Gospel Story Finder

Another story involves Ruth, a seminary student, who felt she had no occasion to exercise her free agency. At home she was a servant to her inactive and very demanding mother and stepfather. At school she had been placed in a specific seminary class without any choice on her own part. She decided to drop the seminary class as part of her decision to use her free agency. After two weeks away from the class, she returned—she had made a decision with her agency, and it was a decision she felt good about.

When I was 17, I worked at an inn in Kailua-Kona, Hawaii, USA. Working as a bellhop, I saw many famous people as guests of the hotel, including John Wayne, Dorothy L’Amour, and Esther Williams.
One evening, after most of the guests had arrived, I was taking a break at the front of the hotel when a black limousine stopped at the curb and seven men got out, dressed in black pants, white shirts, and ties. Another man in a black suit accompanied them. After the driver parked their car, all of them went into the dining room for dinner. I thought they looked like FBI agents as I went back inside to continue my duties answering room-service calls.
About an hour later, I was outside the hotel smoking a cigarette while the group I had seen earlier came back out to return to their limo, which was waiting at the curb. They went down the walkway to the car and opened the rear door to allow the black-suited man to get in. But instead of entering the car, the black-suited man stopped, turned around to look at me leaning against the building, and walked up to me.
He was tall and thin, with wire-rimmed glasses and a small white goatee. He extended his hand to shake mine and put his other hand on my shoulder. I was struck that such a distinguished-looking man would come and talk to me, a young man he didn’t even know.
I cannot recall all the words he spoke to me other than to say that “those things are bad for you,” referring to my cigarette. His kindness and demeanor made quite an impression on me.
Over a year later I took discussions from the missionaries and was baptized.
While looking through pictures of leaders of the Church, I noticed a picture of President George Albert Smith (1870–1951) and recognized him immediately as the kind and distinguished man I’d met in front of the inn. I was even more impressed that the President of the Church would do such a thing to someone like me, a boy who wasn’t even a member of the Church and of no particular importance.
What a great man he was to show such love and concern for a young boy working in an unnoticed position and having no understanding of the gospel or our Heavenly Father’s love for us.
Sixty-five years later, I have a great understanding of that care and love, and I strive to see those around me as President Smith saw me.

I was so impressed by the effectiveness of this missionary approach by the prophet that I tried it myself in Puerto Rico. Just a few weeks later I was in San Juan, Puerto Rico, for a district conference. Following the morning session a Brother Martinez brought his nonmember mother and sisters up so I could meet them. As I leaned down over the railing of the stand I could hear the words of President Kimball ringing in my mind. Out they came: “Ma’am, the next time I shake your hand, I hope you are a member of this Church.” To my amazement and joy, her reply came quickly and sincerely, “And sir, so do I.” Five weeks following the conference the Martinez family was baptized. The father followed the rest of the family into the waters of baptism by three weeks. This experience has been repeated at least six times. My life has become rich by following the example set by President Kimball.

Brothers and sisters, six months ago as we met together in our general conference, my sweet wife, Frances, lay in the hospital, having suffered a devastating fall just a few days earlier. In May, after weeks of valiantly struggling to overcome her injuries, she slipped into eternity. Her loss has been profound. She and I were married in the Salt Lake Temple on October 7, 1948. Tomorrow would have been our 65th wedding anniversary. She was the love of my life, my trusted confidant, and my closest friend. To say that I miss her does not begin to convey the depth of my feelings.

This conference marks 50 years since I was called to the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles by President David O. McKay. Through all these years I have felt nothing but the full and complete support of my sweet companion. Countless are the sacrifices she made so that I could fulfill my calling. Never did I hear a word of complaint from her as I was often required to spend days and sometimes weeks away from her and from our children. She was an angel, indeed.

I wish to express my thanks, as well as those of my family, for the tremendous outpouring of love which has come to us since Frances’s passing. Hundreds of cards and letters were sent from around the world expressing admiration for her and condolences to our family. We received dozens of beautiful floral arrangements. We are grateful for the numerous contributions which have been offered in her name to the General Missionary Fund of the Church. On behalf of those of us whom she left behind, I express deep gratitude for your kind and heartfelt expressions.

Of utmost comfort to me during this tender time of parting have been my testimony of the gospel of Jesus Christ and the knowledge I have that my dear Frances lives still. I know that our separation is temporary. We were sealed in the house of God by one having authority to bind on earth and in heaven. I know that we will be reunited one day and will never again be separated. This is the knowledge that sustains me.

A little over a month before Kirill was born, in April 1986, a terrible nuclear accident occurred at Chernobyl, sixty miles from Kiev. Many children were taken in buses from town to camps to protect them from radiation. Kirill’s mother went to the country too. She was afraid he would be born with serious problems. When he was born a month early, his mother asked the doctor, “Does he have hands and legs?” She was relieved to learn that he did. Tanya has trouble with her eyes and has had three operations on them. Her mother doesn’t know if this was caused by the Chernobyl accident or not.

Eight-year-old Stewart was feeling happy. He had already been to church with his family. They had a big family, and this was a special day. Lots of friends and relatives were coming to eat dinner with them. Stewart was glad, because he loved being with all his cousins.
When his mother asked him if he’d like to go with her in the car, he quickly climbed in. As they drove around the corner, she told him that they were going to the store to get a few things that she needed for the dinner.
Stewart didn’t feel so happy anymore.
When the car pulled into the store parking lot, Mother climbed out and looked for Stewart. Where was he? She looked and looked. Finally she saw him crouched down in the backseat. “Aren’t you coming in with me, sweetheart?”
“No,” he mumbled miserably.
“OK. I’ll hurry.”
It wasn’t long until Mother came back carrying a bag. She put it into the backseat. As she drove home, she reached over and patted Stewart’s hand. “Why don’t you tell me what you are upset about.”
“I didn’t know that you were going to the store. I don’t ever want to go to the store on Heavenly Father’s special day.”
“Oh, Stewart, I’m so sorry! I will never go to the store on Heavenly Father’s day again.”
Mother knew that her little boy had made a better choice than she had. She knew that she shouldn’t shop on the Sabbath, even this one time, when it had seemed so important. Stewart taught her a lesson that she never forgot.
Stewart is all grown up now, and his mother is a grandma. Both of them remember that sunny Sunday afternoon and the lesson he taught her about keeping the Sabbath Day.

While in Argentina in 1975 at the area conference, President Kimball spoke to a large gathering of youth. Shortly after he began, he set aside his prepared text and shared a personal experience with them. He asked them, “Who gave you your voice?” He then told them about his experience with surgery to save his voice. He explained that the Lord had spared his voice. He said it wasn’t the same voice he had once had. He couldn’t sing as he had previously enjoyed doing but he did have a voice. He said his voice wasn’t a pretty one, but I tell you it was beautiful in what it taught that night. As he spoke the youth responded even before the translator could interpret his words. He told those present, “Serving a mission is like paying tithing; you’re not compelled—you do it because it’s right. We want to go on missions because it’s the Lord’s way. The Savior didn’t say, ‘If it’s convenient, go,’ he said, ‘Go ye into all the world.’” (Mark 16:15.) President Kimball explained that it was the responsibility of young women to help young men remain worthy and to encourage them to go on missions.
As the President concluded his remarks he asked, “Didn’t the Lord give you your voice so you could teach the gospel?” He then testified that he had come to know that his voice and our voices are for the declaring of the gospel of Jesus Christ and for testifying of the truths revealed to the Prophet Joseph Smith. President Kimball teaches us the correct perspective of life.

When I finished high school, I knew I had to wait at least two years before serving a mission. I decided to start my college education, calculating that I could be done with medical school in about six years if I invested myself fully. I planned to serve a full-time mission afterward.
After completing medical school at age 24, I started a clinical apprenticeship, which furthered my career opportunities. During this time a dilemma unfolded: should I really serve a mission, or should I keep working? My parents, my older brother (who had recently returned from his mission), my bishop, and a counselor in the local mission presidency all exhorted me to serve.
I believed they were right, but it was difficult to delay my promising medical career. I prayed and fasted for inspiration. I also consulted my patriarchal blessing, which recommended that I serve a full-time mission and promised blessings as a result.
One day, as I was taking public transport home from my apprenticeship, I ran into the stake patriarch. We got off at the same stop and, curiously, started walking in the same direction. He recognized me as a member of the Church.
As we walked together, he asked me what I was planning to do with my life. I explained that I was a doctor and was troubled about deciding between my career and a mission. He told me in a firm voice to serve the Lord by going on a mission, adding that I would be blessed as a result. To me, his response seemed to come from the Lord.
Immediately the following scripture entered my mind: “Seek ye first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things shall be added unto you” (3 Nephi 13:33).
I was certain the Lord had answered me. Without further hesitation, I decided to delay my professional career and serve a full-time mission. My fellow doctors thought I would forget medical practices after being away for two years. They harassed me, but I held firm to my decision.
Leaving behind my “Dr.” title, I served two years in the Democratic Republic of Congo Kinshasa Mission.
Five years later, I made a list of the major blessings that followed my service. Foremost, I found a wife—a faithful Church member and my crowning joy. We have two children so far. Our family is sealed for eternity. In the temple we have acted as proxies in performing ordinances for our deceased ancestors. I have secure employment, allowing my family to be self-reliant. These are only a few of the blessings we have received from the Lord.
I know that Heavenly Father never lies and that eventually He fulfills all His promises to us as we put our trust in Him and keep His commandments.

Two months now. Michele and Shawna were gone, Dad was in Houston on business, Mom was playing golf in Provo—and I sat under the locust taking in the dance of monarch butterflies along the hedge. So peaceful, so quiet, so dull. I amused myself by considering that the Savior was never a “returned missionary.” I had come to distrust the phrase. His mission was a mere three years, and he never went back home with nothing to do. Returning from a mission was a personal loss. You had to go on from there—become a goshawk and keep flapping your wings. I decided to make myself useful by helping Dad. He wanted the locust limbs trimmed away from the chimney before summer school.
On the roof I caught my breath after tossing off limbs. Gracious, I was thin! Wiping my forehead I saw Sister Hunter, two backyards away, bent over a rototiller—just as I had seen her husband do. Oh—it struck me: Brother Hunter had died of a heart attack a few weeks into my mission. How could I—I hated to even think the word—forget? Certainly he still hoed his beets and flooded his yard. Had he and Sister Hunter made it to the temple? Since my little medical problem I saw the temple as the abode of Deity, the place where, whatever the need, one found solace. Mom and Dad had worked with them after Brother Hunter joined the Church. But I hadn’t heard the results. As I grew up Sister Hunter offered me candy and nursed a bruised knee. She used to give me ice cream bars and a hug.
I climbed down from the roof and walked quickly down the block and into the driveway leading to her fence. After catching my breath, I said, “It’s the carburetor.”
“This pesky machine,” she said, “I want to kick it.” She was not old, only about 65, a small woman with hair the color of a fresh Oregon waterfall. She liked to wear a white cardigan sweater in cooler weather. Her eyes were green. She had a small, doll-like mouth that gave an appearance of youth. She loved to make vegetables and flowers grow.
With a screwdriver I adjusted the carburetor. But the short, frayed cord came taut under my jerked pulls. Nothing happened. I checked the oil—nothing wrong. Sister Hunter hovered above me like a mother eagle, watching first here and then there. Finally I got a spark plug out of our own lawn mower and, after more tinkering, the rototiller started. She said, “You’re a wonder. I never could have done that.”
After tilling her garden, which was deftly situated between the bank of grapes and the gray shed in the back, I helped her hand weed the corn against the side fences. I hadn’t had this much fun with dirt since the preparation day in Salem when I helped Brother Goss tie up his tomatoes. After a few mornings weeding by hand, we stood by her prospering garden as water filled the rows. She smiled and said, “Wouldn’t Henry be proud?”
Several “situations”—she refused to call them problems—plagued Sister Hunter. The grimy red pickup gathered heat in the driveway, and the water pump had quit in her washing machine on the back porch. I asked Mike Nelson, a young acquaintance at church, to help me, and within a few days we had installed a new fuel line in her ancient pickup. We road tested it through town with Jack, Sister Hunter’s faded-blond retriever. He wasn’t much help when I stalled at the Suprette Market. All he did was hang his head and loll his tongue. We ended up at the back of the store giving him water out of a discarded paper cup. Back at Sister Hunter’s we guzzled lemonade while taking breaks from her washing machine. I bought some frozen cans of lemonade to replenish her supply—and threw in a small pot roast for good measure. Mike thought I was nuts, but I wanted to do it. I found out she hadn’t had a special Sunday dinner since her husband died. Sure enough, at church she invited us over, and I graciously declined, not wanting to negate my good deeds. But she insisted. The next Sunday we arrived, and I discovered the table set with stunning china and sparkling silverware, a bouquet of peonies, and the steaming roast. Afterward I teased her about such a nice meal. Then we listened to a tape of a general conference talk by Elder James E. Faust on temple work while Mike fell asleep on the couch.
The next Tuesday I cornered Mike in an aisle of Pay Mart with a brilliant idea.
“Clean every one of her windows?”
“Yeah. Why not?”
“Inside and out?”
“Sure. It’s a small house.”
“You’re out of your tree.”
“So?”
So we armed ourselves with squeegees, clean rags, and spray bottles of glass cleaner and assaulted Sister Hunter’s windows, Mike outside, me inside. Her place sparkled, not a book out of place, not a dog hair on the couch, the islands of throw rugs floating on the polished hardwood floors. I spied on a lamp table a photograph of her husband, taken years ago. It stood behind an opened Bible which had on it a red pencil and glasses and which lay on an intricate doily. A hallowed feeling lingered in the house.
Both Mike and I figured our small act of kindness was finished. But one afternoon as I drowsed under the locust and thought about Sister Hunter, a strong feeling came over me that we hadn’t done enough. Her pickup ran, her washing machine purred, her windows shone, and her garden was a showpiece, the cool upturned earth mellowing in the furrows. What more could we do?
By now summer school was heating up, and I was busy as an instructor in the elders quorum. For diversion I hiked a few miles above Strawberry Reservoir, until I was too tired to go on and had to return. In the solemn hours I picked out lonely love songs on my guitar. Then late one evening as Mom and I endured our brewer’s yeast milk shakes I asked her about the Hunters’ temple sealing. Mom shrugged. “I don’t know what happened. Since her husband died she has stayed pretty much to herself.”
That night, in the privacy of my room, I poured out my heart to the Lord for courage to finish our task.
On a Friday after class at the Y, without Mike, who was shopping for a quick-action .22, I found myself enjoying the pungent aroma of cut apples in Sister Hunter’s blue kitchen.
“I appreciate you and Mike so much,” she said over her apples. “I’m an old sourpuss, I know. I’m too set in my ways. Won’t even talk to Bishop Thompson that much, but the home teachers are a blessing. Those young rascals think I can’t do for myself. But I can.” She glanced up at me. “Since Henry passed away, I’ve had to.” She went back to slicing apples, their whiteness glistening under her knife. Then she stopped and looked up at me again. “I never had a more trying time than when I waited for Henry to join the Church. I thought he never would, and I kind of gave up. But through it all I had to stay true—true to what I felt. You know, you’re the first one to take a real interest. And I don’t know how to say thanks.”
Like the goshawk, Sister Hunter had fierce eyes. They were light like a hawk’s, but green. She had learned to take care of herself—to keep her eyes alive by the spirit of life. She had flown into the cold recesses of fear and come back. She had fought harsh winds and long boreal hours of loneliness. The contempt I had read in the goshawk’s eyes, as in Sister Hunter’s, was a disdain for giving up—for anything vulgar or hurtful—a disdain for anything that kept him from flying freely through his northern forests.
I told her thanks were not necessary, and then I said good-bye, without having asked her about going to the temple. In Grants Pass, Oregon, I had strenuously challenged a hardened truck driver to quit smoking and he did, but I had not yet brought up the matter of the temple with Sister Hunter because I hadn’t found the words. We had talked about the temple, and we had listened to the words of an Apostle, but just what I should say had not come to me, short of simply asking, “Why haven’t you gone to the temple?” Tomorrow I would ask her.
On the back porch she stopped me. “You wait here. I want to show you something.”
She came from the house with a flat, white box, tattered and crushed, but still with its lid. She sat down beside me and opened it. She lifted out a lace veil from the box.
“This was my mother’s temple veil.” The veil, pure and white, held a sacred aura.
Sister Hunter’s eyes were intense, sparkling. For some time we sat on the back porch steps. Quietly, still composing herself, she asked, “Would you—and your folks—come with me to the temple some day? If I am worthy? Would you stand in for Henry?”
“Need you ask?” I replied, in hushed voice. “Of course.”
For days I thought about Sister Hunter’s temple veil. I had spent too much time worrying about myself. I too wanted to attend the temple and consecrate my service. The goshawk, Dad said, had to keep flying, and it too, after long hours, must have wondered about going on, wondered how it might finish what it had started. Sister Hunter had somehow shown me the continuity I sought between my mission and my present life—simply by being available to serve.

For nine years Professor Marvin Hill and I had worked on the book Carthage Conspiracy, which concerns the 1845 court trial of the murderers of Joseph Smith. We had several different sources of minutes on the trial, some bearing their author’s name and others unsigned. The fullest set of minutes was unsigned, but because we had located them in the Church Historian’s Office, we were sure they were the minutes kept by George Watt, the Church’s official scribe who was sent to record the proceedings of the trial. We so stated in seven drafts of our manuscript and analyzed all of our sources on that assumption.

Finally, the book was completed, and within a few weeks the final manuscript would be sent to the publisher. As I sat in my office at BYU one Saturday afternoon, I felt impelled to go through the pile of unexamined books and pamphlets accumulated on the table behind my desk. At the very bottom of a pile of 50 or 60 publications, I found a printed catalog of the contents of the Wilford C. Wood Museum, which Professor LaMar Berrett, the author, had sent to me a year and a half earlier. As I quickly flipped through the pages of this catalog of Church history manuscripts, my eyes fell on a page describing the manuscript of the trial minutes we had attributed to George Watt. This catalog page told how Wilford Wood had purchased the original of that set of minutes in Illinois and had given the Church the typewritten version we had obtained from the Church Historian.

We immediately visited the Wilford Wood Museum in Woods Cross, Utah, and obtained additional information which enabled us to determine that the minutes we had thought were the official Church source had been prepared by one of the lawyers for the defense. With this knowledge we returned to the Church Historian’s Office and were able to locate for the first time George Watt’s official and highly authentic set of minutes on the trial. This discovery saved us from a grievous error in the identification of one of our major sources and also permitted us to enrich the contents of our book significantly. The impression I received that day in my office is a cherished example of the way the Lord will help us in our righteous professional pursuits when we qualify for the impressions of his Spirit.

A few weeks after my baptism at age 30, the president of our branch in Piura, Peru, asked to interview me to determine my worthiness to receive the Aaronic Priesthood. After I sat down, President Jorge García offered a prayer. Then he asked me, “Do you believe in God?”
“Yes,” I replied.
“Do you keep the Word of Wisdom?”
“Yes,” I replied again.
“Are you chaste?”
“Yes.”
To this point I had been confident in my answers, but then came the next question: “Do you pay a full tithe?”
I was speechless. In my mind I could see the illustration the missionaries had shown me when they taught the discussion on tithing. They had said that one-tenth of our income belongs to the Lord. Then I heard another question: “Didn’t the missionaries teach you the law of tithing?”
“They did teach me,” I replied, “but I just don’t pay it.”
“I’m sorry,” President García said after a moment, “but you will have to pay your tithing in order to receive the priesthood. Start now, and pay the Lord your tithing.”
I left his office in a thoughtful mood. After reviewing the law of tithing later that day, I entered my room, knelt on the floor, and began to pray. “Heavenly Father, if I have robbed Thee by not paying my tithing, I ask Thee to forgive me. I promise I will never again fail to pay it.”
The following Sunday at church I asked the branch president for another interview. I told him I felt that the Lord had forgiven me and that He had accepted my commitment to pay tithing, which I began doing that very Sunday. “Am I worthy to receive the priesthood?” I asked.
“Yes,” he replied. “Today I will confer the Aaronic Priesthood upon you and ordain you to the office of deacon.”
Today I have a powerful testimony of tithing and the abundant blessings that come from paying it. In countless interviews since that Sunday more than 35 years ago, whenever my leaders have asked me if I pay a full tithe, I have been happy to answer yes!

I was scared I wouldn’t make new friends when we moved to South Korea. When I was reading the Friend, I saw Matt holding the South Korean flag in the “Find It!” activity (April 2020). Matt said, “Wherever you go in the world, Primary is the same.” I felt Heavenly Father was telling me that Matt was right and that I can go to Primary in South Korea and make friends!
Alice W., age 10, Gyeonggi-do, South Korea

“When I was ten years old, before I joined the Church, I had leukemia,” Bryce says matter-of-factly. “In April 1995 the leukemia came back.”
Now it was Bryce’s turn to be the example. Even though he knew all too well what the relapse would mean—chemotherapy, radiation, fatigue, pain, nausea—Bryce decided he was going to do as much “normal” stuff as he could. So, even though he was still feeling sick from one of his first treatments, Bryce made it to the stake center to be part of his branch’s road show. Now he goes to as many firesides and activities as he can. And he goes to school as much as he can.
“I still don’t like school,” he says with a grin, “but you sure do miss it when you’re gone. You miss seeing other people.”
And that’s where Bryce’s branch comes in, helping Bryce to pass the long hours in the hospital.
“The branch has really taken care of me,” says Bryce. “The Primary sent me cards, the youth sent me cards and came to visit, the Relief Society fed my family when my mom and I had to go to Calgary for special treatments. They made delicious meals with dessert and everything. They had a fast for me, and nothing went wrong.”
Bryce has a lot to teach others about positive attitude and courage. And since Bryce is the only member of the Church in his family, he (with lots of help from members of the branch) has also had the important task of teaching his family about prayer, faith, and LDS beliefs about life after death.
“Bryce has done so well,” says his mom. “I know that a combination of good things has happened to Bryce. It isn’t just the wonders of science, by no means. I just know that Bryce is being looked after.”
Bryce couldn’t agree more. And he knows that the blessings he’s received during his illness can be attributed to the greatest example of all, Jesus Christ.
“I’m not afraid of what might happen,” he says. “Now that I have the gospel and I know about the Atonement and how things work, I’ve learned to look for the good. I have a lot to be thankful for.”
Courage, gratitude, and faith—Bryce lives these principles every day. And who knows? Maybe he’s just the example someone else is looking for.

Having her grandmother living with her, Jassy Ramirez, 14, of the Manhattan 4th Ward, has the perfect opportunity to learn about her family. “My grandmother takes a lot of care with me,” says Jassy. “She has taught me how to clean house and how to wash clothes and fix my bed. She teaches me how to do all my chores.”
Jassy’s grandmother also tells her stories about growing up in the Dominican Republic. “My grandmother had 10 brothers and sisters. They were so poor. They suffered a lot. They didn’t have lights or running water. They couldn’t go to school,” says Jassy. “She tells me that it’s very important to get my education. Hearing these things makes me appreciate the things I have.”
Being with her grandmother every day has helped Jassy learn the value of working hard. Jassy has also learned to appreciate her mother, Eridania, who joined the Church when Jassy was seven. Because of her mother’s decision, Jassy has had the blessing of being raised in the Church. And now that she is old enough to be in Young Women, Jassy says, “When I started in Young Women, it helped me a lot. It helped me grow spiritually.”

She first heard the gospel preached in 1836 in Portage County, Ohio, about 40 miles (64 km) south of Kirtland. Cyrena took several months to decide to join the Church and was baptized in March 1837. In her autobiography, she noted that her siblings were “greatly mortified” at her choice and that as long as she lived at home, she “had to endure their persecutions.”2 Although she was the only member of her immediate family to join the Church, there was a small group of Latter-day Saints living nearby. She visited Kirtland that summer and received a patriarchal blessing from Joseph Smith Sr. in April 1838.3

Margie sat quietly on the back seat of the car, her dark eyes staring out at the city buildings whirling by in the soft evening light. The weight of her sadness felt like a stone on her chest. How she wished she could have moved to Chicago with the Petersen family. They had seemed as unhappy as Margie when the unexpected word came that Brother Petersen had to report at once for his new work. She had spent two school years with them, and it was almost like parting with her own family in Arizona when she had to say good-bye. The Petersens had taught her much about their ways, and they had been eager to learn of her Apache world.
“Well, Margie,” said Brother Randall, the Church social worker, interrupting the girl’s thoughts, “a week from tonight is Christmas Eve.”
Suddenly Margie realized that she had no gifts for her new family. She had given beads she had made and a few things bought with her allowance to the Petersens. Now she had no money to buy gifts and no time to make more.
“How many children did you say the Strattons have?” she asked Sister Randall who was sitting beside her.
“Four. Vicky is ten years old—the same as you. Paul is seven, Ted is five, and the baby is the age of our Tricia.” Sister Randall reached down to pat the baby, who laughed and then grabbed the bracelet on her mother’s wrist.
“We’re in Reseda now, Margie,” Brother Randall said. “Look at the tall palm trees on both sides of the street. We turn right at the next light.”
Margie felt her heart beat faster. What if the Strattons don’t like me, she thought, and what if I don’t like them? She wondered if she would ever see the Petersens again. Then, longing to be back on the reservation, she closed her eyes and could see her mother frying bread and hear her gentle voice talking to the little ones.
The car pulled into a driveway and stopped. When Margie opened the car door to get out, she heard a shout. The front door burst open and six people rushed out of the house to greet her. Margie remembered to look into their faces as the Petersens had taught her, but it was hard to think of anything to say. Quickly her bags were carried into the house, and she waved good-bye to Brother Randall and his family.
Vicky showed Margie where to put her clothes as she unpacked in the room they would share. Before prayers and bed that night, there was time to admire the Christmas tree. There were already some brightly wrapped packages under it, and Margie saw that her name was on some of them.
Later in bed, Margie lay listening to Vicky’s quiet breathing and let the tears run silently down her cheeks. She felt sad because she missed her other families and because she had brought no Christmas gifts for this new family who had so warmly received her into their home.
The next morning Margie stood at the bedroom window watching Paul and Ted playing games on the back lawn. Vickie had already gone downstairs. There was a light rap on the open door, and Sister Stratton asked, “May I come in?”
Margie nodded and smiled shyly.
“Margie,” Sister Stratton explained, “we have a Christmas tradition in our family that we have followed for several years. Each Christmas Eve we have a special program where we learn something about the cultures of our brothers and sisters in other lands. This year we have not prepared anything, hoping that you could share with us some of the traditions of your people.”
Because of her shyness, Margie was tempted to say that she couldn’t, but seeing the kind and expectant look in Sister Stratton’s eyes, Margie nodded that she would.
On Christmas Eve Margie wore the beautiful squaw dress her mother had made for her last summer. When they had bought the trim for the yards and yards of material, Margie had remarked that it must be a mile long. Now she smiled with satisfaction as she looked into the mirror. She divided her long black hair into two sections and tied each strand with yarn to match the dress.
When it was time for the Christmas Eve program, Vicky started the record for Margie’s part, and all the other Strattons smiled their pleasure when she entered the room. Slowly, rhythmically, Margie moved with grace and ease to the beat of the drum and the chanting voices. After the dance was over, the Strattons clapped enthusiastically and then Margie told them about her family in Arizona and the customs of her people. “Now,” she said, “if you will excuse me for just a minute, I’ll make you some Apache frybread.”
In the kitchen Margie stretched the dough she had prepared earlier and dropped it into hot oil. She could hear the children’s excited chatter in the other room. Vicky and Paul were eager to learn the Apache dance. Ted insisted that he wanted to play the drums and “say” the songs.
Brother Stratton came into the kitchen and put his arm around Margie. “Margie, this has been one of the nicest Christmas Eves we have ever had. Thank you for giving us so much!”
Margie smiled shyly and handed him a plate of frybread.

Many years ago I had the opportunity to deliver a commencement address to a graduating class. I had gone to the home of President Hugh B. Brown that we might drive together to the university where he was to conduct the exercises and I was to speak. As President Brown entered my car, he said, “Wait a moment.” He looked toward the large bay window of his lovely home, and then I realized what he was looking for. The curtain parted, and I saw Sister Zina Brown, his beloved companion of well over fifty years, at the window, propped up in a wheelchair, waving a little white handkerchief. President Brown took from his inside coat pocket a white handkerchief, which he waved to her in return. Then, with a smile, he said to me, “Let’s go.”

As we drove, I asked President Brown to tell me about the sign of the white handkerchiefs. He related to me the following incident: “The first day after Sister Brown and I were married, as I went to work I heard a tap at the window, and there was Zina, waving a white handkerchief. I found mine and waved in reply. From that day until this I have never left my home without that little exchange between my wife and me. It is a symbol of our love one for another. It is an indication to one another that all will be well until we are joined together at eventide.” Yes, a model to follow, “an example of the believers.”

As a youth of 18, I went off almost directly from high school graduation to World War II, carrying with me a carbon copy of my patriarchal blessing, which got very smudged. I read it for consolation and reassurance as a young, frightened infantryman during the fighting on the Pacific Island of Okinawa. Just prior to that, high school, for me, had brought some crises in self-esteem. Raising pigs for a farm club project did not, with some, help my social life; severe acne was no help either; and not being very tall meant, among other things, not making the basketball team. All of these things had combined to produce personal disappointment just prior to my going off to war.

But as I left the home of loving and “goodly parents,” I knew who I was and there were some glimmerings of the future. I knew, too, that the Lord loved me. Otherwise, I was insecure and anxious.

When I was growing up, young men went on missions when they were 20 years old. Not all young men were expected to go on missions, as they are today. My father had always hoped I would go on a mission, and he had encouraged me. But as I got older, I wondered, Is that really what I want to do?
My priests quorum adviser, Dale Waite, was a great example and a wonderful teacher. One time he took us to a ward outing at a swimming resort. We had a good time swimming, playing volleyball, and just being together. That night we piled into Brother Waite’s car to go home—the car sure was full! Full of good memories of the evening’s activities, we were starting up the old highway in the dark of night, when Brother Waite asked, “Did any of you hear the First Presidency’s announcement today?”
None of us had; we were all ears. Brother Waite told us, “The First Presidency has announced that young men can be called on missions at 19 years of age.” When he said that, the Spirit of the Lord came over me, filling me from the crown of my head to the soles of my feet. I knew the message was, “You are going on a mission.” I had never had that kind of experience before, but the feeling that I was to go on a mission never left me.
When I came home from my mission, it was with the firm resolve that I would never be the same—and I never have been. And all that happened because a priests quorum adviser stayed close to the young men in his quorum, taught them the gospel, and helped them learn in a very simple way that they could go on missions and be touched by the Spirit of the Lord.

On the day that no one in the neighborhood saw “Hanse,” as she was called, concerned neighbors rang her doorbell, but to no avail. They were anxious for this gentle and gracious widow who found a place in their hearts. They looked on her as one of their own.

Finally, a member of the bishopric forced open the door and there, in the bedroom, was Marie Woodruff Hansen, as if she had fallen asleep, but never again to awaken in this life.

As the bishopric member paused to take in this sad but peaceful scene, he was startled, when from behind him he heard the words, “I love you.” Knowing that Marie lived alone, he turned; and there in the corner was a bird cage. A second time the bird said, “I love you.”

It was as if Marie, herself, had paused at the portals that mark the point between life and death to send back one final message before moving on to that new day.

Behind her was a neighborhood of friends, both young and old. She knew them all. They were like family to her; Marie’s baked goodies found their way into their homes, and they looked after her like a favorite aunt or a grandmother. Home teaching and visiting teaching were only the beginning as the whole neighborhood was caught up in this love affair. Children were welcomed into her home. They always knew there would be fresh-baked cookies. There was a warmth about that little home that was a reflection of Marie’s whole life. Many prayers had been offered here: prayers of gratitude, prayers of thanksgiving.

The words she taught her pet bird were the words she lived by. Even in death they echoed in the ears of those she left behind. Ahead of Marie was a husband who had gone first, too many years ago. She had lived a full life and left one final message of good-bye in the words she knew best: “I love you.”

Marie Hansen left a great legacy, probably greater than she realized. For did not the Savior say, “A new commandment I give unto you, That ye love one another; as I have loved you, that ye also love one another”? (John 13:34.)