Gospel Story Finder

At Aaronic Priesthood and Young Women youth activity night, I had another opportunity to try out my new goal. We took our roadshow to the infirmary. It was a wonderful experience. We loved putting it on for the patients, and they loved watching it. These people had few visitors, so we talked with some after the performance. They all expressed gratitude that someone listened and cared about them. It really made us feel special too.

In August 2002, President Gordon B. Hinckley unexpectedly came to New York City and spoke to us, saying, “Today we want to announce to you that in two years you will have your temple. I hope to be here to see it.” Time went by, and our expectations grew. Finally, it was announced that the open house would begin in early May 2004. I put my name on every volunteer list I could find, and because I had accumulated vacation days at work, I was able to work for 11 uninterrupted days in the temple.
As a tour guide, I felt the Spirit on each tour, and the best reward was hearing visitors’ comments. I remember one stout man, who walked with a cane. After the tour, with eyes shining, he said, “I never thought I would find a place that emanated as much peace as I have felt here today.” The temple open house brought many miracles like this one. It moved many hearts and caused many to reflect and feel the very special spirit that reigns there.

Elizabeth sat contentedly next to her grandmother and idly traced the pattern of the old woman’s faded blue gingham apron. A few strands of her grandmother’s yellow-white hair, smelling faintly of gingerbread and apples, brushed the child’s cheek.
“Grandma, tell me one of your long-ago stories,” Elizabeth murmured lazily.
“What kind of story today, Bess?”
“Tell me about when you were a girl living in England before you joined the Church and came to live here in Canada.”
“Oh, child, that was so many years ago! Let me think.” The old woman tilted her head in thought. Then her wrinkled face broke into a sudden smile. “Have I ever told you about our village’s May Day celebration?”
Elizabeth shook her head slowly, her dark eyes filled with curiosity.
“What a grand time it was, Bess. Before dawn each May first, my sisters and I would go into the woods to pick flowers and branches to decorate our cottage with. That morning our mum would make crowns of leaves and wildflowers for us to wear as we went singing from door to door. But the best part was the May Queen.”
“Your town had a real queen, like in fairy tales?”
“No, only a make-believe one for May Day,” Grandma replied. “The village chose the prettiest girl, and she rode in a flower-covered cart to the center of town.”
“Were you ever picked?” asked Elizabeth.
“No,” chuckled Grandma. “I was too plain. Of course, I always wanted to be, but I was never asked.”
“What happened then?”
“The May Queen, wearing a crown of wildflowers, was taken to the maypole to preside at the spring party given in her honor.”
“What’s a maypole?”
“It was a tall tree that had been cut down that morning. After all its branches were cut off, it was placed in the village green, and flowers and ribbons in all colors of the rainbow were hung from the top of it.”
“And then the party started?”
“Yes, love. The May Queen sat beneath an arch of flowers and watched the villagers dance around the maypole, welcoming spring. When I smell the first blooms of the lilacs each year, I feel like I’m a little girl in England again.”
“Grandma, I think I hear Mommy calling. I guess I’d better go now,” Elizabeth said, kissing her grandmother’s cheek.
Throughout the last week of April it rained constantly. Elizabeth stared out the window, muttering, “It will never be sunny in time. Everything will be ruined.” But on the morning of the first of May, the sun broke cheerily through the clouds and covered the land with warmth and brightness. Tossing back her covers, Elizabeth leaped excitedly out of bed. By the time her parents came downstairs for breakfast, Elizabeth had finished her cereal and juice and was slipping out the door.
“What’s the rush today, kitten?” her father asked.
“I have a lot to do, Daddy.”
“Have fun, sweetheart, but be sure to play closeby,” her mother said.
“I will, Mommy. I promise.”
For the next three hours Elizabeth was busy behind the barn. Occasionally she had to run up to her room. From downstairs her mother could hear Elizabeth’s dresser drawers sliding open and slamming shut, followed by the thumping of Elizabeth’s feet as she bounded down the stairs.
Shortly after noon, Elizabeth knocked on her grandmother’s door, bursting with excitement.
“Come in, Bess. I’ve just baked some biscuits.”
“Oh, Grandma, you have to come with me right now! I want to show you the lilacs. They’re blooming behind the barn.”
“Oh, how lovely! Let’s go pick a bouquet for the parlor.”
As Grandma walked around the corner of the barn, her mouth dropped open in amazement. The branches of a young peach tree, decorated with brightly colored hair ribbons, swayed gently in the breeze. Beside it, a rickety wooden chair had been transformed into a throne of roses and daisies.
“Sit down, Your Highness,” said Elizabeth with a curtsy. “The May Day party is starting, and you are the May Queen—the fairest in the land.”
As the old woman slowly seated herself, a crown of blossoms was placed on her head. Gracefully spreading the faded apron over her knees, she blinked back tears of happiness while she watched Elizabeth dance around the peach-tree maypole.

Father’s Day was coming and I didn’t have a clue what to give my dad. What could he need that he didn’t already have? I decided I had to become a detective to find out.
When Dad came home from work, I was ready. I had a small notebook and pencil to write down clues. I listened carefully and watched closely everything that happened.
First, my dad walked in the door and said, “I’m home.” My mom said, “Welcome home, dear,” and gave him a kiss. Then Dad put his briefcase down by the bookcase. He took some coins and keys from his pockets, and put them on a shelf. Then he took off his coat and tie and hung them in his closet. He rolled up his sleeves and washed up for dinner.
After dinner, Dad cleared the table and washed the dishes. Then he read the newspaper and listened to music. After family prayer I went to bed, still clueless about what my dad needed.
The next morning I decided to try again. I got out my notebook and watched. It wasn’t long before I finally had the clue I’d been looking for.
First, Dad came into the kitchen tying his tie. He said, “Good morning, everyone,” and took a sip of orange juice. “I’ve got to hurry today,” he said. He was putting the coins back in his pocket when he stopped and looked around.
“Have you seen my keys?” he asked me.
I jumped up and found them on the floor near the bookcase.
“Thanks, sweetheart,” he said, kissing my cheek. “Lucky for me you have such sharp eyes.”
He waved good-bye, and I returned his wave with a big grin. I was happy because now I knew exactly what to make my dad for Father’s Day.
I asked my mom for a clean, empty tin can with the top removed. She made sure there were no sharp edges. I covered the outside of the can with gold paper. From some old magazines I cut out pictures of things that had to do with money and keys—a piggy bank, a treasure chest, a door lock, and a sports car. I glued the pictures onto the gold paper. My mom then sprayed the can with a clear sealant. While I waited for the can to dry so I could wrap it, I made a card for my dad with a drawing of a detective on it.
On Father’s Day, when Dad opened my gift, he looked confused. “This is a very pretty tin can,” he said.
“It’s for your extra coins,” I pointed out. “And so you don’t lose your keys anymore.”
Dad’s eyes lit up and he smiled broadly. Right then and there he got up and put the can on the bookshelf. “Perfect,” he said as he dropped his coins and keys in with a clatter. “How did you know this was exactly what I needed?”
I just smiled.
My dad used that tin can every day after that. Whenever I heard the familiar clatter of coins and keys, I felt happy inside. That sound meant my dad was home. And I felt a surge of love for him, knowing that I had been able to give him something he really needed. All I had to do was open my eyes and look for the clues.

I had a friend who was active for a long time in the Church. He always came alone because his family had decided they no longer wanted to come. I was impressed by his strength and courage. But then one day I heard that he no longer came to church. I felt strongly prompted by the Spirit that I should talk with him. I told him how impressed I had been that he had come alone to church, and I told him not to give up. That next Sunday he came to sacrament meeting and since then has continued to come to church. By being faithful and living the gospel, we can be examples to our friends and give them the love and support they need.Marina V., 18, Sweden

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).
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.

Many years ago, my husband and I heard a meaningful story that we have repeated often to our children. The story is about an old rattlesnake who asked a passing young boy to carry him to the mountaintop to see one last sunset before the snake died. The boy was hesitant, but the rattlesnake promised not to bite him in exchange for the ride. After that concession, the boy kindly carried the snake to the top of the mountain where they watched the sunset together.

After carrying the snake back down to the valley floor, the boy prepared a meal for himself and a bed for the night. In the morning, the snake asked, “Please, little boy, will you take me back to my home? It is now time for me to leave this world, and I would like to return to my home.” The little boy felt he had been safe and the snake had kept his word, so he decided he would take the snake home as requested.

He carefully picked up the snake, held it close to his chest, and carried him back into the desert to his home to die. Just before he laid the rattlesnake down, the rattlesnake turned and bit him in the chest. The little boy cried out and threw the snake upon the ground. “Mr. Snake, why did you do that? Now I will surely die!” The rattlesnake looked up at him and grinned: “You knew what I was when you picked me up.”

Elder Edward Dube was introduced to the gospel in 1981 by an employer in whose home he worked. The man gave him a copy of the Book of Mormon. He did not read it until 1983 but then was so impressed with Joseph Smith’s testimony of the visitation of Moroni that he responded to an invitation to attend a fast and testimony meeting at the meetinghouse in Kwekwe, Zimbabwe.
He felt uncomfortable at first, feeling that he was in a servant relationship to most of those in attendance.
“But as they bore their testimonies about the Book of Mormon, I felt some connection with these people,” he recalled, “and I was able to share my feelings about the Book of Mormon.”
He would later receive missionary lessons, be baptized, and eventually serve in the Zimbabwe Harare Mission.

This story happened in Ghana.
I am a child of God, and He has sent me here …
You have a loud voice, Eric.
I think it’s a nice voice.
Thanks! I want to learn to sing better.
The next week …
I have a gift for you. It’s a hymnbook so you can learn more Church songs.
Wow! Thank you.
Teach me to walk in the light of His love …
Hope of Israel, rise in might! With the sword of truth and light …
Sister Kaku just called. She asked if you two wanted to sing in the choir for stake conference.
Yes!
We’re so happy you are in our choir!
Thanks!
We love to sing about Jesus.
You did a great job.
Singing makes me happy. I think it makes Jesus happy too!
“For my soul delighteth in the song of the heart; yea, the song of the righteous is a prayer unto me” (Doctrine and Covenants 25:12).
Illustrations by Jared Beckstrand

Early in my youth, I was counseled in a blessing to stay close to my mother and to keep her advice near me, and I would be safe. I have always remembered that, but I often wondered about it because it was my father who seemed to give most of the advice. Then one winter when I was in the seventh grade, I had blood poisoning and became quite ill. My father was traveling at the time—in the summer he farmed, and in the winter he traveled, selling livestock feed. It was during this period that mother gave me some important counsel. It concerned moral cleanliness, and I’ll always be grateful for that advice. It helped me to set some personal standards early in my life.

Children, develop a testimony of the gospel of Jesus Christ. Pray, and Heavenly Father will send you the help you need. Listen to and obey your parents, who only want what is best for you. And when the time is right for you, get your patriarchal blessing and heed its counsel too.

The other day I spoke at the funeral of a 12-year-old boy. Jared had recently been ordained a deacon. He was a fine boy, and his friends came from everywhere to attend the funeral. More than half of them were nonmembers who went to school with him, played soccer with him, or worked in civic projects with him. Jared also had an older brother and a younger brother.
When death comes to an adolescent, it is usually unexpected. We may not be even remotely warned of it. Jared was suffocated in a freak sand cave-in at the oceanside in Coos Bay, Oregon. His cousins and other peers had frantically tried to dig him out. It was a horribly tragic experience for all of them, including his older brother, who had also been partially buried. You can imagine the shock and trauma their parents experienced.
As Jared’s family and close friends gathered beside the casket at the viewing, one particular young friend was having an extremely difficult time saying good-bye to his buddy. I discovered that Ryan and Jared had been soccer friends for about three years. Ryan was not a member of the Church, but he was from a fine Christian home. At 13, he had never before had to face the reality of death that comes when you lose a close friend or loved one.
Ryan cried audibly. He had lost a very close friend. He was comforted by his own father, who held him close and rubbed his shoulders. Jared’s father also offered some comfort to Ryan, all to no avail. The loss was simply more than he could bear.
This incident made my mind race back nearly 30 years to a similar experience in my own life. Evan had been my closest friend. We had shared almost everything together, including pollywogs, toads, lizards, stick horses, dogs, and food.
He and I were quite different in many ways. He was blond and short, like his father. I was lankier and skinny and dark, like my dad. He liked vanilla, I liked chocolate. He had the most beautiful palomino stinkwood stick horse I had ever seen. Dried and stiff, it was the envy of every kid in town.
Evan’s grandmother was my first-grade teacher, back in the days when the first, second, and third grades were all in one room. She was strict and demanding, but she loved us and helped us do the very best we could.
Once when another boy fell asleep in class, Evan and I tried to get her to let us awaken him by pouring water on his head.
“Oh, we couldn’t do that!” she said. “You wouldn’t want him to do that to you, would you?”
I did not know that she was teaching me the Golden Rule. But Evan did. “She was right, you know,” he said to me that afternoon as we walked home from school. Maybe his clearer understanding of truth was one of many reasons the Lord needed him so early.
Evan and I created a great “hut” down in the rocks and sand of Ash Creek. That was a small tributary to the Virgin River in southern Utah. It was the perfect place for catching little blue-bellied racing lizards. When it came to catching those, Evan and I had no peers. That was one thing we could do better than even my two older brothers.
I did not know until we were about ten years old that Evan had been born with a heart defect. He had asthma and often coughed and wheezed from that, but it did not interfere with our play. One reason I did not know that his health problems were serious was that he never once complained.
All along, his parents had been waiting for him to reach an age when he was strong enough to survive surgery. Finally, the doctors felt that they could wait no longer, so off to Salt Lake went Evan and his parents.
He wrote to me saying that he had taken an advance tour of the hospital to see everything, including the operating and recovery rooms. The doctors wanted him to see them in detail, so that when he awoke, he would not be frightened. To me, it seemed that he took that all in stride.
Several days later Evan underwent eight or ten hours of major surgery. Unbelievably to me, he died on the operating table.
I was crushed. I had prayed faithfully and fervently that he would survive. I thought my prayers had gone unanswered. Brokenhearted, I went back to our river hut one last time after the funeral. I stayed only long enough to push some of the rocks aside and destroy the fort that we had built. I guess I thought if I could destroy what represented Evan, I could destroy the horrible feelings of grief that I was experiencing.
Later I would learn that those feelings were normal. I loved Evan. I would miss him. That is a natural instinct, and there is nothing wrong with it.
We will miss Jared too. That is simply part of life. God would never want us to forget someone who has touched us for good. The scriptures tell us, “Thou shalt live together in love, insomuch that thou shalt weep for the loss of them that die” (D&C 42:45).
I thought about Evan every day for a month or so. Then I began to get busy with other friends, and soon I was just thinking about him every now and then. After about ten years, I found that I would go months at a time and never think of the closeness that we had shared. I noticed, however, that when I started thinking about him, all of the good feelings that I had felt with him so many times would come rushing back into my mind and heart.
Then a year or two ago, almost 30 years after Evan’s death, I dreamed that I was driving my car on a business trip up old Highway 101 in northern California, near the Oregon border.
I was traveling along admiring the beautiful coastal view. I had the radio on, and I was just driving along in the dream.
Suddenly, I took my car into a rather sharp bend. As I did so, coming toward me on the ocean’s side of the road, on a packed ten-speed bicycle, was Evan. He was a full-grown adult, but I recognized him immediately.
Quickly I found a wide spot in the road where I could turn around, and I went back. He had seen me too and had stopped, hoping that I would turn around.
I jumped out of the car and raced to him, and we hugged and danced like two little boys who had just captured their first pollywogs. Then we stood arm-in-arm, face-to-face, with the mighty Pacific Ocean as a backdrop and visited eagerly for about 15 minutes.
Never mentioning death, or “it’s good to see you after all of these years,” or anything like that, he finally said to me, “Well, I’ve got to be going.”
Knowing and feeling that to be true, I said to him, “Where are you headed?”
“To take care of some business,” he stated simply. I knew better than to ask any more. He was about his Father’s business. My heart told me so. I know that to be true of Jared also.
I still remember how wonderful it felt in that dream to see Evan again, to hug and talk with him after all those years since he died. The Spirit bore witness to me that Evan and I will meet again someday and that meeting will be as sweet and natural as it was in that wonderful dream.
As I stood at the pulpit in the stake center, the Spirit prompted me to tell Ryan that death is not the end of our associations and that our feelings of love and friendship will endure beyond the grave.
I thought Ryan sat up a little straighter on the bench. His eyes became a little drier, and I even thought I saw him nod his head, as if to agree. I thought my spiritual eyes saw Ryan touched by the Spirit.
It is never easy to lose a friend to death. But the understanding which the gospel provides can be a great comfort to us. We know that life continues beyond the grave and that there is important work to be done by those who have gone on. And time will soften the pain of those who are left behind.
About 80 years before the birth of Christ, the Book of Mormon prophet Ammon taught, “Now when our hearts were depressed, and we were about to turn back, behold, the Lord comforted us, and said: Go amongst thy brethren … and bear with patience thine afflictions, and I will give unto you success” (Alma 26:27).
Remain faithful, young people. Do what is right and be prayerful. You will see your friend again. It will be sooner than you think. Your loss will not be easy, but God will comfort you and the hurt will eventually go away. One day soon, the memories will be happy and joyful as you reflect on the good times spent together sharing your lives. That is the promise of the plan of salvation.

From the time the Aldous family enrolled in his school, Master Kim had been watching them closely. There was something about them that made them stand out from other people. “I was impressed by the support they gave each other,” he says. “And by the emphasis they put on family and personal growth.”
Eventually the Aldous family invited Master Kim to church. He began taking the missionary lessons and was baptized.

In 2019 I was called to the Philippines Quezon City Mission. Serving there was like living a dream—I’d always loved the Filipino culture and really wanted to learn Tagalog. But my missionary experience also taught me the true nature of our heavenly parents, and when I returned home to Samoa last year, I felt a strong desire to see my family sealed to each other for time and all eternity.
We have some work to do before we can achieve that goal. My parents are still new to the gospel and continue to learn. My brother is still finding his path, exploring if a mission is in his future. Fiasili and I continue to persevere. We are determined to “press forward with a steadfastness in Christ, having a perfect brightness of hope, and a love of God and of all men” (2 Nephi 31:20), as we strive to help deepen our family’s conversion.

Almost two years later, in April 1981, my father died unexpectedly. Among his effects I discovered a ring that bore his initials, CMY, but I couldn’t recall ever seeing it on his hand. He must have worn this ring as a young man while serving on a Canadian Navy minesweeper during the war.
Now, upon his death, I was the only living person appearing on my one-page pedigree chart, so I had to rely on extended relatives to gather more information. One of these was Betty, a sister-in-law of my grandfather, still living at the family home in Bexleyheath, Kent, England. I had always hoped to visit and learn more about my mother’s family, but as a single college student, I did not have the financial means to do so. Now, with the modest amount bequeathed to me after my father’s passing, I could fund a trip across the ocean to visit.
On the day I went to visit Aunt Betty for the first time I felt nervous. Would she understand my great desire to learn more about earlier generations? I looked at my father’s ring, now on my own right hand, reflected in the window of the double-decker bus I was riding in. It brought me comfort, as if his hand were resting on my knee in support of my errand.
Happily, Aunt Betty received me warmly and revealed many new and helpful details about my family, including the fact that my great-great-grandfather had built the home she was living in. That night I even slept in my grandfather’s childhood bedroom. I never met him, but from the photos she shared, I learned that I bear an uncanny resemblance to him. She generously gave me some of these old family photos, letters, and a family Bible listing the full names, birthdates, and birthplaces of two generations of my ancestors starting in the 1830s.
It has been over 25 years since that rainy September afternoon in England, when my tentative steps took me from the bus stop to an uncertain welcome at my ancestral home. Since then I have discovered a treasure trove of information from extended family members about my ancestors on both sides of the Atlantic, allowing me to ensure their temple ordinances have been done.
I will always remember walking up to the front door of number 32 Oaklands Road and seeing my own reflection in the glass. Now I know that the familiar face reflected back at me was not unlike the young face of my grandfather welcoming me home.

A few years ago, I was in line to make a purchase at my local grocery store. Ahead of me stood a young woman, about 15 years old. She appeared confident and happy. I noticed her T-shirt and couldn’t resist talking to her. I began, “You’re from out of state, aren’t you?”
She was surprised by my question and replied, “Yes, I am. I’m from Colorado. How did you know?”
I explained, “Because of your T-shirt.” I made my accurate supposition after reading the words on her shirt, “I’m a Mormon. Are you?”
I continued, “I must tell you that I’m impressed by your confidence to stand out and wear such a bold declaration. I see a difference in you, and I wish every young woman and every member of the Church could have your same conviction and confidence.” Our purchases completed, we said good-bye and parted.
Yet for days and weeks after this random everyday moment, I found myself seriously reflecting upon this encounter. I wondered how this young girl from Colorado came to possess such confidence in her identity as a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I couldn’t help but wonder what meaningful phrase I would figuratively choose to have printed on my T-shirt reflecting my belief and testimony. In my mind, I considered many possible sayings. Eventually, I came upon an ideal statement I would proudly wear: “I’m a Mormon. I know it. I live it. I love it.”

Since joining the church, I have forged and strengthened my relationships with both friends and family. Prior to my baptism I had not spoken with my family for a number of years, but through understanding the gospel and the atonement of Jesus Christ, I realised that if I was to repair relations with my family I needed to make the first move. I went to them full of apologies and with a sincere intention to mend my relationship. I am happy to say that now the relationship with my mum and my dad has never been stronger.

This story took place in Brazil.
“Now we’ll have a talk by Sister Almeida,” the bishop said.
Gabriel took out a piece of paper and some pencils. He liked to draw while he listened to the talks. So did his sister, Alice.
This time Alice drew a lion. Gabriel drew a dinosaur. He gave it a long neck and a tail.
Then Gabriel looked up. A little boy was walking toward them.
“Oh no!” he whispered to Alice. “Here comes Christian.”
Christian was four years old. He couldn’t talk, and he didn’t sit still. He walked around the chapel during meetings. Sometimes he scribbled on Gabriel’s drawings.
Gabriel hid his pencils behind his back. He didn’t want Christian to get them.
Christian reached for the pencils.
“No! These are mine!” Gabriel whispered, pointing to Christian’s family. “Go sit down.”
But Christian didn’t seem to understand. He kept grabbing for Gabriel’s pencils.
When the meeting was over, Gabriel walked with Mom and Alice to Primary.
“Why can Christian walk around the chapel but I need to be quiet?” Gabriel asked Mom.
“Christian has a different way of thinking,” Mom said. “Walking around helps him feel calm and comfortable.”
“But he always bothers us,” Gabriel said.
Alice frowned. “He just wants to draw.”
“But he doesn’t know how!”
“Maybe we can help him,” Alice said.
The next Sunday, Gabriel sat next to Alice during sacrament meeting. After the bread and water were passed, he pulled out his pencils and paper to draw. Then he saw Christian walking toward them.
Gabriel started to hide his pencils, but he paused. Christian had a big smile on his face. Gabriel remembered what Alice had said. Maybe he could help Christian draw this time!
Gabriel smiled back at Christian. He scooted over so Christian could sit between him and Alice. Gabriel gave Christian a pencil and paper. Alice helped Christian hold the pencil. Together they drew a stick figure.
Christian laughed and clapped his hands. He looked excited. Gabriel was excited too. This time Gabriel helped Christian hold the pencil. Together they drew a dog. Gabriel grinned. Drawing with Christian was fun.
When the meeting was over, Christian had a whole stack of drawings. He hugged the drawings tight and pointed to his family’s bench. Gabriel and Alice led Christian back to his family. Christian showed the drawings to his mom with a big smile.
Gabriel was glad he could draw with Christian. And he was glad he had a sister who was a good example.
Who can you help at church?
Illustrations by Josh Talbot

Nancy arrived at the edge of the crowd, breathing hard and feeling damp and uncomfortable in her heavy skirt and jacket. Now, as she looked around, fear clutched at her. She’d never seen so many people as had come together on this barren hilltop. Here and there were sprinkled a few bearded Amish in flat black hats and some hobbling veterans in their faded uniforms. An occasional brightly garbed woman stood out in bold relief among the drab browns and grays of men’s clothing.
Directly ahead, a square wooden platform caught her attention. On it stood a white-haired man gesturing with generous motions. That must be Senator Everett, she thought. Nancy studied him briefly, then scanned the faces of the men seated in twos on the platform. Is that bare-headed man sitting in the center President Lincoln, she wondered, or is that other gentleman to the right of him wearing the tall hat? Both had beards, so it was difficult for Nancy to tell from a distance. She edged closer for a better look.
She pushed past the onlookers who smelled of sweaty wool and stale food even in the outdoors.
“How much longer before the president takes his turn?” she whispered to a boy in front of her.
“Soon, I hope,” he said. “I’m hungry.” He eyed her parcel. “Is that something to eat?”
“No,” she said and hugged her parcel closer. They both looked up as scattered applause began around them. Peering between men’s shoulders, Nancy saw Mr. Everett bowing and waving as he made his way to his seat then watched as he sat down heavily, pulled out a billowing kerchief, and wiped his face.
“Lookee there,” the boy said. “He worked up a sweat making a speech and all I did was work up an appetite listening to it.”
Nancy smiled and continued searching for a good vantage point from which to hear the president. As a chorale group on the stage began to sing, she saw a man and woman standing nearby, and she edged closer to them. Somehow, the presence of a woman made her feel more comfortable.
They turned as she stopped beside them and Nancy saw that they were very old. The man’s face looked like a shriveled, dried-out apple and the woman’s colorless face reminded Nancy of her favorite china doll. Their clothes had an ancient look, too, worn to a thinness that even patches would no longer hold together.
“Did you come far?” Nancy asked.
“All the way from Ohio,” the old man replied.
Nancy gasped. “That’s a long, long way. You must be very tired.”
“Sarah, my wife, is not feeling so good,” the man said. “She’s not over her sickness.”
“I had to come. I had to find our son’s grave.” The woman spoke so softly that Nancy wasn’t sure she heard her at first.
“Oh,” Nancy said. She felt a sudden rush of sympathy for them and knew she’d cry if she tried to talk anymore. If only Papa were here now, she wished, he’d know what to say and do.
The chorale group finished and the crowd surged forward in anticipation, as someone announced simply, “The president of the United States.” Nancy looked up, paralyzed with the depth of her feelings. There he stood—tall, thin, somber-looking in his steel-rimmed glasses—as he began to read from a paper.
She hardly heard his words because her emotions threatened to boil up and outside of her and carry her away. To realize the dream, to be here at long last was almost more than she could physically handle. Her head buzzed and pounded and her stomach threatened a revolt. She swallowed hard and hugged her package closer.
Then the president stopped talking. Surely he can’t be finished already, Nancy thought. He’s hardly said anything yet.
People looked at one another uncertainly for a moment, then slowly began to applaud. The applause gathered momentum and Nancy joined in, disappointed because she had paid so little attention to what the president said. She’d have to ask Papa about it later.
Now the crowd pushed forward again and Nancy felt panic. She was afraid she might be crushed or trampled and never get to give the president his gift. She looked around wildly and saw a small opening to slip through. Perhaps she could work her way out of the crowd and go around to the other side of the platform. The president was still busy shaking hands and talking. She hoped she had enough time to meet him.
Nancy pushed and poked with her elbows, slowly forcing her way through until she came to the edge of the gathering. Sighing, she stopped and licked a salty drop from her lip. The air was close and sticky as though it might rain soon.
Then she saw them, the old man and woman, standing away from the crowd. Suddenly, the old lady seemed to sag as though someone had let the air out of her, and then she slipped to the ground through her husband’s grasp. Nancy ran to them.
“What’s the matter?” she asked.
“My wife, she’s so sick,” he said. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Where’s your wagon? Can’t you take her to it?”
“It’s too far. She’d never make it,” he replied.
“You go get it. I’ll stay with your wife,” Nancy suggested.
“Oh, thank you, young lady. Thank you.” Gently, he touched Nancy’s cheek and even though the touch of his old gnarled fingers felt like prickly berry bushes, she was strangely moved.
“Hurry, Edward, hurry!” his wife whispered.
The old man trotted off and Nancy looked down at the crumpled form on the ground. Sweat stood out on the woman’s forehead and yet she shook uncontrollably with chills.
“What’s wrong?” Nancy asked.
“I’m so cold,” she said. “My fever’s come back.”
Nancy took off her jacket and put it over the nearly threadbare cape the lady wore.
“Does that help?”
“Don’t worry about me. You run along and find your family.”
“Oh, no, I can’t leave you alone,” Nancy told her.
The minutes ticked by and the crowd thinned out, and still the old man did not appear with the wagon. People stopped to stare at them curiously, but no one offered to help and Nancy grew increasingly anxious. She looked at the platform again where the president stood talking to several men. Oh please, let him stay a few minutes longer, she silently prayed. Don’t let him get away from me now.
She glanced down and found the woman shaking worse than before. Nancy tried to tuck her clothes about her, but the girl knew it wasn’t enough. The woman needed more covers, something warm and woolly, to cover her now.
Nancy realized what she had to do. She’d known it all along. Slowly she unwrapped her parcel and pulled out the blue woolen shawl she had made for President Lincoln.
“I think this will help,” she said.
The look of gratitude in the woman’s eyes when she saw the shawl warmed Nancy deeply, the way a cup of hot milk spreads its comfort on a cold day. She felt infinitely older as she tucked the shawl around the old woman and smiled at her with newly awakened feelings.
After a moment, Nancy turned to look at the platform and watched the president move through the people massed around him, away from her and out of her life. She knew she’d not meet him face to face today, perhaps never. And she knew she would never give him the shawl but, somehow, it didn’t matter anymore.
Is this growing up? she wondered. It felt different, yet made to order, like a new cloak put on over an old dress. The old dress was still there underneath, but the cloak was what showed. Underneath she was still a child and the child would always remain a part of her, but as she grew she’d add more garments of growing. Precious moments of understanding would be added until one day she’d be a woman.
She hugged the thought closer and then settled down to wait for the old man and her father to find her.

Elder Matthew Cowley once asked an elders quorum president how his elders were getting along as a quorum. “Do you do anything to help one another?” “Oh, yes,” was the response. “We’ve got a member of our quorum in the hospital in New Mexico. He was a vigorous young man, buying a farm, a hard worker with a lovely family. All of a sudden he was stricken.” That could have meant the end of his farm and family security.

The elders quorum president said, “That was our loss as much as for his wife and children. So we took over, and we’ve operated that farm. All he has to worry about is getting well.”

• Alcohol. One couple grieved deeply and suffered throughout much of their lives because at the age of 13 their son began regularly consuming great quantities of alcoholic beverages. He never recovered from the alcoholism that eventually caused his premature death.
Shortly before the son’s illness that ended his tortured life, a brother asked him, “When did you take your first drink?” The answer was both startling and revealing. He explained that one day when he was only five years old and playing at a friend’s home while the parents were away, he was offered a drink of beer. Not knowing anything about alcoholic beverages and thinking his friend meant root beer, he tasted his first alcoholic drink. He liked the taste and effect of it. By age 13 he was an alcoholic.
For the rest of their son’s life, the parents spent a major part of their time praying, worrying, and struggling unsuccessfully to reclaim and assist him. They found him in pool halls and bars, with drinking buddies, and in prison. Some years they did not know where he was, a sad state of affairs in which imagination can be even worse than reality. During other years, with the help of Alcoholics Anonymous and the loving attention of others who had struggled with similar problems, he was sober and lived a productive existence.
Throughout all their years of heartache, these parents never gave up. They spent countless hours on their knees praying for their son, often pleading to know where he was. When his mother became seriously ill, no one knew where the son was, but the Spirit summoned the young man to the telephone and brought him home. It was he who helped his father and sister care for his dying mother during her last days on earth.