Gospel Story Finder

Then one day in the spring, we found Bimbo stretched out in the backyard as though he were dead. Does he have scarlet fever? I wondered. On the way to see the veterinarian, I remember praying as hard as I could that Bimbo wouldn’t die. The veterinarian told us our dog had been poisoned and would have to stay in the hospital for several days. Later when we took Bimbo home, we gave him love and attention and continued to pray for him. Our prayers were answered and he did recover.

As I spread the threadbare but clean tablecloth over our table, I glanced out the window. My husband and I and our two children were living in the small, rural village of Hämeenkyrö, Finland, in the 1960s. I saw my four-year-old daughter, Marika, and three-year-old son, Petri, playing with our dog on our small patch of green grass. My husband was tending to some chores in the garden. I straightened the cloth, and when I looked up again I saw a stranger walking up the path to our front door. She was a gray-haired woman and seemed to limp a bit. She didn’t look poor by any means; she wore a beautiful flower-print dress and a long apron. In her hand was a bulging bag.
My children followed her as she came into our kitchen. “Excuse me for entering your home like this,” she said, “but I had to come.” She hefted her bag onto the table. It was full of food. As the butter, meat, sausage, and freshly baked bread made their way onto the table and then into my children’s hands, tears came to my eyes.
“Can you be our grandmother now?” Marika asked the woman.
“If I may!” our guest answered. “I’d be happy to, and you can call me Aunt Toini.”
In that moment I recalled my prayer to Heavenly Father: “Please send someone to help us!” Aunt Toini was an answer to my prayers, and not only did she bring us food, she also brought lessons of love.
Life was simple in Hämeenkyrö. We had bought a small house by a beautiful forest. I had recently joined the Church, but my husband was not interested in the gospel. We were trying to be self-reliant. We grew potatoes and other vegetables in our garden. I sewed the children’s outfits and patched our clothes. We needed and were thankful for surprise packages of clothing my mother sent from northern Finland.
But as time went on, things got worse. Our family had to strictly ration food. At times my husband and I would eat only potatoes so the children would have a bit more. This is when I started my pleading: “Dear Lord, please send someone to help us!”
I found a job, but it didn’t help enough. There wasn’t much of my salary left after meeting my expenses, including bus fare and the babysitter’s payment.
Though we struggled I always taught my children to be grateful for all we did have. Petri often blessed the food: “Thank You, Heavenly Father, for this porridge, but could You please give us a piece of sausage too, if You have some?”
At those times I pleaded even more, “Please send someone to help!”
As she carried water from the well, I offered a different prayer: “Thank You, Heavenly Father! Blessed be the full bag and 20 marks!”
Every Saturday Aunt Toini came at the same time, with the bag full of food and 20 marks. She never asked how she could help; she just went to work. Occasionally she would stay at our house for a day or two. At those times she would always be the first to get up in the morning to make the porridge. She bought us some new pots and pans when she noticed the need. Sometimes she would wash our laundry by hand.
The weeks went by quickly as we looked forward to Saturdays and Aunt Toini’s visits. I would sometimes tell her about the Church, and many times we prayed together. Marika and Petri were very happy every time she came, and Aunt Toini never forgot to bring some sausage for Petri. It seemed she enjoyed the time with our family, and I thought perhaps we were giving something back to her.
Aunt Toini visited us regularly for three years. Then one Saturday she didn’t come. Nor did she come the following day. Later we learned that Aunt Toini had just left a shop and was heading to our small cottage when she collapsed to the ground, never to recover.
My husband and I and our children attended Aunt Toini’s funeral. We didn’t know anyone when we arrived, and we didn’t know when it would be appropriate for us to lay our flowers on her grave. We decided to be the last to lay down our flowers, to express our gratitude, to say good-bye.
After the funeral a woman approached us and told us she was Aunt Toini’s daughter. “You could have laid your flowers down first. You were so dear to our mother,” she said. “What was the power that changed her? She used to be a stingy and selfish person. But during the last three years she changed into a new person. She was so tender and loving.”
I didn’t know what to say except, “It was love.”
Though it has been more than 40 years since I first met Aunt Toini, I am still learning from the lessons she brought along with her bag of food. She was my teacher. She taught me how to long for forgiveness and how to give service and help. And now I realize that though she came to feed us, she too had been fed.

I was a well-known journalist who had written for some good magazines and newspapers in Lima, Peru, but my way of life—far from God—was tormenting me more each day. Because of this, I accepted a job as a proofreader for a magazine in the Ventanilla District, located far from my home. I was desperately seeking a way to get away from my current circle of friends. In Ventanilla, I felt in my heart that my life would change.
I was occasionally attending church with my girlfriend, María Cristina, when two good, stubborn missionaries convinced me to ask Heavenly Father in prayer if the Church was true. I did so, and what I experienced was indescribable. I had never felt the Spirit so strong as on that unforgettable day.
Married and baptized a short time later, María Cristina and I rented a small, uncomfortable room in Ventanilla. Because of my hard work, I was advanced from proofreader to editor at the company’s magazine and newspaper. I had never been an editor before, and I was happy with the position. Even so, things started to change when our publications began to lower their standards, publishing items of questionable morality. These changes, ordered by our directors, opposed Church principles and values.
I had always wanted to be an editor, but the situation made me uncomfortable. Our bishop suggested that if we did things that pleased our Heavenly Father, He would bless us. After my wife and I thought it over and prayed about it, we felt prompted that I should quit my job.
A few days later I was beginning to feel stressed out and wondered if I had done the right thing. After resigning, I had sent résumés to several companies but had heard nothing back. María Cristina suggested that we pray again, and we did so. We prayed that everything would turn out well and that we would not lose faith even though the bills were piling up.
A few hours later my wife encouraged me to call one of the companies. Somewhat unbelieving, I called. I was astounded when an official there said he was just about to call me. He wanted to know if I could start the next day!
We wept for joy. Our Heavenly Father had answered our prayers.
We had to leave our ward and many good friends for my new job, but we left with stronger testimonies. I now have respectable work and a good salary, and we have a nice place to live. Above all, we have been blessed with the certainty that when we do the things that please God, we receive His blessings.

“Can we come in?” Lori asked.
Emily looked over the top of the fort she had built with Lisa. Their little sister Lori and brother Greg were back, and they wanted to come in. Again.
“No,” Emily said.
“Please?” Greg asked.
“No,” Lisa repeated.
Emily and Lisa had spent an hour building their fort out of cushions and sheets and cardboard boxes. It was perfect. They had built it next to the Ping-Pong table, and to get in you had to crawl through a tunnel under the table. It was tall enough to stand up in, but there wasn’t enough room for little brothers and sisters.
“You already have your own fort,” Emily said.
“OK,” Lori sighed. “Let’s go.” Greg followed her back to their fort. It was just a blanket draped over a chair. It didn’t have a tunnel or anything.
“They’re gone!” Lisa said. “Now we can play.” She opened their box of paper dolls. Emily cut out a dress she had drawn. They set up the rest of their game—the castle, the servants’ quarters, the wicked prince.
They played for a while, but it wasn’t as fun as usual.
“I’m bored,” Lisa said, setting down her paper doll.
“And I don’t want to be the prince anymore,” Emily said. “Maybe we need more people to play. Maybe Lori and Greg could help.”
“No,” Lisa said. “They’ll just ruin the clothes, and they won’t play the games we want them to.”
“Yeah. I guess I’m done playing this game. Let’s do something else.”
“Let’s build a tree fort!” Lisa said.
Outside, Emily and Lisa dragged boards over to the giant cherry tree. They made a platform they could sit on in the middle of the tree. It was perfect. They could reach ripe cherries right where they sat!
Soon they heard the back door open. Here came Lori and Greg. Their eyes got big when they saw the fort.
“Can we come up?” Lori asked.
“Can we have some cherries?” Greg asked.
“No,” Emily said. “Get your own cherries.”
Lisa looked at Emily, then nodded. “Go play in your own fort.”
“But our fort’s no fun!” Lori wailed. “It’s no fun without you!” Lori ran back to the house, and Greg followed.
Lisa was quiet after they left. She ate another cherry. “Maybe we should have let them come up,” she said.
Emily nodded. “We weren’t very nice,” she said quietly.
“What do you think we should do?”
“I have an idea …” Emily said.
Soon Lisa and Emily sneaked back to their old fort, where Lori and Greg were playing. They left a note outside the tunnel door, knocked, then ran outside. Lori read the note out loud: “We’re sorry we were so mean. We want to play with you too. Love, Lisa and Emily.”
“They want to play with us!” Greg shouted. He pushed open the tunnel door and raced outside. Lori followed. This time Lisa and Emily let them climb up. They all crowded onto the small platform and ate cherries.
“We were thinking we should build a town,” Emily said. “I’ll run the store and be the seamstress.”
“I’ll write the newspaper,” Lisa said, “and Greg can be the postman. And the mayor.”
“What will I be?” Lori asked.
“You can run the store with me,” Emily said.
They all climbed down and ran back to the playroom. Lisa and Lori cut out cardboard coins while Emily and Greg took down the giant fort. They would need the cushions and boxes to build the post office and the grocery store and their houses. And later, maybe even a zoo.

Robin stared into the swimming pool. He tried not to think about how far he had to swim. All that mattered was earning the badge. The seepferdchen (seahorse) badge would show everybody in Germany that he knew how to swim all by himself.
I can do this! Robin thought. He took a deep breath and jumped.
SPLASH!
The cool water felt great on such a hot day.
Take it one meter at a time, Dad had told him. Don’t think about all 25 meters at once.
Robin kept his head down. He moved his arms and legs the way he’d been practicing for months. Every few seconds he pulled up for air.
Kick. Stroke. Kick. Stroke.
Suddenly, the swimming teacher blew her whistle. Robin looked up in surprise.
“Way to go,” his teacher said.
He’d done it!
Robin laughed and did a few underwater somersaults to celebrate. He was a seahorse!
When Robin got home, he hurried to find Dad.
“Dad, look!”
Robin’s dad set down his hammer. As soon as Dad saw the seepferdchen badge, he smiled wide.
“On your first try?” Dad gave Robin a big hug. “What do you want to do to celebrate?”
Robin thought for a second. “What I would really like is to go to the pool with you. I want to show you what I can do.”
Dad smiled even bigger. “Now that would be a celebration for both of us. As soon as I have some time, we’ll go.”
Robin pumped his fist in the air. He couldn’t wait to have the badge sewn on his swimsuit and go swimming with Dad.
Several days passed. Robin kept asking about the pool, but something was always in the way. Dad always seemed to be busy.
One morning Robin knelt by his bed to pray. At the end of the prayer, he added one more thing.
“Please give my dad some extra time so we can go to the pool. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
As Robin opened his eyes, he heard Dad knock on the door.
“Let’s head to the pool. I want to see you in action!”
Robin’s jaw dropped. “Dad! You won’t believe this. I just prayed that you would get some extra time so we could go.”
Dad folded his arms and leaned against the doorway. “Now, isn’t that interesting? You see, I just heard a quiet, clear message from the Holy Ghost that I need to take you to the pool. Sounds like we’d better go!”
They had a fantastic trip. Robin showed Dad how he could swim for 25 meters without stopping. Dad was impressed. And Robin was impressed with Dad’s underwater somersaults. Dad could do five in a row!
“I’m glad Heavenly Father gave you some extra time today,” Robin said.
“Actually,” Dad said, “I think I was just letting myself get too busy. I think the Holy Ghost was reminding me that we have to make time for each other, don’t you think? I promise to do my part.”
Robin smiled. “Me too!”
Dad’s eyes crinkled in a smile. “One more thing. Have I ever told you that I’ve never lost a splash fight?”
Robin grinned back. “The day’s not over yet!”
This story takes place in Germany. Read more about Germany on pages F6–F7.

When President Kimball first came here as a member of the Twelve, he was asked to sit for a portrait. (Those of us who know him well know how those hours of sitting still must have bothered him.) To keep him from daydreaming, the painter one day asked an abrupt question:
“Brother Kimball, have you ever been to heaven?”
His answer seemed to be a shock, as he said without hesitation, “Why, yes … certainly. I had a glimpse of heaven just before coming to your studio.”
He then told of an experience in the temple where he had performed a marriage:
“As the subdued congratulations were extended, a happy father … offered his hand and said, ‘Brother Kimball, my wife and I are common people and have never been successful, but we are immensely proud of our family. … This is the last of our eight children to come into this holy house for temple marriage. They, with their companions, are here to participate in the marriage of this, the youngest.’ …
“I looked at his calloused hands, his rough exterior, and thought to myself, ‘Here is a real son of God fulfilling his destiny’” (Ensign, Dec. 1971, p. 36; also in Conference Report, Oct. 1971, pp. 152–53).

A recent missionary-for-a-day activity conducted by the young people in the Renton Washington Stake resulted in five baptisms in two states as the result of one referral.
Heidi Vikari and Claudia Judd of the Renton Third Ward were assigned a tracting district in an older part of the town. The two took copies of the Book of Mormon and knocked on 15 doors that day, and at the last one, a woman responded to the message. She and a nine-year-old son were taught and baptized. She then referred the missionaries to a brother in Oregon, who also accepted the gospel. He, in turn, sent missionaries to another couple who also joined the Church.
Thus, within three months of knocking on doors in the stake’s semiannual missionary-for-a-day program, one contact resulted in five baptisms.

A woman came home from sacrament meeting, sighed deeply, and said to her husband, “I think I’m losing my testimony. I wasn’t spiritually filled or uplifted at all today.”
A natural reaction would be to attempt to solve the problem by immediately giving advice. But if you move too fast from listening into proposing solutions, you are skipping over the chance to really understand your spouse’s feelings. And you may seem insensitive—or even smug and self-righteous. Problem-solving comes after real listening and understanding have taken place.
In this case, the husband responded, “Losing your testimony? What made you feel that way?” He showed that he cared, and he gave his wife a chance to probe her feelings more deeply.

On one occasion he was home on a break from college. He was focused on upcoming finals and was not feeling right, though he didn’t feel physically ill.
“If you’re feeling well and don’t feel right,” his mother told him, “you need to go serve somebody.”
Brett threw a snow shovel in the back of the family pickup and went around shoveling the driveways of the widows in the ward. He felt much better.
“I was so focused on myself and the finals, I had forgotten that the real purpose of life is to serve others,” he says.

A righteous rabbi once lived in Jerusalem. All of the people in his city were very poor, and so the thoughtful rabbi decided to go to Egypt and collect money for them.
As the rabbi traveled, he met a caravan with camels and asked if he might join the group. Since the leader knew that the rabbi could not travel on the Shabbat (sabbath), he agreed to journey for six days straight and then rest on the seventh day. So the rabbi paid his fare, and they all set out together for Egypt.
At the end of the sixth day of traveling, the rabbi asked the caravan leader to stop and rest as he had promised. “I am sorry, rabbi,” the leader angrily replied, “but I cannot delay everyone else for the sake of just one traveler. We must go on!”
The rabbi could not break the Shabbat, and so he got down from his camel and took his bag with him. Soon the caravan was gone and the rabbi was left all alone in the desert.
As the sun went down, the rabbi began to welcome the holy Shabbat with prayers and songs. As he was singing, a ferocious lion appeared and started walking toward him. The rabbi was frightened, but he continued to sing. Suddenly the lion stopped, lay down, and quietly listened to the rabbi’s songs. Then it fell asleep, and after the rabbi finished his song, he too lay down and went to sleep.
The next morning when the rabbi woke up and looked around, he saw the lion looking at him with gentle eyes. All that day the rabbi prayed and sang, and all that day the lion stayed by his side watching or sleeping.
When evening came and the stars twinkled in the sky, the lion got up and stretched. Then it came closer to the rabbi, wagging its tail and motioning for the rabbi to climb on its back. The rabbi took his bag and climbed up onto the lion’s back, and at once the animal was off on a run.
All night the lion hurried over the desert sands, and by morning the rabbi could see his caravan a short distance ahead.
The other travelers were shocked when they saw the rabbi riding on the back of a lion. They were even more surprised when the lion bent its knees and carefully let the rabbi off its back. Then the lion got up, roared fiercely, shook its mane, and vanished into the desert.
Now the travelers realized that even a lion knew that the rabbi was a very holy man. The leader of the caravan bowed down on his knees before the rabbi and begged his forgiveness.
From that day the people called the rabbi Ariel, because Ari means “lion” and El means “God.”

Letters written from the Missionary Training Center and from the mission field reflect the joy that quickly followed:
—“At the airport I was able to meet one of the missionaries who taught me, Elder (Hoyt) Skabelund, and his wife and baby and parents. I am slowly learning Cantonese. The people in the MTC are wonderful.”
—“I’ve received two letters from my mother. Everything is going well at home. They are being blessed greatly and they know it! My family and relatives are now happy that I am serving a mission. Surely God is a God of miracles!”
—“I have done my first street display, talking to everyone who goes by. I have taught the six discussions in Cantonese.”
—“Now I have been transferred to Macau, a Portuguese colony neighbouring the coast of China. I am pretty lucky because not many missionaries get to serve here. We are teaching an investigator, and he will be baptized. I know that God called me here to do a special work.”
—“Every inconvenience was worth overcoming to read the Book of Mormon. Every insult was worth swallowing to keep the Sabbath holy. Every moment was worth waiting for to kneel in private prayer, every pain worth enduring to attend church. Every blow was worth taking, every torment worth suffering, every tear worth shedding to come on this mission.”
Today in Macau, Elder Liao looks out the window of his missionary apartment and sees a promised land.
“When I decided to go on a mission,” he says, “I knew there would be strong currents against me. I didn’t really know the dangers lurking in the water, what might try to sting me or to swallow me up. I was only thinking about making it. Now here I am, and I know that it’s worth it.”
And he’s eager to build a bridge to help others, including his family, to cross over to the other side.

“Shucks, Wendy! I’m not doing anything to your silly flower. I’m just talking to it.”
“Well stop it, Peter!” Wendy warned.
Peter liked to talk to Wendy’s flower. One day Mother told him that flowers were happiest when people talked to them. So whenever Wendy was at school Peter talked and sang to the flower on her dresser.
Wendy’s teacher had given everyone in her class a little package of seeds and a jar of dirt. Wendy planted the seeds and after a long time, green shoots pushed up through the dirt and grew and grew until the leaves of a tiny plant popped open. Now there was also a little yellow flower on the end of the longest stem. Wendy was happy about her flower and protected it fiercely from anyone who came near.
“There’s no need to scold, Wendy,” Mother said. “You know that Peter won’t hurt your flower. Flowers grow better when they receive attention. Look how much it has grown already! Soon you’ll have to move the flower outside so it can have more room for its roots to spread out.”
The next morning Peter went back to Wendy’s room. He walked over to Wendy’s dresser and spoke softly, “Hello, Flower. Are you really too big for your jar? Do you want to move outside?” The flower didn’t answer, so Peter pretended that he was the flower answering: “Yes, Peter, I do need some more room so my roots can stretch out.”
Peter carefully picked up the jar. He carried it in both hands through the house and out into the backyard.
Then he sat down on the step to think. Wendy will be happy when she sees that I moved her flower, Peter thought. But where will I put it?
He looked for a place all over the yard—by the fence, by the swings, by the picnic table, even by the garbage cans. Then in the corner of the yard he spied a small pile of sand where he played with his bulldozer and dump trucks.
“There’s just the right place for you, Flower!” he said happily, as he headed for the sandpile.
While Peter was scooping out a hole in the sand, he found a little green car that had been lost. “There you are,” he said to his toy. “I guess I buried you and then I forgot to dig you up again.”
When Peter thought the hole was deep enough, he sat down beside the jar and tried to pull the flower out. But the roots were tangled up in the dirt, so Peter had to pry them out with his fingers. Some of the root hairs broke off. He put the flower in the hole and filled in sand around it.
Just as he went to fill the jar with water for the flower, it started to rain. With all this rain, I guess the flower doesn’t need any more water, Peter thought, and he went back into the house to wait for Wendy.
Wendy always watered her flower as soon as she came home from school. That was one job her mother never had to remind her to do. But when Wendy walked into her room after school that day, the flower was gone!
“MOTHER! My flower is gone!” Wendy cried as she ran into the kitchen.
“Now, Wendy, where would your flower go? Nobody has been here all day except Peter and me,” Mother said.
Just then Wendy turned around and saw Peter holding the empty jar in his hand. “Where is my flower? I told you not to touch it!” she declared angrily.
“Come and see,” he said excitedly. Mother and Wendy followed Peter outside.
He led them to the sandpile and proudly pointed to the little hump of sand where he had planted the flower. “See, Wendy, I moved your flower out here so it could have more room,” he said.
They all stood there, looking at it, but something was wrong. All the leaves were folded together and the head of the flower was drooping down to the ground.
Suddenly Peter was worried. He knelt down on the sand and tried to fix the flower so it would stand up straight. But it just kept flopping over again. His big eyes were filled with tears as he looked helplessly at Wendy and Mother. Then Wendy began to realize how much the flower really meant to her little brother. He feels even worse than I do, she decided and went over and knelt down beside him.
“Peter,” she comforted, “I know you didn’t mean to hurt the flower. You were only trying to help. Tomorrow we can get some more seeds and plant some flowers that we can take care of together.”

I was up in Wyoming some years ago talking to the young people. At the close of the meeting a boy came up to me and asked if he could shake my hand. I told him I couldn’t think of anything I would rather do at that moment than shake his hand. Looking up into my face, he said, “Brother Richards, my bishop will never need to worry about losing me.” I could have hugged him. I thought, Wouldn’t it be wonderful if every boy and girl in Israel could say this, for then truly they would be on the Lord’s side!

It was my privilege to serve for many years with President Spencer W. Kimball when he was chairman of the Missionary Executive Committee of the Church. Those never-to-be-forgotten missionary assignment meetings were filled with inspiration and occasionally interspersed with humor. I remember well the recommendation form for one prospective missionary on which the bishop had written: “This young man is very close to his mother. She wonders if he might be assigned to a mission close to home in California so that she can visit him on occasion and telephone him weekly.” As I read aloud this comment, I awaited from President Kimball the pronouncement of a designated assignment. I noticed a twinkle in his eye and a sweet smile cross his lips as he said, without additional comment, “Assign him to the Johannesburg South Africa Mission.”

Late one afternoon we were approaching the mouth of a river at the end of Starvation Lake. As we pulled ashore, the canoe bumped a boulder. We noticed a huge mound of fur nearby. I thought it was a dead animal until it moved and Bob said, “It’s a grizzly. And it isn’t dead, it’s asleep.” We were less than 100 feet from it at that point. Suddenly, it stood up. I thought it would run away, as most bears do. But it was irritated. The hair on its neck raised up, it started swaying its head back and forth, its jaws started moving—you could hear the teeth clacking—and its ears were laid back. I grabbed the camera and Bob grabbed the gun, but we soon decided it wasn’t smart to stay close, and we backed into deeper water. Somehow we had to get by that grizzly.
We pulled into a small draw about 200 feet away and checked on the bear. It had lain back down. So we took the food packs up and came back for the canoe. When we checked on the bear again, it was gone. It couldn’t go the opposite direction from us because of cliffs. It couldn’t go to the right, because of the lake. So we knew it was either going parallel uphill or coming straight for us. It knew where we were, but we didn’t know where it was. Bears will sometimes move up your trail and intercept you, and we were both scared. We knew it might come boiling over the hill any minute. Bob said, “Dad, can we pray, please?” After a prayer and with great caution, we started up the draw, me with the canoe over my head and Bob with the gun.
We broke the ridge about 100 feet from our packs, and it was waiting there for us. If it tasted the food in the packs, we would have to kill it to keep it from destroying the entire supply, and we didn’t want to do that. As a last desperate effort, and with prayer in my heart, I raised the canoe and shouted at the top of my lungs.
The bear swung its huge head around and saw a pair of legs, a body, and a 17-foot aluminum head growling at it. It was startled so badly it took off at a dead run. It took us about four hours to shake the hollow feeling we had after that close encounter, but we both knew the prayer had helped us through.

About a year ago, some friends of our family were hospitalized in very serious condition. Rosana and Angel Blanco Rodrigues and two of their children were in their kitchen when they smelled gas. Brother Rodrigues went to investigate. When he touched a gas hose, a small leak exploded, igniting a fire. Seeing his two small children in danger, Brother Rodrigues used his own body to extinguish the flames. He was the most critically injured of the four.
When Mama told our family about the accident, she told us of the love she and Papa felt for their dear friends. She explained that because we live far away, we could not help Brother and Sister Rodrigues by taking care of their other children, their house, or their business matters. But there was a special way we could help them, she said. We could have a family fast and pray that the Lord would bless the Rodrigues family. All of us, even we younger ones, could participate. Our parents had always fasted on the first Sunday of the month and on other occasions, but we had never fasted as a family before. We decided to try it.
We began Saturday at lunchtime. We all fasted—Papa and Mama; Dougles (13), Francini (11), Debora (7), and me (9). We said a prayer and asked the Lord to bless our friends. Mama put a reminder—“Our First Family Fast”—on the refrigerator, the water faucet, the microwave, and the kitchen wall so that we would remember not to eat or drink anything.
I did not feel thirsty during those hours, even with the intense heat here in Amazonas, Brazil. I didn’t feel hungry, either. I was able to understand a little how Jesus Christ might have felt when He fasted for forty days. I felt how good it is to do something to help others.
On Sunday, Papa gave each of us an envelope for our fast offerings and helped us fill out the form. At church that day, we gave the money to our branch president. We ended our fast at lunchtime.
The Rodrigues family eventually returned home with some injuries. As we and many other friends continued to fast and pray for their recovery, the Lord continued to bless them. After several months of care, they were completely healed and were left almost without scars.
Each month since our first family fast, we have fasted and prayed for a united purpose.
I am grateful to be a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and to learn about Jesus Christ and how much He did for me. I want to follow His example always.

Latter-day Saints are weird.
I mean that in a nice way. After all, my best friend and next-door neighbor, Ben Blanchard, is a Latter-day Saint, and he’s great. Ben has a wild sense of humor, is good at sports, and likes to build model cars and planes, just like me. The rest of his family’s pretty neat too. Mr. Blanchard is a whiz at repairing bikes and go-carts and other mechanical things. Mrs. Blanchard makes scrumptious pies and cakes. Becky’s OK, Joel’s not bad for a baby, and Tom, who’s just younger than Ben, is all right too.
So, they’re a nice family, just a little weird. Like on Mondays. Not long after we moved into the neighborhood, I went over to play at the Blanchard’s one Monday night after dinner.
“I can’t,” Ben said when he came to the door.
“Why not?” I asked.
“Oh, I’m doing stuff with my family,” he said.
“Like what?” I asked.
Ben shuffled a little and looked flustered. “Well, on Mondays we have family night. We sing, have a lesson, play games, and have a treat. It’s churchy.”
“Oh,” I said. “Every Monday?”
“Every Monday.”
I wouldn’t mind the games and treats, but I don’t sing, and a lesson sounds boring. Sometimes Ben tells me about the lessons. Once he went through the whole day at school being real polite and not cracking his usual jokes about the teachers.
“What’s wrong?” I asked as we got on the bus. “Are you sick?”
Ben looked put out. “We had a lesson last night about being kind and thoughtful and had to set goals for the week. I’m trying to be more considerate of my teachers.”
“Oh” was all I could say.
Soon I could tell when Ben had a family-night goal to be considerate, or to say thank you all the time, or to pick up litter, or to get to bed early, or to watch out for his younger brothers. He would act really strange for a week or two, then gradually slip back toward his old ways.
Sometimes the Blanchards went places on Monday nights. The next day I’d ask Ben where his family had gone, and he’d say to visit his aunt or to pick apples for Church welfare or to a widow’s house to weed her garden.
One Monday in November I was helping my dad change the oil in the car when the Blanchards drove off, then came back so quickly that I couldn’t figure out where they could have gone.
“Where’d you go last night?” I asked Ben the next morning.
He got a funny look on his face. “Oh, somewhere,” he answered.
I couldn’t believe it. Ben always told me where they went! “What is this, some kind of secret mission?”
Ben half-laughed, half-choked, “Sort of.” He looked behind him and then leaned toward me and whispered, “Becky made me promise not to tell anyone.”
I spent the next week trying to puzzle out what the Blanchards could have done that Becky wouldn’t want anyone to know about. Had they discovered gold or silver? Were they rehearsing a circus act? Or maybe they were plotting to take over the world!
The next Monday the Blanchards stayed home. I was outside with Dad again, helping him replace the porch light. We were nearly done when a car came up the street. I was instantly alert because we live on a dead-end street, and we hardly ever get strange cars on it. Even more mysterious, this car was creeping along at a snail’s pace. As soon as the car passed our driveway, its headlights blinked off. But the car kept on going and stopped just beyond the Blanchard’s house.
I nudged Dad. “Something fishy’s going on here,” I whispered.
We tiptoed to the hedge that divides our property from the Blanchards’ and watched. A figure got out of the car and crept up the driveway to the Blanchard’s porch. He—or she or it—placed something by their door, pressed the doorbell, and scooted down the driveway.
Dad squeezed through the hedge and grabbed the skulker’s jacket. “What are you doing?” he asked.
I squeezed through the hedge, too, and ran up to the door while Dad marched the boy—we could tell that much now—up the driveway behind me.
By the time Dad got to the door, Ben and the rest of his family were crowding around the door, wide-eyed.
“Do you know this boy?” Dad asked.
“It’s Frank Adams,” Mr. Blanchard told us.
Frank was absolutely crimson. He bent down and picked up a plate of cookies. On top of the cookies was a ghost shape cut out of paper. “I just left these,” he explained weakly.
The Blanchards all whooped with laughter. “He was phantoming us!”
“Huh?” Dad and I stared at each other.
“Can I go?” Frank looked desperately at Dad. “Mom’s in the car and probably thinks I’ve been kidnapped.”
Dad let go of Frank’s jacket. “Sorry. I was just trying to watch out for my neighbors,” he said, shaking his head as Frank rushed down the driveway.
I was dying of curiosity. “What was he doing?”
Becky sighed. “Different families in our ward—our church congregation—have been going around on Mondays and secretly leaving treats on other people’s door-steps. We say that the Family Night Phantom left them.”
Dad and I stared at each other again and raised our eyebrows.
“Better cookies than vandalism,” Dad finally said with a shrug.
“I bet that’s what you were doing last week. Right?” I asked Ben.
He nodded, embarrassed.
As Dad and I walked home, I thought again how weird Latter-day Saints were. Who else would leave cookies and stuff at people’s houses without being seen? Crazy!
The next Monday night our doorbell rang. Mom, Dad, and Tina were all watching TV, so I went to see who was there.
Nobody was there! At first I thought it was somebody’s idea of a dumb joke. Then I looked down. The Blanchards had phantomed us! They’d left a plate of brownies and a silly drawing of a ghost.
Nutty, right? Absolutely nutty. But I must say, the brownies were delicious. Maybe family night phantoms aren’t so weird after all.

It was not really a special occasion. Georgia, Janice, and I had all agreed long ago that we needed a break from the house and kids at least once a month, and so we had set aside the third Thursday of every month for a girls’ day out. Today was the third Thursday, but other than that, there was nothing out of the ordinary about it. And it wasn’t even until we had all gone through the salad bar that I got any indication that this day might be one that I would long remember.
We’d all loaded our plates with lettuce and cucumbers and mushrooms. Then we sat down congratulating ourselves on ordering such a calorie conscious meal, never mind that our salads were each drowned in a half-pint of blue cheese salad dressing. As is common with conversations between mothers, the subject soon turned to sick kids and then doctors.
“Have you been to that new doctor in the children’s clinic?” Georgia asked.
“Yes, I took Harry to him last month,” Janice replied enthusiastically. “I sure was impressed with him.”
“Me too!” Georgia agreed. Up until then, I wasn’t really paying much attention. I’d never been to this new doctor; I didn’t even know who he was. But Georgia and Janice had been debating the merits of every doctor in the city for as long as I had known them, and this was the first time I’d ever heard them both give the same doctor such a hearty approval.
“He really listens to you,” Georgia was going on. “I had my Cheryl in there awhile back. She was just getting over a cold, but I didn’t think she seemed right. The other doctor wouldn’t even listen and kept insisting she was fine. But not Doctor Bloomberg. He paid attention to what I was saying, and sure enough the child had silent pneumonia.”
I nearly choked on a piece of lettuce.
“What did you say that doctor’s name is?” I asked.
“Doctor Bloomberg,” Georgia said.
“Gerard Bloomberg,” Janice added.
It couldn’t be, I told myself. It could not possibly be the same Gerard Bloomberg. But then, how many Gerard Bloombergs could there be in the world, and how many doctors with that name? Not that I was certain that the Gerard Bloomberg I knew was a doctor, but that was what he had said he wanted to be. Or rather, that was what Marny had said he wanted to be.
Marny was my roommate at college. I was a junior; she was a sophomore. I arrived at the apartment a couple of days before she did, but by the time she got there I had a picture painted in my mind of just what to expect her to be like. For two days solid people were stopping in and asking if she was there yet. By the time she was, the bulletin board was covered with messages for her, mostly from boys.
And Marny did not disappoint my expectations. She bounced into the apartment like a cheerleader returning from cheerleading camp. Her head was covered with a mass of golden curls, her eyes were deep blue, and her mouth a perfect pink rosebud. I decided that I probably was not going to like her when she spoke.
“Hello,” she said in a voice that was much more intelligent sounding than what I would have expected. “I’m Marny Southwick. It looks like we’re going to be living together for a year. It’ll be fun getting to know each other.”
She sounded so sincere and friendly that I had to like her. If Marny was anything, she was likable.
Gerard Bloomberg was in our ward. He was probably at church the first week we went, but I didn’t notice him there. In fact, if Gerard had not been assigned to me as my home teacher, I probably would have gone the entire year without noticing him. Gerard was an easy person to overlook.
As it was, he turned up at our door the second week of the semester. I answered the door when he knocked.
“Hello,” I said.
Gerard looked me squarely in the chin and asked if I was Kitty Olson. I said yes, and he said he was my home teacher. It was probably the most in-depth conversation we ever had.
We went into the living room and sat down. Gerard’s gaze now shifted to my shoes. He said he hadn’t been able to get a hold of his companion yet but had figured he ought to get over and see me. It was quite a speech for Gerard, and he had quite a time getting it out. By the time he finished, we were both ready to heave a sigh of relief.
At that moment Marny arrived. She dumped her pile of books onto the table with an exaggerated groan and looked around. Her eyes stopped on Gerard.
“Oh, sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know you had company.”
“This is my home teacher, Gerard Bloomberg,” I said.
“Hi,” Marny smiled. “I’m Marny Southwick.”
Gerard looked up at Marny. His face turned the exact shade of red that I had been looking for in a lipstick, and then he dropped his gaze.
“I’ll just sit over here and study,” Marny went on. “Don’t let me bother you.”
But it was obvious that she did bother Gerard. He had found it difficult to talk with just me in the room. Now he found it even harder. As he stuttered and stumbled through the little message he had prepared, I noticed that his gaze occasionally shifted from my shoes to Marny’s. He finished quickly and left.
“Poor fellow,” I said when he had gone.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Marny said. “I thought he was kind of cute.”
I wondered how Marny could tell. All I had seen was the top of Gerard’s head.
“But he’s so shy,” I said.
“Lots of guys are kind of shy,” she replied. “They just need someone to bring them out.”
Marny was asked to be the Spiritual Living teacher in Relief Society. Her first lesson was on charity. It quickly became apparent that she was taking the lesson seriously. And it also quickly became apparent whom she had chosen as her own special charity case—Gerard Bloomberg.
It was the Saturday following her lesson that our stake held a dance. Gerard was there when we arrived, but he was seated across the room in the darkest corner of the gym. His arms were folded and his head down; he almost appeared to be praying. Marny spotted him immediately and began to make her way to him, but it was halfway through the evening before she got there.
Some things are hard to figure. Marny had been at school no longer than any of the rest of us. In fact, not even taking into account the extra year I had on her, I’d been there a good two days more than she had. But she seemed to have made at least twice as many friends. And that was why she took so long getting to Gerard. Every time she tried, someone would stop her to talk, and then she’d get asked to dance. Marny was too nice to ever tell anyone that she had someone else she wanted to talk to. That was part of her charm. When Marny talked to you, you felt like you were the most important person in her life. But midway through the evening, I noticed Marny seated next to Gerard.
Gerard’s position had not changed, except that if it were possible, he looked even more withdrawn. But Marny seemed oblivious to his discomfort. She was chatting away as though she were catching up with her best friend. I shook my head. Some times, I thought, it seems that the most charitable thing to do would be to simply leave a person alone.
Marny took every opportunity after that to talk to Gerard. She’d invite him to sit with us in Sunday School, visit with him at socials, and if she happened to see him on campus, she’d run out of her way just to say hi.
One evening at dinner we were discussing several of the more desirable young men in the ward, when Marny changed the subject to Gerard.
“Gerard Bloomberg went on a mission to Tennessee,” she said.
We all stared at her in dumbfounded silence for several seconds. Then Karen, the most vocal member of the apartment, put what we were all thinking into words.
“My goodness! It probably took him the entire two years to teach the first discussion to one family.”
Of the five other girls around the table, four of us burst into laughter at Karen’s remark. But Marny did not laugh. She looked at us all as sternly as she could and said, “I don’t think that’s funny. I’m sure Gerard made a fine missionary.”
I could tell she was serious and quickly controlled my mirth.
“Marny, we all like Gerard. He’s nice, but he’s just so … so …”
“So backward,” Karen filled in for me.
“Well, it’s not funny to laugh at other people’s problems,” Marny said. She got up and left the table indignantly.
After that we never laughed about Gerard in front of Marny, but we did it plenty when she wasn’t around. When Marny announced that Gerard wanted to be a doctor, it took every ounce of self-control we contained to keep from laughing. In fact, Karen had to excuse herself to get a drink of water, and I heard her choke as she drank it. After all, how could Gerard, who seldom looked at anyone above the ankles, ever become a doctor? But we were smart enough not to tell Marny that.
“You see, he grew up on a farm,” Marny explained, “and he loved caring for the sick animals. He enjoyed helping them get better. Then on his mission, he taught a lot back in the Appalachians and saw the poor conditions some of those people live in. He thought if he could become a doctor, once he was established and making some money, he could take some time to go back there and help them get better medical care.”
I wondered how Marny had ever gotten Gerard to tell her all that. When Gerard came home teaching, other than his memorized messages, I had trouble getting him to comment on more than the weather.
One night some time later I was lying on my bed studying as Marny got ready for a date.
“Who you going out with tonight?” I asked.
“Gerard,” she said nonchalantly.
“Gerard!” I exclaimed sitting up.
“Yes,” she replied not seeming to find anything odd about it.
“Did he actually ask you out?” I asked.
“Well, he did need a little prodding. I mentioned a movie I wanted to see and asked if he wanted to see it too. When he said yes, I sort of suggested we see it together.”
“Oh,” I said lying back down. “I should have known.”
I didn’t think much of that first date of theirs, but then Gerard, all by himself, asked Marny out again two weeks later. And then again a week after that. Pretty soon they were going out regularly every two weeks—sometimes even every week.
Now for Marny that wasn’t much. Marny had a date nearly every night of the week. And there were lots of boys she was dating more often than Gerard. But I was certain that there was no one Gerard was dating more often than Marny. In fact for Gerard, I had no doubt that once every two weeks was going steady.
That worried me. After all, it was obvious that Marny’s interest in Gerard was simply as a service project. She was being nice to him to help him feel better about himself. A lot of good it was going to do if she ended up hurting him.
I decided to take action. There was one boy in particular that Marny seemed to date more than anyone else. His name was Bart Hansen. Bart was a perfect match for Marny. He was as handsome as she was pretty—the kind of guy every girl dreams about and every parent approves of. One simply had to look at Bart to know he would go places.
Now, if Marny should happen to become serious with Bart, I was certain she’d cut out her other beaus. And if it happened soon enough, maybe Gerard wouldn’t be hurt as badly as if things dragged on. The end of the semester was near. Perhaps Marny could just let things fizzle out gently when she went home for Christmas vacation.
That evening as Marny and I dressed for bed, I turned the subject to Bart.
“He sure is a neat guy,” I said.
“Yes, he is,” Marny agreed.
“And the two of you make the cutest couple.”
“You think so?”
“Oh, everyone does. Have you two talked about marriage?”
“No,” Marny said picking up her brush and running it through her hair.
“If he asked you, you’d say yes wouldn’t you?”
Marny turned around and studied me for several seconds. “What are you getting at?” she asked.
“Nothing,” I said trying to sound casual. “I just think of all the guys you date, Bart is the best for you, and it would be a shame to lose him because of the other guys you’ve got hanging around. Guys don’t always appreciate a lot of competition.”
“Well, Bart hasn’t even mentioned marriage,” Marny said matter of factly, “so I don’t see any point in discussing it. Frankly, I’m not sure what I’d say if he asked me.”
The conversation had not gone exactly as I had planned, but at least I had put some ideas into Marny’s head. I hoped that the more it rattled around in her brain, the more concerned Marny would become that by dating so many other guys, she might lose Bart. I had no doubt that when the weeding out process came, Gerard would be the first to go.
It was several nights later, and I was sleeping soundly when I felt a hand shaking my shoulder and a voice saying, “Kitty wake up.”
I opened my eyes and blinked several times. It was Marny just getting back from a date. Her face was pale and her manner seemed agitated. I sat up.
“Are you okay, Marny?” I asked.
“Oh, Kitty,” she exclaimed, “Gerard asked me to marry him.”
“Oh no,” I moaned. “How did he take it when you said no?”
“But, Kitty,” Marny protested, “I didn’t say no. I said yes.”
I shook my head. I had to be dreaming. Karen and I would get a good laugh out of this in the morning.
But then Marny took my hand and said, “Aren’t you happy for me?”
I could feel her hand. It wasn’t a dream; it was real.
“Oh, Marny, why?” I said.
Marny looked confused. “I love him,” she said simply.
A phrase from Marny’s lesson on charity ran through my mind. “Charity is the pure love Christ has for everyone, and we should all try to gain that kind of love for everyone too.” I wanted to take Marny by the shoulders and shake her and say, “Marny, you don’t have to marry Gerard to prove that you have charity. You’ve been kinder to him than anyone else. You’ve done enough! You can’t marry a guy just because you feel sorry for him!” But I didn’t say it. I figured that by morning Marny would be thinking more clearly and see how silly this was.
But come morning, Marny was as determined as ever. She announced her engagement to the others at breakfast. If Marny thought my reaction was unenthusiastic, theirs was downright chilly. They all sat silently and stared at her. When she said, “Aren’t you going to congratulate me?” they all mumbled a semblance of “Congratulations,” and excused themselves.
But Marny was not to be daunted by our opinions. She spent the next weeks making plans. She would skip the next semester of school and stay home to plan the wedding, which would take place that spring. Had I not known the groom, I would have thought her the perfect picture of an excited bride to be.
I kept hoping that I would find a chance to talk to Marny seriously about what she was doing. Sure, planning a wedding was fun, but once the wedding was over, she would be married to Gerard. Forever! But that chance never came, and Marny left for home at Christmas vacation.
I went to the couple’s reception. Marny looked radiant. Her gown was lovely, her manner gracious. She was in every way perfect. Beside her was Gerard looking as though his tie was too tight. That was the picture of them that I had carried in my memory through these past 12 years.
I had wondered what became of the couple. I was certain that one day Marny would wake up and realize what she had done. It would be sad when she did. I liked both Marny and Gerard. I didn’t want either of them to be hurt. But when Marny realized what a mistake she’d made, one of them would be.
As the years passed I thought of Marny and Gerard less and less often, until now I had almost forgotten them. Now, with Georgia’s comment, it all came back.
“Kitty, are you still here?” Georgia brought me back to the present.
“Yes,” I laughed. “I was just thinking. I had a roommate who married a Gerard Bloomberg that wanted to be a doctor. I just wondered if it was the same one.”
“I’d think it’d almost have to be,” Janice said.
“Have either of you met this doctor’s wife?” I asked.
Both of them shook their heads.
“But he has a picture of her on his desk,” Janice said.
“Yes,” Georgia chimed in. “She’s blond and really smiley.”
It sounded like Marny.
It was almost time for the kids to get home from school when I finally got home. My first move was to get out the phone book. Sure enough there was a number for the Gerard Bloomberg residence. It took three tries before I could get up the courage to dial the number. I listened to the phone ringing, half hoping no one would be home. Then I heard someone pick it up and say “Hello.” The moment I heard the voice, I knew it was Marny.
“Marny?” It came out as a half whisper.
“Yes, who is this?”
“Kitty Murdock … you knew me as Kitty Olson.”
“Kitty!” Marny exclaimed. “Where are you?”
I explained to her that we were living in the same town and gave a brief account of how I had discovered it. When Marny suggested that we must get together and catch up, my curiosity got the better of me, and I said that right now was good for me.
I left a note for my kids saying I’d be back soon, then grabbed my purse from the counter. I followed the directions Marny had given me and soon found myself in a fashionable neighborhood.
Marny rushed out to greet me when I pulled in. She hugged me affectionately and made me feel welcome immediately. They’d just moved into the house a month earlier, she informed me, so she hoped I wouldn’t mind the disorder. I saw no disorder.
The house was spacious, yet homey. The furnishings, right down to the picture over the sofa, were straight out of a magazine spread. Out back were four children playing. Marny called them in and introduced them, then sent them off to do their homework.
It was all exactly what I would have pictured for Marny: a lovely home, well-behaved children. All of it was perfect, except the husband.
We sat in the living room and visited for an hour. Then the question I had been carrying all afternoon came out.
“Marny,” I asked, “has Gerard changed?”
Marny seemed to think for several seconds, then shook her head.
“No,” she said, “he’s still the same old Gerard.”
I paid little attention to the next part of the conversation. I was trying to sort things out in my mind. My friends had raved about Gerard, yet how could he be such a wonderful doctor if he was still the “same old Gerard?”
A silver sedan pulled into the driveway and a tall handsome man got out.
“Here’s Gerard now,” Marny announced.
I took a second look at the man walking up the sidewalk. Surely Marny was joking.
Marny got up and met the man at the door.
“You’re early, dear,” I heard her say. “Come see who’s here.”
Marny led him into the living room. Here, at closer range, I could see that this man’s facial features were indeed those of Gerard Bloomberg, but nothing else about him was. He carried himself tall and confidently. Not once did he even glance at my shoes. When he spoke, he looked straight in my eyes, and when I spoke, I felt as if he was truly interested in what I was saying.
I can’t recall much of that conversation. I think I was in shock for the duration. But then Gerard excused himself to make some phone calls.
I turned to Marny. “You said he hadn’t changed!” I exclaimed.
Marny looked at me blankly as if she really didn’t know what I was talking about. It was then, seeing her confusion, that the reality of it all finally hit me. After 12 years, I finally understood. Marny’s interest in Gerard had begun as simply an act of charity. But Marny had taken the time to do something none of the rest of us had done. She had gotten to know Gerard. She had dug past the backward farm boy exterior that the rest of us saw and had found the heart of the man. To Marny, Gerard had always been the sensitive young doctor that I had just met.
In light of that, I realized how shallow my exclamation sounded.
“It’s just that Gerard used to be so shy,” I explained weakly.
Marny smiled softly. “Yes, I guess he was a bit shy,” she said. “But really, other than that, Gerard is just the same as he’s always been.”

It is instructive that the second Latter-day Saint connection with the Titanic did not have a happy mortal ending. Irene Corbett was 30 years old. She was a young wife and mother from Provo, Utah. She had significant talents as an artist and musician; she was also a teacher and a nurse. At the urging of medical professionals in Provo, she attended a six-month course of study on midwife skills in London. It was her great desire to make a difference in the world. She was careful, thoughtful, prayerful, and valiant. One of the reasons she chose the Titanic to return to the United States was because she thought the missionaries would be traveling with her and that this would provide additional safety. Irene was one of the few women who did not survive this terrible tragedy. Most of the women and children were placed in the lifeboats and were ultimately rescued. There were not enough lifeboats for everyone. But it is believed that she did not get in the lifeboats because, with her special training, she was attending to the needs of the numerous passengers who were injured from the iceberg collision.

The lost opportunity might relate to family, occupation, talents, experiences, or others. All of these were cut short in the case of Sister Corbett. There were songs she did not sing and potential she did not fulfill in this mortal life. But when we look through the wide and clear lens of the gospel instead of the limited lens of mere mortal existence, we know of the great eternal reward promised by a loving Father in His plan. As the Apostle Paul taught, “Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart of man, the things which God hath prepared for them that love him.” A line from a beloved hymn provides comfort, solace, and the clear lens: “And Jesus listening can hear the songs I cannot sing.”

The trip held special significance for me because that summer I had felt strongly impressed to receive my patriarchal blessing. My grandfather was a patriarch, and so I asked if he could be the one to give it. He agreed and obtained permission, and we planned for my blessing to take place the Sunday directly following our trip.
When the weekend of camping came to a close, we all returned home, and the following Sunday my grandfather gave me my patriarchal blessing. Just weeks later he passed away. He had been able to type my blessing and print it out, but it was my grandmother who finally sent it to me.
I am grateful that my grandfather was a keeper of one of the lights along the shore of my life. His light and example has guided me closer to my Heavenly Father. I will always think of my patriarchal blessing as a light coming across the waves, guiding me in from the dark. It is a bright beam of my Heavenly Father’s mercy.