Gospel Story Finder

Robert Wood. Robby frowned as he read his name. All his friends called him Robby. His whole name looked strange and uncomfortable on the bright yellow Primary birthday calendar. It didn’t seem to belong with the names of the other kids. He wasn’t like them. He had been to church only about three times in his whole life. He wouldn’t have come today except his new teacher, Sister Jensen, had sent him a special invitation and offered him a ride.
Robby liked singing the songs. Sharing time was interesting, too. When his class was excused, he followed the other children to their classroom. They were ahead of Sister Jensen. She seems old to be a Primary teacher, Robby thought as she stopped to talk briefly to someone in the hallway.
Robby chose a seat at the very back of the room, but when he started to sit down, a boy kicked his chair out from under him. An ugly word popped out of Robby’s mouth. He was immediately sorry, and he blushed a deep red when he saw Sister Jensen standing in the doorway. She must have seen the whole thing.
The girls raised their hands and pointed at Robby. The boys snickered. Robby wanted to run home. But Sister Jensen closed the door and smiled at him. Then, turning to the girls, she said, “I just love to see so many volunteers for the prayer.” The girls put their hands down quickly, but Sister Jensen still assigned two of them to give prayers.
During class, Robby watched Sister Jensen. She smiled a lot. She made Robby feel he was just as important as the other children.
After class, Sister Jensen hugged the children as they left. When it was Robby’s turn, she quietly shut the door. Robby was alone with Sister Jensen, and he knew why. She was going to scold him for saying that angry word. Well, at least she hadn’t embarrassed him by doing it in front of everybody.
“I’m so glad you came today, Robert,” Sister Jensen said with a smile.
Robby looked down and traced on the floor with his shoe.
When he didn’t answer, Sister Jensen continued, “I know you’re embarrassed about what you said. If someone kicked a chair and made me fall, I would be pretty upset, too.”
“They wouldn’t do it to you,” Robby said. “They just do it to me because I’m not a church kid.”
Sister Jensen looked thoughtful as she bent to gather some of her things. When she straightened up, she was wearing her big smile again. “Sit down a minute, Robert,” she said, pointing to a chair.
Robby sat quietly while Sister Jensen pulled up a chair beside him.
“Do you like our bishop?” she asked.
Robby thought for a minute. He remembered the time the bishop came to his house when his mother was sick and couldn’t care for the family. After that, some ladies came by to help take care of his mother and his family. The bishop seemed really nice. “Yeah, I think he’s nice,” Robby said.
“Well, believe it or not, I used to be his Primary teacher,” Sister Jensen explained.
“Oh.” Robby nodded. “I guess you could have been; you are old.” Robby blushed when he realized what he’d said.
Sister Jensen laughed heartily. “That’s true! He was a sweet little boy, just like you. You and he have a lot in common—his parents never brought him to church, either. I used to pick him up all the time. He even sat with me in sacrament meeting.
“When he was about your age,” Sister Jensen continued, “he decided to make choices that would help him the rest of his life. He had a little problem with angry words, and he decided that when he became upset, he’d say ‘How exasperating!’ I told him that was a good start but he also needed to fill his mind with good things. That way only good things would come out of his mouth.”
Robby traced on the floor with his other shoe. “Well, maybe when I’m a grown-up, I can do that, too,” he told her.
“But now’s the time to make important choices that will bless you throughout your life, including your choice of words.”
“How can words bless me?”
“When you are careful with the words you choose to say, you show others you care enough about them not to offend them. Choosing good words helps you gain more friends, and you’re also not offending your Heavenly Father. Besides, when you have good words inside, good actions often follow.”
Robby nodded that he understood, and he helped Sister Jensen gather up the rest of her teaching materials.
The next Sunday, Sister Jensen picked Robby up in time for sacrament meeting. The bishop was conducting, and he seemed to be having a difficult time with some of the announcements. Finally he put down the paper he was reading, smiled at the ward members, and exclaimed, “How exasperating!”
Robby giggled as Sister Jensen nudged his arm. He leaned over and whispered, “That’s what I’m going to say when I’m mad, too.”
“Good for you, Robby,” Sister Jensen said with a wink.
Later, in the Primary room, Robby again noticed his name on the yellow birthday board. “That’s funny,” he said.
“What’s that?” Sister Jensen asked.
“Last week my name seemed different.”
Sister Jensen looked puzzled. “What do you mean?” she asked.
“Well, last week my name looked out of place up there by the names of the church kids. But today it looks like it belongs.”
Sister Jensen put her arm around Robby, and he noticed tears in her eyes. “That’s because you do belong here,” she said.

During the COVID-19 pandemic, we were blessed to have hospice care for my husband, Claude, in our home. There, our children and I lovingly assisted in his care until he quietly slipped away to our heavenly home.
Earlier, Claude and I had prayed about whether to convert our screened-in patio into a hospice room, where we could fit everything he would need to feel comfortable. We received confirmation that we should proceed.
To remodel the patio, several workers needed access to our home. Fortunately, the patio had a back door, so the workers could go in and out without having to enter our home’s main living quarters. That was a great blessing during COVID-19 restrictions.
After Claude’s room was completed, nurses came daily. They were kind, loving, and knowledgeable about what we needed to do to keep Claude comfortable.
When I joined the Church, I was taught that every member of the Church is a missionary.1 Because I love sharing the gospel, I ordered three cases of the Book of Mormon, 24 books in each case. I vowed to give a book to every person who entered our home.
I marked important sections of each book with a business card I designed that featured a photo I took of the Salt Lake Temple. I also pasted my testimony onto the blank page at the front of each book. Then, before giving a book to a worker or a nurse, I explained to them what the Book of Mormon is.
I was pleasantly surprised by their reactions. Only one person refused to accept a book. Everyone else was interested in hearing about it. Some thanked me profusely, saying that they knew about the Book of Mormon and wanted one. Several people were so happy that they even hugged me.
I am convinced that this happened because every time I opened my mouth to speak about the Book of Mormon, the Holy Ghost was with me. I am confident that the workers and nurses could feel the Spirit. I gave away all 72 books, and I recently placed an order for 24 more.

When I would attempt to walk half a block in my neighborhood, I often experienced shortness of breath, light-headedness, and joint pain. I had been a runner previous to contracting the virus, and now I could only walk slowly. Many times I would fall on my knees to pray that I could get up and feel up. The fatigue got worse every time I tried to get up and do too much. One day I got up and my back went out. I fell to the floor in tears and pain. I cried out to Heavenly Father, “I can’t take it anymore!” He knew I was down and helped me up once again. I would often tell myself, “Just hold on.” There was not much else I could do. By choosing to hold on to hope in Christ and continually calling upon the Lord, I was able to press on.

When Lynn Parsons was called as the disability specialist in the Hurst Texas Stake, she wanted to fulfill her calling in a way that would bless the lives of members of her stake, especially members with disabilities and their families.
One of the first things Lynn did was to review information on her calling at LDS.org (lds.org/callings/disability-specialist), and she used Handbook 2: Administering the Church to understand official Church policies regarding those with disabilities. The Disability Resources website (lds.org/disability) also served as a resource. It helped her understand various disabilities and served as a resource to share with members of her stake.
Handbook 2 states, “The bishopric or stake presidency may call a ward or stake disability specialist to help individuals and families.”1 LDS.org gives further information about this calling, explaining that “the role of the disability specialist is to help facilitate increased participation and inclusion of Church members with disabilities.”2
With this understanding, Lynn says she wanted to “help leaders fulfill their callings by finding the tools they needed to serve those with disabilities.”
Lynn also found information through community and national resources, the Internet, and ward and stake members who have a background working with people with disabilities. Lynn uses these resources as she looks for solutions to some of the challenges leaders and families face in her stake. She doesn’t always know where to turn for information or help, “but if you really seek the answer through prayer,” she says, “you will be inspired where to look to find your answer.”
Lynn also works to understand the disability-related needs of leaders in her area. To do this, she asked her stake leaders to send a letter to bishops informing them of her calling and that she was available to help. She also met with the stake Primary presidency to understand challenges, and she made plans to meet with other groups of leaders. “I wanted to get the word out,” she said. “I wanted people to know where they could find some help.”
By letting members of the stake know she was ready to serve, Lynn soon found opportunities to help leaders. Within the first few months of being called as the disability specialist, she was invited to meet with a ward council to talk about characteristics of a specific disability. She served in other ways, such as helping a teacher understand how to teach a child with autism and suggesting that an assistant Primary teacher be called so a child with a disability could attend class.
Moving forward, Lynn plans to help leaders fulfill their callings. As she does this, she is helping members of her stake follow the example of the Savior in loving and reaching out to others, including those with disabilities.

A few years ago several friends from institute and I planned a two-day backpacking trip. We were experienced campers, quite familiar with the areas we would be traveling in and well equipped for most situations. We would soon learn, however, that without the guidance of the Holy Ghost our gear and knowledge would have been next to useless.
A few days before our trip the sky was clear and the temperatures were moderate. Our destination was Mount Chocorua in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. While it is true that the mountains of our region do not boast summits as high as those found in other parts of the world, the elevation gain from trailhead to summit is often quite substantial, and New England is known for its highly unpredictable weather.
The day before our departure it started to rain. Normally this would not concern me; it often rained as we hiked. This time, however, I felt a growing sense of unease. I checked the forecast—light showers, nothing more. Still, I felt very uncomfortable as the evening progressed. The feeling grew as I prepared for bed, read my scriptures, and said my prayers.
Finally I went to my pack and pulled out my guide map of the White Mountain National Forest. As I located Mount Chocorua on the map, my sense of unease doubled. It was so intense I considered calling off the trip, but that didn’t feel right either. I found another mountain we had on our list to climb and immediately felt better. After a prayer I felt good about this new destination. My only concern was possibly disappointing my friend Glenn, who had put much effort into planning this trip.
The next morning it was still raining lightly. After we all arrived at our departure point, I voiced my concerns and told my friends of my prayers and feelings. To my relief, two others had had the same feelings, and Glenn was more than willing to change mountains. We then prayed and asked the Lord to watch over us in our travels and to help us make the right decisions. We all felt comfortable with our new plans and departed.
Although the rain continued, our drive and climb passed without incident. After dinner the rain stopped and the clouds broke, revealing a beautiful sunset. Our spirits lifted, and we went to bed.
At midnight we were awakened by an intense electrical storm that lasted most of the night. While the rain, wind, and lightning were heavy where we were, we felt no impending danger. The lightning was far worse to the east where, from my vantage point, it was striking a particular area nearly every second and continued to do so for at least an hour. Glad that I was not there, I drifted back to sleep. The remainder of the trip was wet but passed safely and was very enjoyable.
A few days later I attended an institute cookout. All those who had gone on the backpacking trip were there. When Glenn arrived he had a curious look on his face. He showed us a section of a guidebook for the White Mountains. It stated that while Mount Chocorua is not as elevated as its neighbors, its bald face and position make it dangerous as one of the mountains in North America most frequently struck by lightning. We also confirmed that the area we saw bombarded by lightning was the Chocorua area.
How grateful we were that we were warned by the Holy Ghost not to go there at that time.

Jody felt sad as he worked alone in the flower garden. He wished that Grandpa was here to help him. Hoeing weeds wasn’t much fun alone.
Mother came out the back door and crossed the yard to the garden. “Jody, I’m going to the nursing home this afternoon to see Grandpa,” she said. “Do you want to come along?”
Jody kicked at a clump of dirt with his toe. “I don’t know,” he said.
“If you don’t want to go, you can stay with Mrs. Knight while I’m gone.”
“I want to see Grandpa,” Jody said slowly, “but, Mother, he just doesn’t seem like Grandpa anymore.”
His mother smoothed back the damp wisps of hair on Jody’s forehead. “I know, Jody. When Grandpa had his stroke, it affected his brain so that it doesn’t work the same anymore, and he can’t do very much. But Grandpa is still Grandpa.”
Jody sighed. He wanted Grandpa to be the way he was before his stroke.
Mother smiled at him gravely. “It’s the way things are, Jody. When you were a tiny baby, all you did was sleep and cry. Someone fed you and dressed you then—the nurses do that for Grandpa now—but today you can run and sing and do things for yourself. You’re different from what you were, but you’re still Jody.”
Jody thought about that for a while. Finally he said, “I guess I’ll go see Grandpa with you.”
“Good! We’ll go right after lunch.”
Jody began hoeing weeds again. If Grandpa is still Grandpa, he thought, then he must miss his flower garden. Grandpa always spent a lot of time in his garden and looking through the seed catalogs for new flowers to plant.
His thoughts gave Jody an idea. He went to the small shed where the garden supplies were kept and hung up the hoe the way Grandpa had taught him so that no one could step on it and get hurt. Then he chose a clay flowerpot from a row of pots on the shelf.
Carrying the pot, he went back to the garden and looked at the bright clusters of flowers. The pansies were just beginning to bloom. Pansies were Grandpa’s favorite flower.
Jody chose the sturdiest pansy plant and dug around the roots carefully with a trowel. He lifted the plant gently, making sure that there was still plenty of soil around the roots, the way Grandpa had taught him. He put the plant into the pot, filled it with more soil, and watered it.
When Jody and his mother went into Grandpa’s room at the nursing home, Grandpa was sitting in a wheelchair. Before, when he’d been here, Grandpa had seemed like a stranger and Jody had held back, a little frightened. Now he went directly up to Grandpa, kissed him, and put the flowerpot on the bedside stand beside him. “I brought you a plant, Grandpa,” he said.
Grandpa looked at the plant, then at Jody—he was smiling. He could only smile with one side of his mouth, but it was a real smile.
Jody slid his hand into Grandpa’s and smiled back. Grandpa isn’t a stranger, he thought. He’s still Grandpa.

Adam Hickenbotham of the Las Vegas 68th Ward, Las Vegas Nevada Sunrise Stake, set a rather ambitious goal for himself. He decided to try to read all the standard works in one year. Adam admits that reading is one of his favorite hobbies. He is at the top of his high school class with straight-A grades. He also loves sports and Scouting. He has earned his Eagle Award and runs on the school track team. Adam recommends that others try what he did and read the Old and New Testaments, the Doctrine and Covenants, the Pearl of Great Price, and the Book of Mormon in one year. “It was a great experience. I really learned a lot, and my testimony was strengthened,” he said.

I was with a bishop the other day who told me of how his eight-year-old daughter came in and woke him up in the middle of the night to ask him a question. The next morning the bishop explained to the girl that he was a very busy man and had a lot of work to do and needed his sleep. He would be most grateful if she didn’t wake him up in the middle of the night.

The little girl waited patiently and finally in an almost exasperated manner she said, “Yes, Daddy, but you don’t understand. You see, you’re the bishop, and I had a problem.”

In this sense, oh, may each of us be the bishops of our own home just as the duly authorized bishop is the father of his ward. I would hope too that the bishop of the ward and the home teachers would be especially attentive to those families where the fathers are permanently or temporarily missing.

May we take the time and do what we need to do and want to do with our children now, before it is too late, because the days have a way of escaping into months and then into years.

Illustration by Allen Garns
My family and I were excited to be traveling by car from Romania to Kyiv, Ukraine, for the dedication of the temple in August 2010. Knowing that this would be the temple for the Saints in the Romania/Moldova Mission, we traveled for about 14 hours just to be there. When we arrived, we met another group who had also traveled from Romania. We were all happy to be in Kyiv for this sacred event.
On the day of the dedication, our group from Romania was assigned to watch the dedication via broadcast in a room on the ground floor of the temple. Some began to express their disappointment. They had hoped to participate in the dedication with the prophet in the celestial room. Some even said that they could have just stayed at home and watched the broadcast from their chapel in Romania.
I began to pray in my heart, “Heavenly Father, how can we help these members from Romania have an unforgettable experience in Thy house?”
I still hadn’t received an answer when the dedicatory session began. Soon we learned that the prophet, President Thomas S. Monson (1927–2018), was going to come down and put the cornerstone into place. Perhaps this could be our answer! I prayed for a way for the prophet to come and greet the Romanian Saints.
“I don’t ask for this for myself,” I prayed, “but for my brothers and sisters.”
After the cornerstone ceremony, President Monson walked by our room on his way back to the celestial room. Suddenly, I felt in my heart that I should stand and invite him to come in our room.
I stood and said, “Our prophet! Come and see us. We are from Romania.”
He didn’t seem to hear me. Then, a moment later, he came back. “Romania!” he said and entered the room.
He greeted all of us and said he loved us very much. My heart was full as I watched the joyful faces of our dear members. “Thank you, dear Father,” I prayed, “for this miracle in Thy house.”
When the prophet left the room, no one was sad anymore. I felt that we were in the most blessed room in the temple. It was an experience I will never forget.

President Nelson: When my grandfather A. C. Nelson was a young husband and father, just 27 years old, his father died. About three months later, his deceased father, my great-grandfather, came to visit him. The date of that visit was the night of April 6, 1891. Grandfather Nelson was so impressed by his father’s visit that he wrote the experience in his journal for his family and friends.
“I was in bed when Father entered the room,” Grandfather Nelson wrote. “He came and sat on the side of the bed. He said, ‘Well, my son, as I had a few spare minutes, I received permission to come and see you for a few minutes. I am feeling well, my son, and have had very much to do since I died.’”
When Grandfather Nelson asked him what he had been doing, his father answered that he had been busy teaching the gospel of Jesus Christ in the spirit world.
“You cannot imagine, my son, how many spirits there are in the spirit world who have not yet received the gospel,” he said. “But many are receiving it, and a great work is being accomplished. Many are anxiously looking forth to their friends who are still living to administer for them in the temples.”
Grandfather Nelson told his father, “We intend to go to the temple and get sealed to you, Father, as soon as we can.”
My great-grandfather responded: “That, my son, is partly what I came to see you about. We will yet make a family and live throughout eternity.”
Then Grandfather Nelson asked, “Father, is the gospel as taught by this Church true?”
His father pointed to a picture of the First Presidency hanging on the wall of the bedroom.
“My son, just as sure as you see that picture, just as sure is the gospel true. The gospel of Jesus Christ has within it the power of saving every man and woman who will obey it, and in no other way can they ever obtain salvation in the kingdom of God. My son, always cling to the gospel. Be humble, be prayerful, be submissive to the priesthood, be true, be faithful to the covenants you have made with God. Never do anything that would displease God. Oh, what a blessing is the gospel. My son, be a good boy.”
A. C. Nelson, grandfather of President Russell M. Nelson.
Illustrations by Bjorn Thorkelson
Sister Nelson: I just love all those B’s. “Be humble, be prayerful, be submissive to the priesthood, be true, be faithful to the covenants you have made with God. … Be a good boy.” Six B’s brought to you by your departed great-grandfather. He certainly sounds a lot like President Gordon B. Hinckley (1910–2008) with his six B’s.1
President Nelson: He does, doesn’t he? It’s so precious to me that my grandfather would leave that record for us. We learned that his father’s children were subsequently sealed to him. So the reason for his visit was accomplished.

This principle was reinforced in my heart some years ago when our little family stayed for seven months in the North African country of Tunisia, where my husband, Keith, did research for his doctoral degree. As students on a tight budget, we had no phone and no television. Our home was a tiny fifth-floor apartment in El Menzah, a suburb of the capital city of Tunis, and our daily routine was simple: Keith studied at the national library while I stayed home with our baby boy, David.
As far as our Church involvement went, we were the Church in Tunis. Each Sunday, Keith administered the sacrament and we read the scriptures. We sang our favorite hymns and listened to conference tapes. Then we finished with a lesson from Keith’s priesthood manual.
Although we met some wonderful people and made some good friends, there were still times when I felt alone and even fearful. One of those times was when I returned home from grocery shopping to find that we had no electricity. A thin blue envelope had been shoved under the door, and inside the envelope was a letter written in French and Arabic. When Keith got home he translated the letter. To our dismay, we discovered that the previous tenants had failed to pay their electricity bill and that we were now responsible for it. We wouldn’t have lights until the bill was paid.
We used candles over the weekend, and on Monday morning we rode the bus to the electric company. After we paid the bill, we were assured that within two days the lights would be turned on.
But would two days be soon enough? Suddenly I realized that Keith’s night class was on Tuesday. He had to attend to keep his scholarship, which meant that little David and I would be alone in the apartment. Solitude was difficult even under normal conditions. What if David and I ended up being all alone in the darkness with only a few candles? Even thinking about it frightened me.
Monday passed, and we still had no electricity. On Tuesday afternoon, Keith returned from studying to find that the people from the electric company still had not come. We discussed our options, and finally Keith said, “I feel we should pray.”
With humble hearts we asked for help. After we finished, Keith hugged me and said, “Everything’s going to be all right. The lights will be turned on by tonight.”
I still felt skeptical, but I depended on his faith. By 4:45 that afternoon, however, doubts filled my mind. After a silent prayer, I again felt a peaceful assurance. Then at 4:55 the people from the electric company arrived to turn on the lights.
Experiences like this increased my faith and helped me know that I was not alone. During the months of our stay in Tunisia, I depended on the power of prayer often. I am grateful to Heavenly Father for His watchful care and love, and I am also grateful for the faith-building experience our family had in Tunisia—an experience that is still a source of strength to us today.

In 1951, our branch started building a chapel. It was the first chapel in Uruguay. There were less than 100 members who worked with my parents to construct the building. Most of the work was done by the members of the branch. I wanted to help, too.
Some members mixed cement. Some members dug holes, and some hammered nails. There were not many jobs for a five-year-old, so they gave me the job of straightening nails. I took a hammer and pounded old nails, trying to make them straight. I loved the clang of the hammer and the challenge of getting the bends out of the metal nails. Most of all, I loved having a job. My parents reminded me that the chapel could not be built without nails. I felt thrilled that I could serve with my family.
After three years, the chapel was finally finished. President David O. McKay came to Uruguay to dedicate it. I remember President McKay standing in the chapel, and I was thrilled that he could see the building I had helped create. He put the cornerstone in place and dedicated the building. His white hair made him look like he had come from heaven. He went around and shook everyone’s hand. When he came to me, he bent down especially to shake my hand. It was my first experience meeting a prophet, and when he spoke to me, I had a warm feeling in my heart. I felt glad I had helped build the chapel.

For six months we visited a father who was the only member of the Church in his family. Despite our efforts and although we were always well received, we didn’t have success in activating him or baptizing his wife and three children. We were then inspired to involve the children by picking them up on Sundays to take them to church. This became my companion’s special responsibility.
Our efforts began to have an effect. The children loved being at church and were soon baptized. The whole ward worked to involve the parents, but it was still necessary for the Spirit of the Lord to touch their lives.
One time my companion, who had scarcely said a word during our monthly visits, spoke up and bore his testimony in a very emotional way. He had experienced great difficulty in his life, and now he shared how marvelous it was to be in the arms of the Lord. His testimony was so sincere and powerful and the Spirit was so strong that all of us were touched. That same week the wife decided to hear the missionary discussions and was finally baptized. The husband became active again.
Today the family remains active and totally integrated in the ward, and they have been sealed in the Lord’s temple. My companion continues to progress rapidly in the gospel. He married a wonderful young woman in the temple, and they now have two children. They are happy and contribute valuable service to our ward and to the Church.
Six people were converted to the gospel as a result of that experience. A collective miracle! I felt the joy described in the scriptures:
“And how great is his joy in the soul that repenteth!
“Wherefore, you are called to cry repentance unto this people.
“And if it so be that you should labor all your days in crying repentance unto this people, and bring, save it be one soul unto me, how great shall be your joy with him in the kingdom of my Father!
“And now, if your joy will be great with one soul that you have brought unto me into the kingdom of my Father, how great will be your joy if you should bring many souls unto me!” (D&C 18:13–16).

I’ve been a loyal reader of the New Era for some time and have always intended to write and say thanks and to send subscriptions to friends who are starved for such delicious spiritual food. However, the procrastination bug seemed to prevent me. Now I have even more to be thankful for. I finally sent a subscription to my dearest friend. I was really apprehensive about sending it to her because I didn’t know what she would think. Being almost 10,000 miles away from someone makes it a bit hard. But after waiting anxiously, I received a letter that said this: “I received the May issue of the New Era, and I read the whole thing in about two hours. I love it! It’s so down to earth, personal, and real. You’ve really shed some light on my life through that magazine. I’m eagerly looking forward to the next issues.”
Can you imagine my excitement to read that from a daughter of God who probably doesn’t even realize who she is? This magazine has helped shed light and love on my life in many ways.
Kathleen PaynterSpeers Point, New South Wales Australia

“Let me tell you about two of your fellow elders I was with last week who walked together up by Lukachukai.
“I learned about them when I attended a stake conference. Among the speakers that morning was a handsome Navajo boy. He was frightened by this first experience at public speaking, but he was sustained by faith and by a deep, sincere testimony. Only a few short months before, the Church was unknown to him.
“Two of our young elders drove their truck as far up a muddy, rutted road as they could go and then ‘two walked together’ the remaining eight miles through mud and snow to teach a man and his grandson. Because of their dedication and determination, this young man, now a baptized member filled with the spirit of love and testimony, was speaking to the congregation. He, too, will soon be on a mission, walking with a companion down some distant country road or city street. He will walk his way into the homes and hearts of those who are seeking the Lord. Oh, the high adventure of missionary work!”

“Talc, granite, feldspar with aphanitic crystals, obsidian.” I quickly examined each rock and tossed it aside.
“Hey, I think I ought to go up to my grandma’s house for a couple of days. I’ve been planning on going for a long time, but you know how it is—always something. I could leave after school Thursday and be back on Saturday,” I said to Bev.
“Have you gotten those rocks down yet, gals?” Mr. Davis, our science teacher, stood above us clearing his throat and pushing his thick, black glasses onto his nose.
“What’s this one?”
“Umm, magnetite?” I answered.
“Way to go,” he patted me on the shoulder. “Test on Friday, remember?”
“Oh, I forgot!” I guess I can’t go to Grandma’s next weekend, I thought, but it just seems important that I go now.
“Could I possibly make up the test? My grandma’s been sick, and I was thinking of going to stay with her for a few days.”
“Uh, yeah, Carole, don’t worry about the test. Rocks are here to stay, but grandmas aren’t always around,” he smiled.
“Thanks.”
I was 17 and feeling very independent when I walked into the bus station. I bought my ticket, sat down on a long green bench, and waited. The stench of cigarette smoke hung in the air. Two boys laughed wildly as they stooped over a pinball machine. The rhythm of balls hitting bells started my foot tapping.
I’d never gone anywhere on my own before, and although my grandma lived only 80 miles from Orem, I didn’t feel like I really knew her. Sure we visited her a lot, but with the family it’s different. I was excited. I boarded the silver, shiny bus and waited impatiently as it cruised along. The familiar rugged granite mountains flashed past my window, then Salt Lake City streaked by, then Lagoon. Soon the bus pulled into Ogden. I rode the city busline to the stop near Grandma’s home. By the time I carried my small brown suitcase the two blocks up the hill to her house, my arms ached. It was an older home, white frame with blue trim, surrounded by junipers and tams. My knuckles pounded on the solid door. I waited smiling. The door opened slowly. Her distinct laugh made me laugh too as I embraced her fragile body. She was wearing her white and black polka-dot dress.
“You sweet girl. You came to stay with me. How’s S.J.?”
“He’s doing pretty well.”
She was always worrying about my dad and his health. For the next couple of hours we talked about my plans, school, art, relatives, my brothers and why they weren’t married yet. We even talked about the weather and a little politics. I could see where my dad got his conservative ideas from. Then Nana (as we usually called her) told me about Grandpa. I sat across from her on the tan sofa and listened. She had met him at a dance.
“He told his boyfriends he wanted to marry me that first night, but it took many sleigh rides, schooner rides down college hill, and buggy rides with Dad’s Ol’ Dahl to convince me,” she laughed. “We had a wonderful marriage.”
I tried to imagine my grandma young with Grandpa riding in a buggy. I couldn’t. I never knew Grandpa well; he died of a heart attack when I was only five.
Nana also helped me with my crocheting. She seemed pleased that I was making things and that she could be helpful. She always kept her hands busy making afghans and other things for her grandchildren.
As evening came I sensed a strain in Nana’s breathing. She grew weak and was soon having a very bad asthma attack. My mind went back to many family gatherings. Nana was always reaching into her purse for her throat syringe. I’d never heard her complain much about her asthma; she just accepted it with all the rest of life’s ups and downs. I helped her into an orange cotton housecoat with snaps down the front, and then into her high double bed. I wondered if she’d ever fallen out of it onto the hardwood floor. Already her usual cheery personality was fading along with the healthy color of her face.
“Carole, I’m sorry I had to get sick and ruin your visit.”
“Don’t feel bad about me,” I told her.
Slumped in the living room corner, I tried to keep my mind off her by reading, but her heavy gasping could be heard throughout the house. I checked on her every few minutes. I got out her heavy genealogy book and flipped through the pages. I stopped at the photos. There were pictures of her from when she was a baby to when she was about 25; she was pretty. I was surprised to see how much my baby pictures resembled hers. I recognized one of my uncles—Bill—her son. He was dead; death frightened me.
I checked on her again. It must be something like drowning, I worried, only it just continues on and on and she never actually drowns. She lay still on her large bed; her wheezing and slight moaning continued. Her face was pale, and the wrinkles were now deep crevices. I couldn’t help but think she looked like a body in a casket. They always put so much makeup on them, but they can’t hide the look of death. I was worried, frightened and I didn’t know what to do.
“Are you awake?” I whispered, although I knew she was.
“Yes.”
“Do you think we should call someone to come and administer to you?”
She nodded. “Call Carol Garner; she’ll know what to do.”
I found her number in Nana’s little address book. Scribbled among the addresses and telephone numbers were little thoughts, reminders, and an occasional recipe. I recognized a familiar thought, “What ere thou art, act well thy part.” Nana always knew who she was and acted accordingly. I called Carol; she said she would send some priesthood holders over as soon as possible.
About an hour later a knock came at the door. With relief I opened it to the two men dressed in suits and ties.
“Hello, I’m your grandma’s bishop, Bishop Thompson, and this is my counselor Brother Wells.”
“I’m Carole,” I said as I showed them into my grandma’s room.
“How are you feeling, Sister Thayne?” the young bishop said and touched her hand.
“Oh,” she smiled weakly, “I haven’t had such a bad spell in years. My granddaughter, the sweet thing, came all the way up here to stay with me. She’s been taking good care of me.”
“It sure is lucky she came when she did.” Brother Wells glanced at me.
“Inspiration,” Nana whispered.
The two priesthood holders stood above her as she lay upon her bed. Brother Wells anointed her, and Bishop Thompson sealed the anointing and began the blessing.
“We, the elders of Israel, lay our hands upon one of thy fine servants, Irene Erickson Thayne, a dear lady who has given much of her time unto the service of others … and we ask that she might be comforted and might get the rest that is so badly needed for recovery. Thy will be done. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
“Amen,” I repeated.
I gave them each a cherry chocolate on Nana’s orders. Detecting my worry, they lingered a few minutes longer.
Bishop Thompson clasped my hand in a shake.” Call us if you need us.”
“I’m sure she’ll be all right,” Brother Wells assured.
“Thanks for everything.”
They left and I shut the door behind them, alone again, responsible for Nana’s life. The dark muffling still of the night continued. I read, prayed, worried, and listened, listened to the constant gasping for breath, not conscious of my own breath.
I glanced at the clock: 1:15. I tiptoed into Nana’s room. Her face was white, and her hair was matted.
“I hope,” her voice faltered, “my wheezing isn’t keeping you awake. Close your door so you can sleep.”
“Don’t worry about me; just try to get some sleep yourself,” my voice shook.
Leaving my door open I crept into bed and buried myself between the cool nylon knit sheets. My body was motionless, and my eyes fixed on the flowered drapes. My ears were alert, almost expecting the heavy breathing to falter and quit. I heard her struggle out of bed and her feet drag slowly into the hallway. She paused at my door and closed it; then the steps slowly returned.
At 2:35 I quietly slipped into her room again, her body lay sideways on the bed, and her feet hung over the edge. She had been too weak to pull herself back on the high mattress. I moved her so she would be lying straight and pulled the covers over her. Her shaking hand reached for mine. I clasped it.
“Thank-you, you’re sweet.”
I glanced at the baby photograph on her dresser of Dorothy, her first child. She was killed on her first New Year’s Eve. My grandpa was driving the car, and a drunk driver hit them head-on. Nana nearly died and was unconscious for eight days, waking up to find out her only daughter was dead.
Again I crept into bed and listened until fatigue overcame me.
Early that morning I awoke with the cold memory of where I was and what had happened during the night. I couldn’t hear her wheezing. I was scared and wondered if she was all right. Apprehensively I slithered out of bed and went into Nana’s room. She was still, but as I walked nearer I could hear her breathing softly in a deep rest. Grateful, I slipped out of the room. It was as if she had been immersed in water the night before but struggled to the top for air and had won, this time.
A couple of days later I again sat at the black desk in E-21, measuring with my fingernails the pink crystals in a piece of granite. Mr. Davis cleared his throat above me.
“Well, Carole, how’s Grandma?”
I held the rock tight in my hand and thought of her soft grasp. Like the rock, “she’s still around.”

One young man, Logan G. Van Wagoner, shared the result of his plans to make scripture study more meaningful: “Duty to God has made a big change in my life. One great change is that I used to just read my scriptures. I wouldn’t pay a lot of attention and just ended up glancing through the verses so I could say I had read. But soon after I started Duty to God, it helped me realize the importance of the scriptures. I started to read each verse and mark or highlight things the Spirit made me feel were important and significant. I also started to check the cross-references to help me really understand and learn what I could. Now I feel the Spirit every time I read, telling me those things are true. It’s made a huge and positive difference in my life.”

The youth of the Harbor Ward, Palos Verdes Stake, California, have been traveling across the border to help members of the Mexico Tijuana Stake for about ten years. They’ve built and repaired homes, renovated chapels, and done roofing and landscaping. This year, the youth from Tijuana returned the favor.
As part of a neighborhood anti-graffiti campaign, the Tijuana Saints came north to work with the Palos Verdes Stake to paint and clean a high school.
The Mexican youth were granted weekend visitors’ passes. They spent hours cleaning debris from the school courtyard and repainting graffiti-marred walls. After the work was finished, the youth got together for a night of multicultural food and entertainment. The Tijuana Saints performed several ethnic dances and musical numbers. They stayed in members’ homes, and on Sunday morning had a joint sacrament meeting.
“They are really a model group of Latter-day Saints,” said Bishop David Bond of the Harbor Ward. “They did a lot of good for our ward.”

I was baptized on 20 December 1995. Before I was baptized, I read the Questions and Answers section of the Liahona (English) in the November 1995 issue, entitled “I Don’t Feel the Spirit. Is There Something Wrong with Me?” I was touched because I also hadn’t felt the Spirit during Church meetings. But after I read the readers’ answers and testimonies, I tried harder to listen to the sacrament meeting speakers and I felt the Spirit as I never had before. I now make an effort to become interested in what speakers have to say in Church meetings.
Lorna Penuliar,La Trinidad Second Ward, Baguio Philippines Stake

Vitaly: During those three days, I realized I had found someone special. I was disappointed when the conference ended and Katya and I had to part. Luckily, though, there was a young single adult conference the next month. I immediately started looking forward to it.
That conference was as great as I had hoped. Katya and I spent a lot of time really getting to know each other. As the event ended, we exchanged phone numbers and went back to our respective cities.
During the following weeks we kept in touch mostly by phone calls and text messages. (I think in less than a month I learned to text on my cell phone faster than most people can type on a laptop!)
Katya lived in Yekaterinburg, which is 11 hours away by train from where I lived in Omsk, Siberia. Nevertheless, we both desperately wanted to see each other again. We started to make regular trips on the weekends. I would go to see her one weekend, and a few weeks later, she would come visit me. When I visited Katya, I stayed with mutual friends in her town, and when she visited me, she stayed with mutual friends who lived in my town. We often spent time with these friends from church during our visits.
Katya: Eleven hours may seem like a long commute, but for Russia, that’s really just a short walk! Because of the distance, our dates were not as frequent as we would have liked. We could get together only once every few weeks and spend two or three days together before one of us returned home. Often, it felt like we needed a lot more time than that, and parting was always difficult. But because we had to make such an effort to see each other, we appreciated every minute we spent together. As our relationship progressed, we began to look forward to a time when we would not have to say good-bye.