Gospel Story Finder

My senior couple friends, such moments should be in the making for many of you. Consider the story told by Elder Jeffrey R. Holland of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles about what a senior couple serving in Chile was able to do. The parent of one of the young elders died. The mission president was far enough away that he couldn’t get to the missionary quickly.
“But there was a sweet [mature] missionary couple serving in the area,” Elder Holland says. “They came and sat with that missionary and tenderly cared for and comforted him until the mission president could make personal contact. We had great young missionaries in our missions, but no young single missionary could have done for that elder what that couple was able to do.”1
Their skill at that moment was simply to convey compassion in a time of need. They weren’t concerned about speaking any language other than the language of Christlike love. They weren’t worried about missing a grandchild’s birthday or a baby blessing, as important as those events may be. They were concerned about being where the Lord could use them to bless the life of one of His children. And because they were willing, He was able to let them represent Him.

These profiles can have a profound influence for good. Two months ago a young man named Zac—a freshman in college—saw an ad for mormon.org on television in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. He connected with the website and was intrigued by the profiles of Church members. At our website he found the link that informed him where he could attend church. The next Sunday, dressed in a white shirt and tie, he attended church, was introduced to members of the ward, and enjoyed all three hours of meetings. He was invited to a member’s home for dinner, followed by his first missionary lesson. In less than two weeks, he was baptized and confirmed as a member of the Church. Welcome, Zac! (He is listening.)

From the moment I walked into the preschool room, I was in love. I saw how much I could give to the children there, and I knew they needed me. I had never worked with severely handicapped children before, so this was a new experience. A feeling of love that I hadn’t felt before began to grow within me.
I was told that any one of the children in that room could die at any time, but that didn’t upset me. My experiences with death had been few, and I had never felt the sting it could bring.
One day as I walked into that room, before going to my assigned room, I noticed a new face. I find it hard to explain what he looked like. His face seemed to light the entire room. Never had I seen such clear blue eyes, and I wondered what went on behind them. I asked Trudy who the new boy was, and she told me that his name was Christian and that he was three. I felt so drawn to him that every moment I could spare I was next to him.
After school one day Trudy asked me if I could possibly take Christian home in my car. He lived only a short distance away, and after receiving instructions to his home, I carefully bundled him up and carried him to my car. I was so afraid I might hurt him that I kept checking on him to make sure he was all right. He never did make much noise; even his cries were so faint that they would have been muffled by the blanket.
Upon reaching his house, I set him carefully on the couch. His father thanked me, and as I turned to leave I said, “If you ever need a baby-sitter I live only a short distance away, and I’d enjoy sitting for you.” I scribbled my name and number on a scrap of paper and left.
That was the first of many times when I took Christian home in my car. Each time I felt very lucky to have the responsibility of getting him safely there.
I didn’t hear from his parents about baby-sitting, but I saw him almost every day anyway. The year passed quickly, and soon school was dismissed for summer break. I thought about Christian, though, and looked forward to September when I could see him again.
One night, shortly after school was back in session for the children, I received a phone call. The woman identified herself as “Cindy Marx,” but I didn’t recognize the name. She said she needed a baby-sitter desperately, and since they had my number her husband said she should at least try to reach me. Suddenly I remembered Christian, and in less than 20 minutes I was sitting in their small apartment with Christian and his baby brother, Lance.
I fixed them dinner and fed both of them. It took about 45 minutes to feed Christian. I sat him in his little yellow chair and fed him slowly. I had to mix the eggs with applesauce to disguise their presence. Cindy had told me that Christian would eat anything mixed with applesauce.
Bedtime rolled around and suddenly I was in the middle of bathing the boys. I couldn’t bear to leave Christian alone on the front couch, so I put him back in his little yellow chair and sat him by the tub. Lance rolled around for a while and then I gave him his bottle and put him to bed. As I undressed Christian I noticed how skinny he was and how his ribs protruded. Somehow it didn’t seem fair that I had to slap him on the back so often to clear his lungs. Soon I got him dressed, and we were sitting on the front couch while I combed out his hair; it was so soft, and he didn’t cry—not even once.
After that I tended regularly for the Marxes, and I always enjoyed it. There was something in the way Lance treated Christian. Even though he was only seven months old, he seemed to treat Christian with dignity. Sometimes he would just look at his face, as I often did. Was it possible that Lance knew Christian was different?
One night Cindy called on short notice and asked if I could come to baby-sit for a couple of hours. When I got there she led me into the bedroom, where I saw baby bottles, diapers, tissues, and medicines of all kinds. She turned to me and said, “Christian has been sick. He hasn’t been to school this week.” I had been so busy with my own work that I hadn’t noticed Christian’s absence. I looked at him, lying quietly on the bed. Even my thoughts were gentle when I was near him. I could see that he looked weaker than usual, and I noticed a rocking chair had been moved into this room. After I put Lance to bed, I gathered Christian up in my arms and sat in the rocking chair. It was rather awkward at first, because his legs were so long, but soon we were comfortable and I started to rock him. I don’t know how long we sat there rocking, but soon I heard sounds of Cindy and Brad returning from their evening out. They thanked me, and I went home.
The next day was Saturday, and Cindy called me to come again right away. When I arrived, I saw many of their close relatives—aunts, uncles, and grandparents. They left, and I began to play with Lance. As I did so, Christian started to smile. I don’t know why, he just smiled, and I smiled back and talked to him. I reached over and slipped my finger into his little fist, and then realized how cold he was. I felt just awful that I had let him get cold after he’d been so sick all week, so I found a blanket and wrapped him up, until only his little face was showing. Lance played happily and quietly on the floor until their parents arrived.
I sensed a feeling among them when they saw me with Christian all bundled up on my lap, and Lance playing happily there on the floor. They had accepted me, and somehow that was important.
The next week I was so busy I hardly had any time to stick my head in the classroom to see Christian. Once, as I walked by, I saw him, sitting by the door in his little yellow chair. I remembered how gray he looked. His little head lay limply against one side of the chair, and his eyes just watched in an unwavering gaze. All that day I wanted to go in and hold him, but my responsibilities didn’t permit it.
The next day a friend and I were leaving the library when she turned and said, “One of the kids at the center died today. He just stopped breathing in his mother’s arms. I don’t know what I’d do if one of the kids in our classroom died.”
I felt sad that one of the children had died, but I didn’t ask who it was. She continued, “I don’t know any of the children in the preschool room, but I still think it’s hard knowing that one of them won’t be coming back tomorrow.”
The preschool room! I paused. “Who was it?”
“Christian,” she said. “I think his name was Christian.”
Christian! Not my Christian! “Are you sure?”
She was sure. But I couldn’t believe it. All I could see was the picture of Christian in my mind, sitting in his little yellow chair, looking so very gray. I could almost touch that picture. I wanted to.
Angry, frustrated thoughts pounded in my head. “Oh Christian, why did you have to die, and why couldn’t I see that you’d be leaving us soon?” But I couldn’t find the tears; they just weren’t there. I was angry with Christian for dying. I don’t know why, but I was. And I knew I couldn’t go back into the preschool room. I just couldn’t! Suddenly I knew that all those children were going to die, and I couldn’t face the thought of all that empty loneliness.
The day after the funeral I walked into the office and found my supervisor gazing at the picture of Christian that had appeared on the funeral program. I sat down and told her how I felt. I said it wasn’t fair that I should give all that love and then lose it. She then turned to me with tears in her eyes and told me something I will never forget.
“Tracine, you can’t stop loving people simply because you are afraid of being hurt. All of us here take that gamble when we love these children with everything we have. We can learn through our love for Christian, and the memory of him will always be a very special part of us.”
I think that was when I felt my heart break and all the bitterness leave.
Christian, can you run now? What would you say if you could talk to me?
Yes, I have the memory of him while he lived, and I know he now lives. I know I loved him, and I’m not afraid to love anymore. Loving is for now, and you can never really lose that love. It can’t be taken away. It just becomes more precious than before.

Thelma Taylor was happy with her calling at her local family history center in Mesa, Arizona, USA. For 17 years she assisted, guided, and supported men and women in their quests to find their ancestors. A move to Coolidge, Arizona, in 2005, however, put 40 miles (64 km) between her and the family history center whose patrons she had faithfully served.

Nearly blind and unable to drive, the 83-year-old woman feared her inability to travel to Mesa would mean the end of her family history service. Then a thoughtful leader offered a solution to this problem in the form of a Church-service mission Sister Taylor could perform from home. Since 2006 she has served as a FamilySearch Support missionary for the Church, using her home computer to help people do their family history work.

“It has blessed me beyond my ability to count all the blessings,” she says of her experience. “I’ve grown so much in that area in family history and in my ability to serve.”

Though her eyesight is poor, Sister Taylor—who now supports six fellow missionaries—can increase the font size on her computer enough to read patrons’ e-mails and respond to their questions.

Sister Taylor didn’t learn how to operate a computer until she was 66 years old, but she says it is a beneficial, useful skill. “Your age doesn’t matter,” she said. “You’re not too old to learn how to use a computer.”

“This is an ideal situation for me because I can continue to learn and serve,” Sister Taylor said. She said her Church-service mission has helped her to feel useful at an age when her options are limited.

The work is fulfilling and contagious. “The spirit of this work gets into you and doesn’t turn you loose,” Sister Taylor said. “No matter your age, you can be of real service as a FamilySearch Support missionary.”

Do you remember reading about Patty Wilson of La Palma, California? She’s another winner. She’s an inspiration to every soul who ever ran the race of life. Patty comes from a family of athletes. But she is an epileptic. That in and of itself would stop some of us. But not Patty. She began running with her father, Jim, despite the fact that she occasionally had seizures. Once she finished a high school race standing up even though she was semi-conscious. She continued to run, despite the odds, despite the challenges. Then in 1977, at the age of 15, Patty and her father decided to run the 1,310 miles from their home in California to Portland, Oregon. On that fateful June 18, television crews, reporters, and state and local officials gathered to wish the Wilsons good luck.
Now, Patty’s run to Portland presented challenges that would have stopped most athletes. During the first 25 miles, she suffered a stress fracture in the metatarsal bone of her left foot. It would sometimes swell so much she could barely get her shoe on. But she could not quit. She knew what she represented not only to thousands of athletes, but also to the thousands of handicapped people who were watching her from around the country. Patty averaged 31 miles per day. She arose every morning at 4:30 A.M. Her mother had to drain a score of blisters on Patty’s feet each morning with a hypodermic needle. That process was repeated every noon and evening. She and her father ran mile after lonely mile, only to encounter hecklers who pelted them with garbage, dirt, and thoughtless insults. Sometimes she and her father would have to pull each other along. But they would not quit!
As they approached Portland on July 29, one month and a half after they began, the crowds poured out to meet them. People with handicaps came to run or talk to Patty. People with epilepsy shouted their encouragement.
During the last hundred yards, her father looked over to see if Patty had a smile of victory, but she could only grimace from the incredible pain. Then it was over. They were swooped up into the welcoming ceremonies. Some people in the crowd fought back the tears; others wept openly. It was a victory of immeasurable proportions. Think of it, a run of over 1,300 miles by a 15-year-old girl with epilepsy. Doesn’t it make you proud to be a part of the human race?

Blindness can’t stop 12-year-old Rhett Jones from doing just about anything else his fellow deacons do. On Sundays you’ll find him in the Riverdale Second Ward, Ogden Utah Riverdale Stake, passing the sacrament and collecting fast offerings with the rest of his quorum.
In the summer you’ll find him at Scout camp, where he earned seven merit badges last year. His target shooting was incredible. He was able to hit a tin can target 23 of 25 times by having a leader ring a bell in the area of the target, then shooting toward the sound.
Rhett realizes it is especially important to set an example for his younger brother Josh, who is also blind.

When I was young, I attended a specialized preschool for children with autism. It changed the course of my life, so I wanted to give back. I decided to create interactive storybooks to help the children learn how to read.
I’d had multiple ideas for my project and prayed to know which one was right for me. The director of the school helped me know what they needed. I did the planning and organizing, but my family, friends, and quorum members helped a lot with the project. I was able to learn good leadership and planning skills.
Doing this project gave me a greater sense of gratitude for what they do at the school. It made me feel really good to help the school that had helped me so much. They were so appreciative, and they let me read one of the books to the class. I felt so good inside.
Christopher A., Utah, USA

The next year we enrolled in junior high school. But the building could not accommodate all the students, so our class of the seventh grade was sent back to the Hamilton School.

We were insulted. We were furious. We’d spent six unhappy years in that building, and we felt we deserved something better. The boys of the class all met after school. We decided we wouldn’t tolerate this kind of treatment. We were determined we’d go on strike.

The next day we did not show up. But we had no place to go. We couldn’t stay home because our mothers would ask questions. We didn’t think of going downtown to a show. We had no money for that. We didn’t think of going to the park. We were afraid we might be seen by Mr. Clayton, the truant officer. We didn’t think of going out behind the school fence and telling shady stories because we didn’t know any. We’d never heard of such things as drugs or anything of the kind. We just wandered about and wasted the day.

The next morning, the principal, Mr. Stearns, was at the front door of the school to greet us. His demeanor matched his name. He said some pretty straightforward things and then told us that we could not come back to school until we brought a note from our parents. That was my first experience with a lockout. Striking, he said, was not the way to settle a problem. We were expected to be responsible citizens, and if we had a complaint, we could come to the principal’s office and discuss it.

There was only one thing to do, and that was to go home and get the note.

I remember walking sheepishly into the house. My mother asked what was wrong. I told her. I said that I needed a note. She wrote a note. It was very brief. It was the most stinging rebuke she ever gave me. It read as follows:

“Dear Mr. Stearns,
“Please excuse Gordon’s absence yesterday. His action was simply an impulse to follow the crowd.”
She signed it and handed it to me.

I walked back over to school and got there about the same time a few other boys did. We all handed our notes to Mr. Stearns. I do not know whether he read them, but I have never forgotten my mother’s note. Though I had been an active party to the action we had taken, I resolved then and there that I would never do anything on the basis of simply following the crowd. I determined then and there that I would make my own decisions on the basis of their merits and my standards and not be pushed in one direction or another by those around me.

That decision has blessed my life many times, sometimes in very uncomfortable circumstances. It has kept me from doing some things which, if indulged in, could at worst have resulted in serious injury and trouble, and at the best would have cost me my self-respect.

In 1950—a few days before Christmas, when I was six years old and living in Palma de Mallorca, Spain—I stood on our living room balcony and watched a ship leave the harbor. On board were my father and my brother. With me on the balcony were my mother and my sister. My father, a chemist of perfumes, was leaving to pursue opportunities in Uruguay, South America. He never returned to his children or his wife. Several years later, he and my mother were divorced.
In the years that followed, I rarely heard from him. In the meantime, my mother took us to her native country, France, where, in 1964, I was baptized a member of the Church. One year later I left France for Brigham Young University in Provo, Utah. In time, I served a mission, pursued graduate studies, and married.
Although my father had been almost completely out of my thoughts up to this point in my life, soon after my marriage a desire to do genealogical work for my ancestors made me think of him more and more. My patriarchal blessing told me that the time would come for me to do the work for my ancestors through genealogy and temple ordinances and that “means and opportunities” would be provided for me to accomplish that work.
After I had joined the Church, my brother, who had moved by then to France, had informed me that my father had accumulated facts, names, and dates on the Ainsa family. I resolved to write to my father, hoping to gain the necessary information to tie my genealogy from my grandparents to my paternal great-grandparents. I sent him a letter asking for details.
His reply consisted of a letter with only general information—and a request that I not bother him again. I felt resentful and angry, but I continued to pray that the “means and opportunities” necessary to do my family history work would be provided.
Sometime in March 1986, while we were living in Arizona, my father wrote again during a family crisis in which my mother was losing her sight. I was comforted by the care and concern that my mother’s second husband showed her and was again offended at my father’s critical letter. I sent it back to him and indicated that if I couldn’t receive pleasant letters instead of criticism, I would rather not communicate at all. Within three weeks, my father answered the letter, telling me, “Your brother will inform you of my death when it occurs. I don’t intend to write to you again.”
Nine months passed after I received the letter. Again I prayed about the admonition in my patriarchal blessing. The answer came unmistakably from the Spirit—I felt I should apologize to my father. I consequently composed a five-page letter to him that detailed the events of the year and that included an apology for my erratic behavior in my previous letter. When I mailed the letter, I prayed that the Lord would soften my father’s heart.
More than two months went by with no answer. Then one day a registered letter arrived. In it, my father asked, “Would you spare ten to twelve days during your upcoming summer vacation to visit me? If you accept, I will send you the money to help meet the cost of your expenses.”
I called my brother in Paris, France, who suggested that I wait a year, since my father had waited thirty-five years to try to see me. But as I prayed with my wife, Angie, we both thought of my patriarchal blessing and knew that my ancestors had waited long enough. I would go this year. My mother’s husband offered to pay for Angie’s trip, as we couldn’t afford it ourselves. My mother-in-law offered to care for our four children in her home in California.
Everything went according to schedule—everything, that is, except for feelings of apprehension. I started worrying that my father might criticize my mother, my wife, or me. He had done it before. How would I handle it this time?
Only when two dedicated home teachers—to whom I will be eternally grateful—came to our home a few days before our departure and gave us a priesthood blessing, did I feel at peace. They blessed my wife that she would be a source of inspiration to me, and they blessed me that I would be receptive to the promptings of the Spirit and would know what to say. I then knew that everything would be all right.
When we arrived in Montevideo, Uruguay, I nervously looked for my father and saw him standing with his wife. He waved his cane at me in recognition. I waved back. Finally, the customs officer told me to proceed. As I walked through the customs door, my father eagerly came toward me. We embraced and kissed each other. As we left the airport terminal, the Spirit told me that the man walking beside me was a different person than I had imagined.
We spent the next few days getting acquainted with one another, laughing together, discovering what we had in common, and becoming friends. Angie and I asked him to record on tape his experiences in his youth and in courting my mother, and we discovered many things about his past. Then, one morning, Angie and I prayed that we would be blessed that day with the right words in asking my father to share with us the Ainsa genealogy and history.
It was my father’s eighty-first birthday. After opening presents at breakfast, he excused himself and came back with an object hidden underneath a towel. He handed me a box and said, “This is the least I can do after all these years. Somehow I feel that I have to make it up to you.” Inside the box was a beautiful watch.
Thirty minutes later, as we were upstairs sitting around my father’s oak desk, I inserted a blank tape into the cassette recorder and asked him to tell me about my ancestors. He talked for a few minutes, then stopped. “It’s a waste,” he said.
I panicked. “Lord, please help me,” I prayed. “I’ve been waiting for this moment for years.” Then I asked my father, “Why do you say it is a waste?”
“Because I have it in print,” he replied. My heart began to beat faster as he reached for a drawer in his desk, opened it, pulled out a folder, and handed me a sheet of paper with a list of names on it. “These are your ancestors on my father’s side,” he said, “and you’re welcome to this list.” I glanced quickly through it; it contained the names of his parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents, as well as those of distant relatives.
“What about your mother? Have you compiled a list on her side of the family?” I asked, my voice trembling.
“Your grandmother’s lineage is not important,” he muttered, brushing aside my inquiry. I replied that were it not for my grandmother, he wouldn’t be here, to which my father said, “Well, if it is that important to you, you can have it.” With that, he gave me an envelope containing names scribbled on several sheets of paper and said, “As a matter of fact, you might as well have everything.” He placed the folder in my hand.
I opened it and, as tears began to blur my vision, I read through several lists of names of distant relatives. Inside were pictures of my grandmother, my grandfather, and others. I wept openly. During the past twenty-one years, I had prayed on many occasions for this day. The Lord had heard my requests and had answered them at the appropriate time.
“Why are you crying?” my father asked.
“Because I am happy to be here,” I said.
At that moment, he, too, began to cry. He leaned his head on my shoulder and took my hand between his. “I am sorry,” he said. “I am sorry for what I did. I was wrong. I was never a father to you. During all those years, I never bothered to find out who you were. Will you ever forgive me?”
“Of course I forgive you—it is forgiven and forgotten,” I uttered between sobs. As I embraced him, the Spirit whispered softly, “I, the Lord, will forgive whom I will forgive, but of you it is required to forgive all men” (D&C 64:10). We were at peace. All the years of separation, loneliness, and turmoil melted away. He knew who I was. He had found a son. And I had finally found my father.

My wife and I have personally experienced some sacred mountain moments in reverence as we have strived to apply these principles in our life, which has caused a meaningful transformation in our discipleship. I remember like it was yesterday walking through the cemetery before burying our second child, who was born prematurely and did not survive, while my wife was still recovering in the hospital. I recall praying to God with great fervency and reverence, asking for help to cope with that challenging trial. In that instant, I received a clear and powerful spiritual assurance in my heart: Everything will be fine in our lives if my wife and I endure, holding on to the joy that comes from living the gospel of Jesus Christ. What seemed like an overwhelming, sorrowful challenge at the time turned into a sacred, reverent experience, a capstone that has helped sustain our faith and has given us confidence in the covenants we have made with the Lord and in His promises for me and my family.

As the Brooklyn sailed for the Sandwich Islands (now Hawaii) to deliver some freight, just the right amount of wind filled the sails. The bright green peaks that rose over Honolulu announced another tropical paradise like the Juan Fernández islands. We pulled up next to the Congress, an American warship anchored outside the reef. Commodore Robert F. Stockton came aboard the Brooklyn and told us that the United States was fighting against Mexico in California.
“I can’t believe it!” Papa said, shaking his head over the distressing news. “For five long, weary months, we’ve traveled to find a peaceful place to live. Now we’re heading for a war, instead!”
“Maybe it’s one of those things that seem awful at the time but turn out to be good,” I suggested in an effort to cheer him up.
“I don’t see how it could be,” he replied, “but I hope that you’re right.”
Commodore Stockton urged the Brooklyn passengers to help defeat Mexico. He proposed that our men capture Yerba Buena, the small settlement on San Francisco Bay, in the name of the United States.
Papa wasn’t the only one who was concerned about the situation. As we assembled for prayers that evening, there was a lot of discussion about what we should do. After the leaders of the company heard all the opinions, studied the options, and prayed, they decided to stay with the original plan to go to California. The Saints would prepare to fight, in case it became necessary.

Mission preparation should definitely include learning about the gospel, but you don’t have to know everything before you go. For example, as a young man, Elder Neil L. Andersen of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles was worried he wasn’t prepared to serve a mission. He said, “I remember praying, ‘Heavenly Father, how can I serve a mission when I know so little?’ I believed in the Church, but I felt my spiritual knowledge was very limited. As I prayed, the feeling came: ‘You don’t know everything, but you know enough!’”1

The first smell of fall did it, like it does every year about this time. Oh, some times a sound will bring it back too, but the smell even brings back the taste and the slippery sweetness. When it is in the air you look at the mountains early in the morning anticipating that first touch of white. The smell seems to bring back the sounds too. The big balloon tires on a Schwinn bike crunching the colors out of fallen box elder and locust leaves on the way home from school and Miss Wasden’s fifth-grade classroom. It’s a smell that is almost too full of pleasant memories, like the sound and the sweet gush of juice when biting into autumn’s first frost-touched apple with its golden, water-cored center.
The smell of fall also meant hunting seasons with rites of preparation by red-flannel-shirted practitioners of horseshoeing, gun cleaning, and sighting in. Closeted drill-sergeant voices would come out every fall along with the red shirts.
“Only three shots at a time; then adjust for windage and elevation. Hold tight and squeeze. Don’t pull?
I was too young that year to get in on much more than the sights and sounds of hunting preparations. I was feeling pretty bad about not going hunting and about school. It seemed time for something special to come into my life. I never doubted the fairness of life, and I was sure something good would finally happen to me. I’d waited for my first man teacher, and then on the first day of school our principal, Mr. Clayson (principal of both junior high and grade school and also the grand presider of the lunchroom), announced that Mr. Wall had gone to Provo, “had gone back to school to finish his degree.” He introduced a Miss Wasden who would be our teacher for the coming year.
After a week we all got to like her quite well. She was nice, and it’s hard for any young boy not to like someone who is nice to him. But she still didn’t know a bat spaulding from an aggie taw, and her voice reading Bomba the Jungle Boy wasn’t nearly as real as Mr. Wall’s would have been.
The school weeks began to blur by and run together in my mind, and I remember now that the beautiful frosty smell was in the air. The crisp stillness of it, the way it pinched the insides of your nose while you were doing chores so that the breakfast smells of oatmeal and bacon were even better than they really were. Each morning you were reminded that winter was approaching and in the afternoons again as the sun was going down.
One day Doug, Jimmy Peterson (there were two Jimmys and one Pete in our class already so at least one of the three of us had a known last name), and I were riding our bicycles home from school on this diagonal trail that cuts through the old Second Ward chapel lot. A good hard path was worn through the weeds and grass between the Church and the two old outhouses. They weren’t used anymore except to tip over on Halloween and to hide in so we could give girls walking by a good scare. They were still weathering and leaning more every year despite their repeated rerightings the week following Halloween. I could see the chrome fenders on Doug’s new red bicycle bobbing back and forth ahead of me several yards when he slipped sideways with all his weight stomping on the coaster brake and leaping off the bicycle all in one motion.
“Look what I found,” he said as he scrambled to his knees along the edge of the worn track. “A purse!”
“Let’s see it,” we answered almost in unison.
“Shh, someone will see us.”
Together the three of us scurried back up the path past our tangled, still-turning wheels and akimbo handlebars to the outhouses. The ladies’ door had been nailed shut, but the men’s was open, and we crowded together inside to examine the contents of the purse.
It really wasn’t much of a purse, looking back at it now. It was too shiny and too green and made out of some of the first plastic, the kind that they used when they were still trying to think of things to use it for, before the Korean War made them start putting it in automobiles and furniture.
There wasn’t much talk in the dim outhouse light. We found only about 50 cents in change in the purse and no name or pictures. The name card was shiny and new like the rest of the purse. If we had known who it belonged to, I’m sure we wouldn’t have done what we did with it. But as it was, in a flash we had the money—Doug carried it because he saw it first—and we dropped the purse down the biggest hole into the black undeniable bowls of the outhouse. Then we were out of there and on our bikes and down to LaRue’s Market like a shot. Mr. LaRue was busy with a man in a white shirt, so we went over to look at the comics. I’d found a couple of good “Tarzans” with the top third of the front covers cut off. Mr LaRue always did that to the comics that didn’t sell the month before, and then you could buy them for half price.
“Come over here, boys.” It was the man in the white shirt.
“I’m telling you, Jack,” he was talking to Mr. LaRue, “you won’t be able to keep them in once people get a taste. I’ve seen new products come and go, but this is a real breakthrough.”
The sewn-on picture of a loaf of bread kept bobbing back and forth on his short-sleeved white shirt, and he kept waving his arms.
“Watch,” he said.
“Here, boys, come and try a free sample.”
And he cut a dark brown, almost black, slickly frosted cupcake in half, and as he did, we saw that the middle was white and part of it stuck deliciously to his knife. The cake separated, showing its white insides as it rolled over on the tray.
“Here, each of you take a half.” Then he cut another one, making us wait a little longer before handing any of the pieces to us.
In turn he placed a rich brown half, exposed white center up, in our hands. We timidly took a smell as we held them up to our faces, our eyes still on the salesman waiting for his permission to go ahead. We were in his power. “Take a bite. It’s more delicious than you can imagine.” They were delicious, and all the while we were eating them, he went on talking.
“The combination of the devil’s food and our secret cream filling is without parallel in food merchandising.”
By then all the rest of us, including Mr. LaRue, were into the cream centers, and I have to this day not tried anything sweeter or more delicious or memorable to my taste than that first bite of moist marshmallow cream in the center of that devil’s food cupcake. It was as if a breath of heavenly pure white ambrosia was centered in the chocolate cake.
“Don’t you want to buy some, boys? How many, Jack? Think a gross will last you till next week?”
All of us nodded yes. What else could we do, now? He continued to fill out his order, then went out to the truck and brought in more cakes. For a good part of our allotted going-home time we stood in the corner of LaRue’s Market and read comic books, only the ones with the tops off, and ate more of the new cupcakes, bought and paid for with the contents of the purse we had found.
To this day I don’t remember whether I was really alone or not. Doug and Jimmy Peterson may have gone on before me. I was still deep in “Red Ryder,” “Little Beaver,” and “Tarzan,” sure that I could finish soon and catch them in a block or two if I had to. But I was reading, facing the magazine rack, when I heard other people come in behind me.
The lady seemed old to a fifth grader; she was probably at least 35. With her were two little girls, one small and the other one about eight. It seems funny now that I didn’t know them, because even then I thought I knew everyone who lived in Santaquin. One grade school, two small grocery stores, two wards, and two pages in the telephone directory pretty well took care of Santaquin and still does.
I had never seen the mother before. The younger child is still faceless in my mind, but the face of her older sister has remained vividly with me to this day. In her pale, delicate, almost china-fragile white face were set enormous lavender eyes. She had the lacy delicacy of a sego lily, one growing under a sagebrush in a marginal area where it has barely enough light to survive. Her eyes were out of proportion to the rest of her face. Their dark liquid presence made you look deep into her soul before you could take your own eyes away. You could look a long time and never be stopped by a light reflection in them. They were now rimmed with tears, and her soft, shoulder-length hair covered the collar of her blue woolen coat. Her hair was the lace that framed her china face. I even wonder now if this striking creature was really an older being inside of a child’s body. Yet, her eyes could not have looked more hurt nor mirrored any greater sadness than they did that day. She started to sob softly as if she were already exhausted from crying. “I don’t know where I lost it. I had it right here in my pocket when I left school.”
“Are you certain, Susanne?” the mother asked. And I remember the feeling of surprise to hear an ordinary mortal name attached to something so angelic.
“Yes, I’m so sorry I lost it, Mama.”
“Well let’s go back once more. Maybe if we walk clear back to school we’ll find it. Your father will feel so bad. He already felt terrible about missing your birthday. He sent you the purse, and now you have lost it and your birthday money. Look carefully now. I’m sure we’ll find it if we watch carefully all the way back to school.”
I stood there dumb and immobile. I wanted to blurt out the truth. I couldn’t. It was as if I had grabbed onto an electric fence and couldn’t let go. I didn’t want it to be true. If only I could have willed the purse back to the path, I knew they would be able to find it. But they wouldn’t now; they couldn’t and I knew it. Sickness came in a wave from my depths. I was suffering. Speechless and frozen and dying inside. My first experience of feeling that excruciating torture and hurt and conscience for someone else that is more severe, that is wider in range and deeper in feeling than you can possibly feel for yourself. For the first time I was living the pain of someone else, and what made it even worse, I had caused it.
I don’t remember the rest of the day—when I got home or what was said when I did. I don’t remember ever seeing that incredibly sad little girl with the haunting eyes again except in my mind. She is not a memory, thank goodness, that is too accessible now. She is hidden deeply in among the stretch marks and scar tissue of growing. However, she does come back annually with the smells of fall, and the many good memories of growing up. She is there like an old war wound that helps you tell the seasons, a part of you you’d rather not have but learn to live with and accept, another ache or heart murmur. Yet her memory and the burning feelings inside come together to remind me on mornings when this first smell of winter is in the air. Then I think of her again, and of that fifth-grade day many years ago, and of the first scorching of the taste buds of my soul.

Luis and Karla met as teenagers in Honduras. They began dating and soon married. Luis, not a member of the Church, admired Karla’s parents, who “treated each other with respect and love, and this made me want to learn about their values.” Soon Luis was baptized, and Karla and Luis were sealed in the Guatemala City Guatemala Temple. In their early 30s, their relationship came under stress, and Karla left home, questioning whether their teenage marriage was a mistake. Luis fasted and prayed and asked God to “bring Karla back home, and He did it. He did it.” Today their marriage is stronger than ever.

“I had a friend on the Titanic,” said one elderly man. “He was a wealthy gentleman and quite old. There were not enough life boats, and women were being put in the boats first. They were trying to help his wife over the side, but she would not go. They held on to each other, and they went down together on that big ship. Several survivors told of that.
“Oh, I would tell a lot of things,” he continued. “That is, if anybody wants to listen. I’m 91 now and my oh my, the things I remember. Life is a wonderful experience, I tell you, it’s a wonderful experience!”

When the car was ready to go, we started on our way again, slowly, down the coast. A short time later we saw two young Mexican parents and their two toddlers standing next to a car with a mangled tire. Our opportunity to help had come sooner than I expected.
We spoke with them and offered to take them to their home a few miles down the road. They gratefully accepted and piled into the back seat.
Two dusty little hands plunged into our box of crackers as we bumped along that rocky dirt road in the Mexican desert. Now seven people were crammed into the minivan, along with a cooler, two surfboards, camping gear, and a pile of oily towels.
As the toddlers eagerly devoured the last cracker crumbs and we joked with their parents, I realized that this was what helping was all about. It didn’t matter how much it cost the man to give us the epoxy or how far out of our way we went to take the family home. We all knew we had done the right thing, and the feeling was worth more than anything in the world.

Photographs provided by the author; photo illustration by David Stoker
Sixteen! What a time of life! “Nobody should have to go through this alone,” I thought.
My wise parents were kind and always gave me good counsel. My older sister had just gotten married and moved out of state. My little brother was involved with his 11-year-old concerns. I had great friends, and I knew my Church leaders sincerely cared about me.
But my older brother, Gary, was my confidant. I looked up to him in all things as a teenager. “Whenever I talk to him, things make more sense,” I said to myself. “I wish he could be here right now.”
But he wasn’t. He was far away in Japan, serving a full-time mission.
Despite missing Gary, I did have a fun birthday.
My mom made me our traditional birthday breakfast, and I received a few gifts before going to school. That night, my family and I went out for a pizza dinner and ended with birthday cake. I even let myself daydream about dating, driving, and other exciting things I would do as a 16-year-old.
However, the best present I received that day
was a letter in the mail. Gary hadn’t forgotten my super special day! This was before the days of email, so a letter took a long time to travel from Japan to Cache Valley, Utah, USA. I was amazed that his letter arrived right on my birthday! The letter was handwritten, which made it more like having my brother present with me as I read:
“Dear Merilee:
“Well, you have got the big birthday coming up, don’t you? I guess when you get this letter it will already be past. I can’t believe it—you are 16 years old. It seems like only a few years ago when you used to [wear your little red cowboy hat].
“Stay sweet and pure, and always let everyone know that the Church means a lot to you. If you do that, you won’t ever get into a situation where you have to make a decision with all the peer pressure weighing on you. Example: In high school, everyone knew that I didn’t want to drink or smoke, not at all, so I never got invited to a party where that sort of thing went on. My friends knew I didn’t do that. …
“If you let people know your standards, then people with your standards are attracted to you. I don’t mean you have to tell everyone, but actions speak loud. Your spirit is really sweet, and you do fit your name. And you have a good sense of humor. Happy ‘Sweet 16’ Birthday!”
The last sentence was underlined in red. No other birthday present could’ve been better! I read it over and over again, until he was back home from Japan and we could finally talk to each other face to face.
It has been years since I received that letter, but
I still have it. Many things have changed since then, but not my love for my brother. Today I sustain him not only as my brother and friend but also as Elder Gary E. Stevenson of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. The counsel he offers as a special witness of Christ to all
the world is an added strength in my life, just like the letter he sent me on my 16th birthday.
The author lives in Utah, USA.

A convert to the Church, I grew up in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. Although my parents were not members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, I look back with gratitude upon how they have influenced my life. My mother was born with a congenital heart defect and was told that having children would endanger her life. She waited eight years to have me; I am the only child in the family. Mother was a loving and compassionate person. She always spoke good of everyone and ingrained that teaching in me. In spite of health complications, she lived life to the fullest before she passed away at age fifty.

You must be a man of patience, willing to listen and striving to understand. You are the only one to whom some can turn. You must be there when every other source has failed. Permit me to read you a few lines from a letter sent to a bishop.

“Dear Bishop:
“It has been almost two years since I desperately called you asking for help. At that time I was ready to kill myself. I had no one else to turn to—no money, no job, no friends. My house had been taken, and I had no place to live. The Church was my last hope.
“As you know, I had left the Church at the age of 17 and had broken just about every rule and commandment that there was in my search for happiness and fulfillment. Instead of happiness, my life was filled with misery, anguish, and despair. There was no hope or future for me. I even pleaded with God to let me die, to take me out of my misery. Not even He wanted me. I felt that He had rejected me, too.
“That’s when I turned to you and the Church. …
“You listened with understanding, you counseled, you guided, you helped.
“I began to grow and develop in understanding and knowledge of the gospel. I found that I had to make certain basic changes in my life that were terribly difficult, but that within me I had the worth and strength to do so.
“I learned that as I lived the gospel and repented, I had no more fear. I was filled with an inner peace. The clouds of anguish and despair were gone. Because of the Atonement, my weaknesses and sins were forgiven through Jesus Christ and His love for me.
“He has blessed and strengthened me. He has opened pathways for me, given me direction, and kept me from harm. I have found that as I overcame each obstacle, my business began to grow, enabling my family to benefit and making me feel as though I had accomplished something.
“Bishop, you have given me understanding and support through these past two years. I never would have reached this point if not for your love and patience. Thank you for being what you are as the servant of the Lord to help me, His wandering child.”

While serving my mission in Scotland, I felt overwhelmed nearly all the time. I took the teaching of “exact obedience” to a whole new level and believed that I needed to be 110 percent perfect in my missionary efforts every single day. I thought if I didn’t reach these (unrealistically) high expectations, I would be a failure.
However, I noticed that my companions, other missionaries, and many members all seemed so much happier than I was. I didn’t understand what I was missing! Why were they happy and self-compassionate, and why was I miserable?
At one point, I was praying for forgiveness so often that I lost my focus on Christ in my missionary work entirely. My thoughts were constantly telling me I wasn’t worthy and I wasn’t loved.
One day when I was particularly desperate for help, I came across a devotional given by Elder Dale G. Renlund of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. He spoke about feeling God’s love and how a dysfunction in our “spiritual receptors” can make it hard to feel that perfect love.
He said: “What do you do if you do not feel the love of Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ? I know with certainty that the problem is not with Their love. The problem is with your receptors for Their love. If you have dysfunction of your receptors for God’s love, you can lose your way and succumb to dangers such as hopelessness, helplessness, and loneliness.”
His words struck something in my heart.
If Heavenly Father loved me as much as Elder Renlund taught, I didn’t think He would want me to feel anxious and ashamed all the time. So I talked to my mission president, and we both agreed I needed to find some help.
With help from a therapist, we figured out that I wasn’t just struggling with perfectionism but also with scrupulosity, a form of obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD) that causes one to obsess over the fear of behaving immorally or against one’s religious beliefs.
I wasn’t feeling the joy of the gospel or the love of God, because I was giving myself impossible expectations. Mortality is about being imperfect and then learning to come unto Christ, who will perfect and redeem us.
When I finished my mission, I also received help and guidance from my loving bishop. He helped me understand these truths:
Repentance is a joy and a gift.
Living the gospel shouldn’t be bringing us misery.
Living the gospel is beautiful, joyful, and wonderful.
Following Jesus Christ helps us steadily learn and improve, giving us hope and purpose in our lives.
Understanding these truths has helped me understand God’s love and mercy better and find joy in the gospel.
I used to think life would be easier if I didn’t live the gospel. I was constantly feeling anxious and disappointed when I didn’t measure up to my expectations for myself. But now I know that we live the gospel because we are all imperfect and need the Savior’s help to become better.
As Elder Patrick Kearon of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles beautifully testified:
“If you are prone to worry that you will never measure up, or that the loving reach of Christ’s infinite Atonement mercifully covers everyone else but not you, then you misunderstand. Infinite means infinite. Infinite covers you and those you love.
“Are there things we need to do, commandments to keep, aspects of our natures to change? Yes. But with His grace, those are within our reach, not beyond our grasp. Our Father’s beautiful plan is designed to bring you home, not to keep you out.”
I still struggle with scrupulosity, but I’m striving to heal and to realize what the gift of the Savior’s Atonement means for my life. I know He offers me grace and can magnify all my efforts.
Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ are not merciless. They love us perfectly. And if we ever lose sight of that truth and get lost in feelings of shame or inadequacy, we can refocus on the truth that They are here to lift us and support us on our journey home, not to make that journey impossible.
I hope you know how much They love you.