Gospel Story Finder

Cathryn stood quite breathless one bitter cold December day, watching Mr. VanDermere fight to steady his team of horses. His wagon, loaded with coal, had slid backward half the length of the arching, ice-covered bridge and was lodged against the support beam at the bridge’s mouth. Caught between the beam and the iced incline, Mr. VanDermere could neither back the horses up nor guide them forward. The bridge groaned as its wooden railing began to give way. The horses were fighting hard, the muscles of their backs, necks, and thighs bunching into knots as they struggled against the slippery ice and relentless wind. Would they break the rail and fall to the icy river below? If they did, they would take Mr. VanDermere with them, and all would be killed!
Cathryn’s mother, her arms laden with Christmas packages, opened the door to their home and went in, but Cathryn stood staring at the massive horses, her eyes glazed with fear. She had been terrified of horses ever since being knocked down and nearly killed five years earlier by Mrs. Johnson’s runaway mare.
“Cathryn, come in here!” Her mother’s voice shook her out of her memories. “Hurry!” Cathryn ran inside and found her mother at the kitchen stove, hurriedly emptying the ash bin into a sack. Soot and ash were wisping through the air, coating everything in her mother’s always spotless kitchen, including her mother! What a sight! “Run this ash to Mr. VanDermere so he can put it on the ice for the horses’ hooves to grip. Hurry! I’ll go to the neighbors for more.”
Cathryn didn’t move. Her mother knew that she was afraid of horses, and Mr. VanDermere’s horses were the largest beasts she had ever seen!
“Cathryn, I said hurry! We haven’t a minute to waste! You won’t have to go near the horses—just take the sack to Mr. VanDermere. Now run!”
As Cathryn stepped outside, the bitter wind caught her clothes and nearly toppled her to the ground. The gusts were so fierce that most people had stayed indoors. As she neared the bridge, she could see that both Mr. VanDermere and his horses were exhausted. When she got near the animals, the smell of sweat and fear hung in the air. Her heart pounded faster. What if the horses should step on her, or, worse, knock her off the bridge into the river? Her mind raced near panic. She knew that the ashes in her hand were Mr. VanDermere’s only hope, yet she stopped, too afraid to go any closer.
“Oh, Cathryn, you’d best not get too close, my dear!” Mr. VanDermere shouted breathlessly over the howling wind.
Cathryn took a few steps forward. “My mother sent me with a sack of ashes. She said that you could put them on the ice.”
“Oh, that would be most helpful!” Mr. VanDermere said. As he spoke, part of the bridge’s railing gave way and plunged to the icy depths below.
This again stopped Cathryn dead in her tracks. Fighting her fear, she tried to give herself reasons for going on. The wagon would already have fallen off the bridge if it hadn’t been lodged against the support beam. The wagon contained a full week’s wages for Mr. VanDermere. Losing it would leave his family without food. And if the wagon fell, so would the horses.
Cathryn thought about how lovely her own home was with Christmas decorations and food aplenty. She thought, too, about the VanDermere children, who had very little as it was. Their father couldn’t afford to lose the wagon or its contents, and he couldn’t replace the horses. And the children might lose not only their food, but their father!
“Cathryn, you’d best get back! The rest of the railing is about to go, and I can’t fight much longer!”
What a brave man he is! Cathryn thought. With a new surge of courage, she ran up the slick incline toward him. It was very slippery, and she fell more than once. Reaching the wagon at last, she tried to hand the sack to Mr. VanDermere.
“I can’t pour it myself, dear. I need to hold onto the team.”
Cathryn stared up at him, stricken with fear. Mr. VanDermere expected her to scatter the ashes! That meant getting close to the feet of the large beasts. They could crush her! But if she didn’t help, they’d all fall off the bridge any minute!
Opening the sack with shaking hands, Cathryn fought the wind as she tossed handfuls of ash under the front feet of the horses. They had a wild, fearful look in their eyes but seemed to sense that she was there to help. She went down the incline a bit and scattered ashes beneath their hind legs. Climbing to the crest of the bridge, she backed down toward the horses, scattering the remaining ash.
Within seconds the broad hooves began to grip the ash. It was working! The horses found sure footing and clambered over the peak of the bridge. Mr. VanDermere cautiously guided the team down the other side, then climbed from the wagon and stood panting heavily.
When he’d caught his breath, he walked back to Cathryn. “You have saved my life and the lives of my horses! Plus my wagon! What a wonderfully brave thing you have done!”
Cathryn started to cry from relief that the nightmare was finally over. She hugged Mr. VanDermere. “Just have a happy Christmas, sir.”
Cathryn’s mother came running up. “Oh, Cathryn, are you all right? I’m sorry it took me so long. I had a hard time finding anyone with ashes to give. I’m afraid this is all I was able to gather.” She handed a small sack to Mr. VanDermere.
“This is a brave little girl you have here, ma’am. She saved my life and the lives of my horses.” He tucked the sack into his oversized coat pocket and patted it. “Thank you. I’ll hang onto this in case I need it.” He tipped his hat to them and went back over the bridge to attend to his still-trembling horses.
Cathryn’s mother hugged her tightly. “I’m so proud of you,” she said, “and so grateful that you’re safe! How about some hot cocoa?”
Cathryn smiled yes. Starting for home, she noticed that her hands were scraped from her falls. She was covered with ash, and her winter coat was torn. But she didn’t care. She felt good. In fact, she had never felt better!

It was one of those warm summer afternoons, the kind of day that seems to envelop the mind in daydreams and push out thoughts of work or study. While I’d been on my mission, this had been the hardest kind of day to keep my mind on the work. Now it was the same way with school. Since before noon I’d been up in the foothills east of campus collecting root samples. My lab partner and I had been collecting them for a botany project. It had taken us about twice as long as it should have, because we spent as much time chasing butterflies as we did collecting plants. After we had finally completed our collection, my lab partner had given me a ride in his car back to civilization, and I’d got on a bus to go home. It was Friday afternoon, and with the quiet influence of the early summer day still in my mind, I decided as I rode along to dedicate Saturday to sunny beaches and cool water.
I was beginning to imagine the day in a little finer detail when the air brakes gave a familiar hiss and I noticed a small Chicano boy getting on at the front of the bus. The bus was about half full. There were several empty seats between the front of the bus and where I was sitting so I paid little attention. Gazing back out the window, I let my mind drift again to my imaginary weekend.
But just as I was getting back to my daydreams, I saw that boy again out of the corner of my eye. He had passed two empty seats and seemed to be coming straight for the one next to me.
He was about nine or ten, dressed in well-faded but clean pants and a red-checkered shirt. The shirt seemed a little too big, it probably used to belong to his elder brother. As he approached, I stared determinedly out the window, hoping he’d pass by my seat and sit in one of the empty ones behind. But he didn’t.
“Hi, mister,” he said, sitting down next to me. He had a smile so big it seemed about a size and a half too wide for his face. I didn’t want to smile back, but his grin was too contagious; I couldn’t help smiling back at him.
“Hello,” I answered, trying to regain my stern composure.
“It’s a nice day, isn’t it?” he said.
“Yes,” I answered, “it is a nice day.” This time I managed not to smile, and I looked back out of the window hoping that would end the conversation. It was a day too well suited for daydreaming to waste talking to some little boy about the weather. There was silence for a moment, and I began to relax again. I began to imagine playing volleyball on the beach.
“Hey, mister, are you married?”
“What?” I asked, turning back to the boy. His smile, if possible, seemed even a little wider than before.
“Are you married?”
“No,” I answered coldly, hoping he’d realize I didn’t want to talk to him.
“Oh,” he said, looking down disappointed, his smile disappearing. I seemed to have momentarily surprised him. He was thinking. Then in an instant he looked up again, his eyes brighter than ever. “But you’re going to get married, right?”
I tried not to smile, but his eyes and that row of teeth made it impossible. “Yes,” I said smiling back. “I guess I will.”
“And when you get married, mister, are you going to love your wife?”
Now he had surprised me. The question seemed out of place coming from someone so young. I felt like he was leading up to something, but I wasn’t sure what. “Of course,” I answered cautiously, “of course I will.”
“And when you love somebody, you always want to be with them, don’t you, mister, even after you die?”
Suddenly I realized what he was doing. He was asking me a Golden Question. He was a Mormon. I sat there looking at him. I didn’t answer; I didn’t know what to say. How many times had I asked almost that same question? How many times on the buses and streets of Brazil while I was on my mission? But that was my mission; that was then, not now. It seemed inconceivable that those same words were being repeated to me here, at home, by a ten-year-old boy. The bus was slowing rapidly and the boy stood up, taking something from his pocket and giving it to me.
“Hey, mister, I have to get off here. Take this. It’s got the name of two of my friends on it. If you want to know more, give them a call. Good-bye, mister.” And he was gone.
I sat staring at the pamphlet he had given me. It was folded in half and a little tattered at the corners. I unfolded it and read the title, “The Plan of Salvation.”
I’d come home from my mission almost two years ago. I’d brought home my missionary journal, color slides, souvenirs, and a lot of memories. But I’d left my mission behind. How many people had I told about the Church in the time I’d been home? How many Golden Questions had I asked? How many nonmembers did I know who might be interested if only I’d bring up the subject? I’d just been taught a lesson about missionaries that I hadn’t learned in the whole time I’d been on a mission, and it had been taught to me by a young boy with nothing but a testimony and a smile.
The bus was filling up with people now. We were near the center of town and it was almost 5:00. A young man in a business suit sat down next to me. Self-consciously I stuffed the pamphlet in my shirt pocket and looked down at my feet. I was still thinking about that boy; as young as he was, he was still more of a missionary than I’d ever been. I glanced up again. The man next to me was looking out the window, probably daydreaming.
“It’s a nice day, isn’t it?” I said without thinking.
“Yes,” he smiled back, “a very pretty day.”
I sat for a moment, touching the pamphlet in my pocket. Then, with my biggest smile, I asked, “Are you married?”

Heading into downtown La Paz, Bolivia, it was getting dark when rocks began hitting our bus. Through the windows we could see angry people in the streets, throwing rocks and putting up barriers to stop the traffic. Our bus continued moving swiftly to the center of town. That night was the start of a revolution in Bolivia.

We got off the bus and began looking for a hotel. The only one we could find was very expensive, but after repeating my explanation to a good man who worked there, he boarded us in the hotel’s cleaning supply room very cheaply. He placed a mattress on the ?oor and gave us blankets to protect us from the cold and the sounds of gunfire that echoed outside all night.

We left early the next morning, frightened and hurried. On our way to the bus stop, we saw soldiers supported by tanks firing ri?es at those protesting the revolution.
Fuel was beginning to run scarce, and instead of three bus departures a day as usual, only one was being announced. The seats had sold out days in advance. I found the manager and said the words I had used with everyone else: “Sir, we are Mormons, and we are going to the temple to get married. And you can help us.” He asked, “Where do you need to go?” “Cochabamba, sir.” He opened a drawer and pulled out two tickets. I could see there were no more. “Hurry up,” he said, “the bus is about to leave.” Our suitcases seemed weightless, and our feet barely touched the ground—in our hands we held that day’s blessing.

We arrived in Cochabamba amidst more chaos from the revolution. We found a market filled with tents, where a kind fellow Peruvian let us wash up and then store our suitcases while we went to the bus terminal. Using our same plea, we made it standby onto another bus and arrived days later in Santa Cruz, Bolivia, near the Brazilian border. For three mornings, I went to the train station to ask if there would be any departures. The answer was always no. But on the fourth day, news spread that a train would be leaving soon for Brazil.

By this point, we were running out of money. I shared my concerns with my wife, who ?rmly replied, “Even if we have to arrive by foot or on the back of a donkey, we’re going to make it.” Her reply made me happy. I wasn’t unsettled about money for the rest of the trip because our confidence was placed in our faith.

As we talked, an old lady walked toward us. She stopped in front of my wife and said, “Young lady, wouldn’t you like two tickets for today?” My wife practically ripped the tickets out of her hand. I paid the old woman, and she vanished among the crowd. It took us a few seconds to realize that the Lord and His angels were still by our side.

When we finally arrived at the São Paulo Temple thanks to one last ride from a friend we made on the train, the temple lodging was closed. Resigned but happy, we made ourselves comfortable on a couple of benches outside the temple. There it was, just as beautiful as we had dreamed it would be. It was now midnight, and we cried as we hugged, tired and wet from the falling rain. We didn’t feel the dampness, the hunger, or the cold, just an indescribable sense of happiness for being so close to the house of the Lord. We had been obedient, and there was our reward.

While we were basking in that moment, someone tapped me on the shoulder. It was one of my former mission companions, who had been sealed in the temple that day and was returning from dinner with his wife. He let us stay in their apartment that night, and the next day he was a witness to our sealing, performed by the temple president himself. How beautiful it was to see my wife in the celestial room, all dressed in white.

With a loan from my missionary friend and help from the temple president, we made the return trip in less than five days, without any delays—and with only $20 dollars to begin a life with my wife, Maria Ondina, as my eternal companion.

Katya carried a large box as she walked out of her apartment building into the sunshine. It was summer, and for a few months, the weather was warm in her city in Russia. She set the box down on a bench where her friends Dima and Sonya were waiting.
“Here’s everything we need for our play!” Katya said. She opened the box and pulled out a plastic crown and pieces of purple, blue, and red cloth. With some creativity, these would make great costumes.
“What play are we doing?” Dima asked.
Katya smiled. “I think we should do ‘The Frog Princess’!” It was her favorite fairy tale. Katya smiled as she imagined herself playing the beautiful Vasilisa.
Sonya grabbed the blue cloth from the box and draped it around herself. “I want to be Vasilisa!” she said.
“Wait,” said Katya. “It was my idea. That means I should be Vasilisa.”
“You can be her,” said Sonya. But then she giggled. “When she’s a frog!”
Katya frowned and pulled the blue cloth away from Sonya. “But it’s my play!”
Sonya put her hands on her hips. “Nobody wants to play with you if you’re bossy. You’re a better frog than a princess.”
Katya felt tears in her eyes. She grabbed her box and ran inside, all the way up the stairs into her family’s apartment. She slammed the door behind her.
“What’s wrong?” Mama said. Katya burst into tears.
“Sonya is ruining everything!” Katya told Mama the whole story. “She said I was a frog!”
“Oh, Katyusha,” Mama said. Katyusha was Mama’s nickname for Katya. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t very nice of her.”
Just then there was a knock at the door. Mama went to answer it, but Katya ran to her room. She heard voices, and then Mama called to her. “Would you like to talk to Sonya? She has something to say to you.”
“No!” Katya yelled.
She could hear voices again, and then she heard the door close.
“I think Sonya is sorry,” Mama said.
“I don’t care,” Katya said. She pushed her face deeper into her pillow.
Mama stood by the door for a minute. “You know, sometimes when I’m really angry, I don’t want to forgive other people. Sometimes I need to ask Heavenly Father to help me want to forgive.” Then she walked away.
Katya was too angry to forgive. Sonya had hurt her feelings! But … being angry didn’t feel very good either.
She sighed and knelt by the side of her bed. Katya knew Heavenly Father wanted her to forgive Sonya. It was the right thing to do. But maybe Heavenly Father wanted Katya to forgive because it would help Katya feel better too.
“Heavenly Father, please help me forgive Sonya,” she said. “I really don’t want to, but I also don’t want to stay angry.”
She finished her prayer and took a deep breath. Katya felt her anger start to melt away, just a little. She could do this. She could forgive. She walked to Sonya’s apartment and knocked on the door.
Sonya opened it and started talking right away. “Katya, I’m sorry for what I said.”
“I forgive you,” said Katya. “And I’m sorry I took all my costumes back. You would be a good Vasilisa too. We can take turns.”
Sonya smiled. “OK. Can we go practice now? I’ll get Dima!”
Katya smiled back. “I’ll get the costumes!”

Two young women in this seminary class, both 16, are named Brigitta. “From my classmate, Seres Brigitta, I heard about the Church for the first time,” says Bozó Brigitta.
“I began attending sacrament meeting and made a lot of friends here. So when youth conference came, I naturally thought I needed to go. At the conference, I felt for the first time that I needed to belong to this Church. I was baptized a week later.” Two months after Brigitta’s own baptism, her mother and her 15-year-old brother, László, were baptized. (Her father had died six years earlier.) “Now the three of us—our whole family—are members of the Church. It is wonderful!”
“At first I thought just my friend would be baptized,” says her classmate Seres Brigitta. “I was amazed that her family also joined the Church.”

Sister Mercy Dady, beads instructor, declared, “When our class started, getting beads was not easy for YSAs due to financial challenges.” Sister Dady purchased all the beads required for the first two weeks and provided the class with all essential tools and materials. This initial sacrifice gave the class a successful start. Some of the YSA were able to contribute small amounts of money to purchase the beads required for subsequent classes.

It was 11:00 at night and Megan had a research paper due the next day which she hadn’t started yet because after supper she’d gone to school to help decorate for a dance she didn’t even have a date for. On top of that she was having a biology test the next day and she hadn’t studied at all since her last test. Part of the test was going to be about the insides of a frog, which she would have known if she’d gone to lab when they dissected a frog, but she had missed that day because she was first-chair violin in orchestra and had been gone playing in a string quartet competition. She could have made up the lab after school, but she was on the high school gymnastics team and that’s when they practiced. Finally, today, the day before the exam, she had gone to Mr. Draper, the biology teacher, and begged him to let her do the frog at home.
And that’s why she now had a dead frog in a jar of formaldehyde on her desk.
Also she was supposed to give the devotional at early-morning seminary the next day.
Megan sat on her bed and looked around. Her room was a mess, and she didn’t have any clean clothes to wear because her mother had a new policy and now refused to wash anything unless it was put in the hamper. Megan never took the time to do that, so there were little piles of clothes on the floor, a pile for what she’d worn on Monday, a pile for what she’d worn on Tuesday. Her mother claimed you could tell what day of the week it was by counting piles, which her mother said was not only disgusting but unhealthy, complaining that the city Health and Sanitation Department would shut down the home if they ever saw her room.
She didn’t know what she was going to wear tomorrow. She thought about rummaging through the piles and finding something that seemed fairly clean, or else she could wash up some clothes after she finished the term paper and cut up the frog.
Half an hour earlier, at 10:30, when she had come home from decorating at school, her mother asked her if she knew what time it was. She had learned to be careful with that kind of question. One time she had said, “Of course I know what time it is,” to which her mother said, “Don’t get smart with me, young lady.” That’s when she learned that sometimes it was better to listen than to talk.
“You’re not getting enough sleep,” her mother said. “Your body needs eight hours. You should be going to bed at least by 10:00 every night.”
I’m listening, Megan thought. But you’re not understanding. How can you talk about how much sleep I need when I have so much to do?
“Did anyone call?” she asked.
“The bishop called.”
“And?”
“He wants to have a birthday interview with you. He asked about tomorrow night.”
Megan wondered if the bishop knew she had no chance of going to the dance and that’s why he suggested then. “I might have a date then.”
“Who with?”
“Someone might ask me to the dance at the last minute.” She was hoping Craig would ask her at seminary in the morning. He was always putting off things like that anyway.
“It won’t be Craig,” her mother said.
“How do you know that?”
“I was talking to his mother today. He asked a nonmember girl to the dance.”
“Who?”
“Krissie I think. I can’t remember the last name.”
“Krissie Peterson?”
“I think so.”
“He asked Krissie Peterson?” Megan raged. “How can he do that to me? I’m the one who told him to get contacts. I’m the one who told him to quit staring at the floor when he talks to people. I’m the one who taught him how to dance. So I finally get him halfway acceptable, and what does he do? He asks Krissie Peterson out. Thanks a lot, Craig. That does it! What would he think if I dated every nonmember guy who asks me out?”
“You know that wouldn’t be right.”
“Yeah, but is it right for Craig to ask a nonmember girl out?”
“I’m not Craig’s mother, but I am yours.”
She couldn’t argue with that. “I’ve got to go study now.”
“The bishop wanted me to find out if you can see him tomorrow after supper. He says he won’t keep you long if you have plans.”
“Spend Friday night talking to the bishop? I’ll go to the movies or something.”
“You can go to the movies and still see him. He’s a busy man, Megan. He says he can see you at 6:15. You’ll be done by 6:30.”
“Okay,” she said. “I surrender!”
“Good. Now can you go right to bed?” her mother asked.
“No. I’ve got to write a term paper and dissect a stupid frog.”
“For tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re just starting it now, at 10:43 at night?”
“I couldn’t do it any earlier.”
“You didn’t have to decorate for that dance.”
“I was on the decorating committee.”
“Your studies are more important than decorating for a dance.”
Why was it so hard to make her mother understand?
As Megan was about to leave, her mother said, “Oh, I did laundry today. You didn’t have anything in your hamper so I didn’t wash anything of yours.”
Megan thought about saying that was the last straw. Instead she said, “Fine. No problem. I’ll do a wash while I finish my homework.”
“Sorry, you can’t. The noise of the washer and dryer keeps your father awake. If you want to do a wash, you’ll have to do it when people are not trying to sleep. You’ll just have to wear some of your other clothes. You have plenty in your closet. What about those things Aunt Alberta gave you.”
“I wouldn’t even wear them for Halloween.”
“Then I don’t know what you’re going to wear.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’m going to my room now.”
“Don’t forget to say your prayers.”
She got to her room and shut the door. She went to Monday’s pile of dirty laundry and started looking for something clean. Monday was the day the girl next to her in orchestra had challenged her for first chair. Megan had done okay and kept her first-chair position but it had been tense and sweaty, so Monday’s clothes were not candidates for what she could wear for tomorrow.
She decided that after she wrote her term paper and dissected the frog she’d wash some clothes in the bathtub. Or else maybe she could get by with using the washing machine. It would be okay if the noise didn’t wake her parents.
She pushed some clothes off the chair of her desk and sat down. She had decided to write her paper on the history of women’s gymnastics in America. She had taken the time last Saturday to go to the library and check out three books on gymnastics, but she hadn’t yet had time to read any of them.
The research paper was due at 8:00 in the morning. Maybe I can just fake it, she thought. She began to write. “Women’s gymnastics in America started small but has grown large. Many more girls are involved in gymnastics than ever before.” She counted the words. Twenty words. Only 2,980 words left to go. She tried again. “Women’s gymnastics in the United States of America started very small and tiny but now has grown much larger than it began. Many more girls from ages six years old to college age are now involved in the sport than ever before.” She counted again. Forty-two words. Now only 2,958 words left to write.
It was a long night. She ended up having to race through the books she’d checked out to get enough material, and the paper was still a little shorter than it should have been. She finished at two in the morning.
Now for the frog. She unscrewed the lid of the jar containing the frog. Just the smell of the formaldehyde was enough to make her nauseated. She was supposed to have a special knife to cut up the frog, but she’d left it at school, so she went down to the kitchen and got a plate, a fork, a bunch of paper towels, and her mother’s sharpest paring knife. She returned to her room, slid the frog out onto the plate, and sat down with the knife and fork. She touched the frog with the knife. Its skin was hard and rubbery. She looked at herself in the mirror. The way she was holding the knife and fork reminded her of suppertime for horrible creatures of the night. She knew she would throw up if she cut the frog. She slid it back into the jar.
She spent an hour reading about the insides of a frog, memorizing the words.
At 3:30, she took a load of clothes to the washing machine and started a wash, went back to her room, and set the alarm clock for 4:30 so she could get up and put her clothes in the dryer.
She slept through her alarm. The next thing she remembered was her mother telling her she’d better get going or she’d be late for seminary. She jumped out of bed and started the clothes dryer.
“Those things won’t be ready by the time you have to leave,” her mother said.
“I’ll wear them damp then.”
“You’ll catch cold if you do that.”
“No problem, I can handle it.”
“You’ll just have to wear some of Aunt Alberta’s things. I’m not having you leave here wearing damp clothes. Aren’t you supposed to give the devotional for seminary today? Don’t be late.”
While she was taking a shower, her dad knocked on the door and told her to save some hot water for the rest of the family.
Megan felt a knot, like a hot iron, growing in her stomach, but she knew she couldn’t get sick because she had a big gymnastics meet coming up in a few days.
After her shower she went to the dryer to see how her clothes were coming along. They had just ten minutes and they’d be dry. The only problem was that she should leave for seminary in five minutes. I’ll just have to be late then. She did her hair while she was waiting.
“If you say you’re going to do the devotional, then I think you should make an effort to be on time,” her mother said.
The buzzer for the dryer sounded. Megan raced to the dryer and got dressed.
Two minutes later she jumped in the car and drove to seminary. By the time she got there, they’d already begun. It was too late for her to give the devotional.
After seminary, Craig came up to her. “I was wondering if I could talk to you.”
“What about?”
“I’m taking Krissie Peterson to the dance tonight, and I need some suggestions of where to take her to eat.”
“Leave me out of this, Craig, okay?” She walked off and left him standing there.
By the time she got home after school she had a pounding headache. She lay down and slept until it was time for supper.
During supper her mother reminded her about her interview with the bishop.
“I don’t want to talk to him tonight.”
She noticed her parents looked worried, as if the reason she didn’t want to talk to the bishop was because there was some awful secret in her life they didn’t know about.
“Why not?” her father quietly asked.
“I just don’t feel like it.”
“Is that the only reason?”
“Why doesn’t everybody just get off my back!” She stood up and ran to her room and slammed the door.
She looked around her room. Everything she saw made her feel guilty about not doing something. There was her violin that she hadn’t practiced for four days and she had a lesson on Monday. There was the stupid frog she still hadn’t dissected. There was her seminary material she needed to catch up on. And there were still piles of clothes on the floor because she’d only washed enough for one day.
The phone rang. She answered it, hoping it would be one of her friends who didn’t have a date for the dance. Instead it was the bishop.
“Megan, we’ve had a hard time setting up a time for an interview, haven’t we? How is tonight for you?”
She decided she might as well get it over with. “Okay.”
She drove to the bishop’s house, talked with his wife while he got off the phone, and then went with him to his small office in the basement.
She dreaded the interview, dreaded the thought of being reminded of yet another area she wasn’t doing a good job in.
She wanted to get it over with as soon as possible. “Bishop, I haven’t done anything wrong since the last time I talked to you. That’s mainly what you want to find out, isn’t it?”
“Are you happy?” he asked.
She was surprised at the question. “Happy?”
“Yes, we’re supposed to be happy.”
“I thought we were supposed to be perfect. You can’t be perfect and happy too, can you?”
The bishop looked carefully at her. She felt as if he could see into her soul. “Megan, is something wrong?” he asked.
“Not really. It’s just that nothing I do is ever good enough. Sometimes I feel like giving up. I just can’t take it anymore.”
“You can’t take what?”
“All the pressure to do well in school and church and in gymnastics and orchestra. I try to get all A’s in school, but everything’s getting harder for me and I can’t seem to do anything right anymore. Everyone’s always mad at me for not doing better. I never have any time for myself. I have to take the ACT exam next week and I know if I don’t do well, I won’t get a scholarship, and I’ve got to have some help or I don’t see how I’ll be able to make it. Today I was supposed to give the devotional for seminary but I was late for it.”
“How have you been doing in school?”
“Not very well. I think I’m only getting a B in math. If I did more of the homework, I could do better, but there’s never enough time for everything.”
“There’s nothing wrong with a B or even a C,” the bishop said.
“No, you don’t understand, I have to get all A’s.”
“You have to? Do your mom and dad tell you that you have to get all A’s?”
“No, it’s just understood. Bishop, you know the Church says we’re supposed to be perfect, so why are you telling me it’s okay to get a C?”
“You say the Church teaches we’re supposed to be perfect. Where does it say that?”
With no hesitation, Megan answered. “Matthew 5:48.” [Matt. 5:48]
“You know that well, don’t you?”
“I only hear it about ten times a day, that’s all.”
He picked up his scriptures and turned to Matthew, chapter 5. “Who was the one speaking in Matthew 5:48?”
“Jesus.”
“What was he talking about just before he said ‘Be ye therefore perfect’?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, guess then. Was he saying how important it is to get good grades in school?”
“No.”
“Was he saying how important it is to win gymnastics meets?”
“No.”
“Was he saying how important it is to be first-chair violin in an orchestra?”
“No.”
“What was he saying then?”
“I don’t know.”
“Look here, Megan, in verse 44, [Matt 5:44] the Savior is telling us to love our enemies, and bless the ones that curse you, and be good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you and persecute you. In verse 45 [Matt. 5:45] he tells us we should do this so we can be the children of our Father in Heaven, and in verse 48 [Matt 5:48] he tells us to be perfect, even as our Father in Heaven is perfect.”
She didn’t understand what he was getting at.
He turned to Luke, chapter 6, verse 36. “Here’s the way Luke reported it. ‘Be ye therefore merciful, as your Father also is merciful.’ Megan, Jesus was talking about how we should treat each other, with love and affection and kindness, the same way Heavenly Father treats us.”
“I don’t understand.”
“He didn’t say, ‘Be ye therefore a perfectionist,’ did he?”
“No, but we’re supposed to always try to do better …”
“Let me ask you a question. Do you think Father in Heaven cares whether you get an A or a B in mathematics?”
“He wants me to do my best.”
“What if your best is a B?”
“My best can’t be a B.”
“Why can’t it?”
“Because it just can’t.”
“Can you picture yourself at the Judgment and Heavenly Father is looking over your life and he says, ‘So, I see you got a B in math in high school. Why only a B?’ Can you picture your loving Father in Heaven saying that to you?”
“No.”
“Then maybe it’s not very important to him, right?”
“It’s important to do well in school.”
“I agree. It’s important to do your best.”
She wouldn’t budge. “My best is an A.”
“In every subject?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I can get an A in any subject if I work hard enough.”
“But you have other things you need to do, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe a B is the best you can do and still do all the other things you want to do. Did you watch the Olympics last year?”
“Yes.”
“Did you watch the decathlon?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know that it’s possible for a person to win a decathlon and not win in any one of the events? All you have to do is place well in each event, and if you can do that, you can win. I think that’s true for you. I’m sure there are students in your math class who do nothing but math at night. And I’m sure there are people in the violin section that do nothing but practice violin at night. You, with your gymnastics and Church activities and music activities and everything else you do, maybe you’re being too hard on yourself to try to be the best in everything. What do you think Heavenly Father is most interested in, how well you do in your next gymnastics meet or how well you live the Ten Commandments?”
“But my mom and dad expect me to always do my best.”
“Sure, they want you to do your best within the constraints on your time. Besides, most of all they want you to be happy. Are you happy the way things are going now?”
“No.”
“Then I think you ought to make some changes in your life. Either cut down on your activities, or accept the fact that you can’t excel in everything you do. Heavenly Father doesn’t require you to be perfect in gymnastics or violin or math or even seminary attendance. He wants you to be merciful and loving. He doesn’t want you to run faster than you have strength. He doesn’t care if you get a B or a C as long as you’re making a good effort and, more importantly, that you’re really trying to be more like the Savior in the way you treat other people and in being virtuous.”
Megan felt a burden being lifted off her shoulders. Tears welled up in her eyes. She was a little embarrassed to have the bishop see her cry, but he didn’t make a big deal out of it. Pretty soon she was shaking his hand and thanking him. Then she drove home.
“How did your interview go?” her mother asked.
“It was great, Mom.” She saw a look of relief come over her mother. “He gave me some good advice.”
She went to her room and sat on the bed and thought. On the surface everything was the same—her room was still a mess, the undissected frog still sat in the jar of formaldehyde, her math homework for Monday was yet to be done, her violin still lay untouched with a lesson only three days away. And yet there was a difference in the way she felt.
A few minutes later she got up and began to clean her room. This time it’s for me, she thought with a smile.

Young John was also prepared to accept the restoration of the gospel through other spiritual experiences while yet in his youth. As a very young boy he had seen in the heavens an angel holding a trumpet to his mouth. When Elder Pratt announced that God’s angel had indeed restored the gospel to the earth, John remembered this manifestation of his youth and recognized it had been given to him as a sign of the truth he would receive so many years later. And this was not the only spiritual manifestation he had received, for he reported that “often when alone, and sometimes in company, I heard sweet, soft, melodious music, as if performed by angelic or supernatural beings” (Life of John Taylor, pp. 27–28).

Brant sat on the curb and ran his fingers through his hair. “Look at this stupid report card!”
Willard shook his head and got to his feet. “You want to see a really stupid one? Look at mine!” He aimed his arm as if he was going to throw a javelin, then ran a couple of steps and threw his ball as hard as he could into the air.
Brant squinted in the afternoon sun. “It’s going over the fence! No! Right onto Mr. Lawson’s shed!” He covered his ears as the ball thudded on the roof and rolled off the other side.
The crash of the ball against the roof brought Brant to his feet and sent Willard ducking behind a bush. Mr. Lawson’s scowling face immediately appeared at his back screen door. Brant felt like hiding, too, but his dad always told him to face what was coming.
“What broke?” Mr. Lawson shouted angrily.
From his shelter, Willard nudged Brant forward. “Nothing, Mr. Lawson,” Brant replied. “Willard’s—” Willard socked Brant’s shoulder—“I mean, our ball bounced off your shed and landed on your property.”
Mr. Lawson’s eyes narrowed. “I suppose you want to get it.”
Brant shrugged. “It would only take a minute, if it’s OK.”
“What if I said no? You kids track through my yard and garden without any regard to the time and work that went into it.” Mr. Lawson opened the screen door and came outside, waving his arms. “Get your ball, but stay off my plants—especially my everbearing strawberries! I’ll be watching.”
Brant shoved his report card back into his pocket and put his books on the curb. He felt as if he was going into a mine field. He glanced at Willard, then entered the yard through the gate. Carefully he moved along the neatly weeded stone walkway and past the porch from which Mr. Lawson glared. Brant could almost feel his neighbor’s angry breath as he hurried around the corner of the shed and down the three timbered steps into the garden.
Bright flowers bobbed beneath the shed windows and along the walkway where the plump, juicy strawberries grew. Brant located the tattered ball among the lush green leaves. Sitting on his heels, he leaned forward, carefully maneuvered among the strawberry leaves, and grasped the ball. The sweet smell of the delicious fruit made his mouth water, but he didn’t take any.
He stood and returned just as carefully along the walkway. Mr. Lawson was standing by the timbered steps, still watching him like a hawk. “Thank you,” Brant muttered.
“Next time watch where you throw that thing!” Mr. Lawson thundered.
Back on the road, Brant tossed Willard the ball, and Willard handed him his books. “I always get the dirty work,” Brant grumbled as they continued to their homes.
“You handle stuff better.”
At the corner, they turned down the alley. “How am I going to handle this report card?” Brant said.
“What’s to handle? You usually get good grades.”
“Yeah, right! Then how do I explain a D in math?”
Willard laughed. “That will take some explaining!”
“Not funny, Will.”
“It is to me. I’m the one with bad grades. What happened to you?”
Brant shrugged and looked ahead toward his house. “Math happened. I’m lost.”
Willard patted Brant’s shoulder. “I don’t even show my folks my report card. Try that.”
Brant frowned. “Yeah, right! Hide it for a whole year? Get serious.”
“That’s what I do.” Willard flipped the ball in his hand. “My folks are too busy to even notice.”
“My folks know when report card day is. And if they forget, Randy reminds them.” Brant nodded toward the end of the street, where his little brother was walking home with a friend.
“Hi!” Randy called excitedly. “I got my report card!”
Brant jabbed Willard’s side. “See what I mean?”
“Wanna see my grades?” Randy offered eagerly. He shoved his report card into Brant’s face. “All A’s except one B!”
Brant patted Randy’s head. “Good work, Ran.”
“I get a dollar for every A,” Randy announced proudly.
Willard leaned close to Brant. “How much for a D?” he snickered.
Randy looked up quickly. “I didn’t get any D’s. After I tell Mom, I’m calling Dad at work and telling him my grades!” He raced toward the house.
Brant’s head throbbed. He knew he was slipping in math, but he hadn’t expected a D! Was this his year to hit his head against a brick wall? Please, Heavenly Father, he prayed silently, help me convince Mom and Dad I haven’t been goofing off. He opened the door and heard his brother’s excited voice.
“Yeah, Dad, all A’s and a B! Thanks! Do you want to talk to Brant?”
Brant shook his head and shivered, but it was too late. Randy shoved the phone into his hand. “Here, Brant, Dad wants to hear about your grades.”
At dinner everyone listened as Randy babbled about his good grades. Brant knew that Dad and Mom would wait till they were alone to drop the ax. After dinner, Randy ran out to play, leaving Brant alone. He wished he could disappear too. Instead, he went out onto the deck, where Dad was restringing the lawn trimmer.
As Brant slumped into a lawn chair, Dad looked up. “OK, so what’s with the D?”
Brant shrugged. “I’m having trouble with math.”
Dad leaned back and wiped his hands with a rag. “That’s no news flash.”
“I’ll do better next report period.”
“Good, but how do you plan to do that?”
Brant squirmed. “I’ll spend more time on my homework.”
Dad smiled. “That’s a step in the right direction. Another is no more after-school street hockey—homework first. No friends in, and no TV while you’re doing it. Plus, doing homework doesn’t mean rushing through and putting answers on paper. It means understanding how to solve the problems. Got that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Now get your homework, and we’ll look at it. I used to be pretty good at math.”
The following morning, Willard and Brant hurried to school. “How’d it go with the report card?” Willard asked.
Brant shrugged. “I’m kind of grounded till I get this math thing right.”
“What’s ‘kind of grounded’?”
“It means that homework gets top priority. Dad explained some things, and I understand the math a little better already. What happened with you?”
Willard grinned. “Nothing. I told you I’d get away without showing them my report card.”
Brant frowned. Willard got away with everything! Then they passed Mr. Lawson’s home, and he remembered how Willard had wanted him to get the ball because “you handle stuff better.”
Brant smiled to himself. If he did handle stuff better, it was because his folks took the time and trouble to show him and Randy the right way to do things. Thank you, Heavenly Father, he prayed silently. Thanks for giving us parents who love us enough to not let us get away with anything.

To illustrate the vital role of parents and leaders as mentors, let me tell you a story. Chloe was called to serve as a class president. Her wise priesthood leader encouraged her to seek the Lord’s help in recommending names for her presidency. Chloe prayed and received inspiration for whom to recommend as her counselors rather quickly. As she continued to ponder and pray about a secretary, the Spirit repeatedly drew her focus to a young woman who surprised her—someone who rarely came to church or activities.

Feeling a little insecure with the prompting, Chloe talked with her mother, who explained that one of the ways we can receive revelation is through recurring thoughts. With renewed confidence, Chloe felt she could recommend this young woman. The bishop extended the call, and the young woman accepted. After being set apart, this sweet secretary said, “You know, I’ve never felt as though I had a place or was needed anywhere. I didn’t feel I fit in. But with this calling, I feel as though Heavenly Father has a purpose and a place for me.” As Chloe and her mother left the meeting, Chloe turned to her mother and said, with tears in her eyes, “Revelation is real! Revelation really works!”

“How are we going to make it to church today?” Ellie’s little sister, Peppa, asked. “There’s so much rain!”
“Don’t worry,” Ellie said. “We’re brave!”
Ellie helped Peppa button her coat. Then she pulled on her own rain boots.
Ellie and Peppa walked outside with Mami and Papi. It was raining harder than ever. The wind turned their umbrella inside out. Ellie didn’t feel quite so brave anymore.
“What should we do?” Ellie asked. It was too stormy to walk to the bus.
“We’ll take a taxi instead,” Papi said.
“Good idea,” Mami said. “Let’s go!”
They walked down the flooded street. No taxis or cars drove past them. Even the panadería (bakery) was closed.
Finally they saw the area where taxis parked to pick people up. But the first taxi space was empty.
“Oh no!” Peppa said.
“Está bien. It’s OK,” said Ellie. “There could be one. We just can’t see it yet.”
They walked closer. The next parking space was empty too.
“Now what?” asked Peppa.
“I know,” said Ellie. “Let’s pray.”
The girls whispered a prayer. “Nuestro Padre Celestial, please help us find just one taxi so that we can make it to church today. We’re trying to choose the right, and this rain is making it hard. En el nombre de Jesucristo, amén.” Ellie was still learning Spanish, so she mixed English and Spanish together.
They walked a little more. The next parking spot was empty too.
“Maybe we should turn around and go home,” Papi shouted over the wind.
“Our feet are soaked!” said Mami.
“Let’s just go a little bit farther,” said Ellie. “We just need one taxi.”
Now they could see the last parking spot.
There, with its green light on, was a taxi!
Ellie and Peppa hopped in the taxi. Mami helped them smooth down their hair. “We’re sorry to get your seats wet,” Papi told the driver.
They arrived at the chapel and greeted their friends with besos and abrazos (kisses and hugs).
“I can’t believe we found a taxi,” Mami said. “¡Que suerte!”
“It wasn’t luck,” Ellie said. “Peppa and I prayed that Heavenly Father would help us get to church. And He listened!”

As Sarah walked quickly down the street, she thought about her problem. Mother’s Day was only a few weeks away, and she wanted to give her mother a present. She already knew what she’d like. At the garden shop Sarah had seen her mother admiring the illustrations of some beautiful irises above a tangle of iris roots. But today when Sarah counted the money in her china bank, she realized that she didn’t have enough for the iris roots. How can I earn some more money? she wondered.
“Oh, well,” she sighed, “maybe I’ll think of something. It’s only Monday.” Then she hurried into the thrift shop where her mother volunteered her time one day each week.
“Hi, sweetie,” Sarah’s mother greeted her. “How was school today?”
“Fine as usual,” answered Sarah. “Did you get any interesting new donations?”
“Yes we did, and I’m glad you’re here to help me. You can sort through that big box in the corner. Put the dresses on hangers and match up the shoes. You know the routine.”
Sarah enjoyed looking through the boxes of rummage items that had once been treasured by someone. The new box seemed to be full of old clothes, shoes, and kitchen gadgets. Near the bottom Sarah spied a black leather purse that looked quite new. She picked it up and examined it carefully. As she opened the clasp, she saw a five-dollar bill tucked into a side pocket.
Without stopping to think, Sarah took the money out and put it into her skirt pocket. She laid the purse aside and finished sorting the clothes. Now I have enough money for mother’s present, she thought. But for some reason she couldn’t explain, she didn’t feel very happy about it.
“You’re quiet today,” Sarah’s mother said coming up behind her daughter.
“Mom, where did this box come from?”
“It was picked up at Mrs. Peterson’s. She’s a widow who lives over on Green Street. Why?”
“Well,” said Sarah, “I found this purse in the box and it doesn’t look old like the rest of the things.”
“I’ll call Mrs. Peterson and ask if she meant to give it away,” Mother said. During the telephone conversation, Mrs. Peterson explained that she had misplaced the black purse that morning and had been looking all over for it. She guessed it must have fallen into the box she was preparing for the thrift shop.
“My daughter Sarah found your purse, and she will bring it over to you,” Mother promised Mrs. Peterson on the phone.
As Sarah walked to Mrs. Peterson’s home, she argued with herself. I could just keep the money. She would never know where it went. Mother would love to have the iris starts. But then Sarah remembered what they had been studying in Primary—Jesus would know, and I’d know too! She opened the purse, replaced the money, and closed it. She felt so relieved that she skipped the rest of the way to Mrs. Peterson’s house.
“You look happy,” said Mrs. Peterson when she opened the door. “And I’m happy too, because you found my missing purse. Thank you very much.”
Sarah noticed that Mrs. Peterson had a hard time walking. Suddenly she found herself asking, “Do you need any help around your house? I’m a good worker and can do all kinds of jobs.”
“What a dear child,” responded Mrs. Peterson. “I do have a hard time with my arthritis, but I couldn’t pay you anything. I only have a small pension.”
“That’s OK,” said Sarah with a smile. But she was really disappointed. Instead of finding a paying job, she had agreed to work for nothing.
Sarah offered to help Mrs. Peterson after school each Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. She swept the walks, washed windows, vacuumed, and carried trash. Afterward she’d have juice and visit with Mrs. Peterson. They quickly became good friends, and Sarah enjoyed listening to the wonderful stories that Mrs. Peterson told of her youth. One day Sarah felt glum as she realized Mother’s Day would soon be here.
“What’s your problem, Sarah?” asked Mrs. Peterson. “You seem preoccupied today.” Sarah slowly began telling Mrs. Peterson about her plan for a Mother’s Day gift that hadn’t worked out.
“I think I can help you there,” Mrs. Peterson suggested happily. “My iris bed hasn’t been cleaned in years, and the roots need dividing. If you could do the digging, I could help you separate them. Some of them are pretty enough to be show winners.”
Sarah placed a chair for Mrs. Peterson beside the flower bed and found a hand trowel and a box for the roots. She carefully dug into the dirt and lifted clump after clump of the bulbous roots, and Mrs. Peterson helped her sort and divide them. Then Sarah replanted many of the roots in Mrs. Peterson’s flower garden.
In the house, Mrs. Peterson found a pretty box and some pink ribbon. Carefully they prepared the gift for Sarah’s mother. As they worked, Sarah counted the roots and was excited to see that she had over two dozen, more than she had ever hoped to buy.
“Thank you so much for helping me with my spring housecleaning and garden work,” said Mrs. Peterson as Sarah prepared to leave.
“Thank you!” said Sarah happily. “You have given me far more than I ever hoped to earn, and besides, now I have a wonderful new friend!”

I decided to practice my faith by praying and asking God for help and guidance. At first I didn’t realize the impact of my prayers, but after a few days I found that we had more peace at home.
But then my faith was challenged. My youngest brother was hurt and had to have immediate surgery, one of my friends was also hurt badly, and my mother got a sore throat with a high fever. All these horrible circumstances expelled the feelings of peace around me. I was very sad but continued to pray. My grandmother’s favorite poem came to mind, which says that God knows all things better than we do and that we should trust Him. So I started to practice my faith even more and do everything I could. Not much later my brother was able to leave the hospital. My friend was not hurt as badly as it had first appeared. My mother recovered.
Now when I pray for others, I pray with more focus and more faith than before. We should have faith in God, especially when believing in Him and His plans is hard, and never complain because He knows best.
Jarom K., age 18, Graz, Austria

Nicole Wood, a Laurel from St. George, Utah, didn’t think she would have time to read the Book of Mormon. She didn’t really think it was all that important to do it, either. “But I started reading a little bit every night anyway,” she says. “I can’t even describe how much it has changed my life. I was less stressed out in my classes. I felt happier, and, mostly, I felt closer to my Father in Heaven.”
Along with this change in her life, Nicole says she grew to love the Book of Mormon. She found it easy and exciting to apply its stories to what she was experiencing. And she felt close to the prophets who wrote so that we could learn from their experiences.

I know exactly what it’s like to carry the burden of having a guilty conscience. I had something I needed to confess to my bishop, but it was of such a personal nature that I was horrified of telling him about it. To make matters worse, my bishop was also my neighbor. Every day I would see him and I would feel so uncomfortable when he’d smile at me and ask me how things were going. I knew deep in my heart that I needed to talk to him, but I needed strength and courage. I decided one day to fast and pray and search the scriptures for an answer and strength. I came across several scriptures that seemed to help me: Doctrine and Covenants 64:7; 82:1; 95:1; 98:47 [D&C 64:7; D&C 82:1; D&C 95:1; D&C 98:47]; Mosiah 26:29–30.

It is never easy for one to confess something one has done wrong, but if you will ask Heavenly Father for strength, he will bless you for it. He loves you as he loves all his children. I testify to you that by confessing and sharing your problems with your bishop, you will feel so much better. It will help take the weight off your shoulders and you can start on the road to forgiveness.

Name withheld

Our little blue Volkswagen rolled down the country road, carrying us farther and farther away from the home we had grown to love so much during the past five years. Mom was driving the car that contained my two younger sisters and me, and Dad was ahead in a borrowed truck that was loaded high with beds and tables; our old upright piano; and boxes of dishes, dresses, and collected memories. Leaving our little town of Potlatch, Idaho (population 880), for the big city of Lewiston, Idaho (population 26,000), was traumatic. I was 12 years old, and I knew that the sidewalks, drive-ins, and paper mill of this strange new place I was moving to could never replace the fresh country air and close friendships I was leaving behind. I was sure the best part of life was over, and I tried to resign myself to my fate.

After we were settled in our new little home, I spent most of the hot summer days lying on my bed listening to records, reading, and writing letters to my friends. Yet, as August drew to a close, I began to get more excited about attending this big junior high school that had almost as many people as the whole town of Potlatch.

With a new dress and a nervous smile, I entered the building that September and went to first period English. I took a seat near the front of the room and was delighted when the girl in front of me turned around and introduced herself.

As the days continued, I found that, miracle of miracles, the students here were really not so different from my other friends. They also liked the Monkees, hamburgers with mustard, and football games. They also weren’t too excited about math tests, cold weather, or the rival junior high school. I began to feel a part of things and even quit plotting to return to Potlatch for my senior year. I played the clarinet in the school band and quickly found that being in that organization offered me the security of belonging to a group. I didn’t know then that there was an even greater group that was soon to enter my life.

Although I was a member of the Church, when we lived in Potlatch I had usually attended a Protestant church located just behind my house. (There was at that time no branch in Potlatch, and our family seldom traveled the half-hour distance to the nearest ward.) When we moved to Lewiston, however, we began attending Sunday School at the LDS church. It was large, and the people seemed quite friendly—I couldn’t believe how welcome they made me feel! I became good friends with a girl named Teresa, and one day she invited me to come to Mutual. I had no idea what that was, and even after she explained it to me, I figured it must be something like 4-H. What a surprise to find that both boys and girls attended and that we had interesting classes and fun activities! I became involved in Church activities and hardly ever missed Mutual. Mutual was the place where I felt the greatest warmth and acceptance. I didn’t have a testimony of the Church at that time, and the reason I attended was because of the love and friendship extended to me by my friends and leaders. I could feel a warmth there that influenced my life in a very positive manner.

Today when I hear the names of inactive boys or girls, I try to remember that each of them is a potential active member. I am grateful to Teresa, a wonderful friend who kept inviting me to Mutual until I came, and for those open-hearted people in my ward who loved me into activity. I am grateful they did not say, “Oh, well, another inactive girl. I wonder what her problem is?” I’m glad that instead, they thought, “I wonder what her strengths are? We need her.”

Mutual gave me so much—firesides, girls’ camp, slumber parties, eternal friends. And perhaps most important, it gave me the beginnings of a testimony of the gospel and the understanding of what a tremendous influence Mutual can be in the lives of young men and women. For many years I was one of the many inactive little girls throughout the Church; how grateful I am that I wasn’t allowed to remain one forever! I wonder how many inactive members are waiting for us to invite them back into the Church? President Harold B. Lee once said, “What you have to give just may be enough.” From personal experience I know that sometimes that doesn’t have to be very much at all.

It has been a most important influence also in missionary work. For example: When I was a young missionary, I had a companion—a wonderful man from Rupert, Idaho. His name was Elder Henry L. Baker. We tracted together in a city in eastern Canada.
As we came to one door, a woman responded to our knock and immediately invited us in—before we had a chance to give the usual door approach! Hardly had we entered the house when she said, “Where is the book you were to bring me?”
Naturally, we were astonished. But she quickly explained. She said that during the previous night she had had a dream in which she saw us come to her home. It was so vivid, she said, that when she saw us approaching her door, she recognized us instantly. She was told in the dream that we had a book that would lead her entire family to salvation.
Immediately we gave her the Book of Mormon and discussed it at some length with her. She invited us to return that same evening to meet her family, which we did. After an appropriate period of study, the family joined the Church and all are still faithful and true.

Champion Koruea Kaburara estimates that she and her husband assist about 100 people every month. She is very careful to help those she gives her seedlings to by providing instruction and supervision.
Sometimes she helps them by giving them soil or compost that she produces.
Koruea gives her tender plants to those who are serious about following through. “Many members come to me and so do people at my work and in my community. I feel like I want to help both. They are happy to get the plants.”
When the champion has seedlings left over, they can transplant them into their own garden for their personal use or they may sell their excess produce to neighbours.
Koruea is able to feed her family and to generate some extra income through her skillful management. Her neighbours are grateful to be able to purchase the fresh vegetables from her. The creative system benefits all involved and can be sustained.

“Somebody in the back of the room said, ‘Why don’t we just stay home?’ First there was a long silence and then we started to think. There just isn’t a more important place than right here where we are. This is the place that is ours—our home, our Zion, our place in the gospel.”
So the youth and leaders of the Norfolk Virginia Stake just stayed at home and had one of the best youth conferences they have ever had. The theme of the conference was “How To” and developed into their title “The How-to Jamboree.”
Under the direction of the stake president, Walter H. Hick, and with the help of Brother James Cole of the high council, Mark Welton and Becky Wertman began planning a one-day, stay-at-home youth conference.
They began by outlining a program. Seminars with qualified leaders would be held, and each Aaronic Priesthood and Young Women group would follow its own particular schedule through the seminars that would benefit them most. The seminars were divided into several areas: homemaking, leadership, sports, dance instruction, calendars and agendas, spirituality, and a special area for the adult leaders. In addition to these seminars, there was a visit from astronaut Don Lind, who spoke and gave some special spiritual insight into the life of an astronaut and how important the gospel can be to a man who faces the special challenges that he faces.
The Norfolk Virginia Stake youth leaders also invited Faye W. Buckley, a well-known local celebrity, to organize and conduct a special choir in just one day. It was a great success and a learning experience for music people in the stake, as well as a good chance for the youth to get together, cooperate, and produce some music in a very short time.
The day began early with registration at 7:15 A.M. There were a few wrinkled faces and shuffling steps in the beginning, but by 8:00 in the general assembly and welcome session, all were wide awake and ready to begin. Each Aaronic Priesthood and Young Women group was given a schedule to follow, and the great one-day-youth-conference-at-home experiment was about to begin.
The spirituality seminar emphasized the fact that as members of the Church we have a responsibility to be spiritual and to impart this feeling of spirituality to others. Creating or the “how to” of spirituality was the emphasis. Guidelines for spirituality were set and included things like knowing what the qualities of a spiritual person are and the importance of the physical atmosphere—or just being sure that you are in good places. The importance of modest and tasteful dress was discussed in relation to spirituality, along with care in the use of good language. Prayer was discussed as being most important to the spiritual well-being of each of us.
In the seminar for sports, even the girls were invited to participate. Jim Eakins, a member of the Church who played basketball for BYU and then professionally with the Virginia Squires before being traded to the Utah Stars, led this popular seminar. Jim talked about the over-all structure of the athletic program of the Church and emphasized the importance of good health both physically and spiritually. Jim narrowed the subject down to sports on the ward level and, as one young lady was heard to say, “made the rules so easy to understand that anybody could play.” The emphasis again was “how to” build a good ward sports program.
In the leadership seminar the principles of presidency were stressed. Leaders of quorums were challenged to teach correct principles to their quorums through having faith in their program, preparing to meet the challenge, presenting their ideas through proper and creative communication, and by realizing that good leadership is a lot of hard work. Helps were given in organizing and setting goals and priorities, and the seminar instructor said that giving excuses will not get the job done. The instructor also emphasized the point that a good leader gives credit and praise where it is deserved. If a job is praiseworthy, tell the person responsible that you appreciate his good work.
The dancing seminar and the seminar on homemaking were most popular with the ladies, but some of the males managed to get included in both. The men were persuaded to join in the dancing and really enjoyed themselves more than they wanted to admit. In the homemaking seminar the leaders arranged to have a five-foot-ten-inch “baby boy” on hand to practice their child care skills on. The baby had a giant pacifier, a doll, a giant diaper, a mustache, cried very little, and cooperated with the leaders in demonstrating several correct principles of child care.
The baby was later seen eating fried chicken and drinking root beer at the conference luncheon, and no one burped him.
At 5:00 P.M. the final seminar was finished, and it was time to dress for dinner and the activities that would follow. These included one-act plays presented by the Hampton Ward and the Williamsburg Branch. Then the choir that had been practicing in groups all day long finally got together for the big number. It was great! After the program a formal dance provided a fitting end to a unique one-day experience.
It turned out that staying at home for a youth conference was more fun than anyone had thought it would be. And just about everyone learned more, did more, and felt more than he ever had before at previous youth conferences. “The young people did the planning, they did the work, and they had a great experience with their conference,” said Brother Cole. “A youth conference at home can be great; give it a try.”
How did they have a great time at their one-day youth conference? Their first “how to” rule was—stay home!

Guilt forced me onto the jayvee basketball team. The fact that I was an embarrassingly tall ninth grader factored little into my decision. The coach, who said my height made me a shoo-in, and my mother, who repeated something I’d heard in Sunday School about developing my talents, combined to make me feel I had no choice.
Actually, I could think of a lot of good reasons to become a star athlete. I wasn’t the fame and glory that made me hesitate; it was something much more basic—my legs.
Playing basketball would mean exposing my skinny, white legs with their bulbous knees to the entire world. My knobby knees, my skinny thighs, my fleshless calves would lose their protective veil of pants. The shiny white skin, long hidden from the sun, would be burnt by hundreds of eyes, including the eyes of the prettiest girl in the tenth grade—Debbie McCulley.
I had spent many hours trying to convince myself my legs did not look that bad. After all, a tall, skinny kid would look funny with short, fat legs. I repeated the arguments over and over, but tryouts came and I still hoped I wouldn’t make the team.
But, because I was the second tallest kid at the tryouts, making the team was surprisingly easy. And, best of all, we were allowed to wear sweatpants, so all that stuck out beneath the ankles of my sweats were my feet.
The sweats kept everyone from laughing at my legs. The sweats and the fact that they were busy laughing at my clumsiness. I spent most of the time discovering how slippery and hard a wood floor could be.
But as the opening game approached, my basketball skills were improving. I bounced the ball on the floor instead of my feet; I made lay-ups instead of fall-downs; and I rarely missed the backboard when I shot the ball. Still, there was no real danger I would be a starter. I wasn’t that good. However, I might get subbed into a game, if it wasn’t too close or if several people got injured. So exposing my legs was still a threat.
The day of our first game came too quickly. As the hours before the game passed, my tension mounted. In the locker room I noticed my legs looked whiter than usual, and I blindfolded them with the team sweatpants before going out to the court for warm-up drills.
I had hoped to sprain an ankle during warm-ups, just a minor sprain that would heal in time for the stake dance on Saturday night. My legs, as a whole, liked the idea, but the ankles wanted no part of it. After all, they had socks to hide behind. Besides, getting injured while warming up is not without its own level of embarrassment.
But the drills went well and even provided a level of encouragement. I managed to avoid missing any lay-ups and, since I only took close shots, I was able to at least hit the backboard. I also had the presence of mind to formulate a plan for avoiding substitution into the game, my strategy of “inconspicuous bench warming.” I would do nothing extreme. I would root louder than my quietest teammate and quieter than the loudest. I would be neater than the sloppiest and sloppier than the neatest. I even applied this strategy to the bench itself, deciding not to sit right next to the coach and not at the far end either. With some judicious maneuvering after a silent pregame prayer (during which I asked for the obvious), I managed to plant myself near the middle of the bench, but not exactly in the middle.
We lost the game, but I felt satisfied—the coach did not even talk to me.
Then the first home game approached. The coach told us the other team looked even weaker than us, and if the starters could run up a quick lead, everyone might get into the game. I managed a weak smile and tried to appear anxious to play, but not too anxious, as I felt my heart sink to my knobby knees.
The next morning started early. I couldn’t concentrate in seminary or school. I spent the day looking at each of my classmates, picturing them laughing at the sight of my outlandish legs. Soon I would be in a gymnasium full of people—including Debbie McCulley—and they all would fall from the bleachers laughing at me.
Eventually it was time for the game, and luck seemed to be with me as the score stayed close during the first half. With no big lead, the coach would want to keep the starters in, so I started to feel much better and resumed a moderate amount of cheering. With less than a minute to go in the first half, my position on the bench looked mighty secure.
Then, as if in slow motion, our center, Josh Pasquali, went down grabbing his ankle—maybe I was too smug and this was my punishment. The coach helped Josh off the court. Suddenly I was the tallest player on our team.
“Get that warm-up suit off, Kendall,” the coach barked. “You’re in for Pasquali.”
My mind raced to think of a way out of this nightmare.
“Kendall, hurry it up!”
I clenched my teeth, closed my eyes, and took off my sweatpants. I listened carefully for the peals of insane laughter I knew would follow, but all I heard were some scattered cheers and applause. I opened my eyes, laid down my pants, and checked into the game. Could the stands be filled with blind people or could they just be here to watch a basketball game and not my knees?
I made my basketball debut lining up to rebound a foul shot. My teammate missed, but I got the rebound and quickly put my first two points on the scoreboard. Some more cheering came from the stands.
The final minute of the first half went by much quicker than I had expected. Soon I was back in the safety of the locker room, pulling on my sweatpants. On the training table sat our injured center, with the nurse looking at his ankle. She poked and twisted the injured joint for a moment. I felt sorry for Josh as I watched his grimacing face. As I gazed at him, his big feet caught my eye.
“I may have knobby knees,” I thought to myself, “but at least I don’t have to walk around with swim fins for feet.”
I pretended to listen to the coach’s pep talk, but my mind flashed to Debbie McCulley cheering for my basket. True, I did not actually see her do this, but it was her job as a cheerleader to cheer. And besides, I was almost certain I could hear her voice yelling just a little bit louder for me than she did for the other players. Maybe if I could get a few more points, she might not laugh at me if I asked her to dance at the stake dance.
By the time the second half was ready to start I was almost anxious to strip off my sweats and play ball. I had taken my warm-up seriously, even practicing to rebound the shots my teammates missed. I saw sports herodom within my grasp. Then I saw Josh Pasquali come back out on the floor, take a few shots, test his ankle, and check in for the second half.
For the rest of the game, I sat next to the coach and tried to deafen him with my enthusiasm. With a close score the entire game, I did not get back in to play. After the final buzzer sounded I started for the locker room. Looking over my shoulder, I saw Debbie and two other cheerleaders behind me.
“Nice shot, Matt,” Debbie said as she slid past. She had noticed me, and I didn’t even do much that was noticeable.
“Thanks,” I blurted out. “Um. I can dance, too.”
“Great,” she said, heading through the door. “Save me a dance this Saturday.”
“Okay,” I said, and bounded joyously up the stairs to our locker room.
I sat down next to Josh in the locker room, thinking about the dance. I took off my sneakers and tossed them on the floor. They landed beside Josh’s pair. My joy of anticipation for the dance turned instantly to dread as I noticed my sneakers lying beside Josh’s. Good grief! They were the same size! How could I ever go to a dance with such big feet?