Gospel Story Finder

Some of us are held captive by the misunderstanding that God rewards righteousness with wealth, luxury, or ease and that God punishes wickedness with disappointment, sickness, or other trials.
A kind nurse saw a child, through no fault of his own, covered by grievous burns. A clinical expert, the nurse knew the excruciating pain third-degree burns cause. She said no loving God would allow an innocent child to suffer such pain.
Then the nurse testified, as she was praying in anger about how unloving and unfeeling God was, she saw in her mind our Savior. He was weeping. Our Savior was weeping with her for the child.
The nurse understood. While omnipotent, our Heavenly Father does not cause or make all things happen. In our limited perspective, we may ask why God allows bad things to happen to good people. But a more complete or eternal perspective helps us understand “bad things” and “good people” with different eyes. After all, the Lord told the Prophet Joseph “all these things shall give thee experience, and shall be for thy good” (D&C 122:7).

Why do I say that? Here’s one reason: I knew a boy who faced an unexpected and challenging decision. He faced it at the end of the summer in the year he turned fifteen. He had just returned home after working all summer on his uncle’s farm in another part of the state.
It was the first sacrament meeting he had attended since returning home. For some reason, he was detained a few minutes after the meeting. When he found his friends, they were standing in a group just outside the church building. As he approached, he noticed that they were concluding some kind of agreement. When he joined them, he was met with a seemingly innocent question: “Are you going in with us on it or not?”
“On what?” was his reply.
“On a half gallon of beer.”
That answer really shook him. He was not ready for it. His group had always been good kids. This question was completely out of character, he thought. But things were not as he remembered them. He had spent his summer away from his pals, and this had kept him more or less as he was. Something, however, had happened to change his friends. They seemed more grown up and worldly. This surprise made him falter before answering their question. It’s strange how many things can go through your mind in a flash: These were his friends. They were not enemies. He knew each one well. He had sat in Primary and Sunday School classes with them. They had sung songs together. Some of them had been ordained deacons the same Sunday. They had passed the sacrament together scores of times. Their school activities had brought them close. With some of them he had built toy airplanes and scooters and played rubber guns. They had hiked and worked and played together. Why should this simple question threaten this choice association?
Pressure from friends and acquaintances our own age is tremendously powerful! There is a desire to want to be “one” with friends. Besides, who wants to be a sissy, afraid to join in the fun. What’s more, if he didn’t join them, he would be one against the crowd.
But even with all of these ideas running through his head, another idea impressed itself even harder on his mind. There was one reason that stood out against all that seemed so appealing: It was not right. From somewhere within him came the courage to say, “No, I don’t think I will.”
The group turned away and strode across the street toward the beer hall, intent on carrying out their plan. My friend was left standing—alone. I’m sure he did not think of the Lord’s statement, “It is not good for man to be alone,” but he certainly understood its meaning in a new and personal way. He came to understand the truth of that statement in the days that followed and to see why all of us need true and loyal friends who believe and live as they should.
Even though he was fifteen—going on sixteen—tears came to his eyes as he walked home. His mother, sensing that something was wrong, asked, “What has happened?”
He blurted out the short experience.
“You’ve done right, my son” she reassured him.
“I wish I were as sure as you are,” he answered.
“You made the right decision,” she repeated, “and you’ll see. You will be blessed.”
The days that followed this incident were not especially happy ones. It took readjustments to establish his equilibrium. There followed a process of establishing new friendships. There was the inevitable heartache at school when conversations would grind to a stop as he joined his former group. There were moments of loneliness as he walked between the high school and the adjacent industrial arts building. What was formerly spontaneous fun and youthful sport changed to a subdued good humor. There were some obvious moments in basketball practice, too, when he would be in the clear and call for the pass, only to be ignored while another person was sought out to receive the ball.
But that all passed as everyone knows it will. Time is the great eraser. It dulls the former sad moments. It smooths hurts and salves wounds.
It was not long until former friendships were reestablished, although on a different basis than before. In a little more than a year, this young man was elected seminary studentbody president. The next year he was elected high school studentbody president by his friends. Two years later he entered the mission field, the only one of his class to do so. One classmate went on a mission the following year, but his other friends never did.
This young man has since fulfilled many calls to service and responsibility in the Church. Other tests of his integrity and moral standards have come into his life—as they come into the lives of us all. But few such tests have been so well-remembered or have made so lasting an impression on his life.
In a rather undramatic situation, he chose the right. And his mother was right, as mothers generally are. Her promise was literally fulfilled: “You’ll see. You will be blessed.”

I have been the recipient of countless acts of service. It seems more so since my husband passed away. Our home teacher, brother Lauvaki, came by almost every day. He answered my questions, counseled me, and gave me whatever support I needed at the time. He was always calm, thoughtful and kind. Sister Connie Lo was the gatekeeper-asking people to come back later when I would be more prepared to see them, always ready to help without wanting any recognition. We had so much food brought to our house I asked my daughter to tell the Relief Society compassionate service leader to let the sisters who signed up for meals know that we didn't need any more food. She told my daughter that the sign up list had not been passed around yet! I can never repay the kindness received from so many people, but I can do to others what was done to me. So many others helped me and I cannot name them all. Liam and Veronica, students from New Zealand and Taiwan, came by once a month and still come to give me a spiritual message. Many students and our former missionaries come by to help me with the yard work and whatever I need help with.

I must mention Elder and Sister Dummar. Aside from my children, they were also a lifeline to me. They are senior missionaries serving at Polynesian Cultural Center and live in our downstairs apartment. After the death of my husband, there were many nights when I could not sleep. Whenever I walked down the steps to the bottom of the house, Elder Dummar would be there waiting to see if I needed anything. He would hear my footsteps and come out to check. We took walks around Laie at 2 or 3 a.m. and Elder Dummar and I would talk about my husband Bill, about the gospel and we would laugh or I would cry. My daughter Jessica told me: Mom, you've got to stop walking at night with Elder Dummar, people will start to talk! But they helped me so much during those early awful days after my husband's sudden death.

I recall the time when I was ordained a deacon. Our bishopric stressed the sacred responsibility which was ours to pass the sacrament. Emphasized were proper dress, a dignified bearing, and the importance of being clean inside and out. As we were taught the procedure in passing the sacrament, we were told how we should assist Louis McDonald, a brother in our ward who was afflicted with a palsied condition, that he might have the opportunity to partake of the sacred emblems.
How I remember being assigned to pass the sacrament to the row where Brother McDonald sat. I was fearful and hesitant as I approached this wonderful brother, and then I saw his smile and the eager expression of gratitude that showed his desire to partake. Holding the tray in my left hand, I took a small piece of bread and pressed it to his lips. The water was later served in the same way. I felt I was on holy ground. And indeed I was. The privilege to pass the sacrament to Brother McDonald made better deacons of us all.

What you have done remarkably well together is to cherish, watch over, and comfort each other. I was a witness of that threefold miracle just one month ago in your service to one sister. As her father, I thank you and I want to extend my thanks to God, who guided one visiting teacher.
Our daughter Elizabeth, who lives in another state and time zone from us, was at home with her three-year-old daughter. Her other child was in her first week of kindergarten. Elizabeth was six months pregnant and looking forward to the birth of her third child, which the doctors said would be another girl. Her husband, Joshua, was away at his work.
When she saw that she was passing blood and that the flow was increasing, she called her husband on the phone. He told her to call for an ambulance and that he would meet her at the hospital, which was 20 minutes from her home. Before she could place the call, she heard a knock at the front door.
At the door she was surprised to see her Relief Society visiting teaching companion. They had no appointment for that morning. Her companion had simply felt she ought to come by to see Elizabeth.
She helped her into the car. They arrived at the hospital minutes before Joshua arrived from his work. The doctors decided in less than 20 minutes to take the baby by surgery to save Elizabeth and her baby. So a tiny girl came into the world, crying loudly, 15 weeks ahead of schedule. She weighed one pound, eleven ounces (765 g). But she was alive, and so was Elizabeth.
The words of Lucy Mack Smith were in part fulfilled that day. A faithful member of the Relief Society, prompted by the Holy Ghost, watched over, cherished, and comforted her sister in God’s kingdom. She and the tens of thousands of others who have given such inspired service over the generations have not only the thanks of those they helped and their loved ones but also of the Lord.
You remember His words of appreciation to those who receive little recognition for their benevolence: “And the King shall answer and say unto them, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.”5
But the miracle of one Relief Society sister arriving to help just in time is multiplied through the power of a unified society of sisters. Here is just a part of the message Elizabeth’s bishop sent to Elizabeth and to Joshua at the hospital hours after the baby was born: “The Relief Society president has everything under control. We are already building a future plan to assist with your girls at home so Elizabeth can travel back and forth to the hospital while the unnamed cute baby remains there. We’ve done it before, long term, and [our] people jump at the chance.”
The bishop went on to say, speaking for himself and the ward: “We’ve even come to the hospital and sat with kids in the playroom when moms didn’t want to leave them somewhere else.”
And then: “We won’t execute our plan without coordination and concurrence from you, of course. Just wanted to let you know not to worry about the things we can [and will] do.”
What they did for my daughter made it possible for her to have a precious moment when she held, for the first time, her tiny daughter.
And then the bishop closed his message to Joshua and Elizabeth with one that sisters send out of their commitment across the earth to serve others for the Master: “Keep the faith.”

One of our neighbors, an older couple who has since passed away, had such a home. As we entered their home, one or both of them greeted us with a cheerful smile. Their living room was simple, clean, and orderly. They always invited us to sit down and never seemed rushed. They had a few meaningful pictures on their walls—a family portrait, a favorite temple, and some lovely landscapes. Their home was full of light, and we could feel the Spirit in abundance. It reminded me of the simple elegance of the temple, and I desired my home to feel the same way.

As Bishop Johnny Morante in Guayaquil, Ecuador, looked out at members of his ward, his heart grew heavy. Too many of the families struggled to have even the barest necessities of life. He wanted to help them, so he consulted with ward leaders and took the matter to the Lord.
Since job opportunities in the area were scarce, he began to work with a group of 11 sisters, encouraging them to pursue the possibility of a small-business opportunity. These sisters noticed that there was a need for quality, low-cost household-cleaning supplies, and they wondered if they could produce and sell them in their community. But how would they learn to make these supplies?
At this time, Bishop Morante became aware of an unemployed sister in his ward who had worked as a pharmaceutical chemist. When the 11 sisters asked her if she would help, she was delighted to teach them how to make safe, quality supplies.
They created a business plan, mapped out areas in the community that each sister would cover, chose the products they would make, and designed the packaging and labels.
In a few months, they had built a customer base and were bringing in sufficient revenues to alleviate their poverty and help provide for the needs of their families.
When managers of a local pharmaceutical company learned about this enterprise, they became intrigued by the story of the unemployed pharmaceutical chemist. They eventually interviewed and hired her to head their own manufacturing.

I recently was made aware of a touching example of loving kindness—one that had unforeseen results. The year was 1933, when because of the Great Depression, employment opportunities were scarce. The location was the eastern part of the United States. Arlene Biesecker had just graduated from high school. After a lengthy search for employment, she was finally able to obtain work at a clothing mill as a seamstress. The mill workers were paid only for each of the correctly completed pieces they sewed together daily. The more pieces they produced, the more they were paid.

One day shortly after starting at the mill, Arlene was faced with a procedure that had her confused and frustrated. She sat at her sewing machine trying to unpick her unsuccessful attempt to complete the piece on which she was working. There seemed to be no one to help her, for all of the other seamstresses were hurrying to complete as many pieces as they could. Arlene felt helpless and hopeless. Quietly, she began to cry.

Across from Arlene sat Bernice Rock. She was older and more experienced as a seamstress. Observing Arlene’s distress, Bernice left her own work and went to Arlene’s side, kindly giving her instruction and help. She stayed until Arlene gained confidence and was able to successfully complete the piece. Bernice then went back to her own machine, having missed the opportunity to complete as many pieces as she could have, had she not helped.

With this one act of loving kindness, Bernice and Arlene became lifelong friends. Each eventually married and had children. Sometime in the 1950s, Bernice, who was a member of the Church, gave Arlene and her family a copy of the Book of Mormon. In 1960, Arlene and her husband and children were baptized members of the Church. Later they were sealed in a holy temple of God.

As a result of the compassion shown by Bernice as she went out of her way to help one whom she didn’t know but who was in distress and needed assistance, countless individuals, both living and dead, now enjoy the saving ordinances of the gospel.

Recently, in fact last spring at the end of the school year, there was a high school graduation in a community here in the West. Several appropriate parties were planned for the graduates. However, there was one party that sort of sneaked into the lineup that was wrong. It was bad. In this case several shows of an immoral nature had been planned at a local residence. Not knowing beforehand the nature of the movies, a group of unsuspecting Latter-day Saint young people went to the home for the party. As soon as the film started to run and its vulgar message came to the screen, part of the Latter-day Saint young people got up and left, while others of the same group stayed in the home.

When outside, the few who were leaving met some of their friends just arriving. They told them of the nature of the show and recommended that they not go in. Part of this group then turned and left also; however, a few of the weak went into the home, there to have their minds saturated and polluted by the power of Satan. Yes, there are those who will do whatever they need to do to be right with the Lord, to do right. There are those who really believe that holding the priesthood is special, important, something really worth honoring.

“Wake up, girls. The neighbor just came with a message that we need to go to the ranch right away.”
Mom’s voice was quiet but filled with urgency. We were in the process of moving to a ranch several miles away, and Dad was living there by himself until we could join him.
“Why do we have to go to the ranch?” I thought. But the reason for going didn’t really matter as I pulled my nine-year-old body into the pickup truck and went back to sleep.
As Mom pulled the truck up to the house I woke up and saw Dad coming out. He went to Mom and in a low voice told her something that made her gasp, then cry. What was it? There was a stillness in the air that seemed to shout at me, a deathly stillness. My heart began to beat a little faster though I couldn’t understand why.
We walked into the house to find Grandpa seated on the couch. Why was he here, and where was Grandma? Suddenly I knew, without being told, why the stillness was so empty and why my grandfather was sitting there without my grandmother. I found myself hoping against hope that I was wrong.
The next few minutes were spent in listening to my father call the mortuary (a foreign word to me) and trying to get rid of the big lump in my throat. I wasn’t going to cry; I was simply scared. Soon Dad took us upstairs to put us to bed. I silently waited for what was coming, still hoping I was wrong.
“Girls, something happened to your grandma today. She was in a car accident, and she was killed. We won’t see her anymore.”
Simple, quiet, direct, and powerful. Oh, how powerful! I started crying but not just for the loss of my grandmother. Something more consuming had entered my mind. The lump returned to my throat and my heart began to beat even faster.
Was she really dead? Of course she was. But was she really? What was death? Could she feel anything now? Could she see me thinking about her? Was she just floating in space? I couldn’t imagine her life just ending and nothing more. Something inside me told me it wasn’t right for death to be so permanent. I imagined myself dying, and panic seized me. It didn’t seem possible that when I died I wouldn’t feel, hear, think, smell, see, or anything. The thought was unbearable to me, and I slammed a door against my fear, locking it away.
Six years later as I lay in bed, my thoughts wandered aimlessly back to that quiet June night. I could almost hear my father’s voice telling us Grandma was dead. Grandma! Like lightning the door of the mind opened, and my fear was released. “No!” I screamed silently, turning over in bed and closing my eyes. Tears welled up in my eyes as I tried to imagine what death was like. There were no pictures to imagine, only darkness and emptiness. And again something inside me told me that darkness wasn’t right.
I arose, went to my window, and gazed into the night, concentrating on the shadowy forms of trees and distant sounds of crickets and cattle. Soon the fear was behind its door again. But for how long?
Summer passed, school started, and before I knew how it happened, my best friend had introduced me to the missionaries, I had no prior religious affiliation, and I was not really aware of who they were, but they were friendly and I couldn’t help but like them.
One day, late in the fall one of the elders approached me. “We have a movie we’d like you and your family to see,” he said. “Could we set up a time when we could come to your home and show it?”
“Well,” I hesitated, “I don’t know if my dad would like that or not.”
“Why don’t you ask him?” continued the missionary. “We’ll only come if he wants us to. We’d like to show it next Monday night if we can.”
“Okay,” I said, inwardly eager for my parents to meet these two young men. I was sure they would like them if they met them. But would they want to meet them? I approached my father cautiously that night, expecting a negative reply to my request, but to my surprise and delight, he consented to have the missionaries come the following Monday evening. The next day I contacted them and told them the good news. I then began to look forward to their visit wondering what kind of movie they were going to show, having no idea of the effect it would have on my life.
Monday evening came, and at the appointed time there was a knock on our door, I let our guests in and introduced them to my parents. The two young men talked easily with them while setting up their equipment. I was disappointed as I watched them prepare a filmstrip projector instead of a movie projector. “This looks like something we’d see in history class,” I thought.
“Where did I come from? Why am I here? Where am I going?” The words rang through my mind. As I watched the movie and my fears were let loose again, there were answers to greet the fears. I imagined death, and this time there were pictures in my mind—pictures of people, waiting together. There was no more darkness, and the something that had been telling me all along that darkness wasn’t right was now telling me that the pictures in my mind were right. I felt a burden lifting.
“What did you think?” asked one of the elders at the conclusion of the filmstrip.
“Very nice,” my parents commented politely. I had no comment. I was still thinking of all I had just heard. I felt a peacefulness I had never felt before, and I wanted to know more.
The missionaries returned to our home with the discussions, and within a few weeks I was baptized. A whole new life began for me. No longer was I living from one day to the next, wondering when my fear of death would overtake me. No more did I feel terror at the thought of death.
Now I knew that end was only another beginning.

“Mom! Watch this.” Grace shuffled her feet, tapping her dance shoes on the kitchen floor.
“Wow!” Mom said. “You’re getting good.”
Grace did a spin. She loved to dance.
Her older brother Nate came down the stairs. It was time for him to ride his bike to school.
“Bye, Mom! Bye, Grace,” he said, running out the door.
“Can I run to the end of the street with him and then run back?” Grace asked Mom.
Mom glanced at the clock. “Sure,” she said. “You still have time before you have to leave for school.”
Grace kicked off her tap shoes and quickly put on her sneakers. She burst out the door. Nate was climbing onto his bike. Grace ran beside him until he got to the end of the street. She waved as he turned the corner. Then she turned and skipped back home.
“I’m back!” Grace called to Mom. She plopped down on the couch.
“That was so fast!” Mom said. She sat down next to Grace. “Look at all these amazing things you can do. Dance. Run. Your body is a wonderful gift.”
Grace thought about that. She didn’t think her body was that wonderful. Especially when she compared herself to the other kids at school. Sometimes she even complained about her body.
But she did love running. And she felt so happy when she danced. And that was all thanks to her body. She swung her legs and grinned. Maybe her body was wonderful.
A few days later, Mom picked Grace up from school. “How was your day?” Mom asked.
“Good.” Grace climbed into the car and buckled her seatbelt. “Well, mostly good. At lunch a boy said something mean about my body.”
Mom glanced at her in the rearview mirror. “Oh, sweetie. I’m so sorry.”
Grace shrugged. “I told him what he said wasn’t kind. And then I left and talked to other kids.”
“I’m proud of you,” Mom said. “How did you stay so calm?”
Grace bounced her feet. “Well, I remembered what you told me. About how my body is a gift from Heavenly Father. I know that if I take care of my body, He will bless me to be able to do what I need to do.”
Mom parked in front of their house. “You are absolutely right! Are you OK?”
“I’m fine. I’m going to go for a bike ride before I do my homework, OK?” Grace bounced out of the car. Soon she was on her bike, pedaling fast down the sidewalk.
She loved her body, no matter what anyone else said. Her body was a gift.
Grace whooped and pedaled even faster.
This story took place in the USA.

As mentioned I wanted my children to know of Jesus as I knew of him, so I started to attend the Sunday services. I grew up in a Latin based church service where prayers and hymns were all in Latin, so this was the first time I had ever entered another church and heard hymns in English. I remember the first hymn I heard was “O my Father Thou That Dwellest.” It filled me with awe and is now my favourite hymn.
Thereafter, I was invited to the Relief Society and then my baptism came around. I think the whole stake came out to see this young Scottish girl being baptised in Utah. I have since held many positions in the church, such as Relief Society President, Primary President, Stake Primary President, and Sunday school teacher. Currently, I am in charge of Public Relations and Communications for the Greenock Branch.

Nearly 60 years ago, while I was serving as a young bishop, Kathleen McKee, a widow in my ward, passed away. Among her things were three pet canaries. Two, with perfect yellow coloring, were to be given to her friends. The third, Billie, had yellow coloring marred by gray on his wings. Sister McKee had written in a note to me: “Will you and your family make a home for him? He isn’t the prettiest, but his song is the best.”
Sister McKee was much like her yellow canary with gray on its wings. She was not blessed with beauty, gifted with poise, or honored by posterity. Yet her song helped others to more willingly bear their burdens and more ably shoulder their tasks.

What took a short six months to destroy took years to rebuild. For the next full year I worked very hard to prove to the good kids that I was one of them. Every time I thought I had succeeded my past would come back to haunt me.
The summer after I was in tenth grade our girls’ church basketball team won the regional play-offs. We would be going to the area play-offs 1,000 miles away. We would be traveling with the boys’ team that won the regionals. I couldn’t believe what my coach said about me after that trip. She said that when we left home she had been sure she’d be sending me home early. After all she’d heard about me, she was just sure that I would get into some kind of trouble. She said she was surprised and pleased to discover that I was the best-behaved girl on the trip. I couldn’t believe it! I realized people were still judging me by the friends I’d had over a year ago. I’d never done any of the things people were saying I’d done in the past, but because of the people I’d associated with, the places I’d been seen, and the way I had dressed, everyone assumed I’d done the same awful things my friends had! I was guilty by association. Everywhere I went people were watching, testing me, judging me—all because of some choices I’d made in the past. It was so unfair, yet something I had to live with. You can’t fix a ruined reputation overnight.

The year was 1876. Warren N. Dunsenberry, first principal of Brigham Young Academy, had just resigned after the first preliminary term of the academy’s existence. Karl G. Maeser, an experienced educator who was also the first convert to the Church in Germany, had been called to take his place. He dropped by President Young’s office before leaving for Provo and asked if there were any instructions.
“Only this,” the president replied. “I want you to remember that you ought not to teach even the alphabet or the multiplication tables without the spirit of God. That is all. God bless you. Goodbye.”
Karl G. Maeser went to Provo and became an unforgettable force in the lives of the 29 students awaiting him there and in the lives of the many students who were to come under his influence during the 16 years of his administration. The faculty that first year consisted of Dr. Maeser and two assistants. Classes were held in a vacant store, and the students were mostly from Utah Valley.
Ninety-six years later a tall, well-built, rather handsome, youngish but balding man walked into a cafeteria on the BYU campus and sat down at a table where two freshmen boys were discussing the vicissitudes of college life over their roast beef dinner and green punch. He began asking them questions about their feelings, their likes, their dislikes, and their hang-ups regarding their university experience.
Finally one of the young men asked him, “Do you teach around here or something?”
“Yes, I work here,” the man replied.
“What do you do?”
“I’m president.”
“President of what?”
And so Dallin H. Oaks, president of Brigham Young University, introduced himself to these students. “I’m glad to meet you,” the young man with the questions responded. “I come to assemblies, but you’re so far away I can’t see your face.”

One of the first devotionals I remember was when I was a freshman at the school formerly known as Ricks College. I was raised in a faithful LDS home, and my patriarchal blessing said that I was blessed with a testimony through my earthly parents, which was true. But I was determined to strengthen my personal testimony of the restored gospel before serving a full-time mission.

At age eighteen I also had another gospel-related concern. I grew up in the Pacific Northwest, and most of my friends, neighbors, teachers, and coaches were not members of the Church. Using my developing powers of observation, I noticed that many of these people seemed to be happy, and many were interesting characters with a healthy sense of humor. My concern was that, up to that time in my life, my limited observations of senior Church leaders suggested that they were quite formal and proper. As a young man I had this nagging question: Would the highest degree of glory in heaven be a very nice but humorless place?

The devotional speaker in January 1982 was the oldest living apostle, ninety-five-year-old LeGrand Richards. Elder Richards was seven years old in 1893 and in attendance when President Wilford Woodruff dedicated the Salt Lake Temple.

Elder Richards rarely delivered a message from a written text. He spoke from his heart, drawing upon a lifetime of experience, study, and inspiration. I’d like to share a minute of his remarks so that you can get a sense of Elder LeGrand Richards. At this point in his message he is talking about a Sunday School conference he attended as a boy. The conference was taught by Brothers Karl G. Maeser and George Goddard of the general Sunday School presidency.

I can remember to this day—and it has been over 80 years—the songs Brother Goddard taught us to sing in that Sunday School conference. And when I didn’t know I couldn’t sing, I tried to sing with them. I don’t do it anymore.

The first song goes like this: “Take away the whiskey, the coffee, and the tea. Cold water is the drink for me.” And then it repeats and goes on. That made such an impression on me as a boy that I’ve hardly been able to drink anything but cold water since that time.

I was riding on the train a few years back—when we used to travel by train—headed for California. I went in the diner in the morning for breakfast, and the waiter said, “Are you ready for your coffee?”

“No, thank you.”

“Would you like some tea?”

“No, thank you.”

“Will you have some Postum?”

“No, thank you.”

“Would you like a glass of milk?”

“No, thank you.”

“What do you want to drink?”

I said, “A glass of cold water, please.”

He said, “You’re the funniest man I ever did see.” [“His Life Experiences,” BYU–Idaho devotional address, 19 January 1982]

Elder Richards was a man of wit and good humor. My concerns about fitting in with people who qualified to return to our Heavenly Father simply faded away that day. More important, as I listened to Elder Richards speak from his heart and share his experiences and testimony, my faith in the Restoration deepened. He was a man of unwavering conviction of the truthfulness of the gospel.

The fact that Elder Richards had personal connections to President Wilford Woodruff, who was a member of Zion’s Camp, and to his great-uncle Willard Richards, who was in Carthage Jail with Joseph and Hyrum Smith, made the restoration of the gospel all that more real to me. After the devotional I stood in a long line to shake Elder Richards’ hand. I consider that day and the increased faith and testimony I received a tender mercy. I had no doubt that Elder Richards knew the gospel to be true, but I, like you, needed to continue to build my testimony line upon line, precept upon precept.

The newspaper review read: “The audience was knocked out. The Herreys, with their pocket-size show, including both love ballads and rock music, received a long and well-earned ovation from the audience. Not to forget the two youngest Herreys who performed a number that made you think of some good American groups.”
That was printed in the Göteborg sposten, the newspaper of Sweden’s second largest city, Göteborg (population 50,000). Every year the Göteborg sposten sponsors a talent contest called “Unknown Talents.” In the 1976 contest there were 150 entries who competed for 13 places in the show. The Herreys won one of those places.
And who are the Herreys? A Latter-day Saint family who began their singing career during family home evening and at family outings.
Willy and Gerd Herrey have seven children all together, but it is the four youngest who make up the singing, dancing, and instrumental combo. Per, who plays the guitar, is 17. Marie is 15 and plays the piano. The drummer is 11-year-old Richard. The youngest is 9-year-old Louis.
They also have two sidemen who are both active members of the Church: Peter Edvinson and Rolf Hagglund.
The group plays all kinds of music from slow ballads and folk songs to current rock. Most songs are arranged by Per, who puts them into four-part harmony. Brother and Sister Herrey are always nearby to help with arranging for equipment and giving encouragement whenever the young people need it.
By winning one of the 13 spots on the “Unknown Talent” show, the Herrey family gained national attention and the opportunity to do four performances at Liseberg, Göteborg’s large amusement center.

As I began studying the Book of Mormon for seminary, I experienced the feelings Elder Parley P. Pratt (1807–57) of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles described when he first found the Book of Mormon. “I opened it with eagerness, and read its title page,” he wrote. “I then read the testimony of several witnesses in relation to the manner of its being found and translated. After this I commenced its contents by course. I read all day; eating was a burden, I had no desire for food; sleep was a burden when the night came, for I preferred reading to sleep” (Autobiography of Parley P. Pratt [1985], 18).
As I read, the Spirit of the Lord bore witness that the Book of Mormon is truly another testament of Jesus Christ. Through seminary the Book of Mormon became much easier to read. Whenever it was hard to follow, my teacher helped me understand. I received a testimony that the Book of Mormon is “the most correct of any book on earth, … and a man [will] get nearer to God by abiding by its precepts, than by any other book” (Joseph Smith, Teachings of the Prophet Joseph Smith, sel. Joseph Fielding Smith [1976], 194).
I was baptized on 5 March 1995. By the time I was 21 I was a seminary teacher myself, helping others know of the divinity and truthfulness of the book that changed my life.

I opened the door a little, but an enormous barrier divided us still. I stood back, away from her. I felt swollen and sore from so many tears, forever isolated by shame and disgrace, absolutely empty of any hope of future happiness. The girl at the front door was a numbing reminder of the most hateful part of all: that everyone knew.
But into my unyielding dimness, Karen spoke quietly. “Come back to school, Heather. No one will hold what your dad did against you.” That was all. I closed the door firmly without a word.
I listened to her walk away, my feelings unraveling with each footstep, my thoughts trailing backward.
My 13-year-old world fell apart when the local newspaper revealed, without feeling, the enormous surprise: Mr. David McPhie,* bookkeeper and owner of McPhie Accounting, was convicted of embezzlement and would serve his sentence in the jail across the river. It seemed so impossible, so comically bizarre. But it was so painfully real.
The subsequent events are unclear and without sequence to me now, obscured not only by time, but by the confusion and withdrawal I was feeling then. Dad was gone. He never said “I’m sorry I have destroyed you” or “I regret turning out to be a stranger you never really knew.” Mom was unreachable, struggling herself to cope. She offered no explanation of why this had happened or how to go on.
The sheriff came into our home. Everything of value was seized: records, books, furniture, the bed Dad had made me with the headboard shelf for pretty things, the piano. Mom and I slept on mattresses on the floor of one empty bedroom. Did we cook and eat? What activities filled the empty days? I can’t remember. Focused on my own grief in an intense and self-centered way, I clung to one determination: I would never go back to school.
I don’t know how many days I’d been away from school when Karen came. And I don’t know how many days it was after she came that I went back to school.
Karen was there for me when I went back, gentle, with no questions. And other friends I didn’t know I had were there, too: enough of them to elect me secretary of the student council; to teach a shy girl that if you are brave enough to smile first, others will smile back; to show me I could survive.
In the years that followed, our lives went different ways. My family was put back together. I learned to love my dad again. Then I moved miles away.
Through the rest of growing up, through high school and college and marriage and children and all the ups and downs in between, I’ve often thought about Karen. About a principal calling a few students into his office to show them a newspaper headline and to ask them how they could help. About one girl saying, “I’ll go.” About which way my life might have gone without that one pivotal act of reaching out.

Julie B. Beck, Relief Society general president, explains that “providing for ourselves and others is evidence that we are disciples of the Lord Jesus Christ. … When [my mother-in-law] passed away suddenly last year, she left evidence of her self-reliant life. She had a current temple recommend and well-used scriptures and gospel study manuals. We lovingly divided up the pots, pans, and dishes with which she had prepared thousands of meals. She left us quilts she had made from old clothing. She believed in the old adage ‘Use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without.’ We saw the supply of food she had grown, preserved, and stored. Particularly touching were her little account books in which she faithfully recorded her expenditures over many years. Because she lived providently, she left some money she had saved for emergencies, and she left no debts! Most importantly, she had taught and inspired many others with the skills she had acquired during her faithful life.”2