Gospel Story Finder

Some years ago a friend named Louis related to me a tender account about his gentle, soft-spoken mother. When she passed away, she left to her sons and daughters no fortune of finance but rather a heritage of wealth in example, in sacrifice, in obedience.
After the funeral eulogies had been spoken and the sad trek to the cemetery had been made, the grown family sorted through the meager possessions the mother had left. Among them, Louis discovered a note and a key. The note instructed: “In the corner bedroom, in the bottom drawer of my dresser, is a tiny box. It contains the treasure of my heart. This key will open the box.”
All wondered what their mother had of sufficient value to place under lock and key.
The box was removed from its resting place and opened carefully with the aid of the key. As Louis and the others examined the contents of the box, they found an individual photo of each child, with the child’s name and birth date. Louis then pulled out a homemade valentine. In crude, childlike penmanship, which he recognized as his own, he read the words he had written 60 years before: “Dear Mother, I love you.”
Hearts were tender, voices soft, and eyes moist. Mother’s treasure was her eternal family. Its strength rested on the bedrock foundation of “I love you.”

My wife, Maria Isabel, and I served in Central America, being stationed in Guatemala City. There I had the opportunity to meet Julia, a faithful member of the Church. I had the impression to ask her about her family. Her mother died of cancer in 2011. Her father had been a faithful leader in his stake, serving as a bishop and as a counselor to his stake president for several years. He was a true undershepherd of the Lord. Julia told me of his tireless efforts to visit, to minister, and to serve. He indeed rejoiced in feeding and tending the precious sheep of the Lord. He remarried and stayed active in the Church.

A few years later, he went through a divorce, and now he had to attend church alone once again. He felt out of place and also felt that some people were critical of him because of his divorce. He stopped attending church as a negative spirit filled his heart.

Julia spoke highly of this wonderful undershepherd, who was a hardworking, loving, and compassionate man. I vividly remember that a feeling of urgency came to me as she was describing him. I just wanted to do something for that man, a man who had done so much for so many throughout those years.

She gave me his cell phone number, and I began calling him, hoping to have the chance to meet with him personally. After several weeks and many, many phone calls without success, one day he finally answered the phone.

I told him that I had met Julia, his daughter, and that I was captivated by the way he had served, ministered, and loved the precious sheep of the Lord for so many years. He was not expecting a comment like that. I told him that I really wanted to visit with him eye to eye, face to face. He asked me my purpose in proposing such a meeting. I replied, “I really want to meet the father of such a wonderful lady.” Then for a few seconds there was silence over the phone—a few seconds that seemed to me like an eternity. He simply said, “When and where?”

The day I met him, I invited him to share with me some of his experiences visiting, ministering, and serving the precious sheep of the Lord. As he was recounting some touching stories, I noticed that the tone of his voice changed and the same spirit he had felt so many times as an undershepherd came back. Now his eyes were filled with tears. I knew this was the right moment for me, but I found that I did not know what to say. I prayed in my mind, “Father, help me.”

Suddenly, I heard myself saying, “Brother Florian, as a servant of the Lord, I apologize for our not being there for you. Please, forgive us. Give us another chance to show you that we do love you. That we need you. That you are important to us.”

The following Sunday he was back. He had a long conversation with his bishop and remained active. A few months later he passed away—but he had come back. He had come back. I testify that with our Savior’s help, we can love His precious sheep and minister to them as He would. And so, there in Guatemala City the Lord Jesus Christ brought back one more precious sheep into His fold. And He taught me a lesson on ministering that I cannot forget. In the name of the Good Shepherd, the Beautiful Shepherd, the Magnificent Shepherd, even the Lord Jesus Christ, amen.

Shawn is excited because his relatives are coming for dinner. Mom said that she could make one each of three kinds of pies: pumpkin, banana cream, custard, blueberry, pecan, mincemeat, cherry, chocolate, lemon meringue. The problem is:
—Uncle Bart is allergic to chocolate.
—Dad does not like blueberries.
—Grandpa’s doctor said that custard pie is not good for him.
—Shawn does not like lemon meringue pie.
—Shawn’s cousin, Sally, does not like pumpkin pie.
—Aunt Eugenia says that pecan pie is too fattening.
What three kinds of pies did Mom bake that everyone would eat?
Answers:

Recently I listened to a young mother address a ward Relief Society meeting. She told us that she is losing her eyesight. She expressed gratitude for those who had been reading to her, driving her to appointments, and for another sister who was teaching her to play the piano. Relief Society sisters through their acts of kindness had offered her their light and helped to lessen the fear of this very difficult time of her transition into a world of darkness.

The sun was low in the sky, and the air was cooling when Cal Fredricks came over to our camp. My father was sitting next to our tent. They shook hands, and then Cal took his wallet from his back pocket and began peeling off greenbacks.
“Never seen anything like what you and the Scot did,” he exhaled the words of emphasis. “Nothing like it. It was worth the hundred. There’s a dance and a party a little later. You’re sort of the guest of honor. Your wife and daughter are welcome to come up to the house to clean up.” He turned and walked away. “What a contest. Never seen anything like it.”
My father put the money into a small box with the rest of our earnings and then put the box under the seat of our truck and locked the door.
The dance was a wild foot-stompin’, hootin’, Montana-sheep-man dance with plenty of fiddle players, fried chicken and, in our honor, homemade root beer. It was held on a wood platform on the edge of the grass and sagebrush prairie. The moon was monstrous and bright yellow that night; hanging low against the rolling hill it threw almost more light than the lanterns hung from poles around the platforms. I remember seeing the silhouette of a flock of birds fly across the moon. The air was cool, still edged with winter and smelling of the rain, cool enough to make you want to keep dancing for most of the night.
To watch my father you would never have guessed he’d sheared 330 sheep that day. At about midnight, with the help of Cal’s son, I threw an entire carton of firecrackers onto the floor, just to quicken the pace of things a little. My father didn’t even ask any questions. He took one look at me and told me to go to bed and added that we’d be having a pretty serious discussion in the morning. I fell asleep with the music of the violins and the shouts of the dancers.
“Bobby.” My father was shaking me. “Wake up.” I opened my eyes. It was still dark. My father was holding a lantern in his hand.
“Someone broke into the truck. Did you hear anything?”
I shook my head. “Did they get the money?”
My father nodded as he turned and walked out of the tent.
“Did you notice the truck when you came back?” he asked when I came out of the tent. I shook my head again. All of our money had been in the truck, all of it.
I looked down at my bare feet. “Went straight to bed,” I whispered.
My father hung his head for a few seconds and took a deep breath.
“I’ll go up to the house and call the sheriff.”
The money was never found. The next morning my mother came out of the tent carrying another small bag. She handed it to my father. He opened it and pulled a handful of money from it.
“This is our tithing money,” he whispered.
She nodded. “It’ll get us home, maybe buy seed for the farm. We can pay it back.” She had her head down. “It’s all we have.”
My father looked down for a few seconds and then he looked up grinning. “Bedbugs with green paint on their backs. Come on, there’s something we need to do.” He started toward the truck. “Won’t take long.”
We drove down into Helena where my father stopped the truck in front of a bank. He leaned on the steering wheel.
“I’m going to get a check for this money,” he said. “And then I’m going to send it to Bishop Anderson. It’s not our money to decide what to do with.”
I thought my father had lost his main drive bearing. He had to be crazy, sending the only money we had back to the bishop.
What I remembered most about the rest of the summer was the terrible feeling of being stranded 700 miles from home. Work was hard to get. The shearing season was over. All the big sheep operations had finished their shearing. We took anything. We made a few dollars helping Cal bag his wool and load it for market. My mother took a job in Jack’s Dirt Cheap World Famous Truckstop and Post Office as a cook. Kathey and I washed dishes.
My father found plenty of work, but where he had been making over twenty dollars a day shearing, he was only able to make one or two dollars for work that was just as hard.
It was late fall before we were able to make our way back home, and it was several years before I would begin to understand what my father had done.

Christmas was a happy and sad occasion because Mama was too wrapped up in herself to pay much attention to holidays. And Daddy was often overwhelmed with the responsibilities of a home, us children, our sick mother, and his job. Yet even though he didn’t have enough money to buy us presents, he always brought us a nice tree the day before Christmas, and he made sure that on Christmas morning we had the biggest oranges and apples and the best candy and nuts in town in our stockings. Our uncles and aunts made sure that we had toys until we got into junior high school. I remember how excited I was when I was seven to find a beautiful walking doll and a carriage for me under the tree. In my excitement, I didn’t notice that my older brothers had received only one basketball between them to share.
One time just before Easter, my Primary teacher brought a large box to class. We were only eight, and we were very curious to see its contents. When class was over, the teacher reached into the box and gave each of us a tiny Easter basket filled with jelly beans and candy eggs. In my eyes, the beautiful basket was also filled with love. This same kind teacher gave me an angel figurine when I graduated from seminary. I still get a warm feeling whenever I see that little angel inside my china closet. It represented to me the hugs that I so desperately needed but seldom received.
My grandmother, a spiritual giant to me, taught me how to pray. She spent her winters with a daughter who lived a hundred miles away, so I saw her only in the summers. Sometimes I got to stay with her. I loved to climb between her sparkling white sheets and lay my head on her freshly ironed pillowcases. Her home was a house of order and love. And her homemade bread and Potawatomi plum jam was like a king’s dinner to me. She always kept a tin box of lemon drops and mints.
After biking to her house one day, I couldn’t find her in the kitchen, so I went into her bedroom. Through the window I noticed her out in her garden. Passing her dresser, I saw a new box of chocolates that someone had given her for Mother’s Day. The temptation was too great. I opened the box, picked out several pieces, and shoved them into my pocket before running outside to see Grandma.
The next day Grandma called and asked me to come over to her house. When I arrived, we visited for a while, then she offered me a chocolate. I cried and she cried, then we talked about what it means to be honest and about how disappointed Heavenly Father is when we steal. Grandma taught me other lessons that afternoon that helped strengthen my spirituality. She was the first one I called when I received my mission call. She died while I was in the mission home, and she was buried the day I arrived in New Zealand. I will always cherish the comfort and strength that she was to me.
When people are mentally ill, they sometimes have religious delusions, or strange ideas. Mama was either very religious—we said family prayers together three times a day—or she wouldn’t have anything at all to do with the Church. Because half of our small rural ward were relatives, the whole congregation knew about Mama’s illness. She never went to Church, but it was important to her that Daddy and the rest of us attend.
One year a girl moved into our ward whose parents smoked and drank. We became friends, and went everywhere together. Her name was Elaine, and she became active in the Church. Although her parents were inactive, they were very kind to me and welcomed me into their home. When we were in junior high school, Elaine became very popular. Some of the girls wanted to crowd me out of Elaine’s circle of friends, but she wouldn’t let them. Then one day our friendship crashed. I was without my best friend for two horrible years. It was especially hard for me because Mama was very ill then.
Mama’s family had taught me to love music, and two songs were very special to me: “I’ll Walk with God” and “You’ll Never Walk Alone.” When the loneliness at school and the rejection at home got to be too much for me, I would go walking in the wheat fields and sing them. As I sang, I was filled with hope and courage, and I could feel the Spirit of the Lord giving me guidance and comfort.
At the end of ninth grade, Mama started taking a medication that helped her to feel better. By the time I graduated from high school, she started getting out into the community a little, and life was easier for all of us.
I feel that the Lord helped me develop a compassion for other people’s feelings because of the experiences that I had because of my mother. I grew up to love the Lord and depend on Him. And I never felt that I was alone, because I knew that He was always there when I needed Him.

I learned recently of loving service given to a mother when her children were very young. Frequently she would be up in the middle of the night tending to the needs of her little ones, as mothers do. Often her friend and neighbor across the street would come over the next day and say, “I saw your lights on in the middle of the night and know you were up with the children. I’m going to take them to my house for a couple of hours while you take a nap.”

Said this grateful mother: “I was so thankful for her welcome offer, it wasn’t until this had happened many times that I realized if she had seen my lights on in the middle of the night, she was up with one of her children as well and needed a nap just as much as I did. She taught me a great lesson, and I’ve since tried to be as observant as she was in looking for opportunities to serve others.”

Before they began practicing for their road show a few years ago, the youth of the Parker Ward set aside a day to fast and pray. To people who have been in a road show before, that may not seem such a strange thing to do, but they weren’t fasting in hopes of making the best use of their talents, and they weren’t praying for the road show to get canceled.
The road show participants were praying for help and guidance in making the road show a way to build testimonies. Little did they know it would build the testimony of someone who was not yet a member of the Church, and would introduce her to the scriptures.
Lindsay Thiess, a Laurel at the time, invited Roxanne McHugh (who wasn’t LDS) to be in the road show with her.
“We wanted to have the road show be a missionary experience,” says Lindsay. “I knew Roxanne would have a good time doing the show.”
Lindsay was right. Roxanne did have a good time. She also started getting curious about the story she was acting out.
“The story of the road show was about the Brother of Jared. One night after road show practice, I went home and found this Book of Mormon that my brother had ordered from an ad on television when he was 11 because he could get it for free!” says Roxanne. “I read the story of the Brother of Jared, and after that the road show meant a lot more; it started to make sense.”
That complimentary Book of Mormon, delivered to Roxanne’s house three years earlier and put on a shelf, sparked an interest in the gospel that Roxanne couldn’t deny.
“I prayed and knew the Church was right, and I knew that I needed to invite my parents to come to the play,” says Roxanne.
Roxanne’s parents had the same good feeling after watching the road show, and soon Roxanne, her younger brother, Courtney, and both her parents were baptized. One year later Roxanne and Courtney were sealed to their parents in the temple for time and all eternity.
It was a miracle. The miracle all the youth of the Parker Ward, Willow Creek Colorado Stake, had prayed for.
And the miracle continues every day for the McHughs as they read the scriptures, grow in the gospel, and share their testimonies with their nonmember family and friends. Strange as it may seem, Roxanne gained a personal connection to the scriptures while she was singing songs with made-up words and wearing an old sheet dyed and sewed to look like Jaredite apparel. Roxanne learned to really know the people of the scriptures, which helped her know that the gospel was true.
“I have learned to love the scriptures,” says Roxanne, “and that has changed my life.”

In July of 1976, runner Garry Bjorklund was determined to qualify for the U.S. Olympic team’s 10,000-meter race which would be run at the Montreal Olympics. Halfway through the grinding qualifying race, however, he lost his left shoe. What would you and I do if that were our experience? I suppose he could have given up and stopped. He could have blamed his bad luck and lost the opportunity of participating in the greatest race of his life, but this champion athlete did not do that. He ran on without his shoe. He knew that he would have to run faster than he had ever run in his life. He knew that his competitors now had an advantage that they did not have at the beginning of the race. Over that cinder track he ran, with one shoe on and one shoe off, finishing third and qualifying for the opportunity to participate in the race for the gold medal. His own running time was the best he had ever recorded. He put forth the effort necessary to achieve his goal.

In 1998 my father was suffering from a serious illness. A year earlier his leg had been amputated just above the knee. This resulted in various circulatory problems and a great deal of pain and infection. Finally the doctors determined that a portion of his femur—the thighbone—would also have to be amputated. We spent many days in deep concern and sadness.
Since my hometown is small and did not have the resources to treat such a serious health problem, my father went to a hospital in Marília, Brazil, where my sister lives, to be tested and receive aggressive treatment. Nothing seemed to help, however, and many days passed. I went to Marília to be with my parents, and we all sought to strengthen and comfort each other.
My parents were members of the Church, but I wasn’t. At times I had even acted against the Church and had denied the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon. But every time I went to visit my father in the hospital, he spoke to me about only one thing: “Luisinho, find the missionaries for me! I need a blessing.” I had searched for the missionaries, but I couldn’t find them. Now time was getting short.
The day before he was to have surgery, I went to visit him again. That day we were particularly apprehensive. We knew the treatment had not been effective, and the next morning my father would have an X-ray to determine how high the doctor would have to amputate.
That day my father asked something different. He was sitting on his bed, putting on his prosthesis so he could go for a walk with my mom through the corridors of the hospital, checking on his friends who had had surgery that morning. As he stood up, he said, “Luisinho, go buy me some water please.”
I immediately went down the stairs and outside to search for a bottle of water. While I walked I saw a group of missionaries down the street. I forgot about the water. I started running after them, and the only word I could get out was “Elder!” They stopped, and I managed to explain my father’s situation.
When my mother and I left the hospital later that day, we saw Elder Alves and his companion enter to visit my father. And that night we received a telephone call from my father. He told us that the mission president had also been there, and my dad had finally received the blessing he wanted so much.
We spent the night wondering what would be the result of the X-ray the following morning. Nonetheless, something comforted us.
The next morning we awoke to the sound of the telephone. It was my father. “Come and get me,” he said. “I am free to go.” Joy overcame us as he explained that the nurse and doctor who examined him couldn’t understand what had happened. “What did you do during the night that caused your X-ray to come out so clean and your bone so perfect?” they asked.
When I remember that day, I feel more and more that the priesthood is real and that it is on the earth once again. Within three months, I had received a testimony and was baptized. Later I served in the Brazil Rio de Janeiro North Mission, sharing my testimony and my love for the things that I know are true.

When I decided to serve a mission, my friends encouraged me to finish college instead. But I decided to go on a mission anyway, and they wondered why. One of my friends said a mission was a waste of time, and I was a little offended by that. But I told him why my mission was important to me. Now I’m on a mission, and I still write my friends and share the blessings I’m receiving as a result of being a missionary.
Elder Janray MillarezPhilippines Quezon City Mission

On December 18, 1995, their dad was killed in an explosion at his work. He left behind five daughters and a wife, who later found out she was pregnant with their sixth child. Since then the Williams family has survived on prayers and faith, along with help from the two oldest daughters.
“It was a really hard time, and I just knew that it wouldn’t help anybody if I didn’t do something to help out,” says Beverly.
Amber, 14, agrees. “For the first couple of days we were so hurt and shocked that nobody could do anything, but then you realize it’s real, and you just can’t sit around,” she says.
“They basically took over for a while,” Effie says. “They just didn’t act like typical kids. They’ve had to do adult things. And instead of resenting the responsibility, they have done whatever’s needed to be done.”
Beverly says she likes the responsibility. She wants to help her mom. She enjoys baby-sitting and running errands. She has even noticed the value of her math skills from doing things like balancing the checkbook. Amber also has a positive attitude about her responsibilities. She loves to spend time with her family, and baby-sitting the younger kids is her favorite way to help. She also says that diving into this type of service helped keep her mind on other things right after her dad’s death.

Thirty-seven years after her baptism, with a heart firmly fixed through persecutions in Missouri and the eventual assassination of Joseph Smith, Eliza remained a committed Latter-day Saint. On June 22, 1872, she shared about her conversion with a group of women in Salt Lake City, Utah, USA: “When I heard it announced that the Lord had spoken from heaven and a record had been brought forth I was deeply interested. I prayed unto the Lord to let me know if the work were true, covenanting with him if he did so that I would ever praise his name.” After her baptism, she said, she attended Church meetings. “We were called upon to speak; I dared not refuse for I had promised God I would ever praise his name in the congregation of the Saints.”8 Her continual conversion required her continued witness.

Not long ago a single sister, whom I will call Molly, came home from work only to find two inches (5 cm) of water covering her entire basement floor. Immediately she realized that her neighbors, with whom she shared drainage lines, must have done an inordinate amount of laundry and bathing because she got the backed-up water.
After Molly called a friend to come and help, the two began bailing and mopping. Just then the doorbell rang. Her friend cried out, “It’s your home teachers!”
Molly laughed. “It is the last day of the month,” she replied, “but I can assure you it is not my home teachers.”
With bare feet, wet trousers, hair up in a bandana, and a very fashionable pair of latex gloves, Molly made her way to the door. But her stark appearance did not compare with the stark sight standing before her eyes. It was her home teachers!
“You could have knocked me over with a plumber’s friend!” she later told me. “This was a home teaching miracle—the kind the Brethren share in general conference talks!” She went on: “But just as I was trying to decide whether to give them a kiss or hand them a mop, they said, ‘Oh, Molly, we are sorry. We can see you are busy. We don’t want to intrude; we’ll come another time.’ And they were gone.”
“Who was it?” her friend called out from the basement.
“I wanted to say, ‘It certainly wasn’t the Three Nephites,’” Molly admitted, “but I restrained myself and said very calmly, ‘It was my home teachers, but they felt this was not an opportune time to leave their message.’”

My first step to finding meaning in my life was to stay connected with the Saints and missionaries in Hungary. For some time, I lived for preparation days when I would receive emails from Sister Nestor and my MTC companions. I have to admit; sometimes it wasn’t easy to read about my companions’ missions or to speak with the Hungarians that I missed so badly. But as I look back now, I realize that it was critical to my healing to hear about the miracles happening there.

My little brother, gently prompted by my intuitive mother, convinced me to start indexing. Initially I did batches of names to appease him, but one day a registry of Hungarian names popped up on my screen. The Spirit swept over me and taught me that I was still able to help bring Hungarian souls to Christ—just on the other side of the veil!

After the mission, all of my pre-mission life goals seemed unattainable with my new health condition. But with time I realized that there were goals I could accomplish while lying down. I called goals such as reading Jesus the Christ “horizontal goals” and worked on them daily.

One of my pre-mission life goals was to graduate from college. While attending classes would have been difficult with my illness and the constant doctor appointments, my dad encouraged me to take online classes from Brigham Young University Independent Study. Not only was this an achievable horizontal goal, but I also realized that maybe I was capable of doing more pre-mission goals than I had previously thought possible.

One day at church, a sister walked up to my mom and said, “Do you know that Destiny can serve an online indexing mission?” This unexpected question was an answer to my prayers. I was able to serve the Lord for nine months as an indexing support Church-service missionary. This was a mission I could do!*

As I became better at managing my health condition, I began studying at a community college while doing my online mission. I was asked to teach mission preparation at the nearby institute. Teaching helped me realize that my enthusiasm for missionary work had not waned and that even my short mission had provided me with many experiences that could be valuable for my students.

After successfully attending a semester of college near my home, I moved to Utah, USA, to attend BYU. At first, I could hardly walk by the Provo MTC without feeling a rush of conflicting emotions. But I started volunteering weekly at the MTC and found that it was healing to meet the wonderful missionaries being sent to my beloved Hungary.

A Hungarian sister, Edit, who has prepared nearly 150,000 names for the temple asked me to take some of her names to the temple. It was a joy to do the saving ordinances for these Hungarians!

Serving a mission was my most important life dream and, understandably, I felt a loss when I came home earlier than anticipated. For a time, I struggled to talk about my mission. I had to work through feelings of failure. I had to learn how to judge the value of my mission by my desire to serve rather than the length. Although I didn’t realize it at the time, each of these steps toward meaning in my life also brought healing.

For years I was nervous that returning to Hungary would be difficult for me emotionally. When I eventually traveled there, it wasn’t until the second day that I realized that not only was I not feeling any pain, I was also feeling overwhelming joy to be back. I knew then that Heavenly Father had given me the opportunity to experience the healing power of the Savior’s Atonement. I now know that through the Atonement of Jesus Christ, all things will be made right in the end.

*Many early returned missionaries continue to serve as young Church-service missionaries. Meet with your bishop or branch president for more information.

This testimony sustained me when I realized I just couldn’t provide for our needs and we had to leave our home. Jonathan was taken to live with my mother’s side of the family, but Ephraim and I chose to stay with our other grandparents because they were members of the Church. In their home we arose early to do chores before school, then cared for our grandfather late into the night. It was exhausting. However, the Lord was mindful of us, and we stayed close to the Church. Every time I felt like giving up, I was reminded of the special moments I had had with my siblings as we read from the Book of Mormon surrounding a lamp. I know Christ was there beside us in those difficult times. From the moment our family members separated from one another, He did not forsake us. “I know that my Redeemer lives!”

Now, years later, I still have the picture of those words from above my bed in my heart and mind. That message has helped my brother Ephraim and me in our years of service as full-time missionaries and in striving now to live celestial marriages.

I could have missed a lot in my life had I doubted instead of trusting Christ. No matter how difficult life is, it has never been too difficult for the Savior, who suffered in Gethsemane. He can sustain one’s life with one sentence. He knows everything from the beginning to the end. His comfort is more powerful than any heartache this life can bring. Through His Atonement, there is no permanent problem—only constant hope, grace, peace, and love. Believe me, I know! I know that my Redeemer lives!

My parents are members of the Church, but they’re not very active. This sometimes leads to conflicts because they believe family time should come before everything else—before going to church, magnifying my Church callings, and doing other activities.

Because I am a leader in the Primary and a member of the ward choir, my Church meetings sometimes interfere with family duties. One day when I was preparing to attend a general conference broadcast at our meetinghouse in Antananarivo, my parents reminded me that we had guests in our home.

“You’ll have to choose between your family and the Church,” my mother told me. “Either you stay here with us and miss conference, or you go to conference and face punishment.”

I decided not to get into an argument with my mother. Instead, I took a moment to ask Heavenly Father to give me courage and strength. I also asked Him to help me know what to do. Should I stay home with my family or go to church and hear the voice of the prophet?

As soon as I finished my prayer, I could feel the Holy Ghost. I could feel the Spirit encourage me to tell my mother how important it was for me to go and listen to the prophet. I felt that I should tell her that I would receive wise counsel not only for my life today but also for my future.

God can do miraculous things, and He softened my parents’ hearts so that they let me go to general conference without being punished. This was a remarkable experience in my life. It confirmed to me the truth of the scripture that says, “By the power of the Holy Ghost [we] may know the truth of all things” (Moroni 10:5).

I know that if we base our actions on the principles of the gospel and listen to the Spirit, we can always be happy with our choices. This experience strengthened my testimony that God is there for us and that the Holy Ghost helps us in our lives.

I heard the garage door open, and I knew what he would tell me. I lay quietly in bed. My father’s figure appeared in the doorway.
“Tracie, are you awake?” My heart was breaking as I felt my dad sit on the edge of my bed. “Lynn and I are going to get married,” he said. I was silent as he tried to explain.
“This does not mean that I love your mom any less. I know it will be hard, but I need you to be a good example to your sisters.” His sentences swirled around my mind, blurring into a mass of tears, weighing harder and harder on my heart.
“Good night, Tracie. I love you.”
As he left, my eyes overflowed with tears. My mind wouldn’t stop spinning. Why did my dad have to get married again? We were doing fine. Grandma didn’t mind helping us out. Mom wouldn’t want him to remarry. I didn’t want a stepsister my age. I have only one mom. I will be loyal!
I was eight years old when my mother died of cancer, and it changed me. I had always been shy, but my mother’s death caused me to turn completely inward. My friends distanced themselves from me. Home was my only safe place, and in it I grew up quickly as I became the part-time caretaker of my two little sisters. I must have blocked some things out because there’s not much I remember. I do know, however, that I became a hardened little girl.
It was during that stage that my dad told me he was inviting Lynn and her daughters to our house for a visit. They were family friends, so my little sisters were excited to play with Lynn’s two girls, Meghan and Paige. I hated the idea from the start. I suspected my dad’s intentions, and I decided I was opposed to the idea. I was determined that I would not forget my mother.
I felt betrayed that my dad would even consider remarriage. How could Mom’s memory live on with another woman in the house? I thought all my dad’s love would go to Lynn, and she would try to take Mom’s place.
I was wrong, and I am constantly amazed at how my views over the years have changed. It has been a long, hard process, but it has contributed a great deal to my character and has helped sculpt me into the person I am.
The first thing I needed to do was learn to love Lynn. I thought she was a nice lady, but that was where it stopped. She tried to tell me what to do, and even worse than that, she loved hugs and kisses. I did not want to kiss her and went to great efforts, at least at first, to avoid it.
Lynn and my mom are about as different as two people could be. They were actually best friends, and where one had strengths, the other had weaknesses. I have many memories of my mother waking up at five in the morning to read her scriptures and bake bread. She was friendly, but at the same time a bit shy. Lynn was the bold, outgoing one who loved talking and meeting people. This was something I had to deal with; she was just so different.
I think it was these differences, though, that made it possible for me to love her. I had respected Lynn from the beginning because she was my father’s new wife, and I wasn’t a rebellious child. But it was different when I started to love her. I saw that she was good to us. She drove us places and helped us with our problems. It was nice to have a woman in the house, especially during my early teenage years. She made my dad more happy and relaxed than he’d been in a long time, and it was nice not to have so much responsibility for my sisters. But there was still a wall between us. I loved and appreciated her as a person, but she wasn’t my mom.
Over time, Lynn’s role in my life changed. I matured, and Lynn became a great help to me. She loved it when I talked to her. Sometimes I would just plop down on her bed and talk to her for a long time. I really started to trust Lynn, to depend on her.
I now consider Lynn my second mother. The wall is gone. I used to think if I loved Lynn, my love for my mom would decrease; but just the opposite has happened. I love them both and appreciate their strengths and the many things they have taught me. I don’t compare them since they are both so loving and kind and have so many wonderful qualities. It took me a long time to admit I love Lynn and my stepsisters, but since I did, I have realized that love is sweet and powerful.
I love both my moms, and I am proud I am a little like both of them. I feel at peace, because I know the Lord’s plan for my family has been fulfilled. I have grown so much through these experiences and rejoice that I have learned to accept different people, to express myself to others, and most importantly that I now cherish a person I vowed I would never love.

The doctor at the army base near Taejon, Korea, looked up at me and smiled. I had been congratulating him and his colleagues on their brilliant management of a carbon monoxide poisoning incident. As Chief of Professional Services for the Surgeon of the U.S. Army and for the United Nations Forces, I had been so impressed by this young doctor’s actions that I came down personally to review the case with him.
In his tent we chatted about the incidence of such poisoning among soldiers. Korean homes are heated with a soft coal, called yantan, which is pressed into large bricks and burned in a stove beneath one corner of the house. Smoke and fumes are ducted through the clay and tile floor to a chimney on the opposite side of the structure, warming the building and its occupants. If a leak develops, carbon monoxide is released into the house.
Often U.S. soldiers would leave their base of assignment, go into a nearby village, get drunk, and fall asleep near a yantan stove. Occasionally they suffered carbon monoxide poisoning and were returned to the base unconscious. In the course of treatment, it was customary to check the alcohol level in their blood.
I asked the doctor what this soldier’s blood-alcohol level had been, and his answer was both startling and satisfying.
“Oh, I didn’t get a blood-alcohol reading on Private Christian,” he said. “He’s a Mormon.”
I pretended not to understand why that would make a difference.
“What’s that got to do with it?” I asked. “This soldier went into town and was found unconscious. How do you know his unconsciousness wasn’t caused by alcoholic intoxication?”
The doctor replied, “Because this is Christian. He never does anything that is not proper and exemplary.”
The doctor explained that nearly everyone on the base knew that Private Christian was a returned missionary for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. He had served his mission in Korea, spoke the language, and during his off-duty hours he often went to the village to visit with the people. He had taught some of them about his church, and they had joined. They lived in a small hamlet next to the base but had gone with Christian to religious services in Taejon.
The private had returned home with them Sunday evening and was invited to spend the night. Because he was the honored guest, he was given the place closest to the smoldering yantan. But it was a cold night, and all the openings in the building had been closed. A crack in the floor had not been noticed. As the American soldier slept, he had been overcome by the gases.
With utmost pride I informed my medical colleague that I, too, was Mormon. I marveled that he could have known this young private so well. He replied that he didn’t know many soldiers closely but that Christian’s life was so distinct that it set him apart from all the other men on the base. I have never had the opportunity to meet Brother Christian and can only speculate about the total amount of good he did in an environment that normally draws out the base instincts of men. But I will never forget the impression he made on the doctor who treated him and the example he set for me. He had made proper decisions about many things in life years before being plunged into the challenges of military life, and he had not allowed his environment to deter his power to be good. The other soldiers knew him for what he was—uncompromising. I am sure that many of them carry his example in their memories, even as I do, and I’m grateful to him for letting his light shine.

That same revelation that called Ezra to repentance was also directed toward other elders, including Edward Partridge, a bishop. Like Ezra, Edward had also been disappointed in the location of Zion. The Lord instructed Edward to move his family to Independence so that he could oversee the purchase of land for the Saints, but Edward wasn’t excited about living there. He was used to living in an established town. He wrote to his wife, Lydia, “We have to suffer, and shall for some time, many privations here.”4
Edward also disagreed with Joseph Smith and Oliver Cowdery about what land he should buy. Joseph and Oliver wanted certain tracts to be purchased, but Edward believed there was better land somewhere else. Edward had hard feelings toward Joseph for a while.5
But unlike Ezra, Edward didn’t allow the disagreement or his disappointment to drive him away from the gospel. Instead, he eventually asked for forgiveness from the Lord and from Joseph. “I sometimes feel as though I must fall,” he wrote to Lydia. “I fear my station is above what I can perform to the acceptance of my Heavenly Father.”6 He told Joseph that he hoped the Prophet could forgive him for the dispute because he was and “has always been sorry.”7
Edward and Joseph reconciled, and Edward stayed faithful until he died in 1840.