Gospel Story Finder

“Poor little Margarette has a very bad sore throat,” Margarette’s mother told a visitor. Hearing her mother talking about her, Margarette hurried to the bedroom door to see the Prophet Joseph Smith standing there.
He called Margarette to him and examined her throat. Concluding that it was very bad, he took her on his lap and gave her a blessing.
Immediately, Margarette felt healed. She was very grateful that the Prophet would give her such a blessing—after all, she was only a child. Why should he worry about her? She wondered about it for several days.
“Why did the Prophet bother with me?” she finally asked Mother. “I’m just a little girl. I’m nobody special.”
Mother set aside the bread dough she was kneading and wiped her hands on her apron. “My sweet child, the Prophet Joseph is a loving friend of all children. He believes as the Lord said in the gospel of Matthew: ‘Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.’*“
“What does that mean?” Margarette asked.
“It means that when we serve others, it is the same as serving the Lord,” Mother explained. “I won’t be surprised if you find that the Prophet helps you again,” she added with a wink.

A young bride went to be with her husband at an army camp on the edge of a desert. Housing was scarce and costly. All they could afford was a small cabin near an Indian village. The 115-degree heat was unbearable in the daytime. The wind blew constantly, spreading dust and sand over everything. The days were long and lonely. When her husband was ordered into the desert for two weeks of maneuvers, she just couldn’t bear the living conditions any longer, and she wrote to her mother that she was coming home. An almost immediate reply included these lines:
Two men look out from prison bars;
One saw the mud, the other saw the stars.
She read the lines over and over. All right, she would look for the stars.
She determined to make friends with her neighbors, the Indians. She admired their artful weaving and pottery work and asked them to teach her. As soon as they sensed her interest was genuine, they were most willing. She became fascinated with their culture, their history—everything about them. The desert changed from a desolate, forbidding place to a world of wondrous beauty.
What had changed? Not the desert, not her environment; her own attitude transformed a miserable experience into a highly rewarding one. (From Bits and Pieces, Vol. C no. 5, pp. 21–23.)

Another way of saying what Alma taught came from an experience one of the General Authorities shared. He related how he spoke with a sister he knows who years earlier went through a divorce. She approached him to thank him for the counsel he gave her during her darkest hours. She reminded him what he had told her: “Now sister, don’t lose your eternal perspective. Always keep an eternal perspective.” She said that truth became her pillar of strength.

Several years after I was married, I was called to teach a Sunday School class of fifteen-year-olds. It was a large class of enthusiastic and energetic students. I had to prepare well each week in order to stay ahead of them.
One Sunday after class a young man waited for the room to clear and then asked if we could talk privately for a moment. He poured out his heart to me about a moral transgression that he was involved in. He cried, and I could see that his heart was filled with great remorse.
I encouraged him to go see the bishop, who was his uncle, and eventually I went with him to his appointment and waited outside. Of course, I was not part of what the young man did from that time on, but almost immediately I saw the dark clouds of gloom and grief lift from this young man’s face. In time he was back to being the normal and fine young man that I had known him to be for some years previous. Repentance cleansed his soul and it cleansed his heart, mind, and even his face. His eyes were brighter, his smile broader, and his walk and the way he carried himself suggested happiness.

On the 17th of December 1996, we were able to go to the Johannesburg South Africa Temple. I felt excited, especially when I heard that our first child, a baby boy who died after just a few short days, was going to be sealed to us. I thought he was dead and gone, even though I knew he was innocent. But then for him to be sealed to us was a spiritual experience I’ll never forget.
So when people ask me how many children we have, I tell them we have eight children. They ask, “How?” I say, “Yes, the first one is waiting for us, so it’s up to us to obey the commandments of God and live them so that we can go back and be together as a family.”

I lived most of my adult life in the San Francisco Bay area. The Oakland Temple is located high on a hill across the Bay from San Francisco. Even when fog rolls in, one can see the glow of the temple on the hill at night. I often heard the following story while living in that area. When there was an energy shortage in the mid 1970's in the United States, a request came from the government that all businesses and establishments turn off lights at night to conserve energy. The lights of Oakland Temple were turned off. After the first night of darkness, telephone calls started to come from the Armed Forces, all surrounding airports, port authorities and cities. All related the same problem. When ships and planes came in, they all used the temple lights to mark their position in order to land safely or to guide ships to the harbor. A petition was made: Could the temple lights be turned back on? A special permission was obtained, and the temple lights provided the steady light needed to guide all safely to their final destination around the Bay Area.

When I was a young boy, my parents received a gift that became fascinating to my younger brother David and me. The gift was a miniature model of the golden plates the Prophet Joseph Smith received from the angel Moroni. As I recall, the model plates had 10 or so metal pages with words written on them. However, those pages weren’t what caught our attention.
We had been raised hearing the stories of the Restoration. We knew of and had sung in Primary about golden plates hidden deep in a mountainside and delivered by the angel Moroni to Joseph Smith.1 As the curiosity of our young minds stirred, there was one thing we really wanted to see: what was written on the small section of the model plates securely sealed with two small metal bands?
The plates sat on an end table for several days before our curiosity got the best of us. Although we clearly understood that these were not the actual plates Moroni had delivered, we wanted to view the sealed portion. So on several occasions, my brother and I tried using butter knives, old spoons, and anything else we could imagine to pry apart the sealed portion of the plates just enough to see what they contained—but not enough to break the small bands. We were at least smart enough not to leave a trace of our mischievous boyhood curiosity. To our disappointment and frustration, these attempts to “pry at the plates” were always unsuccessful.
I still don’t know what—if anything—was hidden under that sealed portion. But the embarrassing part of our story is that to this day, I have no idea what was written on the portion of the metal pages that was meant to be read. I can only imagine that these pages contained stories of the Restoration and testimonies of Joseph Smith and the Three and Eight Witnesses, who saw the actual plates Moroni delivered.
Knowing the diligent nature of my younger brother, I imagine it very likely that he read all the words written on the model plates in our parents’ home. I, however, ignored those plain and precious truths and instead exerted my effort searching for those things that were not meant to be revealed.

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

I knew a mother who in her younger years began smoking. It finally gained such a control over her that it was a habit she had great difficulty breaking. She said to her beautiful young daughter: “Look at me and make up your mind to never let a vicious thing like this little cigarette make you a slave to it. I would give anything to quit. I just haven’t got what it takes. Profit from my example.”

The daughter did. She became an active member in the Church, doing everything that she knew was right and good. She loved her mother, yet pitied her, as no doubt the mother did herself.

During Christmastime on my mission, I was undergoing some health problems, and my companion was a new missionary. She was not happy and wanted to go home. We were walking 8 to 10 miles (13–16 km) every day, and both of us had painful blisters.
I soon became depressed and discouraged, believing that I was a bad missionary and that all of my companion’s problems were my fault. We were a miserable pair. I had been so excited about the upcoming holiday, but now I dreaded it. It loomed before me dark, cold, and lonely.
My district leader saw my struggles and offered this advice: “Keep your mind off the pain. Do whatever it takes to give your companion the Christmas spirit.” I trusted my district leader and knew he was right, so I determined that I would try to get the right spirit in both of our hearts.
I remember one dark, cold evening. We were walking down the road, and my companion began to cry. Immediately, I felt as if I had been swallowed by darkness, and I wanted to give up. But I remembered my promise and asked the Lord what I could do to help this sister. The answer that came was unexpected, but I acted promptly. I began to sing Christmas carols as loudly as I could. People kept staring at me, but I felt a strange lightness in my heart that couldn’t be subdued. My companion begged me to stop. But I told her I would not until she joined me. So she did, and we sang several songs. My companion smiled at me and seemed to enjoy the rest of the evening.
That experience was the start of an amazing holiday. It was still hard at times, but whenever the mood began to turn dismal, I threatened to start singing. That always seemed to lighten the mood.
I do not have a great singing voice, and I hate singing in front of people. But that night I was singing at the top of my lungs for all of the Bronx to hear. That Christmas I learned that we celebrate the birth of a Savior who lives today and still works for our salvation. He knows what each of us needs and how to give it to us. I will never forget the Christmas that He let me sing in His personal choir. It changed Christmas for me!
Christie Mobley served in the New York New York North Mission; she is a member of the Snowflake Seventh (YSA) Branch, Snowflake Arizona Stake.

A weary Indian family stepped out of the cool green forest and stood for a moment, savoring the incredible beauty of the place they had discovered. There before them sparkled a placid blue lake, cupped by gently sloping hills. A dense cover of stately evergreen trees protected the water from high winds and scented the clean air with their spicy fragrance. A medley of joyful birdsongs echoed about them. Ferns and delicate wild flowers carpeted a forest that was splashed with blooming trees.
The family watched a large silvery fish leap out of the water; then it shimmied down, sending circular ripples over the calm surface. Across the lake a doe and her spotted fawn quenched their thirst. The doe stared curiously for a few moments and then ignored the human intruders.
The man and woman smiled at each other and unstrapped their heavy backpacks. They helped remove smaller ones carried by the boy and girl.
“It’s the perfect place for our summer home,” Yellow Wolf said with satisfaction. “Game is plentiful and this bountiful land will supply all our needs if we treat it kindly.”
“Yes,” Brown Deer agreed, smiling. “I saw a bee tree for honey and stands of berry thickets. There are also herbs for medicine and cooking. After surviving such a hard winter, the children will grow sleek and well fed in this peaceful, happy place.”
Yellow Wolf and his son Long Pine set snares for small game, then fished for their supper while Brown Deer and Red Squirrel unpacked their belongings. The speckled fish were hungry and could have provided a mighty catch, but the fishermen stopped after catching four large ones for their evening meal.
After their tepee was erected, Brown Deer scooped out a pit for her cooking fire. The pit was safe from breezes that might blow embers into the forest and start a fire that could devastate the area and wildlife.
Red Squirrel was drawn to clumps of brilliant orange flowers growing near the trees. The watchful mother stopped her work momentarily. “Choose only one flower to pick,” she cautioned, “but you may gather many dried seedpods. We will sow them in other spots around the lake, to spread their beauty for those who may come here after we are gone.”
All summer the family lived in the beautiful place they would always remember. Careful to take only what they needed, they nurtured the land. Then the leaves began to change color and the air turned crisp and cold. A heavy frost wilted the orange flowers. “The creatures have reared their young. Bears are fat for their winter sleep, and the birds are winging south. We must leave, too, before the deep snows come and trap us here,” Yellow Wolf said sadly.
Brown Deer nodded and sighed with regret. The family had been very happy here. She and Red Squirrel began to pack for the long journey south where winters were not so harsh. It was sad to think that they would probably never see this place or ever camp here again.
Brown Deer filled in and smoothed her cooking pit last, but the fresh soil looked like an ugly scar in the earth. Yellow Wolf and Long Pine waited patiently as mother and daughter planted sod and ferns to cover it. When the Indian family vanished into the forest, there was no sign to show they had lived here for a whole summer.

I learned a valuable lesson about staying in the boat. One summer, I took a 10-day break from my graduate studies to raft the Colorado River. Two of my friends who were working as summer guides on the river invited me to be a boatman on one of their trips. Even though the boatman is the person who ends up doing the duties that everyone else does not want to do, like setting up and taking down the portable latrine each day, I was in. A few days into the trip, after having experienced exciting rapids and gentle waters, we approached a rather small rapid, I do not recall the name of the rapid, but it was small. One of my guide friends suggested I join him in jumping off the raft and floating the rapids with just our life jackets. I was a bit hesitant, but he assured me he had done it a number of times in the past and that it would be fun.

I had been down rapids in smaller rivers on inner tubes and sometimes even without a life jacket or an inner tube. So, I excitedly said yes. As we approached the rapids and the spot where we were to jump in, my friend told me to put on an additional life jacket. I quickly followed his example and put on the second vest. Now at this point, any rational human being would pause and say, “if this is so safe, why do I need two life vests” and would question if this was a good idea. But in we went. These rapids were not like others I had been in, they were larger, the waves more closely packed together, and it seemed instead of going up and over the wave, I went through the waves requiring me to hold my breath for long periods of time and exerting tremendous effort to get my head out of the water. It seemed like the waves were just right on top of each other, not giving me enough time to catch my breath and resulting in drinking a number of mouthfuls of dirty, brown river water as I gasp for air. Finally, after what seemed to be forever of a constant struggle against the forces of the river to get life-giving air, I was through the rapids and into what I believed was safe, gentler waters. The raft was about 75 yards downriver, but that didn’t concern me. I thought oh I’ll just relax and float down to it. To my surprise, the river had other plans as I was sucked into a whirlpool and pulled under. I fought with all my energy to get back to the surface, which I did long enough to get a small gasp of air before being sucked down again. This happened three or four times. Finally, for some reason, I escaped and was in calm waters again. Fortunately, others on the boat saw me struggling and made their way to me. When the raft was finally within grasp, I was physically exhausted, requiring others to pull me from the river into the safety of the boat.

You may think that all was well, no harm done, and it was exciting, to say the least. But the consequences of my decision continued. Hours later, my gastrointestinal tract was reacting to the swallowed dirty river water, you know Montezuma’s revenge. This prevented me from participating in what was one of the highlights of the trip. Riding donkeys or burros up to the rim of the Grand Canyon to a ranch for a barbeque, an evening of fun, and a donkey ride back down the next morning.

I have learned from this and many more experiences that staying in the boat is the best decision.

Dr. Kenneth MacFarland, a great, nonpartisan, national patriot, gave a speech entitled “Selling America to Americans.” He told about a young soldier who returned from Vietnam. In a very serious talk with his parents, the young soldier asked if they loved America. He asked how they felt about this great and glorious nation. Both mother and father got a little teary-eyed and said that they loved this country dearly, that it was more precious to them than their own life. “Why didn’t you tell me that when I was growing up?” he said. “I never heard you once say that you loved America. You never taught me to love it. I can’t tell you what an ungrateful pup I have been. I had to go to Vietnam to find out what the United States of America is all about. I would gladly lay down my life for it. I would have given anything to know how you felt about it when I was growing up.”

I’m very happy with my name, Janetta Ann McBride. Brigham Young gave me that name and blessed me when I was a baby. He was one of the elders who visited at my parents’ home in Church Town, England, where I was born on Christmas Eve in 1839. It isn’t everyone who can claim that a prophet gave them a name and a blessing.
My father was originally from Scotland. He came to England for work. There he met my mother and married her. They joined the Church just a few years later.
When I was six years old, my family moved to Island of Bute, Scotland. I at-tended the School of Industry, where I learned how to sew and keep house. I graduated when I was eleven years old. That’s when most children began working to help their family with expenses.
I, too, would have gone straight to work, except I got sick. Instead, I was sent to live with my grandmother by the seashore. It was thought that the sea air would be good for my health. It must have been, because I got well. But Grandmother had a serious accident one day and died. By that time, my family had moved back to England, and I moved there to live with them.
At the age of fourteen, I was apprenticed to a dressmaker and learned how to make beautiful dresses. I worked for her for two years. Then my family made the decision to move to America. Times were hard in England. Jobs and food were both scarce. Also a call had gone out from the Church for the Saints to gather to Zion.
At age sixteen, I was the oldest of the children in our family. Heber had just turned thirteen. Ether was eight, Peter six, and Margaret was still a baby, not quite two years old. We loved the Lord with all our hearts. We had been commanded to gather to Zion, and so we began our journey, one step at a time. Little did we know what would face us on the journey ahead. I think, though, that even if we had known, we still would have gone.
The Church had a special fund at that time that loaned money to members for travel to Salt Lake City, Utah. In 1856, however, there wasn’t much money in it. To cut expenses, it was decided that my family, along with many others, would travel across the plains by handcart. The journey from Liverpool, England, to Salt Lake City would then only cost about forty-five dollars per person—much less than the cost of using wagons and ox teams to cross the plains.
But first we had to sail to America!
I was excited when my family packed up their belongings and headed for Liverpool. It was a great seaport, teeming with ships of every kind. I loved watching the ships being loaded and unloaded with every kind of article you could imagine. Spices from India scented the air. Passenger ships were a hive of activity as their holds were loaded with food and water. There was so much to see!
Our ship was the Horizon, a good ship. We had fine weather all the way across the Atlantic, except for a few days when it was so foggy that we couldn’t even get candles to burn! On June 30, 1856, we safely landed in Boston, Massachusetts. We were thrilled to be in the land where the gospel had been restored!
I don’t think any of us had any idea how big America really was. When we landed in Boston, we didn’t realize that our long journey was just beginning, rather than nearing its end.
From Boston, we traveled to Iowa City, Iowa, by railroad. The new railroad saved us weeks of traveling by wagon. The cattle cars were crowded, but we endured the journey well. The train stopped in Buffalo, New York, on the Fourth of July. We could only watch the people celebrate. How I wanted to join them!
Finally we arrived in Iowa City. From the train station, we walked three miles in rain and mud to the place where we were to meet the Church’s agent in charge of organizing the trek. We had been assured that everything would be ready for us when we arrived, but it wasn’t. The handcarts hadn’t even been built! We camped and worked at preparing for the journey until all was ready.
Eventually the handcarts were obtained, and our family was assigned to Captain Edward Martin’s company. Near the end of July 1856, we cheerfully began our journey to Zion. Our family had three carts when we started out. Each cart could carry about 120 pounds of baggage, 100 pounds of flour, cooking utensils, and additional food. There were 576 people in our company. I’d never been with so many members of the Church!
Pulling the handcarts wasn’t bad at first. But many of them broke down because they were built of green wood. We pulled those carts three hundred miles to Florence, Nebraska. The last members of our company, and the Willie company, arrived there on August 22. As soon as we arrived, there was some disagreement as to whether we should continue on. Some said that it was too late in the year. They felt that we should set up a winter camp in Florence and wait until spring to travel to Salt Lake City. But most of the Saints were for starting immediately. After much discussion, it was decided to continue on. We were anxious to finish our long journey. About a thousand miles remained ahead of us, but we had already come so many miles that another thousand seemed like a short trip. We didn’t know that the worst part of our journey was still ahead.

Ali looked glumly at her tithing jar. Every time she earned money, she divided it into a jar for tithing, a jar for savings, and a jar for spending money. She had worked hard helping a neighbor stack firewood and pull weeds, but her older sister Carrie had tended the neighbors’ dog and worked picking raspberries for a whole week during the summer. Carrie had earned more money, and her tithing jar showed it.
Today the family would be attending tithing settlement and discussing whether or not they had each paid a full tithe that year. Before church, Ali watched Carrie pour her money into a tithing envelope and fill out the slip. Ali tried not to cry when she counted out her own tithing, but tears burned the corners of her eyes. She didn’t want the Lord to be disappointed in her for paying less. Maybe she could ask her parents for a little extra money to put in her tithing envelope.
Timidly, she crept into the den where Dad was reading.
Dad looked up and motioned for Ali to come and sit on his lap. “Tell me what’s on your mind,” he said.
Ali bravely held the tears back. “Daddy, is my tithing too small?” she asked in nearly a whisper. “I earned $22.50 this year, so I only have $2.25 in tithing to give the bishop today. Carrie has way more than I do. Will Jesus or the bishop be mad at me?”
Dad smiled and looked into her eyes. “Ali, tithing is one-tenth of what we earn. Carrie did a lot of different jobs over the summer. She worked hard for what she earned, don’t you think?”
Ali remembered Carrie coming home from picking raspberries, looking tired and a little sunburned. She also remembered Carrie taking care of the Hamiltons’ dog. Ali nodded.
“You also worked really hard for your money,” Dad said. “Those pieces of firewood that you stacked were heavy and hurt your hands. You were even more tired after you weeded the garden. Isn’t that right?”
Ali easily remembered how heavy her arms had felt carrying all those huge pieces of wood, and how her hands had stung when she washed them after pulling weeds. She had worked hard.
“Ali,” Dad said, “it doesn’t matter to the Lord how much money a person earns as long as he or she works honestly for the money. Then He asks us to give back to Him just one-tenth of what we earned. It doesn’t matter if we earned a lot or a little, as long as we give 10 percent to the bishop.”
“So the bishop will be happy with both me and Carrie even though we have different amounts of tithing?” Ali asked.
“That’s right,” Dad said. “And Heavenly Father and Jesus will be pleased too.”
Ali could hardly speak because she was so happy. It all made sense. As long as she obeyed the commandments, the Lord would be happy with her. Now she could give the bishop $2.25 and feel just right about it in her heart.

I always thought that I was one of the lucky exceptions to some gospel standards. So I did my own thing, deciding which standards were important and which weren’t. One of the standards I saw as optional was not listening to profane and vulgar music (see For the Strength of Youth [2011], 22). I didn’t think that the music I listened to made a difference in how I acted and how I felt about the gospel. I still had a strong testimony of Jesus Christ, and I did my best to serve others and attend my Church meetings. I told myself that it was unfortunate that those musicians didn’t live virtuous lives, but I was OK listening to their music—after all, it didn’t keep me from living a gospel-oriented life.
As I prepared to serve a mission, I didn’t think twice about how the music I listened to was stifling my spiritual progression.
However, within hours of opening my mission call, the scripture Alma 32:27 came into my head: “But behold, if ye will awake and arouse your faculties, even to an experiment upon my words, and exercise a particle of faith, yea, even if ye can no more than desire to believe, let this desire work in you, even until ye believe in a manner that ye can give place for a portion of my words.”
And then I thought of that one word: experiment. If I wanted to receive the blessings I was missing out on, I had to experiment. So for the next three weeks, I went without my inappropriate music. It was hard at first, and I had many relapses. But after a few days, the peaceful feelings I began having every day were enough to get me through. On top of that, as a college student, I began to do better in my classes. I could focus more, and I was more in tune with the Spirit in a time of my life where heavenly guidance was especially important.
I found that even my desires changed. I wanted to have every blessing that Heavenly Father is waiting to give me. My experience in changing my music habits helped me realize that there are no optional standards and that every commandment we are given is designed to deepen our relationship with our Heavenly Father and make us more like Him. Skipping out on ones we don’t like will only deny us His promised blessings.

This lesson I learned anew some years ago as I received a rather unique and frightening assignment. Folkman D. Brown, then the Director of Mormon Relationships for the Boy Scouts of America, came to my office, having learned that I was about to depart for a lengthy assignment to New Zealand. He told me of his widowed sister, Belva Jones, who had been stricken with terminal cancer, who knew not how to tell her only son—a missionary in that faraway country. Her wish, even her plea, was that he remain in the mission field and serve faithfully. She worried about his reaction; for the missionary, Elder Ryan Jones, had lost his father just a year earlier to the same dread disease.
I accepted the responsibility. Following a missionary meeting held adjacent to the majestically beautiful New Zealand Temple, I met privately with Elder Jones and, as gently as I could, explained the situation of his mother. Naturally there were tears—not all his—but then the handclasp of assurance and the pledge: “Tell my mother I will serve, I will pray, and I will see her again.”
I returned to Salt Lake City just in time to attend a conference of the Lost River Stake at Moore, Idaho. As I sat on the stand with the stake president, my attention was drawn almost instinctively to the east side of the chapel, where the morning sunlight bathed the lone occupant of a front bench. I said to the stake president, “Who is the sister upon whom the sunlight is resting? I feel I must speak to her today.” He replied, “Her name is Belva Jones. She has a missionary son in New Zealand. She is very ill and has requested a blessing.”
Prior to that moment, I had not known where Belva Jones lived. My assignment that weekend could have been to any one of 50 stakes. Yet the Lord, in His own way, had answered the prayer of faith of a concerned mother. We had a wonderful visit together. I reported word for word the reaction and the resolve of her son, Ryan. A blessing was provided, a prayer offered, a witness received. Belva Jones would live to see her son complete his mission. This privilege she enjoyed. Just one month prior to her passing, his mission completed, Ryan returned home.

On one occasion a girl was trying to decide whether or not to marry a certain individual and was confused because at times she felt doubt and uncertainty and at other times was certain she wanted to marry him. When they were together it seemed right, but when she was alone or away from him, there was much doubt and uncertainty. We talked about many things: the kind of person she wanted to marry, the element of trust in marriage, possible reasons for her doubt, and why at times it seemed all right. Toward the end of the conversation she was asked to consider what she really felt was the right thing to do. After a few moments she observed that she had really known all along it wasn’t right but had just put aside those feelings. One must follow the counsel of Mormon and “search diligently in the light of Christ that ye may know good from evil. …” He then promised, “… if ye will lay hold upon every good thing, and condemn it not, ye certainly will be a child of Christ.” (Moro. 7:19.)

I remember as a youth walking with my mother up the dusty road to the bishop’s house in a day when we often paid tithing from our animals and produce. As we walked, I said, “Why do we take the eggs to the bishop?” She answered, “Because they are tithing eggs and the bishop receives the tithing of Heavenly Father.” My mother then recounted how each evening when the eggs were brought in, the first one went into a small basket and the next nine went into a large basket. I first learned the law of tithing from my beloved mother.

When David O. McKay was a young boy, his two older sisters died of illnesses within a week of each other.
Mother: I don’t know why Margaret and Ellena died, but we can trust in the Lord’s will and remember that we will see them again.
Not long after this trial of their faith, David’s father was called on a mission to Scotland, the land where he was born.
Father: I can’t go on a mission now! The girls aren’t here to help you, and a new baby is coming. I’ll ask to have the call postponed.
Mother: It is the Lord’s will for you to go on a mission right now, and I trust Him. David and I will manage just fine.
While his father served a mission, seven-year-old David was “the man of the house.” He milked cows, fed livestock, and did household chores.
When David’s younger sister Annie was born, she brought joy to the whole family.
David: She’s so pretty, Mother! Father will be proud.
When David’s father returned home two years later, he was overjoyed to see his family and his new daughter. He was amazed to see that a new addition had also been built onto the house.
Father: Children, your mother is a miracle. Look at what she has accomplished while I’ve been gone.
Mother: The Lord has watched over us.