Gospel Story Finder

What am I going to do? I can’t bear my testimony. I don’t have a testimony! I thought.
It was family home evening, and Mom had taught the lesson. “I think it’d be very nice if we all took some time to share our testimonies with each other,” she said excitedly. “I’ll go first.”
At least she started on the other side of the room. It felt like Mom was looking right at me as she began. Who is Jesus, anyway? I wondered. I had heard all the stories, gone to Primary, but I still didn’t know Him. What if it is really just a story? Mom seemed to really feel what she was saying, like she really believed it was true.
Mom ended her testimony, and then it was Tiffany’s turn. She began, “I want to bear my testimony. I know the Church is true, I know there is a true prophet. …”
How does she know that? She’s only 10! I thought as I listened to her go on like it was so simple. It wasn’t simple, though—not for me. I didn’t know if I believed it, any of it. I had so many questions.
Tiffany finished, and it was Danny’s turn. He sped through bearing his testimony, and then everyone was looking at me.
I thought about just saying I had a testimony. But I decided I would just tell the truth. They are going to be so mad.
“Jennie, it’s your turn. Would you bear your testimony, please?”
“No. I don’t want to. I don’t have a testimony. I don’t know if it’s true. I’m sorry.” Dreading what they would say and how they would react, I ran to my room and threw myself onto my bed.
Mom followed quickly and sat down on the bed next to me. She reached forward and gently patted me on the back.
“Jennie …”
“Mom, I just don’t know if I believe it like you do. I’m sorry, but I just don’t know.”
“Well, it’s about time!” she said.
“What?” Surprised, I sat up.
“You’re 13 years old. It’s about time you started questioning and searching for yourself. You can’t live off of your father’s testimony or mine. You have to figure it out for yourself now.”
“You’re not mad at me?”
“No. It’s OK that you don’t have a testimony now, but you have to decide what you’re going to do about it. You must find out for yourself,” Mom said.
“What should I do?”
“Read the Book of Mormon. Then pray about it. Ask God.”
“How will I know?” I asked.
“You’ll feel it. He’ll tell your heart.” She smiled, got up from the bed, and left my room.
Moved by my mother’s advice, I determined to read the Book of Mormon and find out if what my parents had taught me was true.
A few months later I came to the last chapter in the Book of Mormon. I remember thinking about Moroni’s promise as I knelt down beside my bed. I wondered if it really could be that simple.
As I began to pray, a feeling of peace and assurance came over me—so much so that I felt guilty for having even doubted. In that sweet moment, the Lord planted a seed in my heart that has since become a growing testimony of the truth.

Christmas was coming, but this year we were not going to celebrate with an abundance of food and toys. Papa had passed away, and Mama had begun receiving a small pension as a widow, along with a little rent money.
We were in the living room of our apartment, in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. The room was quiet. Then suddenly we heard a sound as if someone had arrived outside the building.
I got up and looked through the blinds of the window, from which I could see the entrance to our building. I saw a homeless woman. She had a few bags and wore tattered clothes. I observed her for a few moments, curious to see what she would do. She opened a small paper sack, took out a few cookies, and began to eat them. Soon afterward she opened another little sack that contained a few coins and began to count them.
My young heart was moved, and I softly called to my mother, “There’s an old woman outside. Come and see.” My mother looked, and she also was moved. She asked me to get the can where we kept a little money, and without making a sound, she left our apartment and silently dropped the bills from the building’s hallway window.
I stayed by our window and watched the bills fall. The old woman saw one fall and then another and another. Trying to discover where the money had come from, she looked at the windows of the building. They were all closed. Then something wonderful happened. She looked to heaven and extended her wrinkled hands. Then she placed her hands on her chest and gave thanks for the gift she had received.
Behind the blinds of the window, we wept in gratitude that the little we had was enough to give joy to someone who had less.

One day after school, I didn’t see Mom waiting to pick me up. I decided to walk home. I had walked a block when I thought that I should ask Heavenly Father to help keep me safe. While I was praying, I had a feeling to go back to school. I took a couple more steps, and I felt sick to my stomach. I turned around and began walking back toward school. With every step I took, I felt better. Just as I got back to school, I saw Mom getting out of our car to look for me. I told her what happened, and she agreed with me that Heavenly Father had answered my prayer and that it was the Holy Ghost who told me to go back to school. I am thankful that Heavenly Father loves me and answers my prayers.
Todd Judd, age 7Bountiful, Utah

I knew a young mother who lost her husband by death. The family had been in poor circumstances and the insurance policy was only $2,000, but it was like a gift from heaven. The company promptly delivered the check for that amount as soon as proof of death was furnished. The young widow concluded she should save this for emergencies, and accordingly deposited it in the bank. Others knew of her savings, and one kinsman convinced her that she should lend the $2,000 to him at a high rate of interest.

Years passed, and she had received neither principal nor interest. She noticed that the borrower avoided her and made evasive promises when she asked him about the money. Now she needed the money and it could not be had.

“How I hate him!” she told me, and her voice breathed venom and bitterness and her dark eyes flashed. To think that an able-bodied man would defraud a young widow with a family to support! “How I loathe him!” she repeated over and over. Then I told her my Bishop Kempton story, where a man forgave the murderer of his father. She listened intently. I saw she was impressed. At the conclusion there were tears in her eyes, and she whispered: “Thank you. Thank you sincerely. Surely I, too, must forgive my enemy. I will now cleanse my heart of its bitterness. I do not expect ever to receive the money, but I leave my offender in the hands of the Lord.”

Weeks later, she saw me again and confessed that those intervening weeks had been the happiest of her life. A new peace had overshadowed her and she was able to pray for the offender and forgive him, even though she never received back a single dollar. (See Spencer W. Kimball, The Miracle of Forgiveness, Bookcraft, 1969, pp. 293–94.)

Some years ago my business partner and I needed to terminate an employee. After some discussions we reached a settlement to compensate him for his services. I felt that the settlement was more than fair, but some strained relationships resulted from the negotiations nonetheless. That night I felt a gloom come over me. I tried to dispel it by reasoning within myself that I had been fair, but the feeling would not leave. Then this impression came: “It’s not enough to be fair; you must also strive to be Christlike.” Adherence to the highest moral code is a hallmark of a man or a woman of integrity.

Eighteen-year-old Annie Smith wrapped her scarf tighter around her neck and looked back across the railroad bridge she had just crossed. It was a beautiful winter day in 1892, a perfect day for their school outing. She and her students had already enjoyed dinner at her house and a sleigh ride. Now, as they carefully made their way across the bridge, Annie paused to watch them. These children from her one-room schoolhouse in Porterville, Utah, were a variety of ages and sizes, with some students even older than she was. It warmed her heart to see the bigger ones helping the smaller ones along the tracks.
As Annie watched, she felt a small hand slip into hers. She looked down into the face of her youngest student, little Hughie. His brown eyes were large with excitement.
“Do we really get to go through the tunnel?” His voice was almost a whisper.
Annie nodded. “I have special permission from the railroad. They assured me that no trains were scheduled for today, so it will be perfectly safe.” She looked at the dark opening in the mountainside ahead. “It’s a long, dark tunnel, Hughie. There are no lights inside, but on the other side is a beautiful view of the rockslide and the valley.”
Hughie gave a little sigh and smiled. Annie’s words had put his fears to rest. Now he tugged anxiously on her arm. “Come on, Teacher. Let’s go see the valley.”
Soon they were all inside the tunnel. It took a while for their eyes to adjust to the darkness after the bright daylight. “Take it slowly,” Annie’s voice echoed in the tunnel. “Keep on the tracks and hold hands so that you don’t trip.”
At first the children were laughing and joking, but they soon grew silent as they concentrated on their footing. The only sound was the grating of their footsteps on gravel and their quiet voices as they guided each other over the railroad ties.
Annie knew they were about halfway through the darkness when she saw a small circle of light ahead marking the other end of the tunnel. “We’re almost there,” she told her students. “See the light ahead?”
As they paused to look, they heard a rumbling noise coming closer and closer, and then a sound that made their blood run chill: a train whistle.
“Teacher?” It was Hughie’s voice. “Did you hear? What—”
Annie hushed him quickly. She stood frozen on the tracks, not daring to believe her ears. But then the whistle sounded again, nearer this time. There was a train rounding the point of the mountain and coming across the bridge. It was coming very fast!
Annie prayed silently for help. Please, Heavenly Father, what should I do? Tell me what to do.
“Teacher?” an older child asked. “Shall we run?”
The tracks were starting to vibrate under their feet.
“No!” The words seemed to spring from her lips of their own accord. “Lie down at once as close to the wall as possible. Don’t move or try to get up until I say that you can. Now, go!”
This last word she had to scream because the sound of the approaching train was loud and unmistakable now. She pulled the nearest child with her to the wall of the tunnel and held him tight. As the train roared into the tunnel, many of the children screamed in terror. Sparks flew from the smokestack in a shower of light, and the smoke almost suffocated them. It seemed to last forever. Annie trembled and tightened her grip on the child, afraid she might lose him in the hot, rushing wind that swept through the tunnel with the train.
When the silence finally returned, she helped the child up and hurried toward the light. She went as swiftly as she could, tripping on stones and bumping into her students, who were also in a panic, crawling to get out of the dark.
Once outside the tunnel, the students helped brush the dirt from each other’s clothing and began to breathe more easily. Then one of the older children asked, “Where’s Hughie?”
Taking some older boys with her, Annie returned to the dark tunnel, afraid of what she might find. The boys ran ahead calling Hughie’s name. Then, “He’s here!” a boy called, relief in his voice. “Lying facedown by the wall.”
“It’s OK, Hughie.” Annie heard another boy comforting him. “The train is gone. You can get up now.”
Hughie turned his face toward them and said in a brave but frightened voice, “Did Teacher say that I could?”
Annie hurried over to him and put her arms around him. “Oh, Hughie,” she said, tears in her eyes. “Thank you for being so obedient. You did the right thing, and you are safe. You can get up now. Teacher says so.”
Hughie got to his feet, and Annie took his hand and led him toward the light. As they walked, Annie silently thanked Heavenly Father for watching over this little boy who had such faith in his teacher. She hoped that she would always live worthy of that trust.
Annie also knew that her trust in Heavenly Father had not been in vain. Her prayer had been answered when she knew what they needed to do to be safe. They had been spared because they had immediately obeyed those promptings. There is safety in obedience. That was a lesson that neither Hughie nor his teacher would ever forget.

Becka stood at the kitchen sink, looking through snow-covered pine trees at the sloping meadow beyond. She was dreaming of using her brother’s old skis.
“Honey, when are you going to gather the eggs?” her mother asked. “I’d like to make some custard pies.”
Becka turned from the window with a sigh. “I’ll get them now,” she replied. “I just wish Tim had shoveled the walk before he decided to go somewhere.”
Mother chuckled. “He didn’t just ‘go somewhere.’ He’s helping your father with the snowplow. They’re both out working in this cold right now. That’s more important than clearing a path to the barn, don’t you agree? First things first.”
Becka shrugged and went onto the sun porch. “I suppose,” she mumbled as she rammed her feet into her fur-lined boots and shoved her arms into the sleeves of her jacket. Wrapping a scarf around her neck, she called, “Need anything else while I’m out there?”
“Potatoes and a cabbage,” Mother called back. “I’ll make a pot of ham, cabbage, and potatoes for later.”
With a sigh, Becka grabbed the egg basket and opened the door. Winter greeted her with a blast as she stepped out onto the drift-filled back steps. Grumbling, she struggled through the snow toward the barn. It wouldn’t have taken Tim very long to clear this snow, she thought as clumps of it fell into her boots.
Becka forgot all about Tim and the cold when she saw fresh tracks leading to the back barn door and disappearing inside! She put her boots next to the tracks and saw that they weren’t much bigger than her own. The wind rose and the door swayed slightly.
Quietly Becka stepped over the worn threshold. The farm equipment stood silent guard by the back doors, and everything seemed in order. Not even the straw on the floor seemed disturbed. Still, Becka knew that someone was in the barn with her. She tiptoed forward past the empty stalls. Hearing potatoes rattling in the bin, she quickly ducked into the last stall and peeked cautiously over its side. Someone with his back to her was taking potatoes. Becka counted one, two, three, as they dropped into a burlap bag. Then the intruder turned toward the apples—it was Scott Halligan!
Scott counted out three apples, then moved on to the carrots. He smoothed the dust from one long tender carrot and bit into it. He chewed thoughtfully, then took a handful of carrots and a handful of beets. Finally he stood upright and threw the bag over his shoulder.
Becka couldn’t believe it—Scott Halligan was stealing food from them! She wanted to say something but waited to see what he would do next. When he stooped and crept through the door of the attached chicken coop, she tiptoed forward and pressed an eye to a knothole.
“Sorry, old girl,” Scott said gently, to a chicken, “but Gramps is sick and we need food. He’d kill me if he knew what I was doing, but you understand, don’t you?” He took an egg from a nest. “Two more and I’ll be gone.” Scott wrapped the eggs in a ragged towel and nestled them gently in the burlap bag.
As he turned to leave the chicken coop, Becka flattened herself against the wall and squeezed behind an old butter churn. She watched him leave the barn, then thought about what she’d seen.
She didn’t know Scott very well. All she knew for sure was that his cranky old grandfather had taken him and his little brother to raise after their parents were killed in an automobile accident late in the fall. Scott sometimes wore ragged clothes to school, but they were always clean.
Now she hurried out of the barn and followed his tracks through the snow to the thicket at the edge of the fence. When she heard Scott ahead, she crouched behind the snow-covered branches. Scott was kneeling in the snow, tying the burlap bag to a sled. That done, he pulled it carefully toward the hill that joined their properties. Becka watched him quietly. Scott hadn’t taken much.
Becka hurried back to the house. She clomped inside the sun porch and stood in the doorway of the kitchen.
Mother looked up and smiled. “Did you get the eggs, cabbage, and potatoes, honey?”
Becka shook her head slowly. “No,” she said in a whisper. “I didn’t.”
“Becka? What’s the matter, honey?” Mother stopped stirring, sat down with the bowl on her lap, and called Becka to her.
Becka’s eyes sparkled with tears. “I just saw Scott Halligan stealing food from our barn,” she said quietly. “And I didn’t stop him.”
Mother’s eyes widened. “What?”
“Scott Halligan. I don’t think you know him—he and his little brother live with their grandfather, Mr. Kelly.”
“You mean Seth Kelly, who lives over the hill?”
Becka nodded. “I’ve only seen Scott at school. He’s real quiet there, but I heard him tell our chickens that his grandfather is sick and they need food. I didn’t stop him, Mom. I know stealing is wrong, but we have so much. …”
Mother pulled her close. “You did the right thing, honey. Now the right thing for me to do is to make a phone call.”
“You won’t report him, Mom!” Becka pleaded.
Mother smiled. “I’m calling the Relief Society president. I don’t think finding out that he took food is nearly as important as finding out that they need it. We’ll get a basket of food ready and pay Mr. Kelly a neighborly visit. He’s never wanted to bother with his neighbors, but it’s time for us to bother with him. I don’t think a custard pie would go to waste there, either,” she added.
Becka grinned. “Thanks, Mom! I hoped you’d feel like that. I’ll get those eggs now.”
“Bring extra potatoes and another cabbage, Becka,” Mother called.
Becka waved and hurried back outside. She looked at the snow-clogged path and smiled. “Then I’ll clear this walk,” she said happily. “First things first.”

A few years ago, my mother was diagnosed as having a malignant brain tumor. Despite the crushing news, my father, a firm believer in miracles, insisted that she could recover if our family exerted the necessary faith. We prayed fervently, and Mother received many priesthood blessings. But her condition grew steadily worse.
Desperate yet undaunted, Father continued to attend the temple daily. As I stood at the window and watched him leave for the temple early one morning, I remembered a day many years earlier, when my little brother was thrown from a horse. Thinking he had suffered only a little bruising and a bloody nose, I was devastated when he died late that night. My world caved in, and for months I mulled over the painful question, Why hadn’t Heavenly Father sent a miracle to save my brother’s life?
I turned away from the window, thinking about miracles: Who is entitled to them? Are they granted strictly by faith? How, exactly, do you measure a miracle? Then I thought of my mother. Now she seemed to be slipping away—dying from a second brain tumor some thirty-five years after her first one had been removed. She had lived happily and productively—a full life—and I wondered if there could be another miracle in store for her.
When I kissed her for what would be the last time in this life, I told her I loved her. The serene look on her face as she passed away convinced me that I had witnessed one of the greatest miracles of all. Because of the reality of the gospel and of Christ’s resurrection, I knew she was smiling again, embracing all those loved ones who had gone on before.
I still don’t know how to measure a miracle, but it no longer matters. Miracles happen with every breath we take. And sometimes the best miracles are not in living, but in going home.

Adriana was bored. She wanted to play with her twin sister, Diana. But Diana had gone to buy food at the market with Mamá. Adriana sighed. The house felt very empty. She wished she’d gone with them.
Adriana decided to visit her neighbor Margarita. Margarita’s kids were all grown up, and she was like a grandma to Adriana. They always had lots of fun together.
Adriana went outside. The hot sun shone down on her as she walked to Margarita’s house. She poked her head inside the door. “Margarita, are you home?”
“Sí, I am in the kitchen,” Margarita called. Adriana found her sitting at the kitchen table with her head down. She looked up when Adriana came in.
“Hello, Adriana,” said Margarita. She gave a small smile. But it seemed sad.
“Is something wrong?” asked Adriana.
Margarita sighed. “Nothing you need to worry about.”
“How can I help her feel better?” Adriana thought. Margarita always seemed happy when they cooked together. “May I help you make tortillas?”
“I just finished making some,” said Margarita. She lifted a cloth napkin to show a stack of tortillas.
“Then may I help you eat tortillas?” Adriana asked with a grin.
Margarita laughed. “Of course. Let me just heat up some beans to go with them.”
Adriana stood by Margarita at the stove and stirred black refried beans in a pot. When the beans were done, she carried them to the table. Margarita brought the tortillas and the cheese.
Adriana took a warm tortilla and spread beans over it. Then she sprinkled the cheese on top. It looked delicious! Adriana couldn’t wait to take a bite. But there was something she wanted to do first.
“May I please say a prayer?” Adriana asked Margarita.
“Sure.”
Adriana closed her eyes and folded her arms. “Heavenly Father, we thank Thee for this food. Please bless it to make us healthy and strong. And please help Margarita with whatever she needs. I’m glad she’s my friend. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
Adriana opened her eyes. Margarita had a big smile—a real one this time. While they ate, they talked about school and sports and books. Adriana loved talking with Margarita.
When they finished eating, Adriana gave Margarita a big hug. “Thank you for the snack. I had a great time!”
Margarita hugged Adriana back. “Thank you, Adriana. I needed a friend today.”
Adriana beamed. “I’m glad we’re amigas.”
“I’m glad we’re friends too,” Margarita said. “Why don’t you take the rest of these tortillas home? I’m so full.”
Adriana skipped all the way back to her house. She felt full too—and not just from the tortillas! She was full of friendship from head to toe.

“Marionette,” called out the teacher.
Lucia stood before the class, her dark eyes shining and her hands clasped before her in eager anticipation. Her only opponent, Susan Hanley, spelled quickly, “M-a-r-i-o-n … ” She hesitated a moment before finishing, “e-t.”
“I’m sorry,” said the teacher, “but that’s the wrong spelling.”
Lucia felt sorry for Susan, whose crushed expression and flushed face mirrored her disappointment. Should I misspell the word and end the contest in a tie? Lucia wondered.
Lucia didn’t want to begin her first week at a new school making an enemy. She wondered if Susan was like Donna at her former school. Donna and Lucia had battled constantly for first place in everything.
“Marionette,” the teacher repeated.
Lucia tore her gaze from Susan and began to spell the word: “M—” Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat and began again, “M-a-r-i-o-n-e-t-t-e.”
“The winner is Lucia Martin!” declared the teacher.
Lucia smiled weakly and looked at Susan. Susan’s eyes were downcast, and her complexion was a dull brick red. Lucia’s stomach lurched. I did the wrong thing, she decided.
Just then the recess bell rang, and the fourth grade class spilled out onto the playground. Lucia trailed with heavy steps, her eyes following Susan. I don’t want to compete with her, she thought. I just want to be friends. But she knew how hard it was not to compete. She could never resist trying to beat Donna.
Lucia found herself standing near Susan and another girl.
“Too bad about the spelling bee,” Susan’s friend was saying. “Up until now you hadn’t lost any. Will your folks be upset?”
Susan picked nervously at the buttons on her coat. “I suppose so,” she muttered dully. “My parents get upset whenever they think I’m not doing as well as my sister Sylvia. The trouble is, my sister’s good at everything! I’m tired of trying to keep up with her.”
Poor Susan, Lucia thought. At least I don’t have those problems.
“Let’s play jump rope,” Susan’s friend suggested. “Everyone knows you’re the best rope jumper in the school!”
Immediately a game of jump rope was started, and Lucia asked to turn one end of the rope. Before long she forgot her troubles and was shouting the chants with the others.
Soon it was Susan’s turn to jump. The girls counted out the turns of the rope together. On and on they counted. Lucia found herself cheering for Susan with the rest. “Hit two hundred!” she called. “You can do it!”
The girls counted excitedly, “193, 194, 195, …”
Susan’s face was the color of a ripe tomato. Lucia could hear her gasping for breath as the girls called out, “198, 199, 200!”
As the girls cheered the exhausted jumper, Susan’s shoe caught the rope and she went down on one knee.
Lucia put out a hand to help Susan up. But Susan jerked away, looking triumphant. “Let’s see you beat that!” she whispered.
Lucia’s face burned. As she took her turn jumping the rope, a familiar anger tightened her stomach. It was happening all over again.
The only sound was the slap of the rope and the tap of her leather shoes on the cement as she easily jumped to fifty. The rope arched up and down, over and over again, making a whooshing sound as it cut through the air.
The girls began to count aloud now, “101, 102, …”
Lucia’s breath came in shallow pants. Her hands clenched and unclenched automatically. Her leather shoes beat out a pattern on the concrete. The perspiration on her forehead trickled down her nose. She wiped it away quickly.
Above the roar in her ears she heard, “189, 190, 191, …” Her legs felt heavy now, and there was a tingling numbness in the soles of her feet. She felt a strange elation. “… 195, 196, …”
Then Susan’s face loomed before her. She saw the crumpled features and brimming eyes of her defeated opponent in the spelling bee. Lucia knew what she must do. When “199” rang out, she dragged one foot just as the rope hit the ground. She fell to her hands and knees gasping for breath. The girls crowded around her expressing sympathy.
Lucia gazed into the gray eyes of her opponent, noting Susan’s look of satisfaction. Then Susan’s eyes widened as she recognized Lucia’s sacrifice to win her friendship. A flush crept slowly up Susan’s cheeks before she lowered her eyes.
Please understand, Lucia pleaded silently. People are more important than winning or losing.
When Susan looked up again, her eyes had softened and tiny twinkly lights glinted in their depths. She smiled warmly and held her hand out to Lucia to help her up.

The man in the rubber raft was flapping his arms in panic and desperately shouting for help. Tom and Nikki stood on the shore watching him. Trapped in the river’s swift current, the raft was rushing downstream toward an outcropping of jagged rocks.
Pointing toward the danger, Tom yelled to the man, “Drop your anchor! Big rocks ahead! They’ll rip your raft!”
The man in the raft bent over, picked up the end of a rope, and waved it in the air. “My anchor’s gone!” he shouted. “And my outboard’s dead!”
Tom turned toward Nikki. “Those rocks will slice his raft into rubber bands,” he declared.
Nikki grabbed Tom’s arm and looked downriver at the exposed, sharp rocks. “He’ll never get through all that,” she said despairingly.
Tom and Nikki had been heading upstream along the river toward their favorite fishing spot when they first spotted the rubber raft. It was drifting down toward them, and they didn’t know it was out of control. Now the raft was obviously trapped in the rushing water in the middle of the river.
Tom threw down his fishing gear and quickly tried to assess the situation. The raft had swooshed downstream and was now in a position nearly opposite to where Tom and Nikki were standing on the bank.
The man in the raft was working frantically to alter his course away from the jagged rocks. With great effort, he manipulated the flexible rubber sides of the raft. Then he stretched his leg over the side of the raft and finally succeeded in snagging it onto a large flat boulder.
Tom cupped his hands. “Good work!” he called. “Maybe it will hold long enough for us to find a way to help you.”
“It won’t hold very long!” the man shouted back. “I can feel the current tugging. It’s going to push me right off this rock!”
“Try your outboard motor again,” Tom suggested.
“Won’t start!” the man hollered. “I was fishing upstream, and my anchor snagged on some sunken logs! Had to cut loose! When I tried to start up the outboard … nothing!”
“Have you checked your fuel line?” Tom asked.
“I’ve checked everything! It won’t start!”
Nikki glanced toward the rapids again. “Just see how that water is churning,” she said. “There isn’t a calm place anywhere.”
Tom sat on a nearby boulder and began unlacing his boots. “When the raft clears that rock,” he said, “the current will drive the raft straight to disaster. Maybe I can wade out to him.”
“The current’s too strong,” Nikki warned.
Tom slipped off his socks, rolled up his pants, and stepped into the river. Near the shore the river was shallow and the current wasn’t very strong.
“Don’t do it!” the man in the raft shouted. “You’ll never make it!”
About ten feet from shore, Tom paused as his feet stepped down into deeper water. It was up to his knees and he could feel his feet beginning to slide on the slippery rocks because of the swift current. Tom shook his head. “He’s right. I don’t think I can make it,” he admitted half aloud.
Reluctantly, Tom made his way back to shore. “Hold on a little longer!” he shouted to the man. “I have another idea!”
When he got back to shore, Tom picked up his fishing rod and ran back down the trail alongside the river. Nikki followed anxiously. “The raft looks like it’s about to go,” she declared.
Tom glanced at the raft and saw it was teetering on the rock that had snagged it. “Hold on just another minute!” he urged.
“It’s going over!” the man shouted. “I can feel it going!”
At an open place along the shore, Tom halted.
“What are you going to do?” Nikki implored.
“Watch,” Tom answered as he quickly crimped two heavy lead sinkers onto the end of his fishing line. Then he positioned himself firmly on the ground and called, “Watch for the line!”
The rod snapped forward and the line arched out over the river and beyond the raft.
“Grab it!” Tom shouted as the line crossed near the man.
The raft’s weary passenger saw the line and reached for it. “Now what do I do?” he asked. “This light line will never hold me!”
“Fasten the line to the cleat in the bow of your raft!” Tom answered. “Then work the raft off the rock! It’s your only chance!”
Unsure that it would work, the man nevertheless tied the end of the fishing line to the cleat. But then he sought for a last desperate hold on the rock.
“No!” Tom cried. “You’ve got to let go!”
The man hesitated.
“You’ve got to trust me!” Tom insisted. “Let go of the rock!”
The man stared ahead at the dangerous rocks, paused a moment longer, then nodded and proceeded to manipulate the raft’s rubber sides until it slid off the rock.
Tom watched intently, then he reeled in the slack line and was working his rod the way he would if he had caught a huge trout. “Steady now!” he shouted. “Let me control the raft!”
He was reeling in the line as fast as he could without snapping it. “Just a slight tension,” he explained to Nikki. “That’s all I need to get the raft headed toward shore.”
“What if the line breaks?” Nikki asked.
“Nikki,” Tom said softly, “pray that it doesn’t.” Then he shouted to the man in the raft, “Keep your eyes on the water ahead of you! If you see any rocks, push the raft away from them!”
The man leaned over the bow and stared down into the turbulent water. A couple of times he had to reach down into the water to steer the raft away from a threatening submerged rock. Tom was relieved now to see the raft respond to his control on the line. A few more gentle tugs and he expertly guided the raft to a riverbank sandbar just a dozen feet away.
The man jumped ashore, smiling broadly. “If it hadn’t been for your quick work with that rod, I’d be smashed to pieces against those rocks,” he said gratefully, pointing downstream.
“I’m just glad that we happened by with our fishing gear,” Tom said. Then with a grin, he added, “I’d been hoping all morning I’d catch a big one!”

My father also taught me to be honest about keeping the Sabbath day holy. As a young boy, I remember how he enjoyed playing baseball, but he never played a game on the Sabbath. I too loved this sport. My father asked me not to ever play ball on Sunday, and I promised to obey his wishes.
I kept that promise even though at one time I was offered a chance to try out for big league baseball. It was easier to let this opportunity go by when I thought of the example of my father and had so much respect for him.

I witnessed this union of generations one time when I was helping a woman in my ward. Her parents had been divorced when she was young, and she knew very little about her father’s side of her family. We found basic records that identified her father’s parents and grandparents. She had never known their names. She was overcome with love and joy. The Spirit of the Lord filled her heart, and she was eager to take their names to the temple so they too could make sacred covenants with God.

I remember a family in Albuquerque, New Mexico, I met years ago: a father, a mother, and two teenage daughters who belonged to no church but read the Bible together every day. They pondered the Savior’s life and His words. When we found this family, they had already decided that Christ would have a church and that they should find it. They knew that it would have prophets and apostles at its foundation because that is what Christ had placed in His church when He lived on the earth. They knew that the resurrected Lord had appeared to His Apostles.
And so it seemed right to this family when we testified that God, the Father, and His Son, the Savior of the world, came to a boy prophet, Joseph Smith. And the Holy Spirit, which they also recognized, told them it was true. They recognized the truth, that this is the church of Jesus Christ, in large part because they had always remembered Him. Every day they had gathered to read about Him and His words, and so they remembered Him. And after they were baptized, they were ready to follow the living prophet because they knew that the Savior always speaks to His prophets to bless His people.

“I’m the Wishgiver,” Kaitlyn sang.
Jeremy jumped from his bed and stood at the door of his room. That’s all he needed—his little sister messing with his stuff.
“Look, Jeremy! Look!”
Kaitlyn spun in circles, almost tripping over the cape that swirled around her ankles.
The costume didn’t look all that great. Just a big T-shirt that used to be his and that Mom had sewn a big W on, and an old beach towel with two corners tied in a knot in front. “Looks good,” Jeremy said, forcing a smile.
“Make a wish.” Swirling her cape again, Kaitlyn moved closer to his room.
Closing his door behind him, Jeremy led the lively Wishgiver to the family room. “I wish to see you rehearse your part in the play as our family home evening activity tonight,” he chuckled good-naturedly.
After that, every day Kaitlyn bounced around in her costume. Mom laughed, “You’re going to wear your costume out before the play.” Then she hugged Kaitlyn and played the Wishgiver game.
Jeremy holed up in his room. It was hard to pretend, even for Kaitlyn, in a superhero who could make wishes come true. He was glad that she realized that it was only make-believe and didn’t pretend Dad was alive, or something like that.
At last the play was only three days away. Jeremy, Kaitlyn, and Mom sat at the kitchen table, eating breakfast.
Jeremy swallowed a bite of toast. “I’m supposed to take treats to the soccer party Saturday.”
“Are brownies OK?” Mom asked. “We’ll make them Friday—I have to work Saturday.” She turned to Kaitlyn. “Honey, I’m sorry, but I can’t come to your play.”
Kaitlyn plunked her spoon into her cereal bowl. Milk sloshed over its sides. “You’re not coming?”
Mom took Kaitlyn’s face in her hands. “I tried, honey, but I can’t get another nurse to take my shift.”
“But it’s my play!”
Jeremy focused on his banana. He peeled the skin back, picking off bits that were left behind.
Kaitlyn’s lip quivered. Mom hugged her. “Mrs. Santangelo will take you. She’s really looking forward to seeing your play.”
“But you’re my mommy. Mrs. Santangelo’s not the same. She’s not my family. Jeremy, can’t you come?”
Jeremy wadded the banana peel. “I have a party that day.”
“You can’t come, either?”
Jeremy didn’t look up from the squished peel. He knew how Kaitlyn was feeling. Not too many weeks ago, at his soccer game, he’d felt the same way.
Most of the kids had dads there. Mom was OK. She cheered and knew the rules. But she couldn’t come to the final game. She’d had to work then too. Even so, before the game, he’d searched the sidelines. No Mom.
He’d played well—each time he kicked the ball, he’d think of Mom not being there and the ball would sail far. He’d scored three goals, and the score was 5–4 in favor of the opponents when he got the ball again in the final minutes. He dribbled it down the field, evaded the defense, and aimed at the goal. The ball bounded toward the goal, hit the corner of the post, and went … outside.
“I lost the game,” Jeremy moaned. Knowing that no one was there waiting for him in the bleachers, but still hoping, he trudged off the field.
The game had been days ago, and as Jeremy cleared his dishes from the table, he wanted to forget about how awful and alone he’d felt. He tried not to notice that Kaitlyn had started to cry.
For the next three days, Kaitlyn didn’t dress in the Wishgiver costume, and no one played the Wishgiver game. Even if it was dumb, Jeremy missed it. “Hey, Kaitlyn,” he coaxed, “put on your costume. I have a wish for you.”
“It’s just a costume,” Kaitlyn muttered. “The Wishgiver can’t really make things happen.”
The day of the play, Mom hustled Kaitlyn into the car to take her to the Santangelo’s. Kaitlyn was quiet, all the bubble gone. Mom didn’t say much, either. As she opened the car door, she turned to Jeremy. “The brownies are on the kitchen table. Be careful crossing the highway. And have a good time at the party.”
Jeremy watched Mom climb into the car. The party. It was just a dumb old party—a bunch of guys horsing around and … “Hey, Mom, wait up!” He raced to the car. “Do you think Mrs. Santangelo would mind if I came?”
Mom turned off the engine and looked into his eyes. Her own eyes were kind of misty. “But your party. … You don’t want to miss that.”
“The guys’ll just mess around. I can get there after the play in plenty of time for the food. Do we have time to drop the brownies off?”
He raced into the house, grabbed his treats, then raced back out to the car and piled into the back seat next to Kaitlyn. For the first time in three days, she smiled—a big smile, big enough to show her missing teeth. “You’re coming to my play!”
“I’ve nothing better to do—no big deal.”
Kaitlyn giggled and snuggled as close to him as the seat belt would allow.
At the play, Jeremy sat between Mrs. Santangelo and some big guy, probably some kid’s dad. There weren’t many kids there. At his party he’d be with lots of them, all his friends.
For a bunch of little kids, the play wasn’t bad. The parents clapped and clapped. Then all the actors came in front of the curtain and told not what they wished for but what they were thankful for.
When it was Kaitlyn’s turn, Jeremy squirmed in his seat. She scared easily. She stood in front of the footlights, squinting into the glare. Scrunching her eyebrows, she searched the audience. “I’m thankful for … I’m thankful for my brother.”
Jeremy sat tall. The guy next to him didn’t seem so big.
The kids rushed off the stage, and in the push, Kaitlyn tripped and fell, tearing her precious cape. Jeremy helped her up.
She smiled up at him, her eyes gleaming. “Did you like it?”
“Yeah, it was good.”
“Do you have to go to your party now?”
She looked so tiny and alone with her missing teeth and her torn cape.
“Nah—it looks like they have good food here. I’ll hang around.”
Maybe you don’t have to be a Wishgiver to make wishes come true.

During the weeks before Christmas, my companion and I had been teaching a man of the Jewish faith. Allen already knew a little about the Church. He told us that he wasn’t looking to get baptized; he just wanted to see what “the Mormons are all about.”
In four discussions we had taught him about the Savior, the Restoration, the Book of Mormon, the plan of salvation, plus other material to help him come to a knowledge of Christ. He had finished reading the Book of Mormon and a little more than half of the Doctrine and Covenants. We had fasted with him on Christmas Eve, hoping he would come to a knowledge of Christ and be baptized.
Christmas afternoon came with an unexpected knock on the apartment door. It was Allen. He was beaming with excitement. He had come to tell us that he could testify of the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon and Jesus Christ as the Savior of the world. Every expression on his face showed the joy and happiness he was experiencing. He was no longer a man looking for a knowledge of Christ, but one desiring to become a member of the Church.
It was through the Book of Mormon and the Holy Ghost that Allen was able to come to a knowledge of Christ. I was transferred out of the area before Allen was baptized, but being able to see his conversion and be a part of it truly was the best Christmas present ever.
Elder Christopher Albright is serving full time in the North Carolina Charlotte Mission.

Photograph by Cristy Powell
Before my mission, I moved out of my parents’ home and attended college for a few months. There, I experienced severe anxiety. I wanted to serve a mission but worried about my mental health challenges.
After working hard in therapy for several months, I was ready to serve and received my mission call. I was called to be a service missionary.
My father recalls: “He poured his heart into preparing for his mission. When his call finally came, it was even harder for us when we saw his disappointment in not getting called to the kind of mission he had hoped to serve.”
That is when I took this teaching from President Russell M. Nelson to heart: “Through a lifetime of service in this Church, I have learned that it really doesn’t matter where one serves. What the Lord cares about is how one serves.”
My mother said, “We had to trust that this call was directly from God and that he was needed as a service missionary.”
Looking back, I can truly say that I am happy with the progress I have made, the growth I have experienced, and the many lives I have touched, including members of my family, fellow missionaries, and those I have served.
As part of my service, I write for the Friend magazine, serve in the Mount Timpanogos Utah Temple, and help two teenage boys who have special needs. I have found so much joy helping others come unto Christ through my service.

I went to seminary and later to institute, I attended Church activities, and I even started my own Personal Progress. I couldn’t wait to go to Young Women activities. I will never forget the hours we spent cooking, making postcards or bookmarks, decorating our classroom, or playing games, as well as the wonderful spirit of friendship between us. Each activity helped me understand my divine nature and role in life.

As a young child, Kavira V. couldn’t communicate with anyone. But now she’s found ways to connect with others, including her Heavenly Father.
Sixteen-year-old Kavira V. from Florida, USA, knows the value of communication. Whether with family, with friends, or with God, Kavira is glad to be able to talk to them.
Part of the reason she values that connection so much is that she knows what it’s like not to have it.
Before moving to Florida, Kavira’s family originally lived in Uganda. Kavira is deaf and didn’t have access to sign language as a child, so she couldn’t really communicate with people around her.
That communication barrier affected many aspects of her life. Regarding school, she says, “Math was hard for me. I didn’t learn English, and I was bullied. There was a lot of discrimination.”
Church was hard too. At that time her family belonged to a different faith. “I didn’t have language access, so I didn’t understand what was going on,” Kavira says. She would sit through the services and go through the rituals without knowing what they meant. “There weren’t many opportunities for Deaf people,” she says.
The barrier also affected her connection to her family. “I’m the only Deaf person in my family, so sometimes I would feel unequal to them.”
When Kavira was around eight or nine years old, her family moved to Florida. Since she was young and couldn’t communicate with them, she didn’t know exactly why they chose to move. But it could have been to find better opportunities for her and the whole family.
When Kavira’s family moved to Florida, they found a deaf school she could attend. “Being able to have that education is amazing,” she says. “I’ve been able to learn things like math, communication, life skills like finding a job, and study skills.” She now uses American Sign Language (ASL).
She also enjoys extracurricular activities. “I like any kind of sports,” she says. “Growing up, I always played soccer, and I found out they have it here [in the U.S.] too.” She’s also learned volleyball, flag football, basketball, and swimming. “It’s been fun learning these new sports.”
And since Kavira was little she’s always loved art. She hopes to improve and maybe even continue studying art in college. “I want to keep studying to learn more,” she says. “I really enjoy school and learning.”
Kavira’s parents encourage her in her education. “They say to do what you can to learn everything,” she says. She’s very grateful that her family found a deaf school for her.
After learning more, Kavira doesn’t feel unequal in her family anymore, because she has realized she’s the same as them. She talks to her parents and siblings a lot. “I know sometimes as youth, we don’t really value our family—maybe sometimes we value our friends more than our family,” says Kavira. “But my family is what has made me strong. My parents have taught me the things I should value. They’ve helped me to be a good and kind person.”
“My family is what has made me strong,” says Kavira.

One example of this process concerns the law of the fast. My parents were very supportive as I shared with them the details of my newly developing faith. My mother, however, became really concerned when I discussed with her my desire to participate in a 24-hour fast. She was shocked, not being able to accept that such a proposal was appropriate. She was adamant, saying she would not allow me to fast while in her home, fearing it would be detrimental to my health.
It was with a feeling of relief that I reported my mother’s objections to my member missionary, Pamela, informing her that unfortunately I would not be able to participate in the fast. Without hesitation, she responded, “We can easily take care of that. I’ll arrange with my parents for you to stay at our home for the weekend so you can fast with us.”
This was my introduction to the law of the fast. As I continued to observe this law each fast day, I gradually gained a testimony of the principle of fasting.