Gospel Story Finder

In another example, I am aware of a woman who worked for a corporation for 37 years. We believe she was honest for the first 34. During her last three years, she started embezzling and eventually stole $686,000. When caught, the company took her home, her cars, her retirement account and most of her other assets. Through seizing all these assets, the company recovered about $400,000. She lost her reputation for honesty and the respect of her friends and was sentenced to serve one year in a federal prison. She is now out of prison but must make monthly restitution payments of $333 per month to the company. If she misses one payment, she violates her parole and goes back to jail. In other words, she must spend the rest of her life either working or in jail. She has lost options. And, to make matters worse, since stolen money is taxable in the U.S., the IRS came after her and told her that she had $686,000 of income she didn’t report on her tax return. When she finished negotiating with the IRS, they called the $400,000 she repaid the company a loan but assessed taxes on the $286,000 she will never repay (at $333 per month, she’s not even paying the interest) With fines, penalties and interest, she owes the IRS over $200,000 and has entered in an agreement to make tax payments to the IRS of $540 every month. She is a now a convicted felon who works in a fast-food restaurant at close to minimum wage. She is 70 years old and has no home or other assets. This lady has lost not only her reputation, but the freedom to live where she wants, work where she wants, buy what she wants, travel where she wants, and even marry who she wants because her husband divorced her.

I was at a friend’s birthday party with about 10 other girls. We had lots of fun. We sang karaoke, played games, made crafts, and opened presents. After the pizza and birthday cake we decided to watch a movie. I asked my friend what it was rated. She said PG-13. I let her know that I couldn’t watch it and suggested another movie. She said, “Come on, your mom is not going to know you watched it. I really want to see it.” The others agreed with her.
I felt uncomfortable because I didn’t want to ruin her party. But I knew that I wasn’t going to watch it. I said, “OK, you watch it, and I’ll watch another movie on the other TV.”
She thought about it and said, “Let’s just all watch your movie. It will be good too.”
I know that it’s important to stay strong and faithful to Church standards. If you do, you will be blessed. The Holy Ghost will be with you. In a family home evening I learned that I need to make choices before I am actually faced with the decision. It makes it easier to stand strong for your standards. I am thankful for friends who respected me for my choice. I know that Heavenly Father gives us commandments so that we can be happy.

A few days before last Christmas a terrible tragedy occurred at one of the large coal mines in central Utah. Twenty-seven miners lost their lives when fire engulfed the long underground slopes and shafts. Many of these were young men with young wives and young children. The hearts of thousands over the world were touched by the suffering of loved ones left behind.
I met many of these. I spoke with them. I joined with them in a memorial service. There were tears, with much of weeping. There was an overwhelming feeling of loneliness as widows, with children to feed and clothe and educate, looked into the bleakness of the future. Our tears flowed with theirs. But shining through all of this was a faith transcendent that, as surely as there had been mortal death, there will be immortal life; and as certainly as there had been separation, there will be reunion. This is the faith which comes of Christ, who brought to all the promise of immortality.

In the middle of the winter, a package arrived from my Grandmother Marsh in Los Angeles. I caught my breath when Polly and I tore off the brown wrapping. Inside were two outfits, breathtakingly in style. Mine had a pink flowered top with knee socks to match. Polly’s was identical, except that it was blue. This was our big chance to show the kids at Forsythe Junior High that we weren’t such misfits after all. Boy, would they be surprised!

I was a little nervous about the color because this was no ordinary pink. It was a sizzling, shocking pink. But the outfit was so definitely “in” that I squelched my fear. I slowly hung my oversized plaid coat in my locker and wondered what the kids would think of me appearing in such style.

A sea of eyes followed my dazzling pink presence from my locker to my homeroom. Then the whispering began—but not whispers of envy or admiration, as I had secretly hoped.

“Look what she’s wearing.”

“Didn’t we already have Halloween?”

All day the laughter continued. Resentment and frustration built within me. If only I had a friend to walk with, it would be so much easier. If only somebody who knew what was acceptable would give me some hints. Repeatedly I had tried to fit in and failed. And now even Grandma’s outfit had betrayed me. After that I stopped trying to live by other people’s standards. I warned Polly, and she never even wore her new clothes.

One of David’s favorite priesthood responsibilities is home teaching families in his ward. Home teaching taught him that service in all forms is appreciated. For example, when he was first ordained, he and his dad were assigned to visit an elderly couple. “They just enjoyed the company,” he says, “and I enjoyed doing little things to help them out. It’s nice to get out and do something for someone else.”

Another example came to me in my office by way of a letter from the Medford Oregon Stake, which I will quote:

I always thought I knew what compassionate service was. I’ve heard enough about it, and I’ve been involved in it myself from time to time. I even introduced young girls to it and watched with pleasure how it changed their lives. I never thought it was . . . a big deal when I was asked to help taking in meals, tending children, doing something to help. I often felt guilty reporting any compassionate service hours because it seemed as if I had done so little, and usually I received happiness from it.

Fifteen months ago I was stricken with a muscle degenerating disease, and I have spent eleven and a half months as a hospital patient. Now compassionate service means so much to me. Oh, believe me, it’s no little thing . . . for the “little” things that people do for others are generally mountainous to the receiver. Compassionate service means love to me now.

It is the hug and kiss from the tender heart of one who hasn’t seen you for some time, who truly misses you. It’s the one who can’t control her tears when she sees you in pain. Compassionate service is the love of one who senses your need for companionship, so she sits quietly and holds your hand until you fall asleep. It’s the one who telephones on her lunch hour just to say, “ I love you, and I’m praying for you.” Oh, yes, and it’s the one who brings you a bulletin from church each week because she knows how lonesome you are for those brothers and sisters you love.

Compassionate service that used to be such a small thing now is one of the biggest things in my day. Having someone stay with me each day for a period of time often makes the sisters feel guilty if I don’t have something for them to do. You see, they don’t have any idea how much just being with them means to me. I know they put off duties, sometimes even urgent ones, just to listen when I need to talk. They come to see me faithfully and bring so much cheerfulness into the room that it’s impossible to be discouraged. Their compassionate service includes “little” things like being alert enough to help me move my legs when it’s an obvious struggle, without making me ask for help. That saves me some of my self-respect. It’s also using a tissue to dry my tears and then pretending not to even notice the tears. Again, that often helps me keep my self-respect. Then on other occasions, it comes in the gentle persuasion that lets me cry and get it all out.

See what small, insignificant things make up compassionate service? Small and insignificant? Only to the loving one on the giving end. I speak from experience when I say there’s nothing small about the love that accompanies compassionate service to the receiver.

Illustration by Ken Harvey
I didn’t usually run home from school and fling open my scriptures to study them, but today was unusual. Sprawled on my bed, I booted up my laptop and typed two words: Dear Jessica.
I’d known Jessica for a few years, but our conversations were brief. One day in English, however, we were assigned seats by each other, and our class discussion ventured into the topic of religious symbolism.
I was surprised when Jessica, an atheist and usually argumentative, started asking the teacher questions that were uncharacteristically sincere: “What did ‘Godhead’ mean? What does it mean that there are three members?”
Finally, Jessica leaned back and confided to me, “I’m glad I’m not religious; it just seems like a lot to keep track of.”
I struggled for words, but I couldn’t let a moment like this pass. “I actually love the Church,” I said at last. The discussion was moving on, so we promised to talk more after class. I shared a bit of my testimony and eventually lent her a few books about our faith.
After a few weeks of discussions both religious and nonreligious, Jessica finally said, “I understand what you’re getting at, Sydney, but I don’t know if I can believe all of this. I just can’t believe that God would let so many bad things happen to us.”
I didn’t feel ready to answer her question on the spot, so I asked for her email, which led to me being sprawled on my bed, scriptures open, unsure of what to write.
I refocused on the screen. Dear Jessica. I looked at the sticky notes I’d filled with scriptures and started writing.
As I wrote, the Spirit surged up within me. Each word fell together with power and clarity.
Dear Jessica,I don’t know exactly what you’ve been through, what your struggles are, or what the exact words you need are, but God does.
I’ve been thinking a lot about your questions: “Why do I have trials? And why doesn’t God just stop them and make everything easier?”
First, it’s important to understand that progression is eternal. We don’t just become worthy of God’s presence overnight. It’s a lifelong process. Struggle is required, but even though life is hard, I know that “men are, that they might have joy” (2 Nephi 2:25). God does not cast our struggles upon us because that’s just how life is; He desperately wants us to be happy. However, I can say that this life is about not only our natural progression through struggles, but about our eternal progression in overcoming them.
Jessica, Jesus Christ knows how to come to our aid! While you have struggles in your life, Jesus Christ had them in His too. I promise that He understands every one of your struggles exactly and that He knows you personally. I know I’m only a 15-year-old girl, but I know He lives, that this is all true, and that He loves you more than it is humanly possible to imagine.
Please come to me with any more questions you have!
Love,
Sydney
I stared at the document for a few minutes. I’d written for almost two hours, leafing through scriptures and every example I could think of to produce this. As I scanned through it, I felt completely at peace. I closed my scriptures and clicked Send.
Jessica and I never talked about that letter, and she ended up moving. I don’t know if my words will lead her to the gospel this year, in 10 years, or ever in this lifetime, but writing that email helped my testimony. I’m confident it can have the same effect on her as soon as she chooses to let it.

Just a few days ago I visited with President Marion G. Romney, known throughout the Church for his ardent advocacy and knowledge of the welfare program. We spoke of the beautiful passage from Isaiah concerning the true fast:
“Is it not to deal thy bread to the hungry, and that thou bring the poor that are cast out to thy house? when thou seest the naked, that thou cover him; and that thou hide not thyself from thine own flesh?” (Isa. 58:7.)
As did President Clark, as did President Lee, President Romney wept as he spoke.
Appearing as a golden thread woven through the tapestry of the welfare program is the truth taught by the Apostle Paul: “The letter killeth, but the spirit giveth life.” (2 Cor. 3:6.)
President Ezra Taft Benson frequently counsels us: “Remember, Brethren, in this work it is the Spirit that counts.”
What has the Lord said about the spirit of this work? In a revelation given to the Prophet Joseph at Kirtland, Ohio, in June of 1831, He declared: “Remember in all things the poor and the needy, the sick and the afflicted, for he that doeth not these things, the same is not my disciple.” (D&C 52:40.)
In that marvelous message delivered by King Benjamin, as recorded in the Book of Mormon, we read: “For the sake of retaining a remission of your sins from day to day, that ye may walk guiltless before God—I would that ye should impart of your substance to the poor, every man according to that which he hath, such as feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, visiting the sick and administering to their relief, both spiritually and temporally.” (Mosiah 4:26.)
When we depart from the Lord’s way in caring for the poor, chaos comes. Said John Goodman, president of the National Center for Political Analysis, as reported this year in a Dallas, Texas, newspaper:
“The USA’s welfare system is a disaster. It is creating poverty, not destroying it. It subsidizes divorce, unwed teenage pregnancy, the abandonment of elderly parents by their children, and the wholesale dissolution of the family. The reason? We pay people to be poor. Private charities have always been better at providing relief where it is truly needed.”
In 1982 it was my privilege to serve as a member of President Ronald Reagan’s Task Force on Private Sector Initiatives. Meeting in the White House with prominent leaders assembled from throughout the nation, President Reagan paid tribute to the welfare program of the Church. He observed: “Elder Monson is here representing The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. If, during the period of the Great Depression, every church had come forth with a welfare program founded on correct principles as his church did, we would not be in the difficulty in which we find ourselves today.” President Reagan praised self-sufficiency; lauded our storehouse, production, and distribution system; and emphasized family members assisting one another. He urged that in our need we turn not to government but rather to ourselves.
On another occasion in the White House, I was asked to present to a gathering of America’s religious leaders an example of our welfare program in action. I could have chosen many illustrations, but selected as typical our response to the Teton Dam disaster in Idaho. The result was dramatic. As the First Presidency stated fifty years ago, “The eyes of the world are upon us.” While this is a most important consideration, let us particularly remember that the eyes of God are similarly focused. What might He observe?
Are we generous in the payment of our fast offerings? That we should be so was taught by President Spencer W. Kimball, who urged that “instead of the amount saved by our two or more meals of fasting, perhaps much, much more—ten times more [be given] when we are in a position to do it.” (Ensign, Nov. 1977, p. 79.)
Are we prepared for the emergencies of our lives? Are our skills perfected? Do we live providently? Do we have on hand our reserve supply? Are we obedient to the commandments of God? Are we responsive to the teachings of prophets? Are we prepared to give of our substance to the poor, the needy? Are we square with the Lord?
As we look back through fifty years and reflect on the development of the welfare program, as we look forward to the years ahead, let us remember the place of the priesthood, the role of the Relief Society, and the involvement of the individual. Help from heaven will be ours.
On a cold winter’s night in 1951, there was a knock at my door. A German brother from Ogden, Utah, announced himself and said, “Are you Bishop Monson?” I answered in the affirmative. He began to weep and said, “My brother, his wife, and family are coming here from Germany. They are going to live in your ward. Will you come with us to see the apartment we have rented for them?”
On the way to the apartment, he told me he had not seen his brother for many years. Through the holocaust of World War II, his brother had been faithful to the Church, once serving as a branch president before the war took him to the Russian front.
I observed the apartment. It was cold and dreary. The paint was peeling, the wallpaper soiled, the cupboards empty. A forty-watt bulb, suspended from the living room ceiling, revealed a linoleum floor covering with a large hole in the center. I was heartsick. I thought, “What a dismal welcome for a family which has endured so much.”
My thoughts were interrupted by the brother’s statement, “It isn’t much, but it’s better than they have in Germany.” With that, the key to the apartment was left with me, along with the information that the family would arrive in Salt Lake City in three weeks—just two days before Christmas.
Sleep was slow in coming to me that night. The next morning was Sunday. In our ward welfare committee meeting, one of my counselors said, “Bishop, you look worried. Is something wrong?”
I recounted to those present my experience of the night before, revealing the details of the uninviting apartment. There were a few moments of silence. Then Brother Eardley, the group leader of the high priests, said, “Bishop, did you say that apartment was inadequately lighted and that the kitchen appliances were in need of replacement?” I answered in the affirmative. He continued, “I am an electrical contractor. Would you permit the high priests of this ward to rewire that apartment? I would also like to invite my suppliers to contribute a new stove and a new refrigerator. Do I have your permission?”
I answered with a glad “Certainly.”
Then Brother Balmforth, the seventies president, responded, “Bishop, as you know, I’m in the carpet business. I would like to invite my suppliers to contribute some carpet, and the seventies can easily lay it and eliminate that worn linoleum.”
Then Brother Bowden, the president of the elders quorum, spoke up. He was a painting contractor. He said, “I’ll furnish the paint. May the elders paint and wallpaper that apartment?”
Sister Miller, the Relief Society president, was next to speak. “We in the Relief Society cannot stand the thought of empty cupboards. May we fill them?”
The three weeks which followed are ever to be remembered. It seemed that the entire ward joined in the project. The days passed, and at the appointed time, the family arrived from Germany. Again at my door stood the brother from Ogden. With an emotion-filled voice, he introduced to me his brother, his brother’s wife, and their family. Then he asked, “Could we go visit the apartment?” As we walked up the staircase leading to the apartment, he repeated, “It isn’t much, but it’s more than they have had in Germany.” Little did he know what a transformation had taken place and that many who had participated were inside waiting for our arrival.
The door opened to reveal a newness of life. We were greeted by the aroma of freshly painted woodwork and newly papered walls. Gone was the forty-watt bulb, along with the worn linoleum it had illuminated. We stepped on carpet deep and beautiful. A walk to the kitchen presented to our view a new stove and new refrigerator. The cupboard doors were still open; however, they now revealed every shelf filled with food. As usual, the Relief Society had done its work.
In the living room, we began to sing Christmas hymns. We sang “Silent night! Holy night! All is calm, all is bright.” (Hymns, 1985, no. 204.) We sang in English; they sang in German. At the conclusion, the father, realizing that all of this was his, took me by the hand to express his thanks. His emotion was too great. He buried his head in my shoulder and repeated the words, “Mein Bruder, mein Bruder, mein Bruder.”
It was time to leave. As we walked down the stairs and out into the night air, snow was falling. Not a word was spoken. Finally, a young girl asked, “Bishop, I feel better than I have ever felt before. Can you tell me why?”
I responded with the words of the Master: “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.” (Matt. 25:40.) Suddenly there came to mind the words from “O Little Town of Bethlehem”:
How silently, how silently,
The wondrous gift is giv’n!
So God imparts to human hearts
The blessings of his heav’n.
No ear may hear his coming;
But in this world of sin,
Where meek souls will receive him, still
The dear Christ enters in.
(Hymns, 1985, no. 208.)
Silently, wondrously, His gift had been given. Lives were blessed, needs were met, hearts were touched, and souls were saved. A provident plan had been followed. A precious promise had been fulfilled.
I testify that God lives, that Jesus is the Christ, that we are led by a prophet, that sacrifice does indeed bring forth the blessings of heaven. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Steven J. Lund
After I taught sixth grade for three years, I learned that if I taught for four more years, the school district would pay part of my tuition to receive my master’s degree. It seemed like a good plan—until the Spirit prompted me to quit my job and go back and get my degree right then. My wife had a similar prompting, so we moved forward. It meant we would have to pay for school ourselves. But because we did, I was hired to teach at BYU—Provo. That window of opportunity never would have been open had we waited four more years. We did not know how things would work out, but the Lord directed our paths just as He promised.

Another entry by Elizabeth Huffaker, reflecting back, said:
I remember our first Christmas in the Valley. We all worked as usual. The men gathered sagebrush, and some plowed; for though it had snowed, the ground was still soft, and the plows were used nearly the entire day. We celebrated the day on the Sabbath (Christmas was on Saturday), when all gathered around the flagpole in the center of the Fort, and there we held a meeting. And what a meeting it was. We sang praises to God, we all joined in the evening prayer, and the speaking that day has always been remembered. . . .
. . . Many who were there for that first Christmas in the Valley later remarked that in the sense of perfect peace and good will, they never had a happier Christmas in all their lives. [Madsen, Christmas, p. 26]

Their Christmas spirit was really the peace, comfort, and sense of well-being they felt from a Heavenly Father who knew they had done their part, that they had given their all—literally—to the furthering of the kingdom on earth. He blessed them, not with material rewards, but with gifts of the Spirit.

When I was in my second year of secondary school, I met a boy named Marco Aurelio Granados Dávila. He wanted me to be his girlfriend, and he wanted to come to my house and ask my mom for her permission. I told him that in our Church, we don’t even date until we’re 16. But he kept insisting. Each time he insisted, I would tell him a little more about the gospel.
One day my mom advised me to invite him to our house. She talked to him, and then we both asked him to come to church. He accepted, and eventually the missionaries began to teach him the discussions. At one point, he asked if he would need to change religions. The missionaries told him yes. He didn’t seem to like the idea much, but he didn’t stop listening to the discussions.
And as he kept participating in the discussions, his desire to be baptized grew. Unfortunately, his mother was out of the country. Since he needed his mother’s permission to be baptized, his baptism didn’t take place for about a year. Meanwhile, he went to seminary, Sunday meetings, and youth activities.
Finally his mom came home, and he asked for her permission. She eventually agreed, and he was baptized on 8 July 1997.
Now we both try to share the gospel with our friends.

After I returned from Argentina, missionary service remained very important to me. As I earned both a bachelor’s degree and a master’s degree, I looked for chances to share the gospel. I married Jan Nielson, and we have taught our seven children the importance of missionary work.
My whole family had an opportunity to put those teachings into practice in 1994, when my wife and I received a call to preside over the Uruguay Montevideo Mission. During that time, our son Jason served in the Portland Oregon Mission and our son Andy in the Brazil Recife Mission. The rest of the family enjoyed our missionary work in Uruguay.

Beth walked into her grandmother’s living room and stopped short, staring at dozens of brightly decorated Easter eggs. “Gram!” she gasped. “I never knew you had so many!”
“Yes, I do have a lot,” Gram said, looking around. “I’m glad you came, dear. You can help me sort through them. I told the children’s librarians that this year they could have the display earlier.”
Beth knelt in front of the sofa where several eggs were lying. “Oh, Gram, I remember this one. Didn’t the Phantom give it to you?” She carefully held up a sequin-encrusted egg.
“Yes, and it’s one of my favorites. I got it about ten years ago. I’ve decided to make a special display this year of eggs from the Phantom—in his memory.”
Beth stared at her grandmother. “What do you mean ‘in his memory’? Was Gramps the Phantom?”
“Yes, Beth, it was Gramps. Every Easter morning from the time we were married I found a tiny basket with a handmade Easter egg in it on the doorstep.” Gram’s smile started to waver a little. “Every egg was different. Easter just won’t seem the same this year without the Phantom. That’s why I decided to let the library have the display early. There won’t be a new egg to wait for this year.”
Beth got up to hug her grandmother. “Did Gramps know that you knew that he was the Phantom?” she asked.
Gram wiped her eyes on the corner of the apron she was wearing. “Oh, I’m sure he suspected I knew that it was him, but I never let on. It was kind of a delightful game that we played with each other. Every year before Easter he’d spend hours in his workshop and never tell me what he was doing. I’m sure he practiced on a lot of eggs. You know what a perfectionist he was.” Gram laughed through misty eyes. “I’d give a lot to know what he did with all those eggs!”
Beth laughed too. “Did Gramps fix breakfast a lot?”
“Now that I think of it, he did. And I’ll bet you can guess what we usually had.”
“Eggs!” Beth shouted.
The rest of the afternoon passed pleasantly as they sorted and packed the eggs. Gram had a story to tell about each one.
A look of understanding spread across Mother’s face. “Were you helping Gram get her eggs ready for the library display this week?”
Beth nodded. “And do you know what? I found out that Gramps was the Phantom all along. Did you know that, Mom?”
“Did I ever! I remember all the eggs we used to eat. It’s a wonder I didn’t sprout feathers when I was growing up!” Mother smiled at the memory. “I never let on to Gramps that I knew though. It would have spoiled his fun. He got such a kick out of surprising Gram.”

“No way!”
“You’ve got to be kidding!”
“That’s never going to happen!”
That’s what Andrea, Erick, Kristofer, Suzett, and Yuridia of Provo, Utah, might have said if you had told them they would play the piano for their next Primary sacrament meeting presentation. After all, only one of them had ever played the piano before!
But their Primary pianist, Sister Perry, gave them the challenge—and they were willing to accept it.
Once a week, each child had a piano lesson with Sister Perry, except for one child who already had a teacher. At home they practiced on electric keyboards. Soon they were learning simplified versions of the songs for the sacrament meeting presentation. They also practiced in Primary as other children sang along.
Finally, the big day came. Each child played one or two songs. Were they nervous to play in front of the whole ward? Definitely! But that didn’t stop them.
“I felt really nervous,” Kristofer said, “but I kept having faith.”
Thanks to their faith and hard work, everyone did well that day. And the best thing about it?
“It feels good to be able to help in church,” Andrea said. “It’s a great blessing for me.”
Now the children can play during family home evening, at baptisms, and when their families sing in sacrament meeting. Awesome!

One month ago I turned 13, and my mom wanted me to start reading the New Era, so I started looking through some old copies. In the April 1973 issue I read an article called “Becoming Saviors on Mount Zion,” which explained that we should never stop giving—not gifts of money but of service to others. All my life my sister had helped me and I had never helped her. Just then she walked into the room and said she had to get the dishes done in half an hour and that she was too tired to do them. Right then I told her I would do them, but of course, she wouldn’t let me do them alone; she had to help.
In the last month my sister and I have become very close. We have been sneaking around helping each other and doing our work together. You know, it’s a lot more fun helping someone. Before it was just me trying to keep the commandments, but now it’s both of us. My sister has told me how much she appreciates me bringing her closer to the Lord. I don’t think it was me so much as it was the New Era.
Name Withheld

Let me share a brief example from my own life. It occurred when I received my mission call. I actually had graduated with my degree in nursing when I was 21. So I left on my mission soon after I had graduated. I am a bit embarrassed to admit it now, but one of the reasons I went into nursing was because I really wanted to serve a welfare/humanitarian mission, and I thought a nursing degree would increase my chances to do this.

And it seemed my plan had worked. My original mission call was to be a mission nurse in Venezuela. However, while in the MTC we had difficulty obtaining visas to enter Venezuela. Some missionaries had been in the MTC an extra two months just waiting for their visas. Finally it was decided that our calls would be changed. Within a day my call was changed from Venezuela to Puerto Rico; and instead of being the mission nurse, I would be a proselyting missionary! That very evening I was on a plane heading to Puerto Rico.

I was in utter shock. Although not so much now, at the time I was incredibly and painfully shy. This shyness was the reason I wanted to serve a welfare/humanitarian mission and not a proselyting mission. Nursing was something I could do because it was helping and serving others. Talking to absolute strangers scared me to death. For several months after I got there, I secretly thought the whole thing was a mistake and that I would soon be going to Venezuela. No, it was not a mistake, and I served my entire mission in Puerto Rico.

With a lot of prayer I learned to strike up a conversation on just about anything. I learned to really trust the Lord. My Spanish was never as good as it should have been, and I am still not the most outgoing person in the world, but I can honestly say I did the best I could, and the events that transpired were what I needed to grow. The Lord knew this even if I didn’t.

Now, this was many years ago, but, looking back, I can see that these experiences have changed and shaped my life in so many ways. First, although my original intentions of studying nursing seemed ill guided, I can see now that the Lord was directing me—just for reasons different than I thought. Nursing is part of my mission in life. Second, serving a proselyting mission really made me stretch much more than anything else would have, and I am so very grateful it did. Finally, this change from my plan brought me experiences I never could have imagined for myself.

I am a planner, and so I originally thought I would return from my mission, go back to New England, work a few years as a pediatric nurse, get married, and have a family. But the Lord had a different path for me. On my mission I learned how much I loved being out with the people. Also, upon my return I found that I wasn’t enjoying hospital nursing—I missed being with the people in their own settings and focusing on empowering them to change themselves. An opportunity soon arose—because I had learned to speak Spanish—to work as a school nurse in a Spanish-speaking area in Utah. Then other experiences and opportunities to further my education occurred, and here I am back at BYU. I have had the opportunity to travel and learn about other countries and cultures, and that has greatly enriched my life. It has shown me that the world isn’t as black and white as I saw it. Although at the time it occurred I couldn’t understand why, looking back now I can see the Lord’s hand guiding me. I am a far better person for these experiences than my plans would have made me. How little I knew!

Another story that has had a profound impact on my life is the story of Jens and Elsie Nielson. I can share only apart.
I told this story when my oldest son was leaving on his mission over 10 years ago. Somehow thinking we were sacrificing so much, only to discover that what was given in return was far greater
The story is of early saints who sailed to America from Denmark and crossed the plains with the Willie Handcart Company...
Jens, Elsie, their 12 year old son, and a young Mortensen girl, for whom they assumed responsibility to bring to Utah, were left with a handcart, poorly constructed of green lumber, and unfit for the journey. Jens was placed in a camp with four other men with their families who spoke a strange language, English, which Jens could not understand. Jens was made captain of his camp in the Willie handcart company. The company was late starting, and delayed by repeated breakdowns of the poorly constructed handcarts. When finally reaching Wyoming's wind-swept plains, they were caught in a very early and severe winter, with two feet of snow, temperatures to eleven degrees below zero and howling blizzard winds. After consuming their last pound of flour days before, it was here that Jens and Elsie gained a victory over almost certain death through their great physical strength, indomitable courage and unconquerable spirits. Their strength had carried them beyond the endurance of the other four men in their camp who had succumbed to the snow, cold, starvation and exhaustion, and had been buried in shallow graves under the snow. Also buried were Jens' and Elsie's twelve-year old son, Jens, and the Mortensen girl.
The end appeared to be near and certain for Jens. His feet became so frozen he could not walk another step, which caused his right foot to be at a right angle the rest of his life. At this point Jens said to Elsie, "Leave me by the trail in the snow to die, and you go ahead and try to keep up with the company and save your life."
If you believe men have a monopoly on strength and courage, then pay heed to Elsie's immortal words when she said, "Get in the cart and ride, I can't leave you, I can pull the cart." Jens had to suffer the humiliation of riding while Elsie pulled like an ox.
It is not known how far Elsie pulled the cart that day, but in other sources it says the total distance traveled between camps was sixteen miles with some steep slopes! She made it to the next campsite, which turned out to be where the help from Salt Lake reached the Willie Company. For the record, Jens was about 6' 2" and 230 pounds, though likely a little lighter at the time. Elsie was 4' 11' and under a hundred pounds!!!

For example, when we first started having discussions about faith, one of Meghan’s concerns was around our children having priesthood interviews without one of us present.
We started by asking, “What’s working?” and we agreed that we both love our children and care about them. We both want what is best for them. We want them to progress and to grow. And we reestablished the fact that we are on the same team.
Then we focused on “What’s not working?” For instance, Meghan didn’t feel comfortable with some of the questions our teenage children would be asked in bishop interviews without us there.
That brought us to question 3: “What do we want to do or think differently?” Meghan and I sat down and discussed a plan. We agreed that one of us would be present with our children if they had interviews with members of the bishopric. We spoke to our bishop about this, and he was supportive. He reminded us that he had all of our growth and welfare in mind.

On 100-year-old Polk Street, teenagers are more often seen cruising than cleaning, but the youth in the Amarillo Texas Stake changed all that with a special service project.
In conjunction with the city’s “Help Beautify Amarillo” project, the teenagers decided to restore some pride to this historic section of town. They came armed with tools and soap to get rid of graffiti, broken bottles, and other litter. About 50 youth participated in the activity that was planned as part of the Stake Standards Night.
This was such an unusual activity for teenagers in this area that it attracted the attention of the local media and was reported on the front page of the paper. Many community leaders commented on the willingness of the youth to work for their community and expressed gratitude to them.
After the project was finished, they headed for the stake center for dinner and a program on individual self-worth, followed by a dance.

Cindy swung open the door of the Middleton post office and went inside. “Hi, Mrs. Tyler, remember me?” she asked the tall woman standing behind the counter.
“Why of course, Cindy. My, how you’ve grown!”
“No more standing on my toes to buy stamps.”
“No, indeed.” Mrs. Tyler opened a half-door in the counter. “Come in so I can give you a big hug. How’ve you been? Do you like your new home?”
“It’s not new any longer,” said Cindy. “I’ve been living in Rockville for three years now. I love it.” She stepped behind the counter. “It seems so long ago when Dad was transferred and we had to move away from Middleton. I thought I’d never be happy again.”
“I remember that. When you came here to say good-bye to me, I never saw a more somber-looking child. By the way, there’s the African violet you gave me that day.”
“You still have it?”
“Of course. After all, you gave it to me so that I wouldn’t forget you.”
“I know, but it was such a puny thing. I’m surprised it lasted this long.”
Mrs. Tyler picked up the plant. “Can you believe all these violets are blooming? Every year it gets bigger and better.”
“Then I guess my leaving was just the thing it needed,” Cindy joked.
“Now, now—you remember how sad we all were to see you go.”
Cindy remembered the good-bye party her parents had had. She’d invited all her school friends and Mrs. Tyler and Mr. Nealy. That reminded her. … “Mrs. Tyler, I went by the train station to see Mr. Nealy, but it was closed.”
“Oh, they changed the hours again. But you wouldn’t have seen Mr. Nealy, anyway. He retired as stationmaster the year after you left. You and he were good friends, weren’t you?”
“I saw him every school day when I was in third grade.”
“Why was that?—I don’t remember.”
“The train station was where the school bus stopped. Mom couldn’t get back from taking care of Grandma until four-thirty, so I spent about an hour waiting at the station until she came. Have you seen him lately?”
“Yes, and you need to know that he’s very sick. He has Alzheimer’s disease. Do you know what that is?”
Cindy nodded slowly. She thought of Mrs. Clark, her friend Linda’s grandmother. Cindy’d seen Mrs. Clark once. She was hunched over in a rocking chair, staring at the wall. She didn’t answer Linda’s questions but just sat there, constantly rubbing the chair arms with her hands. Linda had said that her grandmother seemed happiest when she sat in the rocker. It bothered Cindy; she never visited Mrs. Clark again.
“I’m sure Mrs. Nealy wouldn’t mind your seeing him,” said Mrs. Tyler. “I have their number. You can call from here.”
“That’s OK. I think I shouldn’t bother them.”
“Oh, I see.” Mrs. Tyler busied herself with some packages.
She sees all right, Cindy thought. She sees what a chicken I am. I don’t care—I can’t bear to see Mr. Nealy be like Linda’s grandmother.
As she watched Mrs. Tyler place stamps on the packages, Cindy thought about the first time she saw Mr. Nealy. She’d been too shy to talk to him, and the time had really dragged while she waited for her mother. But after Mr. Nealy made friends with her, that hour flew by. Later she realized that Mr. Nealy enjoyed her company as much as she enjoyed his. Between three and four o’clock was a slow period when there were few travelers. She helped him sweep the floor, wash the windows, check for burned out light bulbs. He talked about trains, and she talked about school.
He was fond of black licorice and often asked her to go to the nearby store and buy him a package of it. She remembered how he always said, “Black licorice, Cindy. Not red. And not the shoestring kind, either.” And he always gave her extra money to buy candy for herself.
As the memories flooded her mind, Cindy saw him standing very tall, with beautiful silver hair and a thick mustache. He was strong, picking up cargo as if the crates were empty. That Christmas she gave him a conch shell that she’d found in Florida while on vacation, and he gave her a pin in the shape of a caboose. She still had the pin.
Thinking of that shell made Cindy smile. Mr. Nealy kept it at his office, where it lay among the forms and tickets and stamps. It looked out of place, but he never moved it, except to put it to his ear sometimes and listen to the sound of the sea. “That’s where I should be right now,” he’d say, “lying on a beach, loafing my life away.” Then they would laugh.
To see him like Linda’s grandmother—Cindy shuddered at the thought. Turning now to go, she said, “It was nice seeing you again, Mrs. Tyler.”
“You, too, dear.” Mrs. Tyler gave Cindy a good-bye hug. “Come back to visit.”
“I will.”
As Cindy passed the train station once more, she tried to not think of Mr. Nealy. But the thoughts kept coming.
The store had not changed. Cindy quickly found the black licorice at the candy counter. Maybe he won’t be as sick as Linda’s grandmother, she thought. Maybe he just started getting that way. And I don’t have to stay long. She fumbled with the licorice, trying to make up her mind. Should I go? She saw a pay phone on the wall. Should I call?
Fifteen minutes later she pushed the doorbell of the Nealy house. Patting the package of licorice in her jacket pocket, she felt good about her decision.
“I’m glad to finally meet you, Cindy,” Mrs. Nealy greeted her. “Henry will love seeing you again.”
“I hope I’m not bothering you.”
“Of course not. As I told you when you phoned, we love to have company. Come in.”
Cindy felt a little strange. She’d never pictured Mr. Nealy having a regular house. The station had seemed like his home—he’d cared for it and cleaned it as if he lived there day and night.
“Mr. Nealy doesn’t get many visitors anymore. At first he might look strange to you, but it will pass after a little while. He’s in the living room.”
Cindy followed Mrs. Nealy toward the sound of a TV. She could see the back of Mr. Nealy’s head as they entered the room. He was sitting in a swivel chair in front of the television.
Mrs. Nealy bent over the chair. “Henry, look who’s come to see you. It’s Cindy.”
Cindy watched the chair swivel toward her. Mr. Nealy was hunched over, his eyes showing no recognition. He pushed the chair around and around, and each time he passed her, his eyes remained blank.
“Sit here, Cindy.” Mrs. Nealy pointed to the sofa. She asked Cindy questions about her new hometown, her school, and her new friends. After most of Cindy’s answers, Mrs. Nealy said, “Isn’t that nice, Henry?” or “Did you hear that, Henry?”
As she watched the retired stationmaster circle that green chair round and round, Cindy thought that it was hopeless to even pretend that he knew what they were saying. Seeing him was worse than seeing Linda’s grandmother, because Cindy could not forget how he used to be. As she talked to Mrs. Nealy, memories of his deep laughter, his wide smile, his stories and silly jokes swirled within her until she could no longer bear the sight and sound of his chair. “I have to go, Mrs. Nealy. It’s getting late.”
She pulled the licorice from her jacket. “Would you give these to Mr. Nealy. He used to like black licorice.”
“He still does. He’ll be pleased.”
“Mrs. Nealy, he doesn’t even know I’m here.”
“In his way, he knows. Please—you give him the candy.” She got up, and Cindy followed her to the swivel chair. “Henry, Cindy has a present for you.” She stopped the chair.
“Mr. Nealy, these are for you.” Cindy waved the candy in front of him, trying to catch his attention.
When he saw the licorice, he grabbed at it. Close to him now, Cindy saw that he wasn’t so different, after all. He still had the lovely silver hair and thick mustache, his eyes were still deep blue, and he still wore his railroad ring.
“Cin, Cin,” he uttered, staring at her.
“Yes, Mr. Nealy. It’s me, Cindy.”
He raised a hand, and Cindy stooped to let him touch her face. He smiled, then pointed to a table. Cindy could not understand his words, but she recognized the conch shell.
“You still have this?”
Cindy picked it up and took it to him. But when she tried to place it in his hands, he pushed the shell back to her.
“Thank you, Mr. Nealy. It will remind me of you.”
He smiled, and Cindy decided that somehow he understood. Then he ripped open the licorice and started his chair whirling again, and she knew that he was back in his own world. She turned to Mrs. Nealy. “It hurts to see him this way—is he in pain?”
“No, Cindy. He isn’t in pain.”
“He isn’t, but we are.” Cindy put the shell to her ear and listened to the sound of the sea. She looked up again at Mrs. Nealy and managed a brave smile. “I’m glad that at least we have some happy memories.”