Gospel Story Finder

Like Peter, we also may receive inspiration that seems contrary to our traditions or social norms. I was a teenager in the 1970s and shared certain biases about sister missionaries. I decided early on that I would never go on a mission. It was not until I went to BYU and met other women preparing for missionary service that I realized that my stereotypes were unfounded and that I was limiting my opportunities for growth. As I considered the option of missionary service and prayed for guidance, the Lord confirmed to me that I should go—a decision that continues to bless my life.

I grew up as a little boy wanting to be an athlete. That was all I could think about. I ate, drank, and slept it. I had a wonderful father who was a businessman. He was in the grocery business. By the time I was a teenager, he had developed a little chain of grocery stores, and he was training his boys to have employment, to have a skill to offer to the world. My older brother didn’t want it. He wanted to be a teacher. My younger brother wanted to be a doctor. I wanted to be an athlete. I had a father who was wise enough not to pressure or force each boy into a given slot. He said, “I have developed these stores so that you would always have a skill. If you don’t want it, I will sell all the stores.” And he did, that quick. Each boy went on to pursue his own profession, but we have been trained in something we can fall back on.

What a wonderful parent to think of the unique needs of his sons rather than merely fulfilling his desire! Ponder these things; seek the counsel of your parents, wise bishops, leaders, and friends in whom you have trust.

I remember the time when I was a young teenager living in Frankfurt, Germany, and praying for a miracle for our family. My dad was terribly ill and about to die. How much I hoped that something would happen to turn our life into a happier path. Despite my heartfelt prayers, he died—way too young we felt. Now we were a one-parent family, a widowed mother with two daughters, 12 and 9 years old. The situation looked bleak and hopeless for us. Even our Lutheran religion was of no great help.

But then one day, a miracle happened, and all things changed to the positive, almost overnight. Two young missionaries rang the doorbell at our apartment. Reluctantly, we let them in. They brought us the Book of Mormon. They taught us the plan of salvation and what it could mean for our lives. They helped us to develop a love for the holy temple, despite the fact that there was actually no temple in Europe at that time. A few years after our baptism, we were sealed in the first temple outside the U.S., the Swiss temple, for time and all eternity. We became an eternal family, including my father, even across the gate of death. All this came about because two young people wanted to serve a mission, serve God and His children. This modern-day miracle happened because these young people loved God and His children and were willing to sacrifice some of their conveniences for this great cause.

The storm was getting worse. Snow lashed Tulimaq’s face, and the wind whisked the whimpering huskies faster along the trail. Tulimaq could barely stand the cold any longer. His fingers tingled with pain as he clenched the sled, and his cheeks were numb from the cold.
Every winter since he could remember, thirteen-year-old Tulimaq and his father had made this trip across the Canadian Arctic to visit relatives. They had always started at sunrise and arrived at their destination before sunset. But they had never before been caught in such a fierce storm.
“We can’t go any farther today,” Tulimaq heard his father call, his voice muted by the wind. “We must stop here and wait for the storm to pass. Tulimaq, you must help me build an igloo.”
Tulimaq breathed a sigh of relief. He brought his dog team to a halt and crunched across the freshly fallen snow toward his father. His chance to help build an igloo had finally arrived.
Tulimaq eagerly helped his father search for the right kind of snow to build a snowhouse. They looked for snow that had fallen in a single storm and that was packed tightly into a snowbank. Snow that had fallen unevenly would be layered and would easily crack when lifted.
“Here is a perfect snowbank,” said Tulimaq’s father, pulling his long wooden rod out of the snow. “My stick tells me that this snow is tightly packed and that it fell when there was no wind. This is the snow we will use for our shelter.”
Tulimaq made the outline for the igloo. He tramped his heels deep into the packed snow until he had formed a circle twelve feet in diameter.
Next, using snow knives with blades two feet long, Tulimaq and his father cut thirty-five to forty blocks from the snowbank. Each block measured about two feet wide, three to four feet long, and six to eight inches thick. They were then carefully fitted together to make the walls of the snowhouse.
Tulimaq placed the largest blocks in the circle on their ends. His father pared down the top of each block with his knife to make the blocks on the next row slant slightly inward.
“Now that the first row is completed,” Father said, “I will stay inside the circle while you pass me the blocks. We must finish it before we get so cold that we cannot warm ourselves.”
Tulimaq quickly heaved the heavy blocks onto the wall. He placed them tightly against each other, leaving his father to pare them so that they fit exactly.
Little by little the snowhouse grew. The walls, by curving inward slightly, were forming a dome, and after nearly an hour, they were almost meeting at the top.
“Now for the last block,” said Tulimaq’s father. “I will cut a smoke hole in this one so that the air will circulate, then I’ll pare it to fit snugly.”
Tulimaq patted loose snow into the small cracks between the blocks, then hurried inside to help his father. Using blocks of snow cut from the floor of the igloo, they built an entrance tunnel leading to the hole that they had cut for the door. The tunnel would help keep the shelter warm.
“We must insulate our igloo well,” said Father. “The wind is strong and cold, and we may be here for several days. Run outside and bring in the lamp and the skins from my sled.”
Tulimaq knew that skins lining the ceiling and walls of the igloo would help to keep it warm. They would also prevent the walls from melting too much when the lamp warmed the air inside the igloo.
After Tulimaq and his father had lined the ceiling and walls with the skins, they leveled off an elevated area around the inside walls to serve as a bench. Finally Tulimaq’s father lit the lamp.
Now the igloo was warm and cozy. Air circulated through the hole in the roof, but very little heat escaped through the walls. Cold air passed through the walls from the outside, but slowly enough so that it was heated by the lamp.
Tulimaq gazed into the flickering light. He unzipped his parka and tossed his mittens onto the bench. His fingers were no longer tingling, nor were his cheeks numb from the cold. He was tired. But he was happy and proud that he had helped his father build a shelter from the storm.

I know of a widowed father who was reluctant to live with his daughter who resided in another state. She thanked him for the privilege of taking him into her home, insisting that she now would be able to demonstrate her love for all she had received from her parents. She felt selfish in finally having him to herself. Upon his death, she told me how blessed she was to have had those last precious years with her father.

The 1970s were difficult times in Guatemala. We experienced the devastating earthquake of 1976 that destroyed many pueblos in the rural areas and in the poor sectors of the city. My adobe home was totally destroyed. In addition to the natural disasters, government oppression was prevalent everywhere. It was difficult to witness the social and political violence against the poor, students, workers, and other good people and to feel completely powerless to do anything about it. My husband, Israel, prayed and fasted about what to do. He was inspired to be involved in the movement to protect the rights of laborers, who were at that time earning $0.52 per day, working under inhumane conditions.

In a country with a lot of political and social violence, my husband’s involvement had a high cost for our young family. We were living under an authoritarian government that interpreted any dissent from the social, economic, and political status quo as an open conspiracy against it. Soon anonymous threats against my husband’s life appeared everywhere. Twice government forces attempted to kidnap my husband. That was a time when people who disagreed with the government’s policies would be abducted in the dark and taken to unknown places, and then, days later, their bodies would appear with signs of torture. It was dangerous to voice your disagreements with the cruelties happening everywhere in Guatemala.

Berta, our first child, was born in 1978. She was a long-awaited blessing for us. She came to the world in times of oppression, fear, and violence. When Berta was only six weeks old, my husband experienced the first of two assassination attempts by the Guatemalan government, this one in front of our home. Later in life, Berta eloquently wrote about the impact of war on children living under constant fear. She was one of those children. She wrote:
I feel bad for every child in the womb that subsequently experiences infancy . . . under the shadows of war, violence, greed, and imperialism. I know that every child who is living now under the reign of terror, war, abuse, and trauma is going to carry great heaviness with them their entire lives. . . . Warfare, PTSD, exile—all of these things cast such long shadows.

In the last assassination attempt, an innocent person died as government assassins tried to kill my husband. After this last attempt, we knew that it was impossible for us to continue living in Guatemala in those conditions. As the government attempted to stop the social restlessness of its people, several leaders of the movement disappeared, were incarcerated, or were killed. Many of our dear friends suffered this fate. Three bishops of the Church were killed during those terrible years. All of them had families and were followers of the Savior. Why did they not survive? Many times we wondered why we were spared from the unfortunate fate that had followed our good friends. What did the Lord want us to learn from those difficult experiences?

Having faith in God’s plan for us was crucial as we tried to see what His will was for us. My husband, our daughter Berta, and I were forced to seek refuge at one of the foreign embassies in Guatemala. After a month of negotiations between the government and the embassy, we were allowed to leave the country under the embassy’s diplomatic protection. This was the beginning of our lives as refugees in a strange land, far away from the support of our family and friends.

Our time as refugees was a time in which it was more important than ever to keep an eternal perspective in our lives, but I am going to tell you that keeping a divine perspective in the middle of trials is not always easy. It was certainly not easy for us. For six years we wandered from Guatemala to Costa Rica and from Costa Rica to Mexico, trying to find a place where we could live in peace and raise our family. Having the gospel in our lives gave us direction, understanding, and comfort. The Lord’s hand guided us as we tried to create a future for our family. When things became difficult, I would remember Isaiah’s promise that the Lord would strengthen us so that we could keep walking and not faint.

The Lord strengthened us as we were trying to figure out where to settle. We already had family here, and it made sense that coming to the United States would be a good option for us; however, we resisted the idea. We were trusting in our plans, not knowing that the Lord had a better plan for us. We stayed in Costa Rica for a few years but later decided to settle in Mexico City. But again, the Lord had other plans for us.

In 1985 a devastating earthquake destroyed a good part of Mexico City. Many people were trapped in the collapsed buildings, and thousands lost their lives. We were fortunate to come out of that tragedy with only material losses. Again the Lord had spared our lives. Many things changed after the earthquake, and it was not easy to continue living in Mexico City. By then we had four children under the age of eight. This prompted us to make the crucial decision to move to the United States. This was another opportunity to grow, and we ventured out again into the unknown.

We arrived in California, where we could be closer to our family. None of us spoke the ­language, knew the culture, or understood the environment, yet I believe the Lord, with His ­complete perspective, saw for us what we could not see at the time.

“The Japan Fukuoka Mission! I knew the call came from God, but how was I ever going to learn the language?” That question ran through the heart of Gary E. Stevenson, who was in his first year of college when he received his mission call.
“I felt anxious about learning Japanese,” he recalls. “And my concern continued to mount in the missionary training center. I knew I would have to rely on the Lord, and I hoped I could be equal to the challenge.”
After about six weeks, fervent prayer and diligent study led the young elder to a sense of peace that the Lord would bless him to learn Japanese—but not without hard work. “This taught me that the gift of tongues is like faith and works and other gospel principles,” he says. “After you have done all you can do, then you are endowed with the blessing.”
With time and effort, his language ability increased. He served faithfully, learned to communicate well, and developed a love for the culture and the people. Today he sees many reasons why he was called to serve in Asia and to learn Japanese.
Gary Evan Stevenson was born on August 6, 1955, and raised in Cache Valley, Utah, USA. One of four children, he says, “My mother and father anchored our home in the teachings of the gospel. It was the foundation of our lives.”
The children also learned to work and to do so without complaining. Elder Stevenson recalls, “I remember my father saying more than once, ‘Don’t you realize a shovel isn’t something to lean on?’”
As an Aaronic Priesthood bearer, young Gary regularly joined with quorum members to assist the widows in the ward. His father was the bishop, and Gary often accompanied him on visits to the widows. “I always felt good afterward because we had helped someone,” he remembers.
After his mission, Gary met Lesa Jean Higley during an Old Testament class at the Logan Utah Institute of Religion at Utah State University. “She is the sunshine in and of my life,” he says. They were married in the Idaho Falls Idaho Temple in 1979 and became the parents of four sons: Craig, Bryan, Brett, and Kyle. The family shares a love for outdoor activities and water sports.
As a university student, Gary also developed a passion for Church history, studying the Book of Mormon and the Doctrine and Covenants and delving into historic journals and family histories. He took particular interest in Joseph Smith and his family, the Whitmer family, Oliver Cowdery, and Martin Harris. He researched the translation and publication of the various editions of the Book of Mormon.
Once again he learned that faith and hard work go hand in hand. “Every answer to every gospel question does not come immediately,” he counsels. “The Lord expects us to read, study, ponder, and pray. And when we do this with faith and a righteous desire, over time a sweet witness will come.”
While at the university, Gary and two lifelong friends started selling gift accessories imported from Asia. This evolved into a business that sold fitness products and that eventually employed more than 2,500 people. Gary continued using his language skills, and his business required regular travel to Asia, which he now refers to as his “second home.”
In 2004, Elder Stevenson was called as president of the Japan Nagoya Mission. In 2008, he was called to the Seventy and assigned to the Asia North Area Presidency. In March 2011, an earthquake and tsunami struck Japan, killing 20,000, displacing thousands, and destroying 550,000 homes. Elder Stevenson, as Area President, worked closely with local priesthood leaders and community officials to provide help and comfort. “Over and over again our hearts were touched as we witnessed the healing balm of our Savior’s love,” he says.
Called as Presiding Bishop in 2012, he continued to “succor the weak, lift up the hands which hang down, and strengthen the feeble knees” (D&C 81:5).
Then, just before the October 2015 general conference, President Thomas S. Monson extended a call from the Lord to Gary E. Stevenson to serve in the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. Elder Stevenson felt overwhelmed, but President Monson calmly told him: “The Lord will qualify those whom He calls.”1 And because Elder Stevenson has learned to see the hand of the Lord in all things, he is prepared to be a “special [witness] of the name of Christ in all the world” (D&C 107:23).

At a distant stake conference one Sunday I was approached after the meeting by a young man whose face was familiar. He identified himself as a returned missionary whom I had met out in the world a few years ago. He said he had not attended the conference but had come at its conclusion, wanting to say hello. Our greetings were pleasant and revived some choice memories. I asked him about himself. He was in college, still single, and fairly miserable.
I asked him about his service in the Church, and the light in his eyes went out and a dull, disappointed face fashioned itself as he said, “I am not very active in the Church now. I don’t feel the same as I used to feel in the mission field. What I used to think was a testimony has become something of a disillusionment. If there is a God, I am not sure any more. I must have been mistaken in my zeal and joy.”
I looked him through and through and asked him some questions: “What do you do in your leisure? What do you read? How much do you pray? What activity do you have? What are your associations?”
The answers were what I expected. He had turned loose his hold on the iron rod. He associated largely with unbelievers. He read, in addition to his college texts, works by atheists, apostates, and Bible critics. He had ceased to pray to his Heavenly Father. His communication poles were burned, and his lines were sagging terribly.
I asked him now, “How many times since your mission have you read the New Testament?”
“Not any time,” was the answer.
“How many times have you read the Book of Mormon through?”
The answer was, “None.”
“How many chapters of scripture have you read? How many verses?”
Not one single time had he opened the sacred books. He had been reading negative and critical and faith-destroying things and wondered why he could not smile.
He never prayed any more, yet wondered why he felt so abandoned and so alone in a tough world. For a long time he had not partaken of the sacrament of the Lord’s Supper, and he wondered why his spirit was dead.
Not a penny of tithing had he paid, and he wondered why the windows of heaven seemed closed and locked and barred to him. He was not receiving all the things he could have had. And as he was thinking of his woes and his worn-down faith, his loneliness, and his failures, I was thinking of a burned-out pasture in northern Argentina and burned-off telephone posts and sagging wires and dragging posts.
Deeply disturbing are the numerous signs of dwindling faith in our world. Matches are dropped. The grass is burned.
The sagging in spiritual conviction is frightening. Morale is often low even among employees in their jobs—selfish “gimme” tactics. “How much can I get?” “How about a raise?” More holidays. Fewer hours. Poor morale among the employers.
We are too affluent. We have too much money and other things. We have so many things. Even many poorer people have many things, and “things” become our life, and our vocabulary has been invaded with, “Let me do my thing.”
Yet the Lord has said, “… seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you.” (Matt. 6:33.) Too often, though, we want the “things” first.
We have a great generation of youth, but as I talk to many, I am amazed and surprised at the laxity of prayers among them, especially those who are in sin. Many have nearly ceased to pray. Their communication wires are down. Also numerous young people in their early married days cease to pray with regularity; their lines are sagging.
My first question to people in trouble is, “What about your prayers? How often? How deeply involved are you when you pray? And when you pray, are you humbly thanking or are you asking?”
Israel was in deep trouble—a sustained drought.
Israel’s King Ahab demanded of the prophet Elijah:
“Art thou he that troubleth Israel?
“And he answered, I have not troubled Israel; but thou, and thy father’s house, in that ye have forsaken the commandments of the Lord, and thou hast followed Baalim.” (1 Kgs. 18:17–18.)
The spectacular drama portrayed on Mt. Carmel between Elijah the prophet and the ineffectual false priests of Baal is the story of sagging lines of communication. Great wickedness—and the Lord had sealed the heavens from rain. Elijah had said: “… if the Lord be God, follow him: but if Baal, then follow him. …” (1 Kgs. 18:21.)
The contest brought about by Elijah was to prove to Israel that the gods of stone and wood and metal were powerless. When the 450 priests of Baal could not influence their gods to burn the offering, and the Lord, through Elijah, brought down fire from heaven and consumed the bullock, then with a revival of faith on the part of Israel, the clouds came and a torrential rain fell. Weak Israel had now set up new poles; they had restrung their wires, and communication was reestablished.
Two young couples from the Northwest came, bowed in sorrow. The husband of one and the wife of the other had lost themselves in frustration arising out of disloyally finding comfort where no association should have been tolerated. Their problems reached the maximum, and sorrow resulted.
It is generally the same. The two young people, unfaithful to their spouses, had conversed and confided too much; then secret meetings followed, then disloyal disclosures concerning the spouse of each. And finally, that which surely could not have been dreamed of—the transgression.
Both couples had reduced their activity, become casual in their church-going. They had joined a social group who were also turning to spiritual casualness like themselves. Their new way of living was beyond their means, and debts crowded out tithing.
Too busy they were for home evenings and too rushed for family prayer, and when the great temptations came, they were not prepared. Their grass had been consumed, and with it the poles had been burned off and the dangling charred stubs were hanging to the sagging wires.
Sin comes when communication lines are down—it always does, sooner or later.
We are living in a sagging world. There has been sin since Cain yielded to Satan, but perhaps never before has the world accepted sin so completely as a way of life. We shall continue to cry repentance from this and thousands of other pulpits. We shall continue to warn the people all too ready to accept the world as it pushes in upon them.
May we always repair our sagging lines and fulfill our total obligations and thus keep close to our Lord and Savior, I pray in the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.

Bob:
The mission president called me and said, “Hey, I want you to be the second counselor in a branch.” A year and a half later, I was in the sealing room of the Hong Kong China Temple with the branch president I served with. He was going through the temple for the first time! He and his family had saved money and tried seven times to get to the temple, but there would be an accident, or someone would get sick. Something always came up. After seven years, they had saved only 40 dollars.
Three times on our mission, we were able to help Latter-day Saints in Cambodia attend the temple. We took lots of branch presidents who had been doing interviews for temple recommends but had never been to the temple themselves. At least in Cambodia, a senior couple would assist these families on their way to the temple. They need to have someone with them because they don’t know how to fly on a plane. Many haven’t even ridden on a bus! And now they’ve got to fly to Hong Kong and make their way to the temple. It was difficult for them to do that on their own. We are grateful for the Temple Patron Assistance Fund that helped take care of them.
Lori:
Being a member of the Church in Cambodia can be challenging. As a country, Cambodia doesn’t have a Sabbath mentality. Everybody who comes to church has to make sacrifices to be there.
Also, Cambodia is six percent Muslim and only two percent Christian—the rest are Buddhists. Shifting from a Buddhist lifestyle to a Christian lifestyle is very difficult. Some people still lose their jobs, and a lot of times they are shunned by others in the neighborhood.
Tithing is also a big deal. Buddhist monks will come around every morning and ask for rice or some money, and people are used to that. But to take your paycheck and take a slice of that for tithing is a big deal.
Many have had real trauma in their lives. Because of the Khmer Rouge, a communist regime that ruled Cambodia in the late ’70s, everyone over 40 has a personal horror story. I didn’t meet anyone who hadn’t been affected by it. Everyone had family members who were murdered. Even though they’ve been through so much, I couldn’t believe how resilient they were, how willing to try they were. But behind their resilience, many still have low self-esteem. Many don’t feel like they’re important or worth anything.
It was amazing to see how the gospel of Jesus Christ helped them bloom. When they’d find out that they are not only wonderful but also a child of God, they’d say, “You’re kidding? Now I have something to contribute.”
The Church is really going to blossom in Cambodia. Incredible people have been led to the Church. The Saints there are pioneers, and those who really embrace the gospel are blessed in so many ways because they get to know the Savior. It is really amazing.
We have a lot of members and very strong wards around a place called “Trash Mountain,” which is an open dump where people live. Members there are pickers and collectors. They make their money off of recycling plastic and aluminum that they get out of the dump. They live in teeny little houses that we have been to dozens of times.
Bob:
One day we could hear music blaring, and we noticed a tent was being set up. In Cambodia, that either means somebody is getting married or somebody has died.
Lori:
We found out that a mother of five or six kids had just died. There was no husband to speak of. The children just woke up and realized their mom was dead.
One daughter was just sobbing. Through a translator, she said, “I’m the oldest. I’ve got all these siblings. I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
I just scooped her up in my arms. How could I not? This girl just lost her mother. I spoke to her in English and said, “I know you don’t understand me, but I promise you will see your mother again. You are going to be OK. You are not going to be left alone.”
So many experiences like this have given us a special connection with the people of Cambodia.
We felt that love back. The people in Cambodia showed us great kindness. We love them because they are children of God. They are our brothers and sisters.
With some people, I remember thinking, “I can’t wait until I see you in the next life, then I’ll really be able to tell you all the things I feel for you and the love I have for you, and what I admire about you, because I can’t say it now.”
Our mission has blessed us in so many ways. Some people say, “I don’t know if I can serve a mission. I can’t leave my grandkids.” We had five little grandsons when we left, ages five, four, three, two, one. Two granddaughters were born while we were gone. I’m going to save two of my Cambodian missionary name tags and give them to my baby girls so they will know that Grandma wasn’t there because Grandma was doing what the Lord needed her to do.
Bob:
There are many ways to serve the Lord as missionaries. We take to heart what Elder Jeffrey R. Holland said about senior missionary service. He said, “I promise you will do things for [your family] in the service of the Lord that, worlds without end, you could never do if you stayed home to hover over them. What greater gift could grandparents give their posterity than to say by deed as well as word, “In this family we serve missions!’ [“We Are All Enlisted,” Liahona, Nov. 2011, 46.]”
“When we found out we were called to serve in the Cambodia Phnom Penh Mission, we wept. We were excited!” Brother Bob Thurston says. “We wouldn’t have picked Cambodia, but what a gift! What a blessing!” Sister Thurston says.
The Thurstons feel a special connection to the people of Cambodia. “We love them, and we have felt that love back,” Sister Thurston says. “People in Cambodia have shown us great kindness.”
Of all the responsibilities the Thurstons had on their mission, they treasure most the opportunity to visit members in their homes.
Sister Thurston remembers looking at those she served in Cambodia and thinking, “I can’t wait until I see you in the next life, then I’ll really be able to tell you all the things I feel for you and the love I have for you.”

David Oman McKay’s parents taught him at a very young age that he was a child of God and that his Heavenly Father loved him. They also taught him that he could always talk to his Heavenly Father.
In addition to having his own daily prayers, David knelt in daily prayer with his family.
One dark night there was a terrible thunderstorm. David was in bed, and he became very frightened. He knew that if he prayed, he would feel better, but he was afraid to get out of bed and kneel in prayer.
Finally, he gathered enough courage to kneel on the cold floor and pray for protection for himself and his family. As he was praying, David heard a voice say, “Don’t be afraid; nothing will hurt you.”
When he had finished praying, he was able to sleep because he knew that Heavenly Father would protect him and his family.
Many years later David O. McKay became the ninth President of the Church, and his strong testimony of the power of prayer was a good example for all the world.

Elder Jairo Mazzagardi knows what it means to make sacrifices in the service of the Lord. In 1990, Elder Mazzagardi received a phone call from President Thomas S. Monson, then a counselor in the First Presidency, who called him to preside over the Salvador Brazil Mission.
“I never dreamed that I would be a mission president,” Elder Mazzagardi says. “I had been a stake president less than five years. Things were busy—and good—with our business. Accepting this call would mean leaving everything behind.”
At the end of the phone call, President Monson offered Elder Mazzagardi time to consider the calling. But Elder Mazzagardi and his wife had decided years earlier that their lives would be consecrated to the Lord, so he accepted the call on the spot. “Whatever the Lord needs of us, we’re ready to go,” he says.

In the fall of 1830, the first Mormon missionaries arrived in Kirtland. Rebecca listened to them with interest and attended all of the missionaries’ meetings; she even brought her children. Frederick attended as often as his medical practice would allow. The two would study, discuss, and learn together, but Frederick was less certain in his commitment. Meanwhile Rebecca became convinced of the truthfulness of the gospel.
A family biographer later described Rebecca as a kind of Eve in the Garden of Eden: she was “the first to see the necessity” to step into full fellowship in the gospel covenant.4 She was baptized in October 1830.
Frederick still vacillated. Sometimes he wanted to leave the Church alone but in the end could not because he felt drawn back to that sacred, new book of scripture: the Book of Mormon. As the Spirit worked in him, he recognized the truthfulness of the gospel and followed Rebecca’s example by being baptized.

The greatest immediate need, especially for the elderly, was for help in getting their homes back in order. For 79-year-old Veda Cooper, who was crippled from a bone disease, the experience was traumatic, and the love and service offered by ward and stake members were badly needed.
“I was standing in the kitchen doorway when everything started falling down,” she explained. “I couldn’t get backward and I couldn’t get forward. It felt like the house was going to come tumbling down. But I couldn’t get out and run. I’m crippled. Everything that could fall fell. Jams and jellies, pickles, clothes, suitcases, goblets and glasses, a whole set of china for 12—everything was all mixed together. Water was squirting all over the bathroom.
“Later when I thought about all the mess I started feeling sorry for myself. I thought, now look, I’m not afraid to work. And it’s all right for the Lord to take my husband, and it’s all right to have my three sons so far away. But I felt like it was just adding insult to injury to be crippled and alone and then to have a mess like this. The tears were running down, and I thought, I’ll be all summer getting this mess picked up.
“Then here came somebody knocking on the door, somebody from Hanford to help me clean up, and I didn’t feel sorry anymore. But for a little while I thought this is too much—just too much—until help came. Then in no time they had the water turned off, and the plumbing fixed, and the mess cleaned up, and I was just doing fine.”

“Where is David?” I had asked this question many times before, so I already knew the answer.
“In heaven.” My mother smiled sadly. She added, “If we live righteously, someday we can be with him again.”
David was my oldest brother. He had died before I was born. Even though I’d never known him in life, I had seen him in photos and home movies. I felt close to him.
I had another older brother, Jeff. He was barely a year older than I was, but while I was timid and shy, Jeff was fearless. In our backyard was the tallest tree in the neighborhood. I liked to look up its trunk into its vast reaches, where it seemed to touch the clouds. I imagined myself at its top, but I couldn’t even reach its lowest branches. This didn’t stop Jeff. He stood up on our little red wagon and scrambled up the trunk like a monkey, disappearing into the thick foliage. From the leafy shadows his voice beckoned to me. “Come on. Come see what it’s like up here.”
I shook my head. It looked too dark and dim up there, like the inside of a cave or a long tunnel. I was afraid to follow him.
I wondered if David would have climbed the tall tree as fearlessly as Jeff. Would he have raced Jeff to the top? I would never know, because while Jeff was climbing the tree’s topmost branches, David was in heaven.
“Where is heaven?” I asked my mother later that day. “Is it far away? What does it look like?”
“Prophets tell us that those who have died are not far from us, so heaven is very near,” my mother explained. “Joseph Smith said that it is so beautiful we would do anything to get there. Jesus described it as having many mansions and assures us that He has gone ahead to prepare a place for us. It must be a wonderful place—even more wonderful because Jesus is there, waiting for us.”
“And so is David,” I said.
“Yes, he is.” My mother patted my cheek, and I saw tears of hope in her eyes.
I accepted my mother’s answers even though it was hard for me to imagine such a place. Heaven must be like the beautiful earth I knew, but much more glorious and beautiful. But if it was so close, why couldn’t I see it?
Jeff got a camera for his ninth birthday. It was an inexpensive kind, but he loved that camera and took pictures of everything. His favorite subject was nature: birds, our family dog, vacation scenes. One day he put two snapshots into my hands. “Look,” he said, with unconcealed excitement.
“What is it?” I turned the snapshots up and down, trying to see something recognizable.
“It’s the view from the top of the tree,” he said, his face lit with enthusiasm. “Since you couldn’t climb up, I took some pictures for you.” He pointed to each snapshot. “This one is looking towards the mountains. See the church steeple sticking up through the trees?”
“Wow!” I breathed. Now I could see clearly what I was looking at: treetops, rooftops, and an endless sky. It was a whole new world, a totally different perspective, something I had never seen or even imagined.
He pointed to the second snapshot. “This one is looking the other direction. On clear days you can see all the way to the ocean.”
I was awestruck and grateful. It was one of the greatest gifts I had ever received. My older brother had gone to places I could not go and brought back to me a glimpse of their beauty. It was truly amazing.
And he had given me another gift as well. That experience helped me to understand how there could be a heaven—a place of glory just beyond my reach. I might not be able to see it, but it was there. I felt certain of this. And I felt equally certain that someday I would stand hand in hand with my brothers, gazing upon the wonders of heaven, in glorious living color. And Jesus would say, “Come. See the place that I have prepared for you.”

Growing up, I was a learn-by-doing kind of kid. Among other family chores was the twice-daily milking of our small herd of Jersey cows. We milked by hand, and, as I was the baby of the family and too small to milk, my assignment was to herd the cows in and out of the barn and then clean the milk-barn floors at the end of each milking session. It seemed as if those cows would save up all night so that they could relieve themselves on my shiny, clean floor.

Being an observant child, I noticed that before they made their green deposits, they always lifted their tails. That signal gave me the best idea. I would stand by with my large aluminum scoop shovel, and when the tail went up, the scoop went under, and I caught the prize before it had a chance to splatter all over the milk-barn floor.

My dad, seemingly amused and unimpressed by my creativity, said, “Son, I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

I thought to myself, “Yeah, sure, but you don’t have to clean up this mess every day.”

So I chose to ignore him, and he allowed it. A couple of days later, after nearly total and very satisfying success, the tail went up and the scoop went under and midway through the event the cow gave a great cough. Now, at my age and stature, I had a birds-eye view of this fine part of the cow’s anatomy, and that cough sent a spray of pasty, green liquid that covered me from head to toe. I stood there mortified.

My dad came over laughing and wiped the outline of first one eye and then the other and simply said, “I told you not to do that.”

It was my first lesson of “lean not unto thine own understanding” (Proverbs 3:5). It was a lesson I would have liked to learn through obedience and trust.

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.
I often think of the sayings Mother taught me; they come back to me just as if someone had turned on a tape recorder. Among them are these:
Trouble is very easy to get into and very hard to get out of.
Be the labor great or small, do it well or not at all.
Once a job is begun, never leave it until it’s done.
Mother instilled in me a work ethic and a desire to pursue excellence. She had a profound effect on my life, and I had a great relationship with her, as I did with my dad.

Grudges, if left to fester, can become serious maladies. Like a painful ailment they can absorb all of our time and attention. Guy de Maupassant has written an interesting chronicle that illustrates this.

It concerns Master Hauchecome, who on market day went to town. He was afflicted with rheumatism, and as he stumbled along he noticed a piece of string on the ground in front of him. He picked it up and carefully put it in his pocket. He was seen doing so by his enemy, the harness maker.

At the same time it was reported to the mayor that a pocketbook containing money had been lost. It was assumed that what Hauchecome had picked up was the pocketbook, and he was accused of taking it. He vehemently denied the charge. A search of his clothing disclosed only the piece of string, but the slander against him had so troubled him that he became obsessed with it. Wherever he went he bothered to tell people about it. He became such a nuisance that they cried out against him. It sickened him.

“His mind kept growing weaker and about the end of December he took to his bed.
“He passed away early in January, and, in the ravings of [his] death agony, he protested his innocence, repeating:
“‘A little [piece] of string—a little [piece] of string. See, here it is, [Mister Mayor.]’” (See “The Piece of String,” http://www.online-literature.com/Maupassant/270/.)

Around the turn of the previous century, two missionaries were laboring in the mountains of the southern United States. One day, from a hilltop, they saw people gathering in a clearing far below. The missionaries did not often have many people to whom they might preach, so they made their way down to the clearing.
A little boy had drowned, and there was to be a funeral. His parents had sent for the minister to “say words” over their son. The missionaries stood back as the itinerant minister faced the grieving father and mother and began his sermon. If the parents expected to receive comfort from this man of the cloth, they would be disappointed.
He scolded them severely for not having had the little boy baptized. They had put it off because of one thing or another, and now it was too late. He told them very bluntly that their little boy had gone to hell. It was their fault. They were to blame for his endless torment.
After the sermon was over and the grave was covered, the elders approached the grieving parents. “We are servants of the Lord,” they told the mother, “and we have come with a message for you.” As the sobbing parents listened, the two elders read from the revelations and bore their testimony of the restoration of the keys for the redemption of both the living and the dead.
I have some sympathy for that preacher. He was doing the best he could with such light and knowledge as he had. But there is more that he should have been able to offer. There is the fulness of the gospel.
The elders came as comforters, as teachers, as servants of the Lord, as authorized ministers of the gospel of Jesus Christ.
These children of whom I spoke represent all of our Heavenly Father’s children. “Children are an heritage of the Lord: and … happy is the man that hath his quiver full of them.”2

After shopping for groceries, we drove to the pharmacy in Eureka, California—our last stop before heading home to Willow Creek, about an hour away. The pharmacy, however, was closed for lunch. While we waited, my daughter Shae asked if we could drive to Humboldt Bay.
The four of us, including my daughter Tess and her husband, Patrick, grabbed lunch, drove to the nearby bay, and stopped in the parking lot that runs parallel to the bay. That January day in 2021 was overcast and chilly. From our four-door pickup we watched a bird feeding, diving toward the bay and then rising again.
We’d been there less than five minutes and had barely begun to eat when we heard the whining of a speeding car engine. I remember thinking, “Who in their right mind is driving so fast with people all around?”
The road to the bay ran by the parking lot as it turned north. I didn’t locate the source of the engine noise until I saw a gray pickup sailing through the air toward the water. The pickup had missed the turn, sped over a sidewalk, smashed a light pole, and launched into the air. I watched the pickup sail over the shoreline and clear an old pier as it flew toward the water. It was like a scene out of a movie or TV show.
Without speaking a word, we threw open our pickup truck doors and jumped out, groceries spilling onto the parking lot asphalt. Then we ran to the water’s edge just after the pickup splashed hard into the bay. We were close enough to see that the pickup’s driver was staring blankly through the windshield.
As I watched him, I thought, “He’s not moving! He’s not going to get out of that pickup! Something is horribly wrong!”
I had a feeling that I needed to help the man, that I needed to “go and do” (1 Nephi 3:7)—now! The windows of the pickup were rolled up, so Tess and I looked in vain for a rock big enough to break the driver’s side car window. Then she and Patrick called 911 while Shae gathered up our groceries.
Growing up in Willow Creek, I had driven the curvy roads along the Trinity River every day. I had often thought about how scary it would be to go off the road and into the river. What would I do? How would I get out? I would not want to die that way, and I could not let the man in the pickup die that way.
Under normal circumstances, I would never have gone into the bay. But my only thought was, “The driver needs help, and I’m supposed to help him!”
For some reason, I had no fear. The next thing I knew, I was wading in the chilly water, still wearing my pants, shoes, and a pink sweatshirt.
I’m a big girl, and when I waded into the water, I heard someone say, “She’s going to have a heart attack!” I ignored him. After taking 10 steps, I began swimming toward the pickup, about 30 yards (27 m) away. When I reached it, the engine compartment was sinking, but the water was still below the door handle. I tried but could not open the door.
“Open the door or roll down the window!” I called to the driver. “Are you ready to get out of there?”
No response. He just stared straight out the windshield.
I kept talking until he finally turned his head toward me. He gave me a confused smile as if to say, “What are you doing here? What’s going on?”
As the pickup slowly sank, the man continued to sit motionless. My mind raced as I wondered how to open the door or the window. Suddenly and miraculously, the driver’s side window lowered—by itself! I have no idea how it came down, just as I then had no idea how to get the man out of the pickup. I thought about waiting for help, but I heard a loud gurgling sound as water rushed into the cab. I knew I couldn’t wait for help.
I quickly pulled myself up on the door, got halfway into the pickup, reached across the driver, and unbuckled his seat belt. I grabbed him and pulled with all my strength. I got him out of the window and held him up as water sucked the pickup down.
God knew our hearts, and He knew we would go and do what we could to help one of His children.
I didn’t know how deep the water was, and I couldn’t see the sunken truck. But while treading water, I kicked the truck’s hood. I tried to stand on it but kept slipping off. On one of my unsuccessful attempts to stand, I found the truck’s antenna. I held on to it as I secured a foot against a windshield wiper.
Just then another swimmer arrived. A minute later, a boater who had seen the accident maneuvered his craft to us and threw us a rope. Pushing and pulling, the three of us got safely onto the boat. Later, when I took off my pink sweatshirt, Shae pointed out that I had somehow cut my arm from my elbow to my wrist.
I feel that my family was at Humboldt Bay that day to help that man. I don’t pretend to know God’s mind, but I believe that when bad things happen, He expects us to act. I also believe that God gives us experiences and puts us in positions to bless His children. I was raised by a mother who took us swimming and taught us about water currents. We learned to respect but not fear the water. Most important, we learned to help others in need.
We were where we were supposed to be that day—in the right place, at the right time. God knew our hearts, and He knew we would go and do what we could to help one of His children.
The author lives in California.
Editors’ note: Seven months after Hiedi helped rescue Eric Floyd, the driver of the pickup truck, he died of causes unrelated to the stroke he had suffered that day in January 2021. “I wept when I found out that he had died, but I was grateful that he had a little extra time after his accident to spend with his family,” said Sister Johnston, whom witnesses called the “Lady in Pink.” On March 7, 2021, Humboldt County supervisors presented her with the Carnegie Medal for her heroism.

The prophet’s visit became even more exciting, and my family with several other families waited for his visit to see what he would counsel us. I was excited to get an opportunity to pray in that meeting and listen to his message from just a few feet away. His words strengthened my testimony significantly. He helped us realize how we should be preparing ourselves for the temple.
He counselled us that we should stop contentions, love one another, and be honest and fair. He told us to remember to follow the ABCs, In which ”A” stands for ancestors and antiquity, “B” stands for being worthy, and “C” stands for teaching children the gospel. After uttering these things, he invoked a powerful blessing on all of us. Without a speck of doubt, I know that he is the prophet and living witness of Heavenly Father and the Lord Jesus Christ.