Gospel Story Finder

In 1969, I had just finished college and had set up my first studio in a chicken coop behind my dad’s house. It was scary. With a wife and two small children to support, I had no idea how I was going to make a living. I wanted to be an artist, but at the time, there were very few artists who made their living by selling their work. It was real scary.
One of the lucky breaks for me in those early years was an article on my work which appeared in a Church magazine. Not yet a full-fledged magazine, the “Era of Youth” was just a 14-page insert in the old Improvement Era magazine, which later became the Ensign.
The editors came to my studio one day to do a story on my art. They had photos taken of my makeshift studio, published several of my poems, and even, before it was all over, chose one of my sculptures as the cover for the entire magazine, the February 1969 issue.
It was not the most typical cover the Era ever published, since it consisted of welded steel scraps and an egg beater reworked into a piece of sculpture called “One-man Sub.” A bronze figure of a boy sat in the submarine, floating in Plexiglas waters with pasted-in clouds.
More than a few subscribers probably looked twice and scratched their heads that month as they tried to figure out what a submarine was doing on the front cover of the Church magazine.

BYU student Pam Richmond, 18, was on her way to work when a man asked her for directions. She thought he was probably a conference visitor, so when he said he’d drop her off at work if she’d point him toward the freeway, she wasn’t worried. It was only a few minutes later when he drove past her stop and pulled out a gun that she knew she was in real trouble.
“At first I couldn’t believe this was happening to me,” said Pam. “The gun really scared me, and I didn’t know if I’d get out alive. When I understood that he intended to hurt me, I said a prayer, and then I felt very calm. I knew I had to do something to get away from him.
“The car was going about 60 miles an hour, but I felt very strongly that I should jump—so I did. I remember the ground whizzing by me, I didn’t feel anything, though I got scraped up. When I stopped rolling, I just got up and ran as fast as I could, yelling at people to stop and help me. Finally someone took me to the police.”
Pam is one of the fortunate people who was able to escape without being seriously hurt. But it was a frightening experience, and she was very lucky. Afterwards she realized that it isn’t just other people who need to be cautious—that a life-threatening incident can happen to anyone.

Finally, after years of being patient, I was baptized just two days after my 18th birthday. And soon I will share with my mother the happiness I felt that day, because I will be baptized for her. I know she will be proud of the life I have chosen.

I feel blessed by Heavenly Father because He was with me during my entire journey in so many ways. I just had to wait and be patient because He had a plan for me. He’s the one who gave me strength to go through all the challenges I faced. He was always there, helping me be happier.

Photograph by Christina Smith
I love the temple because it’s a place where you can truly feel the Spirit. It’s a place of purity where you can really feel the love of Christ.
I had the opportunity to live in the United States for a year. After I got there, for a while I was really lonely. I missed my family and my home, but I struggled with more than just that. I didn’t have a lot of friends at school, I was having a hard time with the language and culture, and I had a little trouble with the family I was living with.
Even at church I sometimes felt alone. I felt like going home. I really wanted to see my family again.
But I started to think about Jesus Christ and how He suffered for me. I prayed, and God comforted me. Where I was staying, the temple was so close—just six minutes away. So I decided to go to the temple once a week, and that really was a blessing in my life.
Things began to change. I found some good friends, and God made it possible for me to continue to the end of my time away from home. I know that I felt comfort because of Jesus Christ. He gave me help and strength, and that gave me courage. People sometimes think that the Atonement of Jesus Christ is just about repentance. But Christ is also a source of great comfort. I know I can’t possibly understand everything He endured, but He understands me.
Yona C., 17, France

Nothing prepared me for the day when my wife of 10 years said she wanted to leave the Church and our marriage. True, each of us had lacked maturity, kindness, forgiveness, and love, but I wanted to keep trying to improve our marriage. She, however, did not.
I felt that I was honoring my covenants, studying the scriptures enthusiastically, and serving dutifully in my ward bishopric. But after my wife left, I became so bewildered, angry, and confused that I would wake up in the middle of the night in agony. Tears flowed, and I would do the only thing I could do—pray for hours.
I felt like the driver of a car who was driving safely but was then suddenly struck by another car careening out of control. Wasn’t my obedience supposed to shield me from calamity?
I wondered if ward members thought I was a fraud. I was a ward leader whose family was contrary to the image of a model family. How could I face ward members when my life felt broken? Because I felt inadequate, I concluded that I should ask to be released from my calling.
“If you struggle with feelings of inadequacy, you shouldn’t,” my bishop said. “We are all human and make mistakes.”
Five difficult years later, I noticed I had changed. I was more loving and forgiving. My soul was calmer. I saw my weaknesses as opportunities to be refined by the Holy Ghost (see Ether 12:27).
In time, I met a wonderful woman with two children from a previous marriage. She became my wife in 2020. I’ve been happy ever since. My nightly tears of anguish now flow as tears of gratitude. The Lord is pouring out so many blessings.

At that time, my mother was getting older and had difficulty caring for Custodia. She decided to go to a care center. Custodia went to a facility that cares for people with disabilities. That’s when we started to pick her up and have her stay with us every weekend. We did this for about four years.
Just before my mother died, my husband and I visited her. She held our hands and told us she trusted us to take care of Custodia. We told her we would. For the last 15 years, my sister has lived with us and we have cared for her.
Of course it was hard in the beginning. I had to leave my job to take care of my sister. But it has been a blessing. When Ulisses and I were first married, we discovered we couldn’t have children. Custodia is like a child sent from God for us to take care of. In many ways, she helps fill the void we feel being childless. She’s loving and caring. She loves to laugh and loves going to church. She is a joy.

My mom and I seemed to drift apart after I joined the Church. She didn’t accept my new beliefs and resented me for leaving the church she had raised me in. I had prayed about what to do to help us become close again.
One Sunday, someone spoke about the need to let the people we love know how much they mean to us. The speaker suggested that we not only express it verbally, but also seal it with a hug and a kiss. I couldn’t remember my family ever hugging, kissing, or expressing our love for one another. Everyone just sort of assumed they were loved and hoped they were right.
That day, I decided I would give it a try. It wasn’t easy. In fact, it was a bit scary. But I did it. I told my mom how much I loved her, gave her a kiss on the cheek, and hugged her. It was as though the balm of Gilead had somehow healed the cankering that was coming between us.
That act, inspired by prayer, seems to have had an effect on the entire family. Now when any relatives leave our home, they do so with a hug and a kiss. It gets quite interesting when a lot of family members are present, but I wouldn’t change it for the world.

When I was a student at the University of Vienna in Austria, two missionaries came to my door, saying, “We have a message for you from God.” I invited them in, wondering why I did so because I didn’t have any interest in religion. Deeply affected by the Hungarian Revolution of 1956—which sent thousands of refugees streaming into Austria—I had been seeking to know the meaning of life. But I didn’t expect to find the answer in any church.
The message of these missionaries was the message of the Restoration. I think I loved the Prophet Joseph Smith from the first moment I heard about him. I was especially touched by the circumstances of his Martyrdom. Later, as I spent time reading the Book of Mormon and praying, I received through the power of the Holy Ghost a joyful, peaceful assurance that Jesus is the Christ, that Joseph Smith was the Prophet of the Restoration, and that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is the Lord’s restored Church on the earth, led by living prophets who prepare the world for His Second Coming.

Sometimes the late summer rains would wash out the dams and leave all the valley dry and the canals all dry. Then the older boys, my brothers, answered the call to rush up to the headwaters of the canal with their teams and scrapers and wagons to haul rocks and brush and gravel to fill up the dam again to divert the water from the river to the farms and homes.
Years later we learned to make the sausage dams. The sausage dam was a long wire mesh filled with rocks to fill the water holes of the river and divert the river water back into the canal.
Nearly all the boys and girls were baptized in that famous old Union Canal.

It seemed just like any other day to Mura as she turned over in bed and found her two sisters missing. Yet, there was a certain feeling of excitement in the air that caused everyone in the house to hurry.
Why would anyone want to rush around on such a beautiful Saturday? Mura wondered, trying to fight for those last few winks of sleep.
The warm morning breeze and crisp sunlight, along with the sound of busy people in the other room, told Mura it was time to get up.
Finally she sat up in bed and was stretching toward the ceiling when her mother came into the room. “So, you finally decided to wake up. Don’t you know we have a big day ahead of us, sleepy bones?”
Mother helped Mura put on her Sunday dress and they went into the kitchen where the rest of the family had already started eating. Porridge and Maori bread. Mmmmm! thought Mura as she quickly joined her family at the table for her favorite breakfast.
After their meal, father made a last-minute inspection of Mura’s brothers and sisters. Soon the whole family was on its way to the pa (native Maori village) where there is usually a meetinghouse, an eating house, and a sleeping house for overnight visitors.
As Mura walked along holding her mother’s hand, she looked around at the crowd. She had never seen this many people in their small village before, and they were all going to the marae (courtyard). She saw her very best friend Rangi, her cousins all the way from Tauranga, and even some pakehas (white people) she had never seen. It was very unusual for white people to attend such a meeting.
Soon Mura’s family arrived to find the marae already crowded with happy, excited people of all ages. There were far too many of them to fit into the meetinghouse, so chairs were set up on the porch of the beautifully carved building for those who were to speak at the huitau (conference). Many had brought blankets and chairs so that they could sit down when the meeting began.
Things seemed confusing to Mura as she looked around at the hundreds of moving legs, but then a smile came across her face as she spotted Rangi again through the crowd. The two met halfway and Rangi’s parents followed the pair back to Mura’s family.
The grownups stood and talked about grown-up things while Mura and Rangi played tag.
A whisper soon started rustling through the crowd. “Tumuki (president), the great Tumuki is coming, Tumuki Kauri. …” The crowd became very still as one of the elders of the tribe began chanting a welcome and Mura’s brother dressed in a traditional costume began hopping, gliding, and twirling his taiaha (spear) above his head. Slowly he approached the gate where several pakeha strangers stood.
Placing a fern branch on the ground, Mura’s brother backed away and a very distinguished-looking man picked it up to show that they were friends. The whole congregation began singing as the group walked toward the front of the meetinghouse.
After the opening song and prayer, the chief of Mura’s tribe began to speak. As he spoke, her mind began to drift to all the things she and Rangi could be doing instead of sitting in the hot sun listening to stuffy preachers, but her attention was drawn back to the speaker when she heard him say, “And now we will hear from Tumuki Matiu Kauri (President Matthew Cowley).”
With that the crowd was completely still. Not a whisper or breath could be heard from the hundreds of people as the stately man, who had picked up the fern leaf earlier, rose and began to speak in perfect Maori. If Mura had closed her eyes, she would have thought it was her grandfather speaking. Each word seemed to sink deeply into her heart as Tumuki Kauri spoke of love and peace and of Jesus’ life on earth.
For the first time in Mura’s life she knew what it was like to hear a man of God. He spoke for an hour and a half without losing one of his eager listeners.
When the meeting was over, Mura told her mother that she wanted to see President Cowley up close. Before her mother had a chance to reply, Mura disappeared through the crowd.
After working her way through the jungle of legs, Mura made it to the meetinghouse. There she saw him. As the people who were waiting to greet the great Tumuki approached, he would shake their hands, press noses in a Maori hongi, and say a few words in Maori to them. He called many of them by name.
Mura hesitated to approach the president; besides, the line was very long, so she stood back and watched him shaking hands. Then, suddenly, he left the line of people waiting to see him and started walking directly toward Mura.
With a big smile, he bent down and picked up the surprised girl. “What is your name?” he asked.
“Mura Tarawa,” she said shyly.
“Oh yes, Brother Tarawa’s little girl. I hear you are the prettiest little girl in town.”
Mura smiled and flung her arms around President Cowley’s neck. And as she hugged him, Mura felt more sure than ever that this man who had come to visit her people was truly an apostle of the Lord.

Mariam Conarroe, 12, yawned. She was tired and had a right to be. “Only three days,” she said to herself. “And we’ve done everything.”
Even before the trip began, the schedule had been full. Six months ago, as part of the preparations, everyone had been challenged to read the Book of Mormon. There had been regular reminders and repeated encouragement. Everybody had at least read some of it. Then there was the planning, and the preparation—how many times had they talked in Young Women classes about coming here, about how fun this would be?
Then—was it just a few days ago?—Mariam remembered getting up early, piling into trucks and cars, getting teased and teasing back, and suddenly being in Vernal, at a service station where Tyrannosaurus rex waves at motorists, urging them to buy gasoline.
From there the next three days rushed by in a blur. A visit to the bone quarry at Dinosaur National Monument. Two hours at a water slide. Pitching tents for camp. Skits and talks and firesides. Washing your hair with the help of a bucket. Floating the Green River—not once, but twice. A morning spent alone, reading the Book of Mormon and praying. Testimony meeting. A service project clearing aspen seedlings at the base of a fire lookout tower. Biting into juicy, sweet fruit at a watermelon feast.
Mariam yawned again, tired but happy.
“It’s been busy.”
She felt something comfortable, but it was more than the glow from the campfire. There was a wonderful feeling inside of her, a knowledge that here among leaders and friends she could do good things and be accepted.
She wrapped her quilt around her. It sure felt nice to be warm.

Relief Society sisters in Billingham Stake came together to sort items for the Somewhere Else charity in Stockton. Assisted by missionaries, Elder Bevan and Elder Landers, the sisters enthusiastically transported bags of pasta, washing-up liquid, flour, stock cubes, and other items to fill care packages. A group of members and missionaries went to the Somewhere Else premises to complete and finish off the care packages ready for distribution. Carole Le Darcy, a member of Billingham Ward, founder and CEO of the charity Somewhere Else, recalls: “I was delighted with the offer of help to purchase much-needed items for our beneficiaries and overwhelmed with the response from church members who came together to sort and package in preparation for distribution. ...It was wonderful to have the missionaries and church members come to our building, and with a little help from some of our beneficiaries, the project was complete. We are so grateful for all the church has done to support our charity, I only wish that you could see the joy and gratitude in the faces of the recipients.”

I would like to share an experience that has had a profound impact on my life.
Seven years ago, my son Marc had an acute pain in the stomach area. It often woke him up late at night and we made regular trips to the medical clinic. The ultrasound examinations they performed on him did not provide any reason for the pain, and it continued until it began to seriously impact his schooling. The pediatrician suggested we put medicine in his bag and let the teacher give it to him when the pain got very bad.
One day, the teacher called me and was quite concerned because the pain was more excruciating than usual. He was going to send him to the hospital. Of course, I was very upset. The doctor prescribed some medicine and told my son to stay in bed at home because he could not walk. With tears in my eyes, I hurried to the pharmacy, not knowing if my son would live or not, his pain and moans were so bad.
When I got to the pharmacy, I saw a scene that greatly impacted me. There was a young mother there trying to purchase medicine for the baby she was holding that was about a year old and you could see that he was in very bad shape. Everyone in the pharmacy could hear the conversation between the pharmacy employee and the young mother when the employee told the mother that she did not have enough money to purchase medicine for both severe malaria and anemia. With tears in her eyes, the young mother said “my son must be hospitalized, and I only have 5000 f CFA, the last note I have left. If I buy two medications, my son will have nothing to eat to take his medication.” The employee could not help her. The young lady took one of her prescriptions and left sadly.
Listening to the exchange while standing in line, there was a battle going on in my head between two voices. One told me to buy the medicine for the young lady, while another dissuaded me from it, warning me of the risk of putting my own son’s life in danger without returning home with his medicine full.
After this internal fight of a few moments, another voice said to me: “She could be your daughter, or your mother. If you were in her place what would you have wanted someone to do for you?”
After thinking of this, I made my decision, to buy the drugs for the young stranger. I asked the guard who regulated the entries to call her back because she and her baby had left the pharmacy.
Before the mother returned, I asked the cashier to give her the entire medical prescription without mentioning my name or my presence, and I would pay the bill. The cashier respected my wishes and when the young mother asked for the identity of her benefactor, to offer thanks, she was simply told that she could return to her home.
I said a prayer within me: “May God strengthen your child and grant him healing”. After that, an indescribable deep peace and immense joy came into my mind. I was happy to see the lady leave with the medicine.
Given my now limited means, I bought a very small part of the medication prescribed for my son and went home with joy in my heart. I had arrived in tears at the pharmacy, but returned home joyfully, even though I was still feeling fear of knowing in what state I would find my son.
Imagine my surprise and joy when I returned home to see Marc sitting in the living room, quietly watching his favorite TV series called “Fireman Sam”. He was miraculously cured.
Later, becoming a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and studying the scriptures, I was able to understand that the miraculous healing of my son was certainly linked to the gesture I made towards the unknown. While I was giving love to someone else, God was working for me.
Today my son is 13 years old and has not felt his pain since that day at the pharmacy.
There is power in the love we give to our neighbor without expecting anything.

The last week with Stevo in our house passed quickly. The Saturday morning it was time for him to leave you’d have thought someone died. Tim said he was losing his best friend, and Mom dabbed her eyes and said it felt just like when Rodney went away to college, even though he was going only a few miles to his next host family.

As I drove Stevo to his new home, I realized there was something I wanted to say to him. I had been a jerk. Selfish. My own little room, my kingdom, where I could shut the world out and indulge in self-pity, had been so important. So important I almost shut out something that on some level seemed more important than I knew how to explain. I glanced over at Stevo. His large nose pointed straight ahead, serene, knowing exactly where he was going as he continued his journey through life.

I made my decision. I pulled over to the curb and parked under the bough of a large chestnut tree.

“Something is wrong, Matt?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. “I have a confession to make.” I took a deep breath. “I didn’t like you at all when you came to live with us. And the first time I saw you I didn’t know what I was going to do with you for the next month. You seemed like trouble and a bother. I didn’t even try to hide it. I’m sorry. I was wrong, and I’m going to miss you and our talks.”

“I will miss our talks too, Matt.”

“Stevo, you have something. People always seem to want to be around you. Why? What is your secret?”

“I don’t know any secret, Matt. All I know is from the time I was tiny my mother told me often that if I treated other people as important as I wanted to be treated, then things would always work out. When we found the Church and discovered Christ, it was easy to see that all children of God deserve to be loved.”

“Even people who are trying to kill you?” I asked.

“Them especially. Easy to love those who treat us nice, my father says. Best part is to love those who hate us. That doesn’t mean we try to put ourselves in a place where they can hurt us. We try to understand so we don’t hate them back.”

Then I said, “I wish I had something to remember you by, Stevo. When I am with you, you make me want to be better. I want to change.”

“Matt, can I give you a gift?”

“I guess so.”

Stevo reached into his flight bag and pulled out the Book of Mormon he read nearly every night. He opened it and wrote in it.

I took the book and read what it said. To my best American friend, Matt: To want to change is the first step to be better. This book makes me want change to every day. Perhaps it can do the same for you. Your friend, Stevo.

I set the book down on the seat, put the car in gear, and headed down the street. We drove in silence. When we arrived at our destination, Stevo’s new host family was out front waiting. I helped him with his bags and then did something I had never done before in my life. I gave a guy a hug. Stevo was out of my room, but I knew he would never be out of my life.

I keep Stevo’s book by my bed and read from it often. Mom and Dad wonder why I treat everyone around here better. I even invited Tim to move in with me.

What shocked everyone most, though, was one Sunday several weeks ago I told them I wanted to go to church with Stevo before he returned to his home. That was, however, only part of the truth. The place Stevo goes every Sunday has a spirit of change, and that’s what I want to do. When I grow up, I want to be like Stevo.

One of the biggest blessings during my time of service has been learning the importance of acting on promptings when they are received. When the Spirit tells me to do something, I try to do it, no matter how small it may seem. For instance, I felt prompted to pray for rain while teaching a family for the first time. The little ranchero where I am serving has been in drought for several years and rarely sees rain, but the Spirit prompted me to ask for rain. That night, it rained. This made such a strong impression that the family asked us to return to continue to teach the gospel.

About six months before the end of the war, I was assigned to an unit where the new incoming young people were trained on radar equipment. We were stationed in Seesen in the Harz Mountains, and I was about 17. One day we had to write a composition about Germany, and mine was judged the best one. The officer had me stand in front of the whole unit, and he said: “Congratulations for writing the best composition. I expect you to volunteer now to become an officer for the German Reich. We need people with your potential, and I expect your written application tonight.”
“I don’t have to wait until tonight,” I said. “I refuse.”
He got really furious and wanted to punish me. He said, “Tomorrow, I will ask you again, and the next day again.”
“Well, I’m not going,” I told him. I was not in tune with the spirit of national socialism. My father was a friend of the Jewish people, and we had always prayed for them in our home. The officer asked me what I wanted to do. “I want to go with the rest of the group,” I said. He told me if I didn’t want to volunteer I was ordered to stay behind and train the young people. There was no other choice.
Although I was forced to stay in that group where I didn’t want to stay, once that officer said I had to stay I felt very secure about it, like that was where I was supposed to be. All my friends were sent to Russia. Only one came back—all the others were killed. The Lord guided me to be in the right place at the right time for my life to be spared.

While on my mission in the Philippines, my companion and I taught a particularly powerful lesson about the importance of studying the Book of Mormon daily. At the end of the lesson, my companion bore one of the most powerful testimonies of scripture study that I had ever heard. She testified that reading the Book of Mormon added a new power into her life that was impossible to explain.
It was obvious that her experience with the Book of Mormon had changed her life, and I wanted that for myself.
I decided that night that I would read the Book of Mormon again. From the beginning.
I spent a lot of time on my knees explaining to God that I wanted to experience the conversion and power that comes from the Holy Ghost.
The answer I received was: Read. Just read.
So that’s what I did. I threw myself into reading with a new vigor. I paid special attention to each verse, chapter, and page. As I read, I found verses that answered my questions, soothed my worries, and helped lift the burdens of those I was teaching.
After about a month, I realized that something inside of me was changing. My capacity to love others increased; I had more hope in the future; I was able to work harder and longer each day; I was more focused on the work; and I started to feel so much joy.
One day in my studies I came across a quote from President Ezra Taft Benson (1899–1994), former president of the Church: “There is a power in the [Book of Mormon] which will begin to flow into your lives the moment you begin a serious study of the book. … When you begin to hunger and thirst after those words, you will find life in greater and greater abundance.”1
As I continued to study, I began to really understand what he meant. I was finding life in greater abundance.
Looking back, I am convinced that one of the reasons I was put with that companion was so I could be there that night to hear her testimony. I felt like all the good parts of life—love, hope, trust, hard work, determination, and joy—were amplified.
There was a new light in my life, and I knew that it was real.

Illustration by Allen Garns
I was finishing my mission in the Illinois Chicago South Mission when I received special permission to visit a previous area and have dinner with the Tremillo family. I had served in their ward for a whole year and had grown close to them.
During dinner, Brother Tremillo encouraged me to share at least one message of happiness on my way home. He said the Lord would put someone on my flight who would need my help. I promised him that I would.
From that time to the time I left Chicago, I was also praying to receive confirmation that the Lord would accept my sacrifice of serving a mission.
Three weeks later, I boarded the plane that would take me home. As I approached my seat, the person in the seat next to mine looked up. “No way!” she said. “I can’t believe it!”
My first thought was, “Great, she hates Mormons!” When I sat down, she told me that her name was Kelly and that she was a recent convert. She expressed how happy she was that a missionary was sitting next to her. Kelly told me that the last person she had sat next to was anti-Mormon and unkind in how she expressed her opinion of Kelly’s newfound faith. Kelly was distraught and had questions. She had been praying for answers and comfort.
I said a prayer in my heart and testified of the truth of the gospel and of God’s love for His children, including her. I told her about the advice I had received from Brother Tremillo. I said that God had prepared this special moment just for her.
With tears in her eyes, Kelly thanked me. She also said, “I can tell that you were a good missionary and that the Lord accepts your sacrifice.” At that moment, I felt God’s deep love for me. It was my turn to cry. With tears in my eyes, I thanked Kelly and told her that she had been an answer to my prayer. I answered a few more of her questions, and we exchanged email addresses.
Our flight landed and we waved goodbye as she walked to her next flight. I will always be grateful that Heavenly Father was willing to bless us in such a tender way.

The next morning I found my father in the kitchen again.
"What shall we do today?" he asked.
"Let’s go to church," I said.
"Aw, no one at church wants me there," he replied.
"I do," I said.
He looked at me for a few moments, then smiled. "Okay. Let’s go."
I slipped on the dress my father had bought me the day before and brushed my hair.
My father whistled when he saw me. "You look pretty as a picture. All the boys in the ward will be glad I came today and brought my daughter."
I laughed.
When we entered the foyer at the church, a short stocky man came forward to greet us. "Hello, John," he said, extending his hand to my father.
"Hello," my father replied. "This is Cathy, my daughter. Cathy, this is my home teacher, Brother … ah …"
"Richardson," the man said. "Nice to meet you, Cathy."
"Nice to meet you, Brother Richardson," I replied.
The man disappeared in the crowd but reappeared a few minutes later with a pretty brunette woman about my father’s age.
"John," he said, "I have someone I’d like you to meet. This is Myrna Wilson. She’s a widow," he said meaningfully.
Myrna Wilson blushed noticeably, and my father sputtered out a "Nice to meet you." I suppressed a giggle.
I teased my father about it later that day when we were home from church. "You have to watch those Mormons," I grinned. "They’re always trying to marry someone off. But I have to admit, Widow Wilson wasn’t bad, was she?"
He laughed. "Yes, you Mormons are always trying to marry someone off."
"Would you do me a favor?" I asked suddenly serious.
"What?"
"Would you quit smoking?"
My father’s face fell. "I’d like to, Cathy, I really would. I’ve tried a hundred times, but I can’t."
"I’ll help you this time. Brother Richardson probably would too." Then I grinned. "I’ll bet even Widow Wilson would help."
He grinned back. "Okay. I’m not making any promises, but I’ll try."
"Good," I said. "I just know you can do it." Outside a car horn honked. "There’s your mom," my father said. "You better not keep her waiting. I’ll call you, okay?"
"Okay," I said. Then I hugged him.
"Good-bye, Cathy," he said.
"Good-bye, dad," I answered. Halfway out the door I turned back. "Tell Widow Wilson hello from me."
I could hear him chuckling as I shut the door and headed for the car where my mother was waiting.

This Sunday I was sitting in Young Women listening to a lesson on revelations and how to get them.
Earlier that week I had been praying and asking Heavenly Father for help in being a better person and daughter. I expected a big wow feeling, but I never got one. I got thoughts in my head, saying, “Is that what Jesus would do?” or “Do this for your mom,” and I thought that was me thinking.
But in church I realized God doesn’t always give you a loud answer. Sitting there listening, I felt the Spirit so much—the biggest, warmest feeling ever. I almost started crying. I now know that God doesn’t talk to you loudly or publicly. Sometimes it is just a quiet answer in your mind that you should follow.