Gospel Story Finder

And that brings us to Elder William A. Moody and his bride, Adelia Moody. They were called on a mission from Thatcher, Graham County, Arizona, arriving in Samoa in November 1894. They must have had the same hopes and aspirations of any young couple just starting out. She gave birth to an eight-pound daughter on May 3, 1895. Three weeks later she passed away. The daughter, little Hazel Moody, was taken care of by local Saints while her father continued his mission. Finally, one year later we read the following about a steamer leaving for the United States, whose passengers included four returning elders and “also Elder Moody’s daughter, Hazel, one-year-old, who will be delivered to loving relatives in Zion.”

Help with temporal tasks is also a form of ministering. At the October 1856 general conference, President Brigham Young announced that handcart pioneers were stranded in deep snow 270–370 miles (435–595 km) away. He called for the Latter-day Saints in Salt Lake City to rescue them and to “attend strictly to those things which we call temporal.”4
Lucy Meserve Smith recorded that the women took off their warm underskirts and stockings right there in the tabernacle and piled them into wagons to send to the freezing pioneers. Then they gathered bedding and clothing for those who would eventually come with few belongings. When the handcart companies arrived, a building in the town was “loaded with provisions for them.”5

My brethren and sisters, last Sunday as I sat in my study thinking of what I might say on this occasion, I received a phone call telling me that Staff Sergeant James W. Cawley of the U.S. Marines had been killed somewhere in Iraq. He was 41 years of age, leaving behind a wife and two small children.
Twenty years ago Elder Cawley was a missionary of the Church in Japan. Like so many others, he had grown up in the Church, had played as a schoolboy, had passed the sacrament as a deacon, and had been found worthy to serve a mission to teach the gospel of peace to the people of Japan. He returned home, served in the Marines, married, became a policeman, and was then recalled to active military duty, to which he responded without hesitation.
His life, his mission, his military service, his death seem to represent the contradictions of the peace of the gospel and the tides of war.

Last year, while on vacation with our two youngest children, Julie suggested we do proxy baptisms in both the St. George and San Diego Temples. I murmured—to myself—thinking, “We attend the temple at home, and now we’re on vacation. Why not do something more vacation-like?” After the baptisms, Julie wanted to take pictures outside the temple. I silently murmured—again. You can guess what happened next: we took pictures.

Julie wants our children to have memories of how we helped our ancestors, and so do I. We didn’t need a formal lesson on the importance of temples. We were living it—thanks to a mother who loves the temple and wants her children to share that love.

Going to a national jamboree may not seem like such a big deal for some Scouts, but for the Scouts of Troop 469, Fairport Ward, Rochester New York Palmyra Stake, it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. They were the first LDS troop from the northeast region to attend.
It took the Scouts and their families almost a year of hard work to raise the funds. But finally after many of the Scouts had participated in the Hill Cumorah Pageant, the day arrived when they would hop in the car and camp with over 50,000 other Scouts and leaders from all over the world at Fort A.P Hill in Virginia. Not only did they have the opportunity to work on merit badges, compete in sports, and participate in a number of other activities, but they also enjoyed Church meetings with General Authorities who attended the jamboree. “I wish all young men in the Church could have heard their powerful message,” said Scout Jeff Rotz.
“Though the showers were cold and everyone had to get up at 6:30 A.M., it was really fun!” Jeff continued. “I felt as if every leader and Scout was my brother. If I hadn t come to this jamboree, I would have missed out on the chance of a lifetime.”

My wife, Jill, and I recently witnessed this truth in the faithful lives of Holly and Rick Porter, whose 12-year-old son, Trey, passed away in a tragic fire. With hands and feet severely burned in a heroic attempt to save her dear son, Holly later testified in ward sacrament meeting of the great peace and joy the Lord had poured out upon her family in their anguish, using words such as miraculous, incredible, and amazing.

This precious mother’s unbearable grief was replaced by surpassing peace with this thought: “My hands are not the hands that save. Those hands belong to the Savior! Instead of looking at my scars as a reminder of what I was not able to do, I remember the scars my Savior bears.”

Holly’s witness fulfills our prophet’s promise: “As you think celestial, you will view trials and opposition in a new light.”

Ever since Jeff had moved to St. Anthony the beginning of their freshman year in high school, Jeff and Brett had been friends, almost brothers. There had been a bit of animosity in the beginning when they had both ended up on the football team vying for the same position. Both had had dreams of being great quarterbacks, but there could only be one starter and both of them were too good as athletes for a team like St. Anthony to allow one of them to sit on the bench. The conflict was solved when Brett finally decided to be a tight end. Suddenly this daring duo became the hope of the small town of St. Anthony. From the time Jeff and Brett Baker were juniors until they graduated, St. Anthony never lost a football game.

Their friendship wasn’t restricted to the football field. They were in the same ward. Those who didn’t know them well, just assumed that they were brothers, since they both had the same last name. But blood couldn’t have made their friendship more solid. They had dreamed together. They were both going to go to a semester at Ricks, where they had both received scholarships to play football, and then they were going to leave on missions. That was just the beginning. After that their whole lives lay before them.

Walter C., age 15, Jaén, Peru
For a long time I was the only member in my school. My closest friends seemed to understand me, but other school friends made fun of me. One day I prayed and felt the need to talk with one of them who encouraged the others to make fun of me. I explained that I didn’t feel angry at him, but I asked him to give me the respect he’d like to have. After hearing our conversation, one of my teachers always defended me when he saw something happen. I know that the Lord will be with you as you talk with these people.

A few weeks ago, it was my privilege to dedicate a monument to the memory of Ellen Pucell Unthank. It stands on the campus of Southern Utah University in Cedar City, Utah. It is a bronze figure, beautiful and engaging. It is of a little nine-year-old girl, standing with one foot tiptoe, her hair blowing back in the wind, a smile on her face, eagerly looking forward.
Ellen Pucell, as she was named, was born in a beautiful area of England where the hills are soft and rolling and the grass is forever green. Her parents, Margaret and William Pucell, were converts to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. From the time of their baptism in 1837 until the spring of 1856, they had scrimped and saved to go to the Zion of their people in the valleys of the Rocky Mountains of America. Now that was possible if they were willing to pull a handcart one thousand miles across a wilderness. They accepted that challenge, as did hundreds of their fellow converts.
Margaret and William took with them their two daughters, Maggie, fourteen, and Ellen, nine. They said good-bye to loved ones they would never again see in mortality. Near the end of May they set sail from Liverpool with 852 of their convert associates. My wife’s grandmother, thirteen-year-old Mary Goble, was a part of that company and, I like to think, played with those little girls aboard ship.
After six weeks at sea, they landed at Boston and took the steam train to Iowa City. They had expected their handcarts and wagons would be ready. They were not. There was a serious and disastrous delay. It was not until late in July that they began the long march, first to Winter Quarters on the Missouri and from there to the Rocky Mountains.
The Pucells were assigned to the Martin Handcart Company. The Goble family, my wife’s forebears, became a part of the Cluff Wagon Company, which followed the handcarts to give help if needed.
With high expectation they began their journey. Through sunlight and storm, through dust and mud, they trudged beside the Platte River through all of the month of September and most of October. On October 19, they reached the last crossing of the Platte, a little west of the present city of Casper, Wyoming. The river was wide, the current strong, and chunks of ice were floating in the water. They were now traveling without sufficient food. Bravely they waded through the icy stream. A terrible storm arose with fierce winds bringing drifting sand, hail, and snow. When they climbed the far bank of the river, their wet clothing froze to their bodies. Exhausted, freezing, and without strength to go on, some quietly sat down, and while they sat, they died.
Ellen’s mother, Margaret, became sick. Her husband lifted her onto the cart. They were now climbing in elevation toward the Continental Divide, and it was uphill all the way. Can you see this family in your imagination?—the mother too sick and weak to walk, the father thin and emaciated, struggling to pull the cart as the two little girls push from behind with swirling, cold winds about them, and around them are hundreds of others similarly struggling.
They came to a stream of freezing water. The father, while crossing, slipped on a rock and fell. Struggling to his feet, he reached the shore, wet and chilled. Sometime later he sat down to rest. He quietly died, his senses numbed by the cold. His wife died five days later. I do not know how or where their frozen bodies were buried in that desolate, white wilderness. I do know that the ground was frozen and that the snow was piled in drifts and that the two little girls were now orphans.
Between 135 and 150 of the Martin company alone perished along that trail of suffering and death. It was in these desperate and terrible circumstances—hungry, exhausted, their clothes thin and ragged—that they were found by the rescue party. As the rescuers appeared on the western horizon breaking a trail through the snow, they seemed as angels of mercy. And indeed they were. The beleaguered emigrants shouted for joy, some of them. Others, too weak to shout, simply wept and wept and wept.
There was now food to eat and some warmer clothing. But the suffering was not over, nor would it ever end in mortality. Limbs had been frozen, and the gangrenous flesh sloughed off from the bones.
The carts were abandoned, and the survivors were crowded into the wagons of the rescuers. The long rough journey of three hundred, four hundred, even five hundred miles between them and this valley was especially slow and tedious because of the storms. On November 30, 104 wagons, loaded with suffering human cargo, came into the Salt Lake Valley. Word of their expected arrival had preceded them. It was Sunday, and again the Saints were gathered in the Tabernacle. Brigham Young stood before the congregation and said:
“As soon as this meeting is dismissed I want the brethren and sisters to repair to their homes. …
“The afternoon meeting will be omitted, for I wish the sisters to … prepare to give those who have just arrived a mouthful of something to eat, and to wash them and nurse them. …
“Some you will find with their feet frozen to their ankles; some are frozen to their knees and some have their hands frosted … we want you to receive them as your own children, and to have the same feeling for them” (quoted in Hafen, Handcarts to Zion, p. 139).
The two orphan girls, Maggie and Ellen, were among those with frozen limbs. Ellen’s were the most serious. The doctor in the valley, doing the best he could, amputated her legs just below the knees. The surgical tools were crude. There was no anesthesia. The stumps never healed. She grew to womanhood, married William Unthank, and bore and reared an honorable family of six children. Moving about on those stumps, she served her family, her neighbors, and the Church with faith and good cheer and without complaint, though she was never without pain. Her posterity are numerous, and among them are educated and capable men and women who love the Lord whom she loved and who love the cause for which she suffered.

President Díaz truly understands those difficulties. Baptized at age 17, he was the only member of his family to join the Church. “What got me through was my branch president,” he explains. “He spent hours with me; he always had time for me.” That important contact helped young Jacinto Díaz decide to serve a mission. He left despite the opposition of his parents. By the time he returned two years later, his mother and 11 other family members had joined the Church.

I was just tying my shoe when I heard my mother’s bedroom door open. She had gone in there a couple of hours before, saying she just needed some time alone. My excitement subsided and a lump formed in my throat as I looked at her pale face. Her eyes were red from crying. I hated to see my mother hurting.
“Mom, are you all right?” I managed to get out.
“Yes,” She swallowed hard, holding back more tears. “Where are you going?”
“Well, I have that party tonight for our birthdays—but if you don’t want me to go …”
“No, go ahead.” She let the tears flow and turned away.
I sat there numb on my bed wondering if I should go or not. I really wanted to go with my friends, but I knew Mom needed me more. She had been divorced when I was only three, so she confided in me a lot.
“Mom, if you would rather I didn’t go …”
“It’s not that,” she said between sobs. “I’m sorry, but I just don’t have any money to give you.”
“I don’t need any. I saved some from my last baby-sitting job.”
Money was always such an issue at our house. There was never enough. Sometimes I would ask God why we were always so short on money when I faithfully paid my tithing.
“I have to work the graveyard shift again tonight, so I would appreciate it if you would be home before I leave.”
“I will be,” I assured her.
“I just don’t know how I’m going to do it. I don’t get a paycheck for a few more days, and we have no money at all. I don’t even have enough gas in my car to get to work tonight.”
“You can have this money of mine. I don’t need to go.”
She shook her head no and hugged me. “No, it’s for you and your friends’ birthdays.”
I felt sick inside. Here I was going off with my friends to enjoy pizza while my mother was home wondering how she was going to get to work. I tried to think of how I could help her, but I just didn’t know. Then the thought crossed my mind of my tithing money. It was just sitting in my dresser waiting for me to take it to church. I had never spent my tithing money, but this was for a good reason and surely the Lord would understand.
I walked back to my room and opened the drawer, but something wouldn’t let me take the money. All I could do was close the drawer and leave the room.
“Have fun, honey. Please don’t worry. I’ll figure something out. I don’t mean to burden you with these things.” Mom smiled the best she could and kissed me on the cheek.
I did have fun with my friends. We ate pizza, played the jukebox, and mostly giggled about everything. It’s amazing how much eight 13-year-old girls can eat!
Every once in a while I would find myself thinking about that tithing money. What would it hurt to not pay it just one time? Maybe that money was my blessing for always paying my tithing. Maybe it was still in my drawer for a reason. But no matter how I tried to justify taking the tithing money, I knew my conscience wasn’t going to let me.
Soon the night was over, and we were all giving our money for the bill. I got a dollar back in change. I felt in my pocket to see if I had any other money that I could give to Mom, but I didn’t. So I put the dollar in my pocket and decided I would give it to her. It wasn’t much. In fact, it wasn’t enough to buy gas, but it would help a little. At least I felt better knowing I had something to offer her when I got home.
I thought I would cry when we needed more money for a tip. I slowly reached into my pocket. I knew a dollar wasn’t much, but I was so happy I had it to give to Mom. My throat was so tight I couldn’t even swallow. I couldn’t tell anyone about giving the dollar to my mom. I was too embarrassed. I really wanted to lie and tell them I didn’t have any money.
As my hand touched the dollar bill I felt something else. The tears in my eyes left as fast as they had come. My heart began racing as I pulled my hand out and there was the one-dollar bill and a crisp new ten-dollar bill. My heart almost stopped beating. I didn’t know how that ten-dollar bill got there, but to this day I know where it came from!

Almost forty years ago I received an invitation to meet with President J. Reuben Clark, Jr., a Counselor in the First Presidency of the Church, a statesman of towering stature, and a scholar of international renown. My profession then was in the field of printing and publishing. President Clark made me welcome in his office and then produced from his old rolltop desk a large sheaf of handwritten notes, many of them made when he was a law student long years before. He proceeded to outline for me his goal of producing a harmony of the Gospels. This goal was achieved with his monumental work Our Lord of the Gospels.
Recently I took down from my library shelf a personally inscribed, leather-bound copy of this classic treatment of the life of Jesus of Nazareth. As I perused the many pages, I paused at the section entitled “The Miracles of Jesus.” I remembered as though it were yesterday President Clark asking me to read to him several of these accounts while he sat back in his large leather chair and listened. This was a day in my life never to be forgotten.
President Clark asked me to read aloud the account found in Luke concerning the man filled with leprosy. I proceeded to read:
“And it came to pass, when he was in a certain city, behold a man full of leprosy: who seeing Jesus fell on his face, and besought him, saying, Lord, if thou wilt, thou canst make me clean.
“And he put forth his hand, and touched him, saying, I will: be thou clean. And immediately the leprosy departed from him” (Luke 5:12–13).
He asked that I continue reading from Luke concerning the man afflicted with palsy and the enterprising manner in which he was presented for the attention of the Lord:
“And, behold, men brought in a bed a man which was taken with a palsy: and they sought means to bring him in, and to lay him before him.
“And when they could not find by what way they might bring him in because of the multitude, they went upon the housetop, and let him down through the tiling with his couch into the midst before Jesus.
“And when he saw their faith, he said unto him, Man, thy sins are forgiven thee” (Luke 5:18–20).
There followed snide comments from the Pharisees concerning who had the right to forgive sins. Jesus silenced their bickering by saying: “Whether [it] is easier, to say, Thy sins be forgiven thee; or to say, Rise up and walk?
“But that ye may know that the Son of man hath power upon earth to forgive sins, (he said unto the sick of the palsy,) I say unto thee, Arise, and take up thy couch, and go into thine house.
“And immediately he rose up before them, and took up that whereon he lay, and departed to his own house, glorifying God” (Luke 5:23–25).
President Clark removed from his pocket a handkerchief and wiped the tears from his eyes. He commented, “As we grow older, tears come more frequently.” After a few words of goodbye, I departed from his office, leaving him alone with his thoughts and his tears.

My mother and father were married in Canada before the Alberta Temple was built, and so they were not married in the temple. I was born about nine years before the temple was finished and dedicated, and as a child I had a great desire to go to the house of the Lord and be sealed to my parents. I understood very clearly that without the blessing of being sealed in the temple, I would not be with my family in the life after death.
When my parents made an appointment to take me and my brother to the temple immediately after it was dedicated, I was very excited. But the day before we were to go, I became ill and my mother decided that it might be best for our family to wait until I was well again. I can remember how hard I cried as I coaxed her not to put it off. Finally she consented, and we went to the temple.
Although I still remember how dizzy I was, I waited in the children’s room with my brother and many other children. Finally those in charge came and took my brother and me to the sealing room. There we knelt at the altar together, my brother and I clasping hands with my parents. A warm, peaceful feeling came into my heart as one having authority sealed me to my mother and father for time and all eternity. This was one of the most wonderful experiences of my life, for I knew that if I kept all of our Heavenly Father’s commandments, I would be with my family forever.
The morning after this beautiful experience in the temple, I was ill again. The doctor diagnosed my illness as scarlet fever. How worried we were about all the children I had been with in the temple the night before, but not one of them caught the disease from me. I am sure that because of the blessings of our Heavenly Father, this experience, which I wanted so much, was not postponed, and no one else suffered because of my illness.

I learned as a young high school athlete that rules sometimes are more important than winning. I guess I have shared this experience a time or two around the Church, but I remember when I went in to sign up for varsity baseball. I was 15 years old. I went over to the gym where the head coach was officed. Scared to death, butterflies in my stomach, I knocked on his door. “Come in,” was the reply, and I walked in. He said, “What can I do for you, young man?”

I said, “Where do you sign up for varsity baseball?”

My coach made a very interesting observation. He said, “Do you want to play ball, or do you want to be a champion?” Well, that was kind of crazy. I wanted to play ball.

I said, “I came to play baseball.”

“Well,” he said, “we’re all filled up. Thank you.” And he excused me.

I went out, and he shut the door. There was a drinking fountain there, and I took a drink of water and thought, “Well, now, what’s that all about?”

Fortunately I had the stamina to knock on the door again. He said, “Come in.” I walked in.

I said, “I want to sign up for varsity baseball.”

He said, “I asked you a question. Do you want to play ball or do you want to be a champion?”

Finally it sank in. I said, “I want to be a champion.”

“Oh,” he said. “Then sign here.” He said, “At this school we build champions. We don’t play ball.” There’s a difference I have learned.

Well, the year went on, and somehow I made the team and had some great and glorious experiences. As we came down to the final innings of the season, Fairfax High (our archrival) and Hollywood (which I represented) ended in a dead heat—a tie. There would be a one-game playoff on Friday afternoon on our home field.

Thursday afternoon our coach got us all out on the ball field. We were standing around him, as players do with their coaches, and he was giving us some instruction, fired-up enthusiasm, motivation. Then he turned and said, “Paul, you’ll pitch tomorrow.” I was thrilled but scared.

I want to give you a little flashback. This was an interesting coach, not a member of the Church, but a man who had seen in contests the great ability to build youth. He had each boy on his team sign a contract, not a professional contract, but a contract of rules and regulations. There were some thou shalts and thou shalt nots, and one of them had to do with the Word of Wisdom, although he had never heard of it. He said, “Now, if you’re going to play ball for me, you’ll play according to the rules. Is that understood?”

And I said, “Yes, sir,” as did all the other players. So we signed our contracts, and he kept them on file, and occasionally he would remind us.

Well, as he was giving his pep talk, our all-star second baseman was standing in the circle with his hands on his hips. When the coach made a pass, he stopped and he did a double take. “Jimmy,” he said, “is that a nicotine stain on your finger?” Jimmy put out his hand.

He said, “Yes, sir.”

Then he said, “Well, don’t you know the rule?”

“Well, yes, sir.”

“Did you sign a contract with me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you know the penalty?”

“Yes, sir.” And this was being said in front of the whole team.

He said, “You’ve lost your privilege. Turn in your uniform.

I almost shouted, but I didn’t, “Coach, wait till tomorrow! We’ve got a game.”

Jimmy was batting .380 and as a second baseman had not made an error in league play. And he now had to turn in his uniform. Our coach was the kind of person who kept close to the boys, even when he disciplined them. He didn’t lose him, but he wouldn’t let him play.

The next day I drew the assignment to pitch. The game went into extra innings, and they beat us one to nothing in the top of the 13th. Do you know how it happened? A ground ball was hit to second, and the ball went through the substitute’s legs, and that proved to be the winning run. Well, I went home that night and literally cried myself to sleep because I wanted to win. You see, I hate to lose.

Well, that was many years ago. I thank God this day for a great man, a great coach, who taught me that playing according to the rules was more important than winning.

Not long ago, while riding on an airplane, I talked with a young man who was seated beside me. We moved from one subject to another, and then came to the matter of religion. He said he had read considerably about the Mormons, had found much to admire, but that he had a definite prejudice concerning the origin of the Church and particularly Joseph Smith.

He was an active member of another religion, and when I asked where he had acquired his information about the LDS church, he indicated it had come from publications of his church. I asked what company he worked for. He proudly replied that he was a sales representative for IBM. I then asked whether he would think it fair for his customers to learn of the qualities of IBM products from a Xerox representative. He replied with a smile, “I think I get the point.”

I took from my case a copy of the Doctrine and Covenants and read to him the words of the Lord expressed through Joseph Smith, words which are the source of those practices my friend had come to admire in us while disdaining the man through whom they had come. Before we parted, he agreed to read the literature I would send to him. I promised him that if he would do so prayerfully he would know the truth not only of these doctrines and practices which have interested him, but also of the man through whom they were introduced. I then gave him my testimony concerning the prophetic calling of Joseph Smith.

I was raised in an active Latter-day Saint family. I went to church every Sunday, read my scriptures every night, prayed every day, and went to seminary and Young Women activities. I even wrote in my journal every day. I thought I knew what the Church was all about, and I believed it was true.
Then one Sunday during an interview, one of the counselors in my bishopric asked me, “Do you have a testimony of this Church?”
“Of course I do,” I replied. Didn’t he know that my parents served actively in their callings, that my brother had just come home from his mission, and that my sister was engaged to be married in the temple? With a family like that, how could I not believe?
He responded, “That is good to know, because I didn’t have a testimony until after I graduated from high school. I always thought I had one, but then I realized that I was leaning on my parents’ testimonies. You need to promise that you will continue to strengthen and nourish your testimony.” I promised him that I would strive harder to make my testimony grow.
On the way home from church, I began to ask myself if I really had a testimony or if I was leaning on my parents’ testimonies.
I recalled a time a few months earlier when I had felt the Spirit so strong. That day I was sure the Church is true. Why had I begun to doubt again? I remembered my seminary teacher telling us that if we ever doubted, to just ask God with real intent, faith in Christ, and a pure heart and we would receive an answer (see Moroni 10:3–5).
That night I went home and prayed and read my scriptures over and over again. “Why am I not getting an answer?” I wondered. My seminary teacher promised I would get an answer. I could feel something, but it wasn’t enough. I wanted more proof to know that the Church is true. It couldn’t just be a feeling; I wanted to know for sure.
My answer didn’t come for a while, but it finally came. One night I was reading in the Doctrine and Covenants, and that is when it all came together for me:
“Verily, verily, I say unto you, if you desire a further witness, cast your mind upon the night that you cried unto me in your heart, that you might know concerning the truth of these things.
“Did I not speak peace to your mind concerning the matter? What greater witness can you have than from God?” (D&C 6:22–23).
So many times I had felt the Spirit. So many times I had believed. So many times I had had an overwhelming love for the Church and the Savior. That was the answer. I already knew, so why keep asking? Why did I not nourish the testimony I had?
I realized I couldn’t just expect the answer to come to me. I couldn’t just read my scriptures; I needed to search them. I couldn’t just pray to Heavenly Father; I needed to listen to His answers.
A few weeks later I found counsel by President Harold B. Lee (1899–1973) that described what I needed to do. He said:
“Your testimony is something that you have today but you may not have it always.
“Testimony is as elusive as a moonbeam; it’s as fragile as an orchid; you have to recapture it every morning of your life. You have to hold on by study, by faith, and by prayer. …
“That which you possess today in testimony will not be yours tomorrow unless you do something about it. …
“… Testimony is either going to grow and grow to the brightness of certainty, or it is going to diminish to nothingness, depending upon what we do about it” (Teachings of Presidents of the Church: Harold B. Lee [2000], 43).
I know that if I keep listening to Heavenly Father’s answers and searching the scriptures every day, my testimony will be as bright as the sun.

Mom slumped onto a kitchen chair and sighed.
“What’s wrong, Mom?” Megan asked.
“Oh, I’m just frustrated,” Mom said. “I keep trying to visit teach Sister Raymond, but I can’t even get past the front door.”
“Why not?” Megan asked.
“Sister Raymond’s husband isn’t a member of the Church, and he doesn’t like it when we visit his wife. Sometimes she talks to us through the screen door for a few minutes, but today she wouldn’t even do that.”
Megan gave Mom a hug. She didn’t like seeing her so sad. Then she ran to the kitchen and brought back a warm sugar cookie for Mom.
“Thanks, sweetie. You always know how to make people feel better.”
On Saturday morning, Megan walked into the kitchen just as Mom was hanging up the phone.
“That was the Relief Society president,” Mom said. “She just heard that Sister Raymond had an operation yesterday and has to stay in the hospital for a few days. She wanted to let me know since I’m Sister Raymond’s visiting teacher.”
“Are you going to go visit her?” Megan asked.
“Yes, this afternoon. I’m going to pick some flowers from the garden to brighten up her hospital room.”
As Mom went outside with the clippers, Megan thought about poor Sister Raymond. Then she thought about Sister Raymond’s husband, having to sit alone in an empty house every night. Suddenly she had an idea.
That afternoon, Megan followed Mom into the hospital room. A tired-looking woman was sitting up in bed, and a man with a sad, serious face sat next to her.
“Hello, Sister Raymond,” Mom said. “This is my daughter, Megan. We hope you’re feeling better.” She handed her a pink and red bouquet.
“Oh, how nice!” Sister Raymond said. “I love flowers. This is my husband, Charlie,” she said, squeezing his hand.
“Then these are for you,” Megan said, giving him a covered plate.
“For me?” he asked. He peeked under the foil. “Sugar cookies!”
“I thought you might not feel so lonely if you knew someone was thinking of you.”
“Thank you, Megan. That’s very kind,” he said. And he smiled.
On Tuesday they went back to the hospital. When they got to Sister Raymond’s room, Charlie grinned and said, “There’s our little cookie maker! I was hoping you would come see us again.”
Megan kept the Raymonds laughing with stories about fifth grade; her pet rabbit, Mr. Twinkles; and her little brother, Ian. When it was time to go, Charlie put his hand on her shoulder.
“Megan, I hope the two of you will stop by again soon,” he said.
“But you’ll be leaving tomorrow,” Megan said.
“So come to our house!”
“Really?”
“Of course. Thoughtful young ladies and their moms are always welcome. And thank you again for the cookies. They were the best I’ve had in ages. What’s the secret ingredient?”
“There isn’t one,” Megan said, but she smiled to herself. Maybe a little love made cookies sweeter.
“Well, they were delicious. But, you know, my favorite are chocolate chip,” Charlie said with a wink.
Megan smiled. “Then I guess I’ll be baking again soon!”

Class was starting, and I felt as nervous as a cat in a thunderstorm.
After roll call we’d be starting with Kenny’s speech. That would give me about 15 to 20 minutes. Why do I have to give my speech today? I thought. Why did I choose Joseph Smith as my “famous American”?
The majority of the class were Baptist, including the teacher. I was the only Mormon in the whole group. Boy, I had nerve the day I chose this topic.
Kenny was almost finished. No one had any questions about Kenny’s speech on Eisenhower.
It was my turn.
“My ‘famous American’ is Joseph Smith,” I began. ‘He was born in …” My speech lasted about ten minutes—not bad.
“Any questions?” the teacher asked.
It was so silent you could have heard a pin drop.
“Well, I have one,” my teacher replied. “What is the name of the church that Joseph started?”
I knew I had left out something and it would be the most important part. I answered, “The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, more commonly known as the Mormons.”
That started the questions: Where did the plates come from? Who was Moroni? How did he get the plates? And oh, yes, the usual question—What about polygamy? By this time I was feeling pretty good. I answered all of the questions that I could, and then one guy, who I’ll always be thankful to, asked, “How do you know it’s true?”
This question touched me. I truly felt the Spirit in my heart and in the room.
I looked at my questioner and said, “Billy, have you ever felt so right about something that no matter what anybody else says, you know it’s true? You know in your heart, and no one can persuade you otherwise?”
A hush came over the class. Even the teacher didn’t have a reply.
I’ll always be thankful to Billy for helping me realize that I do have a testimony and that I shouldn’t keep it inside.
I had been in front of the class answering questions for over 30 minutes. We even missed part of our break. And I felt radiant the rest of the day.
This experience helped me realize that people want to know about the gospel. I also realized that I have a duty to share my knowledge with others.

Many years ago, while serving as a stake president, a dear sister came into my office in tears. She had served a mission, married in the temple, and served faithfully in her callings. Terrible wildfires had just blazed through our area and many homes in our stake had been destroyed, including hers. To make things worse, her home was a licensed care facility for the elderly and was their primary source of income. Everyone was safely evacuated, but her family’s worldly belongings and livelihood were gone. She cried, “Why did this happen to us? We have kept our covenants!”
I offered a silent prayer and then placed a blank sheet of white paper on the desk in front of her. Then I placed a pin-sized dot in the middle of the paper and said, “This dot represents mortality. Let us assume the paper represents eternity and stretches forever in each direction. I am so sorry this happened to you, but please do not be blinded by the dot.” To this dear sister’s credit, her countenance immediately changed, and she said with a sigh of relief, “Oh, I get it. I’ll be fine. Thank you!”

Some years ago, I prayed for the words to defend motherhood when I received an anonymous phone call.
The caller asked, “Are you Neill Marriott, the mother of a big family?”
I answered happily, “Yes!” expecting to hear her say something like, “Well, that’s good!”
But no! I’ll never forget her reply as her voice crackled over the phone: “I am highly offended that you would bring children onto this overcrowded planet!”
“Oh,” I sputtered, “I see how you feel.”
She snapped, “No—you don’t!”
I then whimpered, “Well, maybe I don’t.”
She started on a rant about my foolish choice to be a mother. As she went on, I began to pray for help, and a gentle thought came to mind: “What would the Lord say to her?” I then felt I was standing on solid ground and gained courage at the thought of Jesus Christ.
I replied, “I am glad to be a mother, and I promise you I will do everything in my power to nurture my children in such a way that they will make the world a better place.”
She replied, “Well, I hope you do!” and hung up.
It wasn’t a big thing—after all, I was standing safely in my own kitchen! But in my own small way, I was able to speak in defense of family, mothers, and nurturers because of two things: (1) I understood and believed God’s doctrine of the family, and (2) I prayed for words to convey these truths.