning of that,” recalled Elder Villar, then age 17. “But at that moment, he put a seed in my heart.”
That seed was given a chance to grow when his brother referred him to the missionaries. During his first lesson, Elder Villar received his own testimony of the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon.
“For myself, it was not necessary to kneel down and pray, because the moment they shared their testimony, I knew in my heart it was true,” he said. “When I knew that, everything else had to be true.”
Ivan, serving in a neighboring mission, received permission to baptize Elder Villar in 1988. Later, their mother and other brother, Claudio, also joined the Church.

Ever since her conversion, she has been an active member missionary, encouraging neighbors to attend church with her and handing out copies of the Book of Mormon to government leaders. Two of Julia’s daughters and several of her grandchildren have joined the Church.

One of Julia’s favorite missionary tools is gardening. She uses her love of the earth to expose her neighbors to the Lord’s love. Recently, she helped a grandmother with no pension who was trying to rear her grandchildren. One of the boys had finished school and, failing to find employment, was bored and getting into mischief. Julia donated some vegetable seeds to the family and taught them how to plant, weed, and tend a garden. As the garden grew stronger, so did the family relationships. And now one of the girls is attending sacrament meeting, where she is discovering the abundant fruits of the gospel.

As soon as Samantha opened her eyes, she knew what day it was. She ran to the kitchen in her pajamas. “OK, Mom,” she said. “Let’s go to the beach. I’m ready.”
Her mom laughed when she saw Samantha. “You may feel ready,” she said, “but you don’t look ready. You’d better get dressed first and have some breakfast. Then we can get ready to go to the beach.”
Samantha ran upstairs, hopped out of her pajamas, jumped into her clothes, and skipped back downstairs again.
“Settle down,” said her mom. “You can’t eat properly when you’re a jumping bean.”
Samantha tried to drink her juice and eat her cereal slowly. She even tried to butter her toast slowly. But she was too excited.
After breakfast Samantha washed her face, brushed her teeth, and combed her hair. “Now can we go?” she asked.
“Pretty soon,” said her mom. “But first we have to decide what to take with us.”
“I know what to take,” said Samantha. She ran to her room and came back with a red bucket, a yellow spade, a swimsuit, a towel, and a beach ball. “OK,” Samantha said. “Let’s go.”
“What about lunch?” asked Mom with a smile.
“Oh,” said Samantha. “I forgot.”
They made the lunch together. Samantha washed carrots and celery, and her mom cut them up. Samantha made her favorite sandwich—peanut butter, lettuce, and tomato. Mom made some egg salad sandwiches.
They got the cooler and put the sandwiches inside with the vegetables, some fruit, and homemade cookies. Then they put ice packs on top, and Samantha shut the lid and fastened it. “Wow!” she said. “It’s cold in there now.”
“It has to be cold,” Mom explained, “or the food will spoil.”
They filled a thermos with milk, then took everything out to the car. The outside air was still cool, but Samantha knew that soon it would be very, very hot. She hopped up and down. “Come on, Mom,” she said. “Come on.”
“Samantha,” said Mom, “I want to go to the beach, too, but it’s important not to forget anything. Our day will be much more enjoyable if we prepare well. Preparation is important in just about everything we do. Now, there are still some things we need to take. Think how hot it will be. We can’t put ourselves in the cooler. But we can make our own shade.”
“The beach umbrella!” shouted Samantha.
“Right!” said Mom. “And we need little beach umbrellas for our heads.”
“Sun hats!” cried Samantha.
“Right!” said Mom again. “And when we’re in the sun, we need something creamy and smooth to spread on our skin so that the sun won’t burn us.”
“Suntan lotion!” shouted Samantha.
“You remembered!” said Mom. “And we need something for our feet in case there are sharp stones or glass on the beach.”
“Beach shoes!” shouted Samantha.
“You’re very smart,” said Mom.
They gathered all those things and put them into the car along with Mom’s bathing suit, beach coat, sunglasses, and a book. Mom also got extra towels, a change of clothes for Samantha, and a big blanket. Just before shutting the door, Mom called, “Let’s get going, Samantha.”
But Samantha didn’t answer.
Puzzled, Mom called again. Then she heard a giggle. Samantha was already in the car, waiting for her!

I guess everybody at some time longs to feel important and to do something that will be remembered by the people of the world—something that will change the course of history and become legendary because of its momentous impact on society. At least that’s the way I felt when I was a teenager.
Of course, I could dream of being rich and famous, or of making a major scientific discovery, or of being the first woman on the moon, or of being president of the United States. But somehow I knew those things were not within the realm of probability—at least not for me.
I was not exactly what you might call an outstanding person. I was a great follower, but never a leader. I knew I’d never be class valedictorian or win any contests or talent shows, and I was too uncoordinated in sports to excel. It’s not that I didn’t try or didn’t care. I was just shy and lacked self-confidence. So how could a person like me possibly make a difference?
I asked my mother what she thought I could do to make a difference in the world. She said getting through the school year without getting any low grades on my report card would certainly make a difference when it came time for me to go to college. I knew she was right, but that wasn’t the kind of thing I had in mind.
When I finally started to run out of ideas and hope, I turned to the Lord. I asked him to help me find something that wouldn’t take any special talents or qualifications, but would help me feel I was making a worthwhile contribution. Nothing earth-shattering—just something suited to my capabilities.
It wasn’t long afterwards that I got this genius idea. It was so right for me that I knew it had to be inspired—I never would have thought of it myself. The idea was that I should get to know the names of all the people that I came in contact with regularly—and greet them by name whenever I saw them.
I started with my own neighborhood and learned the names of everyone—even the children and pets. Then I went on to memorize the names of all my ward members. When I had successfully completed that, I started on my high school.
It was a big school in a large city, and it took me quite a while, but I did it. I didn’t pay any attention to racial or social boundaries. At first I felt a little strange saying hello and calling people by name who I didn’t even know, and I embarrassed myself quite a few times by accidentally calling people by the wrong name. But I got better at it as time went on.
It became a game to see how many new names I could learn in a day. Once in a while, I got some puzzled looks and some questions like, “Are you trying to win an election or something?” But for the most part, everyone acted like they really appreciated it.
Did it make a difference? I think so. Once Brother Barton, the oldest man in the ward, said to me, “Young lady, I think you are the only young person in this ward who knows my name. It sure is nice when you speak to me and remember who I am.”
Then one day at school I found an anonymous note stuck into my locker that said, “Thanks for saying hi to me today. I’m new at school, and I didn’t think anyone even knew my name. Thanks for making me feel welcome.”
I even got to like some of the people I’d previously thought were unfriendly or snobbish. When I started being nice to them and calling them by name, they were usually very nice in return.
The greatest difference it made, though, was in me. My whole attitude changed. I didn’t feel average or ordinary anymore. I felt that I was a special person who was doing something worthwhile because I was helping others. I could see them light up inside whenever I said their name and greeted them with a smile. It may have made only a small difference to them, but with the Lord’s help, it made a big difference to me.

Here is an example of those principles from my own life:
When I was a young boy, my parents decided to send me and my two younger siblings to one of the best private schools in the city where we lived. But it cost a lot to my family. My father, an engineer working for the government, and my stay-at-home mother were struggling to make ends meet. I was fully aware that the cost of my education was one of the main reasons. We not only had to learn to live frugally, but my mother also had to find every sort of activity to earn additional money, such as collecting used oil kegs or gathering fabric scraps from factories, which discarded them and then reselling them to other factories. The whole family participated in the work.
I also remember nights when we all stayed up late to help my mother as she sewed dozens of overalls for workers. These would be delivered shortly afterward to a nearby factory, which had ordered them. I still remember the pain I suffered using the scissors—too big for me and not fitted for the left-handed boy that I was. When the company which employed my father moved to the outskirts of the city, they housed us in a lodge with a very large courtyard. We then started to run a small family farm, and when not at school, each of us had to have a finger in the pie. That is how, as a teenager, I learned many farming skills—from planting different sorts of vegetables to skinning a rabbit or milking a cow. I am forever grateful to my parents to have prepared me and efficiently instilled in me the real value of money, the value of education, how to work hard, and how to live frugally.
My gratitude increased when I had to live and implement all these values to complete my long run medical studies, trying at the same time to earn my living without being a burden to my parents. I later became a member of the Church—and learning about the principles of self-reliance—I teach my own children these same principles by living them, while seeing the Lord’s hand providing for us.

Despite almost superhuman effort, Lame Hawk had fallen behind with his second load of fish. He could not keep up with his friends and cousins. The braves were taking a mighty catch from vine nets they were casting in the river; and the young boys were carrying the fish to the women, who were waiting to prepare them for smoking on racks set over smoldering fires.
The youth was deeply humiliated and frustrated by his lameness. He sank down on a log to rest and stared at his moccasins with bitterness. He strained to stretch his legs out so they would be even. It was a futile effort. Lame Hawk had been born with one leg much shorter than the other. When he walked he reeled from side to side like a crippled bear! I’ll never be able to run, trail, or hunt as well as other braves, he thought angrily.
Lame Hawk started as Nimbock suddenly stepped out of the forest and sat down beside him. The youth’s keen ears had not heard Nimbock’s approach. Lame Hawk felt ill at ease. Nimbock, too, was different, or so everyone said, and many people avoided him if possible.
The big man was a harmless dreamer who lived apart from the tribe. The people said that, although he was at least forty years old, he was neither brave nor child, but trapped somewhere in between.
Nimbock could not speak, but he seemed able to read thoughts. It was disconcerting to be the target of his unblinking stare. Lame Hawk flushed with resentment and drew up his feet to hide his crippled leg. Nimbock arose, a look of disappointment on his face, and faded back into the trees.
Lame Hawk started to shout a warning about the high wind that had forced his people to detour around the forest today because of the danger of falling limbs and dead trees. But for Nimbock there was no other way; his home was deep in the forest, and to get there he had to risk the danger that he was certainly aware of.
The Indian youth was sorry he had not spoken to Nimbock or given him some fish. Nimbock, of all people, knew the agony and loneliness of being “different.” I should have been friendlier. Did other youths taunt Nimbock when he was young? Is that why he lives alone now? Lame Hawk wondered. He knew that feeling too. Even one’s friends could be cruel when they were angry. And the hurt remained long after the irritation was over.
But Nimbock had other talents. He could carve wood into almost anything. He made beautifully detailed animals and birds. When his carvings were painted and mounted in lifelike poses, one almost expected them to run or soar away. And his painted clay pots were works of art. The women traded Nimbock clothing and woven rugs for such treasures.
Lame Hawk arose and braced himself against the wind just as the ground trembled, and a mighty tree toppled and came crashing down. As he bent to pick up his fish, the youth was puzzled by a rhythmic drumming sound. It was different from that made by a male grouse. Twice more he heard it, although fainter now, as he limped along fighting the wind.
Nimbock! The tree must have fallen and struck him! The silent one cannot cry out for help, but he could use one piece of wood to drum on another, Lame Hawk thought hopefully.
Forgetting about his own safety, Lame Hawk dropped the fish and hurried into the forest where the tree had thudded down. He caught his breath with horror when he reached the spot. Only Nimbock’s head, shoulders, and arms were free; the rest of his body was trapped under the tree trunk. One hand still clutched the short limb he had used to signal for help, but Nimbock had fainted.
The youth circled the tree and tried to pull Nimbock free from the other side, but it was hopeless. Panic overwhelmed him as he considered the size of the tree. Even if he were able to run to the river, it would not help. A hundred braves could not move such a giant tree without chopping it into sections, and the blows of many axes would add to its crushing weight!
Sadly, Lame Hawk had to admit that without a miracle there was no need to hurry to the river. He would sit near the trail and wait for the men, then bring them here to remove Nimbock’s dead body. He knelt near Nimbock’s head, and was surprised he could still hear the silent one’s ragged breathing. Nimbock has always lived alone, but it doesn’t seem right that he should have to die alone, Lame Hawk decided. He sat cross-legged and waited.
Being slow of limb Lame Hawk had had to use his mind to solve problems. If his body could not do something others could do, he found another way around the obstacle. The youth tried to forget about Nimbock and consider nothing but the tree. Suddenly his face brightened with hope. Not he nor a hundred others could raise it, but he could remove the soil and let Nimbock settle into a ditch, away from the crushing force!
Using his bare hands and sharpened sticks, Lame Hawk began to tunnel under Nimbock’s limp body. He worked tirelessly, ignoring his blistered and bleeding hands and watching with satisfaction as the ditch deepened. Fortunately a loose layer of leaves and soil had cushioned the crushing force, and Lame Hawk felt more optimistic about Nimbock’s survival now.
The weary youth stopped to wipe trickles of perspiration from his grimy face. He was surprised to see Nimbock awake now and watching him, a slight smile on his face.
“You’re almost free,” Lame Hawk panted. “I’ve dropped you down clear of the tree. Now I have to scoop a trench away from the trunk and slide you out, like pulling a knife from its sheath.”
With incredible effort Lame Hawk pulled the man from the box-like depression and out into the trench. But he couldn’t have done it if Nimbock had not braced his hands against the trunk and pushed with his feet. When Nimbock was free, Lame Hawk’s throbbing leg collapsed and he fainted from exhaustion.
It was Nimbock’s drumming that drew the returning braves to them at dusk, and the two of them were carried to the village on stretchers made from the fishing nets. The women took turns nursing Nimbock back to health, and his strong body responded.
A bond of friendship was welded between Nimbock and his rescuer, but Lame Hawk was puzzled by Nimbock’s curious interest in his crippled leg. He sent for the youth several times a day and motioned for him to walk back and forth in front of him. Then he would closely examine both of the boy’s feet. He also sent for old Seque, the finest moccasin maker in the tribe, and made dirt drawings with a stick. He always hid the wood he was whittling when the youth came to see him. And only Lame Hawk seemed to notice that Seque was making a pair of brightly beaded and quilled but mismatched moccasins—one at least four inches taller than the other! It was all very mysterious.
There was feasting and a dance after the fish were smoked and stored away for winter eating. Nimbock was almost fully recovered and would probably return to his home after the festivities. He and Lame Hawk sat together, watching the firelight play over the dancers and enjoying the chants and throbbing drums.
Lame Hawk was surprised when his friend pressed something into his hands. He drew back dismayed when he saw that the gift was the ridiculous-looking mismatched moccasins! Everyone was watching them now and smiling as broadly as Nimbock, who was urging that Lame Hawk try them on. The youth felt betrayed. How could Nimbock focus everyone’s attention on his lameness!
Nimbock sensed with disappointment that Lame Hawk had misunderstood his gift. He took back the tall moccasin, and with signs he showed how he had carved a platform to fit inside. The bewildered youth still didn’t understand its purpose, but he tried them on to please Nimbock.
A look of wonder crossed Lame Hawk’s face when he stood up and walked a few hesitant steps without lurching to his crippled side! For the first time in his life, his legs seemed the same length!
With practice, he thought exultantly, I’ll soon be walking with scarcely a limp. Lame Hawk stood straight, happy to find that he was as tall as his friends who rushed to surround him, pushing and shoving with joy.
“Tall Hawk! Tall Hawk!” they shouted, giving him a new name.

I was taking photos during a family vacation when a beautiful melody popped into my mind. I love music and composing, so I quickly hummed the song into my camera to remember and work on it later.
That afternoon, I was looking through the cool photos on my camera. I decided to check how much memory my camera had left. It was 67% full.
I clicked OK, not realizing I had just said OK to reformatting my memory card! In a matter of seconds, all my photos and my recording were erased. I was sad about losing the pictures, but I was especially sad about losing the melody.
I tried telling myself it would be okay, but I was devastated. That night, I prayed that the photos and melody could be retrieved.
After returning from the vacation, I kept tinkering with the camera and most of the pictures finally appeared. I was overjoyed! It felt like a direct answer to my prayers.
However, I was crushed when I couldn’t find the recording of the melody. I kept praying and hoping that the song would come back.
Many weeks later as I was doing chores, a strangely familiar melody came into my head. It was the song! I couldn’t believe it! I quickly recorded it on the piano.
I have no doubt Heavenly Father answered my prayer. It was something so small, but He answered. I know He can bring hope into our lives when all seems lost.
Benjamin G., Utah, USA

Kids from Cairns, Townsville, Charters Towers, and Mackay in Australia flocked to the famous Harbour as part of a big youth conference held recently.
Debra Croucher reports they played volleyball and softball and barbecued burgers on the beach. Then the groups gathered around a fire for a sing-along under the stars. Next day they bussed to Eungella National Park and had workshop discussion groups, a dance, and competitive sports events. Sunday’s testimony meeting put a memorable touch on a great gathering.

Mary’s boy Joseph was born at a time when her husband was snatched away by the mob militia then terrorizing Far West. Hyrum and the Prophet Joseph were taken to Liberty, Missouri, where they were imprisoned. Under the compulsion of Governor Lilburn W. Boggs’s extermination order, she left Missouri with the stepchildren for whom she had taken responsibility, as well as her own son. Her sister Mercy placed Mary, who was seriously ill, on a bed in a wagon box with her infant boy cradled at her side.

In February 1839, when winter was still upon the land, they traveled east across the state and then across the Mississippi to Quincy, Illinois, bumping along in a springless wagon where every jolt brought pain.

When her husband and the Prophet escaped from Liberty Jail and came to Quincy, life again improved. The Saints moved to what became Nauvoo and established their beautiful city on the Mississippi. But their peace was short-lived. Her little boy was less than six years old when a knock came at night on her window and a man said, “Sister Smith, your husband has been killed!”
Joseph F. never forgot his mother’s weeping through the night.
Her world was shattered. She was on her own now with a large family to care for. In the summer of 1846, they bade their comfortable home good-bye and rode a flatboat across the Mississippi. Taking matters into her own hands, she was able to trade, borrow, and barter for ox teams and wagons.
While living in Winter Quarters, she and her brother went down the Missouri River to purchase provisions and clothing. They had two wagons, each having two yoke of oxen. Camping for the night, they discovered in the morning that their two best oxen were gone. Young Joseph and his uncle spent the entire morning looking for the lost animals. They found nothing. Disheartened, he returned to tell his mother. Their situation was desperate, terribly so. As he approached, he saw her on her knees praying fervently, speaking with the Lord about their problem. When she arose to her feet, there was a smile on her face. She told her son and her brother to get their breakfast and she would look around. Following a little stream of water, and disregarding the words of a man who was in the area, she went directly along the bank of the river.
Pausing, she called to her son and brother. She pointed to their oxen, which had been tied to a clump of willows growing in the bottom of a deep gulch. The thief, who had tried to misdirect her, lost his prize and they were saved.
Mary’s faith imprinted itself in her son’s boyish heart. He never forgot it. He never doubted her closeness to the Lord.
All of you are familiar with her experience when one of her oxen, exhausted and worn, lay down to die while they were en route to these valleys in the West. In a mixture of utter desperation and simple faith, she secured consecrated oil and asked her brother and an associate to administer to the ox. They did so. It rose to its feet with a renewal of strength and carried them for the remainder of their long journey.
Such was the faith, sweet and simple and beautiful, which graced this woman’s life. She walked in the light of the Lord. She lived by that light. It guided her in all of her actions. It became the lodestar of her life. She exemplified the tremendous faith of the women of this Church—the women of the Relief Society, who today on a thousand fronts carry on the dedicated work of this remarkable organization.

I was touched by the heartbreaking statement of a young missionary in Japan. He said, “I have been here for months. I can’t learn the language. I dislike the people. I am depressed by day and weep at night. I wanted to die. I wrote my mother and pleaded for an excuse to return home. I have her reply. She says: ‘We’re praying for you. There is not a day passes that all of us do not kneel together in the morning before we eat and in the evening before we retire and plead with the Lord for his blessing upon you. We have added fasting to our prayer, and when your younger brothers and sisters pray they say, “Heavenly Father, bless Johnny in Japan and help him to learn the language and do the work he was called to do.”’”
This young man then went on to say through his tears, “I will try again. I will add my prayers to theirs and my fasting to their fasting.”
Four months after hearing that he would try again, I received a letter from him in which he said, “a miracle has happened. The language has come to me as a gift from the Lord. I have learned to love the people in this beautiful land. God be thanked for the prayers of my family.”

The last day of hiking was a forced march as we pushed hard to make our train reservations at Bennett. Stopping for a brief rest, Colleen, with tears in her eyes, called for her counselor.
“I just can’t go on. I can’t make it. My ankle hurts so bad.” “Would you like a blessing?”
“Brother Otte, we need your priesthood.”
After the blessing the pain persisted, but Colleen was blessed with strength and a new determination and was able to continue hiking.

It was a routine she had down. She’d get up a little before 6:00 A.M. to catch the 6:30 bus, which would take her to school where she would spend the next nine hours. When the bell rang, dismissing classes for the day, it seemed like school was just beginning. She’d leave class and head to the library for three additional hours studying the day’s lessons. That’s 12 hours in school, just in case you’re keeping track. At 8:00 P.M., she’d hop on the bus and ride the 40 minutes to her home where she’d shower, eat, catch up on the world’s latest happenings from the newspaper, read from the scriptures, and then go to sleep. The next day, Liu Kwan Ling, who also uses the English name Angel, would do it all over again.
Want to schedule some time with her? Better do it in advance. Free time wasn’t one of the luxuries in Angel’s life then, and it certainly isn’t now.
Even Angel admits it was a grueling schedule. She’ll also admit it was worth it. Last year Angel graduated from the Taipei First Girls’ High School and is now in her first year at National Taiwan University, rated the top college in this island country near mainland China.
Having survived the rigors of high school, Angel is probably busier now that she’s graduated. Her college schedule compared to her daily high school routine really isn’t that much different. In fact, it’s about identical. It’s just that the college courses she’s taking are a little more demanding. Yet Angel knows how she’s been able to juggle all the things in her busy schedule. “I can increase my spirituality by reading the scriptures and praying,” she says. “I think without doing that and by not going to my Sunday meetings I would become easily discouraged and depressed about school and life. But if I go to sacrament meeting and listen to the talks, it seems that my life is always more positive and happy. I think the most important thing in my life is my spirituality.”
It was a tough two years on Angel as she both prepared for college and tried to remain active in the Peitou Ward of the Taipei East Stake, where she is her ward’s sacrament meeting pianist.
The bulk of her time was spent studying English, math, Chinese, physics, chemistry, biology, physical education, music, and housekeeping (cooking and sewing).
Scripture study was a welcome break for Angel, even if her friends didn’t understand why she’d take time away from her school classes to bother with religion. “A lot of them think it’s strange that I spend time with my church. Most of my classmates don’t have any religious beliefs,” says Angel, who was the only Church member in the Taipei First Girls’ School student body of 4,000-plus. “Some students will discuss religion with me, but most of the time they just think being LDS is strange because it takes me away from my schoolwork.”
One of those classmates is a friend Angel invited to church one Sunday. Angel says her friend had a generally positive experience at church, and even told Angel afterward that she felt religion was good, and that she might think about becoming religious herself—after she graduates from the university. “She just didn’t think she had the time for church,” Angel adds.
Even Angel’s father, Liu Chen Mei Yu, isn’t completely convinced the time his daughter spends learning the gospel is all that productive. He often questions if Angel’s time wouldn’t be better spent studying or going to the library. When Angel’s mother, Catherine, joined the Church in 1984, Angel was only seven. Although Liu Chen Mei Yu didn’t object to his wife’s baptism, he had no interest in joining the Church with her. However he did allow Angel to be baptized when she turned eight. “My father is interesting,” Angel adds. “Sometimes he will say, ‘Since you have an exam coming up, maybe you shouldn’t go to church.’ But there are other times when he’ll tell me to hurry up because he doesn’t want me to be late for church.
“My parents have high expectations of me. My father thinks I can have a great impact on our family by continuing my education and doing well,” Angel adds. Angel is also quick to point out she can have a great impact on her family by staying active in the Church too.
“In Taiwan, parents who are members of the Church set examples for their children,” says Kent Liang, a former regional representative and stake president. “They go to church and perform their callings, and the children are able to see this. But some kids whose parents aren’t members are often tempted to rest and not go to church on Sundays. And the school competition is so high that school is sometimes all they see. They think, Should I go to church or go to the library? Sometimes they don’t worry that much about church things because they don’t see that far into the future. Right now, many of the kids in Taiwan are only worried about school.”
And that’s what’s so amazing about Angel. School is important. But it’s not the only thing in her life. She graduated near the top of her high school class, yet she doubts she could have done it had she not had the gospel’s guiding influence in her life.
“The Church was especially helpful to me during my senior year of high school. I noticed a lot of my schoolmates were easily depressed because of school,” she says. “But I knew if I did my best, Heavenly Father would help me. Usually, my grades were better than I expected.”
Today, college life keeps Angel incredibly busy as she studies to become a doctor. As Angel returns home from a full day, she still takes time to read from the scriptures. When she closes her triple combination, it’s 10:30 P.M. Angel’s day is over—finally. She can close her eyes knowing she’s doing well in school, and, more importantly, she’s finding time to include the gospel in her busy life. In less than eight hours, her day will begin all over again. Angel will undoubtedly enjoy a very sound sleep.

In these days, visiting teachers do much good. Twelve years ago, Suzy was called to be Dora’s visiting teacher. A widow with no children, Dora had a difficult personality and was almost a recluse. When Suzy first began visiting Dora, she was met at the doorstep but never invited in. Several months later, Suzy took a treat to Dora, but Dora said she could not accept it. When Suzy asked why not, she answered, “Because you’ll want something in return.” Suzy assured her, “All I want is your friendship.” After that, visiting became easier. Gradually, Suzy found ways to do things for Dora and to listen when listening was needed. She would also tell her about the wonderful people in the ward, the lessons, and the conferences, thus making her feel a part of the ward. As Dora’s health began to deteriorate, Suzy’s visits were daily, and they became close friends. When Dora died, Suzy was able to eulogize the woman others called “unapproachable” as a “remarkable woman” and “a cherished friend.” She knew her as few others could because of her service as a visiting teacher.

As I neared my 12th birthday, there were several requirements to be completed before I could graduate from Primary. One was to recite the thirteen Articles of Faith in the prescribed order. The first twelve articles were relatively easy, but the thirteenth was much more difficult. It was remembering the order of the virtues that presented the challenge. Thanks to a Primary teacher who was patient and persistent, I finally completed the memorization. …
“We believe in being honest, true, chaste, benevolent, virtuous, and in doing good to all men; indeed, we may say that we follow the admonition of Paul—We believe all things, we hope all things, we have endured many things, and hope to be able to endure all things. If there is anything virtuous, lovely, or of good report or praiseworthy, we seek after these things” (Articles of Faith 1:13).

“You can work in here,” said Brian Kelly, managing editor of the New Era magazine, as he pointed through an open door into a small cubicle that was once a storage closet. “There is a stack of old magazines in the corner. Spend the first couple of weeks reading through them and jotting down ideas. Get the feel of the magazine; then we’ll see if you can write something.”
So saying, he turned and left. My first-day-on-the-job smile was wearing thin around the edges as I slammed myself into a creaky swivel chair, trying not to glare after Brian as he retreated down the hall. “Me, see if I can write? After a couple of weeks?” I muttered to myself. “After all, I was selected for this internship over many other applicants. My English professors have all said I have natural ability. I can slam out a news story before deadline better than anyone at the student newspaper. See if I can write? I’ll show him.”

Finishing this monologue, I positioned a typewriter directly in front of me and pulled out some clean paper. Just one problem. Nothing to write about. After a few false starts at heart-rending fiction and preachy tomes, I finally took a handful of magazines from the old issues stack and started reading.

The next two days convinced me that writing for the New Era was going to be a snap. The fiction was positive in tone, evoked a happy ending, and was populated by the sort of adolescents teenagers wish they were, i.e., clever, witty, involved, and never boring. The articles were glib, fast, and seldom complicated. And it took me only two days to complete that in-depth analysis of New Era style, not two weeks.

Wednesday morning I reported to Brian that I was ready for my first assignment.

“Uh, how about an article on scripture marking?” he said, after I had blurted out how prepared I was to take the New Era by storm. “Seminary students are studying the Old Testament this year, and an interesting piece on scripture marking would really help them out.”

Simple. I spent the afternoon in the church office library researching scripture marking and the next day wrote up a concise, seven-page article outlining different methods of scripture marking, their advantages and drawbacks. Early Friday morning I presented it to Brian.

“Nice information,” he said, as he handed it back to me. “Now try writing it so the youth out there will read it. Inject some of yourself into it, get some anecdotes in somewhere, liven it up, pull the readers through. I almost went to sleep reading it myself.”

The next two weeks were among the most trying of my life. Livening up a subject with the inherent deadness of scripture marking seemed a task suitable for Dr. Frankenstein, not me. Injecting myself into the controversy of shading versus underlining was something I didn’t quite know how to do. And anecdotes! Ever heard a good story about cross-referencing?

I had come up short against “New Era style,” and although I thought I understood it, I didn’t know how to produce it. The magazine’s style was different from other writing I had done. The New Yorker has its style, so does Time, McCalls, Good Housekeeping, and True Confessions. Each magazine requires a different type of writing. What worked at the student newspaper was definitely not going to work at the New Era.

Fortunately for me, I managed to master “New Era style” (or at least begin to master it) during a two-week struggle with endless drafts of the scripture-marking article. Unfortunately, some people who want to publish in Church magazines don’t have two weeks as a magazine staff member in order to get the hang of it. What follows might be called a short course in New Era style, or “How to get something published in the New Era without developing ulcers.”

4. Now you’re ready to start writing. This article itself is a pretty fair example of how to get into subject matter for the New Era. Don’t attack something head-on. Get into the subject matter by means of an anecdote or story. Set a scene. Paint word pictures. Avoid straight declarations—lure the reader on.

The first draft of the scripture-marking article began with a paragraph detailing the virtues of a well-marked set of scriptures. The final, published version began with a true short story from my own experience about how a set of marked scriptures would have saved me from embarrassment. Both served the same purpose, but the anecdotal beginning was more interesting and readable.

But be cautious. Don’t just throw in stories. Be sure they have a place. The anecdote I used at the beginning of the scripture-marking article commented on most of the benefits of scripture marking that were outlined later in the piece. In fact what you have just read has already outlined how to write for the New Era. I’m just going into it in more detail now.

Two weeks and eight drafts after that Friday morning in Brian’s office, an article titled “But It Was in Amos Last Time I Looked” was sent off for final approval before publication. Finally.

Karate instructor Mark Tyson couldn’t believe it when a “skinny little blond-headed kid” entered his gym and began winning competitions. But Joshua Bosse, Australian junior middleweight full contact champ, could. The 16-year-old priest attributes his discipline and fitness to following Church standards.
“Keeping the Word of Wisdom gives me an edge over my opponents who don’t,” says Joshua, who is an active seminary student in Tamworth, New South Wales. “The Church is great!”

Several weeks ago my mind was stimulated when Elder Douglas L. Callister of the Seventy was asked to give a brief history of his grandfather LeGrand Richards in a quorum meeting. Among other interesting things he reported was this: When Elder Richards was a young bishop, he visited those who were less active. He boldly invited them to speak in sacrament meeting to the subject “What my membership in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints means to me.” Remarkably, several of them responded positively, and that experience put them on the road back to full activity in the Church.

Hernando yawned as he leaned forward sleepily, pulled his sock over his bare foot, and wiggled his foot into his tennis shoe.
His mother stirred the oatmeal one more time, then tapped the spoon against the rim of the pan and turned off the burner. “Is Inez up?” she asked as Hernando entered the kitchen.
Hernando yawned again. “She’s still in the bathroom.”
“Inez,” Mother called, “breakfast is ready.” Placing a saucer over the top of the steaming pan of oatmeal, she sat down at the table.
Inez breezed into the kitchen and slid onto her chair. “Morning,” she greeted.
“Morning,” Mother and Hernando both answered.
Mother smiled lovingly at Hernando and Inez before bowing her head. “Dear Heavenly Father,” she prayed, “we thank thee for another day and for all the blessings it will bring. We thank thee for this good food and ask …”
When Mother’s humble prayer was ended, Hernando opened his eyes and reached for the Bible on the stand behind him. He opened it to the bookmark and began to read from 1 Timothy 6:6 [1 Tim. 6:6], “But godliness with contentment is great gain.
“For we brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can carry nothing out.”
He began to close the book, but his mother frowned. “Was that three verses?” she asked doubtfully.
“Sorry,” he muttered, finding the place again and reading, “‘And having food and raiment [clothing] let us be therewith content.’ That’s three verses,” he said.
Mother nodded once then got up and served the oatmeal and passed the milk.
“Oatmeal again?” Inez complained. “Why can’t we ever have eggs?”
“Be content with what you have,” Mother told her, looking a bit hurt. “There’s a roof over our heads, clothes on our backs, and food in our stomachs. We do have eggs on Sunday,” Mother reminded her, “and there are cheese sandwiches for your lunch today.”
Hernando glanced up. “Is there any fruit?” he asked hopefully. When Mother shook her head, he just shrugged to show her that he wasn’t complaining.
Hernando stacked the newspapers neatly at the corner where he worked each day. He glanced to where a bus was pulling up to the curb. As a stream of early commuters streamed sleepily from the door, he rushed forward with a number of papers under his arm. “Paper! First edition!” he cried out, waving one in the air.
A gray-haired man reached into his pocket for change, handed it to Hernando, and took a paper. “Thank you!” Hernando said, then turned to yell again, “Paper! First edition!” until the sidewalk was empty. He sat on the remaining papers and pulled his collar up against the morning’s dark chill.
“Hernie,” his buddy Tyler shouted excitedly from his shoeshine stand down the street, “Margaret’s giving money away again! She must have gotten her welfare check yesterday or something! Come on! She’s right around the corner at the bus depot.”
Hernando frowned. “Someone should stop her, but I can’t leave my papers!”
“I left my stand! Come on!” Tyler hissed. “We have to get in on this!”
Hernando glanced along the deserted sidewalk, then followed Tyler to the corner. When they got there, a police officer was gently leading Margaret to a patrol car.
“Too late!” Tyler groaned. “They’re taking her home again.”
Hernando smiled. “That’s good.”
“What’s good about it?” Tyler barked. “I got a dollar last time. What’s the matter with you—don’t you like money?”
Hernando grinned. “Sure! But not enough to take it from a confused old lady! You shouldn’t accept money from her, either.”
“You’re the one who’s confused! Your mom cleans offices, your sister works in a bakery, and you sell newspapers! Are you too good to take money from heaven?”
Hernando grinned. “If it were from heaven, I’d take it.” Hearing the screech of air brakes, Hernando knew that another bus was arriving, so he hurried back to his stand. Grabbing another stack of papers, he called, “Paper! First edition!”
Later Hernando hurried along Twentieth Street. He pushed the door of an office building open and took the steps two at a time. In Dr. Daily’s office his mother was singing at her work. When she saw Hernando, she smiled and shut off the vacuum cleaner. “All done?” she asked.
Nodding, he handed her his tip money. “I’ll go home for my books and lunch, then be off to school.”
She counted the change that he had given her. “Please stop at Myerling’s and get milk,” she said as she pressed the money into his hand. “Make sure it’s fresh, and don’t forget to close the refrigerator tightly. Be good, and have a nice day.”
He kissed her, then went back outside and down the street.
At the store, Hernando checked the date on the milk before taking it to the counter. As he waited to pay for it, his hand brushed a basket of pears. His mouth suddenly watered. He thought of how long it had been since he’d had one. He looked at Mr. Myerling, who was busy bagging groceries and talking to an early customer. Behind the meat counter, Mrs. Myerling was grinding meat with her back turned. How easy it would be to slip a pear into my pocket! he thought. How good it would taste … Then his mother’s words came to his mind: “Be good.” Swallowing hard, he turned his back on the basket of pears.
When the other customer finally left, Mr. Myerling turned to Hernando.
“Morning, Hernie,” he said. “I didn’t know if you’d stop by this morning, but I’ve been hoping you would.”
“You have?”
“I have some things for your mother,” Mr. Myerling explained. He put the milk into a sack behind the counter. “This bag of sugar split, but I taped it shut. And the labels on these cans are coming off from being on the shelf for a while, but I’m sure the food inside is still good. As for the fruit, it has some bruises, but it’s still good for fruit salad or for baking. Just be sure to put it into the refrigerator for your mother.”
Hernando’s face brightened as he took the sack of groceries. “Thanks, Mr. Myerling!”
“I’m glad you can use it.”
As Hernando entered the apartment building and climbed the stairs, his heart was singing. We might not have much, Hernando prayed silently, but what You give is always enough. Thank you, Father, for always providing.