Gospel Story Finder

I shall ever remember the bewilderment of one boy from down on the farm when he first gazed at the skyscrapers in Toronto. He inquired of me: “President, how many people in this here town?” I answered: “Oh, about a million and a half,” to which he responded, “Goll-ee! There are only 80 in my home town.”
That evening at our traditional get-acquainted testimony meeting, some of the veteran missionaries expressed themselves regarding the difficulty of the work. “Doors will slam in your face, abusive language will be hurled toward you, you’ll get discouraged and downhearted, but when it’s all over you will say, ‘These have been the happiest two years of my life.’” My missionary from the small town was more hesitant than ever as he spoke falteringly: “I’ll be glad when the happiest two years of my life are over.”
This young missionary was short in stature but tall in testimony. Together with his companion, he soon called at the home of Elmer Pollard in Oshawa, Canada. Feeling sorry for the young men who, during a blinding blizzard were going house to house, Mr. Pollard invited the missionaries into his home. They presented to him their message. He did not catch the Spirit. In due time he asked that they leave and not return. His last words to the elders as they departed his front porch were spoken in derision: “You can’t tell me you actually believe Joseph Smith was a prophet of God!”
The door was shut. The elders walked down the path. Our country boy spoke to his companion: “Elder, we didn’t answer Mr. Pollard’s question. He said we didn’t believe Joseph Smith was a true prophet. Let’s return and bear our testimonies to him.”
At first the more experienced missionary hesitated, but finally he agreed to accompany his “green” companion. Fear struck their hearts as they approached the door from which they had been turned away. A knock, the confrontation with Mr. Pollard, an agonizing moment, then with power, a testimony born by the Spirit: “Mr. Pollard, you said we didn’t really believe Joseph Smith was a prophet of God. Mr. Pollard, I testify that Joseph was a prophet; he did translate the Book of Mormon; he saw God the Father and Jesus the Son. I know it.”
Mr. Pollard, now Brother Pollard, stood in a priesthood meeting some time later and declared: “That night I could not sleep. Resounding in my ears I heard the words: ‘Joseph Smith was a prophet of God. I know it. I know it.’ The next day I telephoned the missionaries. Their message, coupled with their testimonies, changed my life and the lives of my family.”

“It’s just not fair!” grumbled Jason at the close of family council. “Now I know I’ll never get a set of walkie-talkies for Christmas.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way, Jason,” Dad said with disappointment, “but the family has voted, and our decision stands. We will use most of our Christmas money to make gifts and buy supplies for a needy family. You’ll still get one present from Santa, and you’ll still exchange gifts with your sisters.”
Jason continued to sulk while Dad spoke again to the whole family. “Before we can make any definite plans,” he said, “we have to know more about the needy family. I’ll talk to Bishop Carson tomorrow to see if he can help us. As soon as we know the ages and interests of the children, you can decide what presents to make. Your mother and I will make gifts for the parents, OK?”
Everyone except Jason agreed happily. He sat quietly in his chair, thinking about last Christmas. When he closed his eyes, he could almost smell the sweet fragrance of the gumdrops and candy canes that had overflowed from his stocking hanging from the mantel. He could see the majestic, towering Christmas tree twinkling with brightly colored lights. Under it were piles of presents wrapped with red and green paper and golden bows begging to be undone. But this year …
One present! Jason thought. Last year I had at least ten neat presents. I got a race car set, and … no, I got that for my birthday. He tried and tried to remember the gifts that he had eagerly opened last Christmas, but he couldn’t think of even one.
Three days later Dad called another family council. Kristen, Meg, and Jamie skipped into the living room; Jason shuffled in slowly behind them.
“We have a family!” Dad announced. “Their name is Blakely. They haven’t been to church for several years, so I doubt that you’ve ever met them. There are four girls close to your own ages.”
“Girls, Dad?” Jason asked in annoyed surprise. “I have to make a present for a girl?”
“Yes, Jason. Her name is Jennifer. Bishop Carson says that she is very shy. She likes books and dolls and horses. If you need some ideas for a present, I’m sure Kristen will help you.”
Jason quietly slipped out of the room. He put on his coat and went out into the brisk, snowy December air. “Three weeks until Christmas,” Jason grumbled, “and I have to make a present for a girl. I’m always surrounded by girls! Besides, what can I make for somebody I don’t even know? I can’t write well enough to make a book, I don’t know how to make a doll, and I sure don’t have a horse to give her.”
Jason soon found himself in his favorite thinking spot among a cluster of tall pine trees. Looking up, he could see a bright spot in the clouds, and he wished that the sun would break through, just for a moment, to brighten his mood. He wanted to feel the same sparkle that his sisters had, but it just wasn’t there. Dad’s right. I do need some help, he thought. But not from Kristen.
Glancing around to make sure that no one was watching, Jason knelt down, thinking of another boy who knelt in a grove of trees to pray over 150 years before. After Jason asked fervently for both peace of mind and an idea for a present, he got up, brushed the snow off an old stump, then sat on it to think. He noticed a fallen pine branch at his feet. The rough bark scratched his hand as he picked it up. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his treasured pocketknife.
“Hey!” he exclaimed. “Santa gave me this pocketknife last Christmas.” Jason felt pleased that he had finally recalled one of his presents. How could he have forgotten such a great present that had helped him make bookends and figurines and neckerchief slides! He carefully opened the blade and whittled away the branch’s rough outer bark. Soon it was smooth and clear. As he handled the satiny piece of wood, an idea came to him. “A horse!” he exulted. “I can’t give Jennifer a real horse, but I can make her a wooden one! Thanks!” he shouted happily, looking up.
Jason ran all the way back to the house and upstairs to his room. There he found several photographs of horses in a book. After carefully choosing one, he cut an outline into the wood. It took almost two hours before he was satisfied with it. As he put the block of wood into his desk drawer, he heard a knock at his door.
Dad slipped into the room with a solemn look on his face. “Are you still upset, Jason? We haven’t seen you since family council.”
“No, I’m not upset anymore. I decided to go along with everyone else. And I even know what I’m going to make for Jennifer.”
Dad patted him on the shoulder. “Well, I came up here to help you work out your bad feelings, but it looks like you did it on your own.”
“Well, not exactly on my own. I had a little help.” Jason smiled, pointing upward.
Jason spent every spare moment for the next three weeks carving on the block of pine. Slowly the head and mane appeared, then the body and legs. The horse still looked somewhat chunky when Jason carved the tail. It’s not good enough yet, he thought. He started at the head again, whittling away the sharp edges. As the horse’s body became rounded and muscled, Jason was surprised at how much it really did look like a horse running in the wind. He carefully carved curvy lines in the mane and tail to make them look like they were flowing. Even the eyes looked real.
On Christmas Eve, the family gathered early to wrap the presents. Kristen had sewn a book jacket and embroidered her secret friend’s name on the front. Inside were copies of the standard works. Mom carefully folded the beautiful blue quilt that she had completed only the day before, while Dad gave a final inspection to the leather wallet that he had painstakingly crafted. Meg and Jamie had made Raggedy Ann dolls with a little help from Mom. As Jason placed the wooden horse on top of the bright paper, he felt a twinge of apprehension. Looking at the JENNIFER carved into the side of the horse’s base, he worried, I sure hope that she likes it.
The presents were carefully packed into a box. A canned ham, jars of Mom’s homemade strawberry jam, and other goodies were placed in a large wicker laundry basket, along with kitchen utensils, fluffy new towels, warm socks, and a board game. Six wide strands of ribbon held everything inside. After loading the station wagon, they all drove to the Blakelys’ street. Dad parked the car around the corner, and Jason helped him quietly carry the box to the Blakelys’ front door. The box was big, but it wasn’t very heavy. Jason had to strain, however, to lift his half of the laundry basket. His toe slipped on a crumbling corner of the porch, and he stumbled forward, almost dropping his end. As he stood up, he found himself facing the front window. A piece of cardboard had replaced a pane of glass. Peering over it, his eyes widened.
“Dad,” he whispered, “I don’t see a Christmas tree. Or presents. There aren’t even any stockings on the mantel. There’s only a sprig of holly tied to a light, and some paper chains taped on the walls!”
Jason scurried over to the big bush where Mom, Kristen, Meg, and Jamie were already hiding. As soon as he was there, Dad pounded on the door, then sprinted to the hiding place.
A few moments later a little girl opened the door. “Mom! Dad!” she shrieked. “Someone’s left Christmas on our porch!”
Soon the whole Blakely family was gathered on the porch. The girls started jumping up and down when their father read the words written on the box: “Merry Christmas! These presents were made especially for you by your secret friends.”
Jason held his breath as the Blakelys opened each package. The dolls were first and were met with hugs and kisses and taken immediately into the warmth of the house. When Sister Blakely saw the quilt, she hugged it just as gratefully, repeating over and over, “I can’t believe it.”
Where is Jennifer’s present? Jason thought anxiously as he watched Dad’s present being opened. I did put it in the box, didn’t I?
Brother Blakely exclaimed, “Look at the craftsmanship on this wallet, Honey—it’s hand-tooled. And there’s a ten-dollar bill inside!”
The oldest Blakely daughter looked overwhelmed as she slowly fingered her embroidered name. Opening the Book of Mormon, she pulled out a letter and went inside the house to read it.
“Kristen, what was that paper?” whispered Mom.
“I bore my testimony. I thought that that was the best present that I could give her, even if I had to sign it ‘Your Secret Friend.’”
Finally the last Blakely girl found her present and tore off the wrapping. She stared at it for a long moment. Jason felt a knot in his stomach. “She doesn’t like it,” he groaned.
Then, as Mom’s hand squeezed his arm in an effort to comfort him, Jennifer let out a delighted yelp and began to dance around the porch. She clutched the little horse close to her, and tears streamed down her face. “Mama,” she whooped, “this is the most beautiful horse I’ve ever seen! This is the best Christmas ever!”
Jason felt tears swell up in his own eyes as he watched Brother Blakely lift the laundry basket into the house and shut the door against the cold. The tune of “Silent Night” floated into the night air as the Blakelys gave thanks for their Christmas Eve surprise.
Jason felt his father’s arm about his shoulders as they walked to the station wagon. “Are you ready to go home and open your presents from your sisters, Son?”
Jason hadn’t even thought of his own Christmas presents for three weeks. He had forgotten all about the walkie-talkie set that he’d wanted. Somehow it didn’t seem important anymore. The wooden horse was the only gift to remember this Christmas—he would never forget the look of joy on Jennifer’s face.

A second source of spiritual strength was Elder Scott’s wife, Jeanene. When they were dating they began to talk about the future. Jeanene, who had grown up in a strong missionary home, expressed her desire to marry a returned missionary in the temple. Elder Scott, who hadn’t thought much about serving a mission before, was strongly impacted. “I went home, and I could think of nothing else. I was awake all night long. … After many prayers I made the decision to meet with my bishop and begin my missionary application.”8 Although Jeanene gave him the guidance and prompting he needed, Elder Scott said, “Jeanene never asked me to serve a mission for her. She loved me enough to share her conviction and then gave me the opportunity to work out the direction of my own life. We both served missions and later were sealed in the temple. Jeanene’s courage and commitment to her faith have made all the difference in our lives together. I am certain we would not have found the happiness we enjoy without her strong faith in the principle of serving the Lord first. She is a wonderful, righteous example!”9
It was the spiritual influence of these women in his life that helped just one young man—Elder Scott—make some of the most important decisions in his life: to be baptized, to serve a mission, and to marry in the temple.

Lisa loved to dance. Twice a week she went to Mrs. Joule’s ballet school for lessons. But no matter how hard she worked, Lisa felt she would never be as good as Susan or Jody, the best students in the class. The proof was in the mirrors that covered one whole wall of the huge ballet practice room.
Oh, those knees! thought Lisa as she stared at her reflection. Why do they have to stick out when everyone else’s are straight? Lisa worried because her toes didn’t point as gracefully or her legs kick as high as the rest of the girls’. She also believed that she was the only one who ever fell down while doing ballet turns across the room. Lisa wanted to be in the first line, where all the best dancers were, instead of the second or third line. If she became good enough, Mrs. Joule would move her up, but that seemed impossible.
One afternoon when Lisa reached into her bag for her pink ballet slippers, they weren’t there. She had left them at home. “Mrs. Joule,” she called, “may I borrow a pair of slippers?”
“Of course,” her teacher replied, and she brought in a big box full of slippers that she kept for such an emergency. Each pair was folded neatly and held together with a rubber band.
After sorting through a few pairs with Mrs. Joule, Lisa found a nearly new pair of pink slippers that were held with satin ribbons instead of strips of elastic as her own were. They were exactly her size! “How about these?” she asked.
“Fine,” Mrs. Joule responded, adding, “I remember these shoes. They belonged to Eileen Webster, who’s with a big ballet company now. I’m proud to say she is one of their best dancers.”
Lisa slipped the shoes on and tied the smooth satin ribbons around her ankles. How comfortable they were. In fact, Eileen Webster’s shoes felt wonderfully special. And so did Lisa. She daydreamed about being a great ballerina until someone shook her shoulder. “It’s time for class,” Susan said.
That afternoon Lisa danced better than usual. She did every step the best that she could. She wanted to be another Eileen Webster, and the shoes were helping her. The mirrors reflected a new Lisa. Mrs. Joule even called on her to demonstrate a particular dance step. For once, Susan and Jody were following her, and Lisa was careful not to make any mistakes.
After class Lisa went up to Mrs. Joule and asked, “If I give you my old shoes, do you think I could keep this pair?”
“If you’d like,” replied Mrs. Joule. “Do they feel all right?”
“They’re perfect!” said Lisa.
The next time Lisa went to class she exchanged her own worn slippers for Eileen Webster’s almost new ones. As time passed she started coming early so that she could practice before class. Sometimes she stayed later with Susan and Jody to work on different kinds of ballet steps and turns. And she was soon moved to the front line. She was also the first student to do two turns in place instead of just one.
“That was really good!” Susan said sincerely.
“Thanks,” said Lisa. She couldn’t tell Susan that it was the shoes that made her dance so well. That had to be a secret. There wasn’t another pair like them. They helped her leap higher, land more softly, arch her feet more gracefully, and twirl around like a toy top.
As dance recital time drew near when all the students in the class would present what they had learned before an audience of parents and friends, Lisa’s class met more often to rehearse their dances. Lisa noticed that her shoes were showing signs of wear. The once-smooth leather looked wrinkled, and the soft pink color was not so pink any more. The ribbons became unstitched and were resewed again and again. But because the shoes were so important to Lisa, Mrs. Joule did not insist that she get new ones for the recital. “Clean them up the best you can,” she said.
Shortly before the show was to start on the first night, Lisa was practicing her solo when she felt the bare floor against her foot. The sole of her shoes had torn, leaving a big hole! She had to find Mrs. Joule.
“Oh, dear,” sighed Mrs. Joule. “It’s a good thing I brought the box of extra shoes. You certainly can’t wear these. Not only do they look terrible, but this torn one is dangerous. Lisa, these shoes are worn out.”
“Mrs. Joule,” cried Lisa, her eyes wide with panic, “I have to wear them! Oh, please try to fix them. I’ll never be able to dance without them!”
Lisa felt sick to her stomach. Without those slippers, I’ll dance like the old Lisa. I’ll make mistakes and embarrass everybody. She shivered at the thoughts going through her head.
“All right, Lisa,” said Mrs. Joule. “I’ll see what can be done. Now go get dressed. I’ll bring your shoes to you.”
Lisa went to the dressing room. Nervously she touched her hair. Where, she wondered, is Mrs. Joule? She did several fast turns to see if her hair would stay in place. It was fine. What’s keeping Mrs. Joule? Her classmates were talking and helping each other with their costumes and makeup. Lisa put on her dance dress and checked around for her teacher.
“Don’t worry, Lisa,” said Susan. “She’ll be here.”
A few minutes before show time Mrs. Joule hurried down the hall. “Here are your shoes, Lisa,” she said breathlessly. “Now hurry! You girls are dancing first.”
Lisa put the slippers on quickly. “Oh, thank you,” she said, and gave her teacher a big embrace. “Everything will be fine now.”
Lisa hurried into the dance line between Susan and Jody, and one by one they danced out onto the brightly lit stage as the audience clapped.
The whole show went smoothly. Lisa’s class received extra applause for some of the more difficult dance steps that they did. Lisa had never danced better. She knew her family was proud of her.
When it was all over, Lisa and her parents went to say good night to Mrs. Joule.
“Thank you again for repairing my shoes,” said Lisa. “I couldn’t have done well without them.”
“But you did,” said Mrs. Joule as she held up Eileen Webster’s tattered shoes. “I couldn’t tell you before because you were so sure it was the shoes that made you dance well. Now you see it wasn’t the shoes at all. It was your own hard work, and you made me very proud tonight.”
Lisa stared at Eileen Webster’s worn shoes.
Mrs. Joule continued, “You may keep her shoes if you like, but please, from now on, wear your own. I just sewed ribbons on them for you to use tonight.”
Lisa pulled the ballet slippers she had been wearing out of her bag and saw her initials printed on the inside of each one. They’re the very same pair that I exchanged for those of the ballet star! she said to herself in amazement.
“Did you hear that?” she asked her mother. “It wasn’t the shoes. It was me all the time, and I didn’t even know it? Just wait until tomorrow night. I’ll do even better!”
And she did.

Henry
Like Sister Eyring, I feel an eternal debt to my parents. That is particularly so of my mother. I was born when she just 21. Within nine years, she was the mother of four headstrong sons, who adored her but were a handful to manage. Then came a period of nine years of pregnancy miscarriages and grieving. When her youngest son, John, began the first grade, Mother filled her daytime hours with private ministering. She also wrote several children’s books, one of which won a state-wide award. But she put her writing aside with the births of two wonderful daughters. When I asked why, she solemnly replied, “More important things came along.”

In addition to the strength they find in seminary, youth in Guyana fortify themselves from other sources as well. For example, 16-year-old Michael Ramgobin of the Demerara Branch says that For the Strength of Youth is a great help to him.
“Everyone should have this,” he says, holding up his copy of the pamphlet. “It really helps you make decisions that are right.” He recommends reading it over and over again, “because it seems like every time you do, you find something new to help you.”
The only member of the Church in his family, Michael says family members support his membership because they see such a difference in him since he became a Latter-day Saint. “I feel a lot more confident as I keep learning more and more about the gospel,” Michael says. He particularly enjoys listening to general conference and attending youth conferences. “I feel I have become part of something real.”
What else has strengthened Michael in the year since he joined the Church? “Reading the scriptures. As you read, the Holy Ghost helps you see things you didn’t see before. Then with the faith you have in Jesus Christ, you find your way. That’s why my testimony keeps building every day.”
The youth in the branch help each other, too. “We share our concerns and encourage each other,” Michael says. In fact, he feels similar encouragement from everyone in the branch, and was particularly impressed when some of the missionaries presented him with a white shirt and tie.
“When I walked into church the next Sunday, everyone said, ‘Wow, you look like a real missionary.’ I feel a difference when I’m dressed that way.” A full-time mission sounds exciting, he says. It would be a good way to continue the great day that dawned when he joined the Church.

“Mom, will you make me a hard-boiled egg to take to the park?” Nathan asked.
“Sure,” Mom said. “Pull out the pan, please.”
Nathan took a pan out of the cupboard and carefully filled it with water. Mom helped him carry it to the stove, gently placed an egg in the water, and turned on the flame. Nathan loved hard-boiled eggs. Mom set the timer and then hurried to gather the other things they needed for the park.
“Please put your shoes on,” Mom told Nathan and Aria.
Nathan helped his little sister tie her laces. “We’re going to the park!” he told her. He held her hand and led her to the car. Mom helped them get their seat belts on, and they were on their way.
At the park, Aria liked following the ducks. Nathan threw sticks into the stream on one side of the bridge and watched the water carry them out the other side.
“Can I have my egg now?” Nathan asked.
Mom’s face froze with fear. “Oh no!” she said. “Your egg!” She jumped up from the bench and picked up Aria. “Nathan, I need you to run really fast. We left the egg on the stove and it could start a fire! We need to get home right away.”
Mom started running back toward the car. Nathan ran as fast as he could. As he ran, he thought about something he learned in Primary: “I can pray anywhere. I can pray anytime.”
“Well, I guess I can pray even when I’m running,” Nathan thought. He kept running, and inside his head he thought, “Dear Heavenly Father, please bless our house to be safe. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
As soon as Nathan finished his prayer, he felt a warm feeling in his heart. He knew that it was the Holy Ghost letting him know everything would be all right.
“Mom!” Nathan said.
“What?” Mom slowed down a little.
“I just said a prayer in my heart and I felt a really warm feeling. I think our house is going to be OK.”
Mom stopped running and smiled. “Nathan, I am so glad you told me about your prayer. I feel much better now because the Holy Ghost always tells the truth.” Mom took Nathan’s hand and they walked to the car.
When they got home, the pan still had bubbling water in it. “It is a running-prayer miracle,” Mom said.
Nathan smiled. His heart felt warm and full. He knew that Heavenly Father had answered his prayer. “Mom, can I have my egg now? I think it’s probably done.”
Mom and Nathan laughed.

Many years ago when at the age of twelve I was ordained a deacon, my father, who was president of our stake, took me to my first stake priesthood meeting. In those days these meetings were held on a week night. I recall that we went to the Tenth Ward building in Salt Lake City. He walked up to the stand, and I sat on the back row, feeling a little alone and uncomfortable in that hall filled with strong men who had been ordained to the priesthood of God. The meeting was called to order, the opening song was announced, and—as was then the custom—we all stood to sing. There were perhaps as many as four hundred there, for it was a very large stake. Together these men lifted their strong voices, some with the accents of the European lands from which they had come as converts and all singing with a great spirit of conviction and testimony:
Praise to the man who communed with Jehovah! Jesus anointed that Prophet and Seer, Blessed to open the last dispensation, Kings shall extol him, and nations revere. [“Praise to the Man,” Hymns, no. 147]
They were singing of the Prophet Joseph Smith, and as they did so there came into my young heart a great surge of love for and belief in the mighty Prophet of this dispensation. In my childhood I had been taught much of him in meetings and classes in our ward as well as in our home; but my experience in that stake priesthood meeting was different. I knew then, by the power of the Holy Ghost, that Joseph Smith was indeed a prophet of God.

Trevor’s absence from football didn’t help his skills, and didn’t help his size either. “I left at about 235 pounds, and I came back at about 207,” he said. “Most guys have their mothers greeting them at the airport saying, ‘Great to have you back, son,’ but all my mother said was ‘Oh Trevor, you look so thin.’ To be honest with you, the coaches were worried. But when I got home, I lifted a lot of weights and ate everything that was slower than me—lots of pizza and chocolate chip cookies. It helps to have a mom who has a master’s degree in nutrition.”

Alison knew it was going to be a bad day. The world outside was gray and drizzly. Mommy told her she had to clean her room. And—worst of all—there was a big bowl of cold oatmeal on the table that she still had to eat.
“I wish it was tomorrow already,” she mumbled.
Mommy looked up from the computer where she was working. “Oh, things aren’t that bad, are they?”
Alison nodded without saying anything more.
“Well, then,” Mommy said, “why don’t we play the Thank-You Game. Find a reason to be grateful for everything you can. No complaining is allowed. If you can do it the whole day, I’ll give you a surprise.”
“That’s a funny game,” said Alison.
“I’ll help you begin. Why are you grateful for oatmeal?”
Alison thought a moment. “I guess it’s better than a bowl full of bugs to eat.”
“Well, that’s a start,” Mommy chuckled.
Alison gobbled down her oatmeal, to get it over with. “I’m grateful I have orange juice to help wash the oatmeal down,” she said.
Then she went to her room. It was a mess! How can I be grateful for a messy room? she wondered. “I know—I’m grateful I have all these toys to play with.” She hummed as she put them all away.
The drizzle outside turned into a freezing rain that tap-tap-tapped against the window. Alison pressed her nose against the frosty glass.
I’m grateful the rain comes so that the flowers don’t get thirsty, she thought.
When her room was tidy, she got out her play dough. She made funny shapes with it and squished it through her fingers. “I’m grateful for things that feel good in my hands,” she giggled.
Alison was having a busy day. Soon her eyelids began to grow heavy.
“I think it’s nap time,” Mommy said.
Alison was going to complain, but she remembered that it wasn’t allowed. She climbed onto her bed and reached for her stuffed rabbit. “I’m grateful I have Charlie to snuggle with,” she told Mommy.
The Thank-You Game got easier and easier. It wasn’t turning out to be such a bad day, after all!
That night Mommy looked pleased. “You played the game really well, Alison,” she said, “Here’s your surprise,” She gave Alison a strip of bubble-gum-scented stickers along with her usual hug and kiss.
Alison smiled. “It turned out to be a really nice day,” she said. “I’m grateful for bubble-gum stickers and hugs and kisses and you!”

All the boys and girls on our street went to Primary except me. Dad was a Latter-day Saint but not active. And Mother was very active in her own church.
I was about five when I first began to feel left out of things. My friends asked me to go to Primary with them, and I kept asking Mom if I could go but she would always say no.
One day after I had coaxed her for awhile, she finally said yes. And after that I went to Primary every week. When I would come home excited about what we had done and what we had learned, I noticed that Mom seemed to like to hear what I could tell her about Primary.

President Brigham Young grew to know that God provides for those who give freely of their substance to others. He wrote:
The first year that I came into this valley I had not flour enough to last my family until harvest, and that I had brought with me, and persons were coming to my house every day for bread. I had the blues about [it] one day; I went down to the old fort, and by the time I got back to my house I was completely cured. I said to my wife, “Do not let a person come here for food and go away empty handed, for if you do we shall suffer before harvest; but if you give to every individual that comes we shall have enough to last us through.’
I have proven this many a time, and we have again proven it this year. I have plenty on hand, and shall have plenty, if I keep giving away. More than two hundred persons eat from my provisions every day, besides my own family and those who work for me.
I intend to keep doing so, that my bread may hold out, for if I do not I shall come short.
Do you believe that principle? I know it is true, because I have proven it so many times. [JD 3:332–33]

The Korean educator shared an office with Oliver Wayman, a doctoral candidate in physiology. Like his office companion, Oliver Wayman was older than most of the other graduate students. He also happened to be a Latter-day Saint.
The two men became good friends. Their wide-ranging discussions, however, did not include religion—until one day shortly before Brother Wayman was to leave Cornell, when his Korean friend asked if he had any literature about his church.
“I have never seen you smoke or drink,” Kim Ho Jik told Brother Wayman. “I have never heard you use vulgar language or profane the name of God. You work harder and longer hours than any of the others, but I have never seen you here on Sunday. You are different in so many ways. I wonder if you would tell me why you live as you do?”
Brother Wayman gave him a copy of The Articles of Faith by Elder James E. Talmage. Kim Ho Jik read the book within a week. “He told me it was the best book on the gospel he had ever read and that he believed it thoroughly,” Brother Wayman recalls. Given a copy of the Book of Mormon, the Korean read it quickly and reported to his American friend that he believed it to be the word of God. It was, he said, more complete and easier to understand than the Bible.
Though Kim Ho Jik responded favorably to Latter-day Saint doctrine, he still believed his Protestant church could reform itself from within by incorporating some of the teachings of the Church. He began to attend the local branch, but also continued to attend his Protestant meetings.

A few years later at a devotional held following a visit to Adam-ondi-Ahman, the supervisor of service missionaries in the area asked me to share the story of my conversion. I did so and then thanked the couples attending the devotional for preparing their children to serve missions and for figuratively sending them to my door.
As I shook hands and prepared to leave, the supervisor spoke up. “Before we dismiss this meeting,” he said, “I have a personal confession to make.” I don’t remember his exact words, but in essence he said:
“As you know, I served my country as a U.S. Marine while I was a young man. While serving, I killed many Japanese soldiers. I thought I had served my country faithfully, but for many years, whenever I saw Orientals, particularly Japanese people, I experienced great depression. Sometimes I could not even function. I visited with Church authorities and discussed my feelings with professional counselors.
“Today, when I faced Elder and Sister Kikuchi and their son, a flash of memory returned. But then I listened to Elder Kikuchi share his testimony and conversion story, his love for the Lord and the gospel, and his love for each of us. He said he had hated Americans and American soldiers but that the gospel had changed his life through the Lord’s healing power. When I heard this, I also seemed to hear a voice from the Lord saying, ‘It is finished. It is OK.’”
He put his hands outward, raised them, and said, with tears in his eyes, “All of my guilt has been taken away. My burden is lifted!”
He came to me and hugged me. Then our wives approached, and we all hugged each other and wept.

Nick was so finicky that his family called him “Picky Nicky.” He was picky about his clothes. He was picky about his toys. And he was especially picky about his food.
One day Mom made Nick’s favorite dish—macaroni and cheese. She served it to him in his favorite bowl, gave him his favorite spoon to eat it with, and expected him to say, “Yum! Yum! My favorite!” But all Picky Nicky said was, “It isn’t cheesy enough.”
Mom took a deep breath—what she usually did when she was upset. “Picky Nicky, I have had enough! You don’t like gelatin because it keeps falling off your spoon. You won’t eat tomatoes because they have seeds. Now you’re even complaining about macaroni and cheese! I give up! You’re too picky! Starting tomorrow, you do the cooking! See if you can make something that’s just right!”
When Nick went downstairs the next morning, Mom, Dad, and Tyler were already at the kitchen table.
“We’re waiting for breakfast, Picky Nicky. We would like some pancakes, please,” Mom said.
“I don’t know how to make pancakes. How about cereal?”
“I don’t want cereal today,” Mom said.
“Me either,” Dad said.
“I want pancakes,” Tyler said.
“Get the pancake mix out of the pantry and read the directions on the box,” Mom said. “I’ll help you if you don’t understand them.”
Nick was upset. Why couldn’t they just eat cereal? But everyone was staring at him, so he got out the pancake mix.
Mom helped him figure out what to do, but it still wasn’t easy. As he put the pancake mix into a big bowl, he spilled some onto the counter. And when he cracked two eggs into the mix, pieces of shell fell into the bowl too. It took a while to fish them out—yuck! Finally he added the milk and stirred everything together. He scooped up some batter with a measuring cup and poured it on the hot, oiled griddle Mom had gotten ready for him.
“Remember, Picky Nicky” Dad said, “I like thin, little pancakes—lots of them.”
“And I like fat, round pancakes,” Tyler said.
“I want big, brown, crispy ones,” Mom said.
After a few minutes, Nick looked at the pancakes on the griddle. None of them was thin and little, or fat and round, or brown and crispy. One pancake was flat but big. Another was round but lumpy. And the biggest one was brown, all right, but it looked soggy in the center. He put the pancakes on three plates. He gave one to Dad, another to Mom, and the last to Tyler. Then he got out the syrup and butter and put them on the table.
“This isn’t thin and little,” Dad said. “It’s flat and big and not even round. And there’s only one!”
“My pancake looks lumpy, Picky Nicky,” Tyler said.
“And mine looks soggy in the center,” Mom said. “Maybe you’d better make some more for us.”
“Maybe they’ll be OK once you put on the butter and syrup.”
“We’ll try them, but …” Mom said.
“I like melted butter,” she said, “and my pancake isn’t hot enough to melt it.”
“I like hot syrup,” said Dad.
“I like blueberry syrup,” said Tyler, “and this is maple.”
Nick was getting upset. They were just being picky. Oh!
“I’ll melt the butter,” he said to Mom. “And you’ll have hot syrup in just a minute, Dad.” “Here’s your blueberry syrup, Tyler. Do you want it heated?”
While the rest of the family ate their pancakes, Nick ate his favorite cereal in his favorite bowl with his favorite spoon. No one said anything more.
After breakfast Nick helped Mom clean up the kitchen. As he was putting the last plate into the dishwasher, Mom was wiping off the table.
“Mom,” he said softly, “will you make the sandwiches for lunch? Any kind will be OK.”
Mom didn’t take a deep breath this time. She just smiled. “OK, Nick,” she said.

During a drive to amass warm clothing to ship to suffering Saints, Elder Harold B. Lee and Elder Marion G. Romney took President George Albert Smith to Welfare Square in Salt Lake City. They were impressed by the generous response of the membership of the Church to the clothing drive and the preparations for sending the goods overseas. They watched President Smith observing the workers as they packaged this great volume of donated clothing and shoes. They saw tears running down his face. After a few moments, President Smith removed a new overcoat that he had on and said, “Please ship this also.”
The Brethren said to him, “No, President, no; don’t send that; it’s cold and you need your coat.”
But President Smith would not take it back.

Not very long ago, my family and I had the opportunity to preside over the Australia Sydney Mission. I had come out of the Missionary Department, and I suppose my missionary views were very conservative. At any rate, as we began our work in the Australia Sydney Mission, we had some modest, but good, successes, and I felt comfortable about what we were doing—until President Kimball spoke to us. In his own manner and in his own way, he said, “Brother Dunn, Loren, we must all lengthen our stride.” And I got the message.
The message was that although we had made progress, yet before the Lord and before the prophet, it wasn’t enough. We went back, we redoubled our efforts; we found increased growth, but also we found increased strength and new stakes evolved because of those efforts. I don’t think the progress was so much because of us, but because of our desire to follow the prophet.

Developing new friendships. As a newly single sister, I became aware of two widowed sisters in my ward and three others recently divorced, and we became fast friends. We get together often, usually on Friday nights. Our times together have helped us grow close. We support and encourage each other. We have fun together. One sister in the ward, who is a therapist, occasionally meets with us and helps us understand our feelings and deal with our challenges. We look for the positive side of each sister’s trying circumstances. And each of us, at one time or another, has expressed the thought that our difficulties have brought us to a new level of spiritual closeness to our Heavenly Father. Although we would not choose our trying circumstances, we acknowledge the blessings that have flowed into our lives as a result.

When you think of the Netherlands, you probably think of wooden shoes, tulips, and windmills. But the Netherlands is also home to youth who are strong in the gospel. Here’s what some of them had to say about their testimonies and beliefs in gospel principles:
“I was home-teaching and had to give the lesson. I talked about Jesus Christ, the Resurrection, and life after death. While I was teaching the lesson, I felt it was true. I almost cried because I really felt it deep inside me.”
—Jos Reijnders, age 16

I always wanted to serve a mission, but when I turned 18 years old, the pandemic started. I didn’t feel ready to serve, so I started college, and I received a great scholarship. Many people recommended that I shouldn’t go on a mission. I felt like I was losing my desire to serve.
But then in general conference President M. Russell Ballard said, “If you are still in the age range for missionary service but have not served yet due to the pandemic or other reasons, I invite you to serve now.”1 When he said the word “now,” I felt as if he were speaking to me—that I must serve a mission now. Since that day I prayed about it and received confirmation that it is time for me to serve the Lord.
I have received a lot of criticism about my decision. My scholarship was even cancelled. But my desire to go is strong enough that none of those things matter. I was called to serve in the Guatemala Quetzaltenango Mission. It’s so special because my parents were sealed for eternity in Guatemala.
If you are wondering if you should serve a mission, it’s not too late! Always trust in Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. They will guide us and bless us with things we cannot imagine.
Enoc M., Dominican Republic