Gospel Story Finder

In our day and our time, there are many examples concerning the experiences of those who pray and then go and do. I share with you a touching account of a fine family that lived in the beautiful city of Perth, Australia. In 1957, four months before the dedication of the New Zealand temple, Donald Cummings, the father, was the president of the member district in Perth. He and his wife and family were determined to attend the dedication of the temple, although they were of very modest financial means. They began to pray, to work, and to save. They sold their only car and gathered together every penny they could, but a week before their scheduled departure, they were still 200 pounds short. Through two unexpected gifts of 100 pounds each, they met their goal just in time. Because Brother Cummings couldn’t get time off work for the trip, he decided to quit his job.
They traveled by train across the vast Australian continent, arriving at Sydney, where they joined other members also traveling to New Zealand. Brother Cummings and his family were among the first Australians to be baptized for the dead in the New Zealand temple. They were among the first ones to be endowed in the New Zealand temple from far-off Perth, Australia. They prayed, they prepared, and then they went.
When the Cummings family returned to Perth, Brother Cummings obtained a new and better job. He was still serving as district president nine years later when it was my privilege to call him as the first president of the Perth Australia Stake. I think it significant that he is now the first president of the Perth Australia Temple.

As the years go by, Thelma continues to be a source of inspiration. She handles adversity better than anybody else I know. She takes care of her wonderful son who has Down syndrome, our elderly mother, and a husband with a serious health condition. Also, if those things weren’t enough, she has health issues of her own.

A few years ago, Thelma underwent brain surgery to relieve pressure from a brain cyst. Given the needs of her loved ones, the prospect of any complications was intimidating. She prayed for help and inspiration and visited the temple. Through it all, her faith did not waver, but she had reservations about putting her life in the hands of the doctor who would perform the delicate surgery. Thelma was visiting with a dear friend during this time and confided her concerns about the surgery. Thelma’s friend asked for the doctor’s name and upon learning the name, Thelma’s friend said that the doctor was a member of her ward. She told Thelma that he was a faithful member of the Church and a worthy priesthood holder. He often played Church hymns while he performed surgeries. Although a simple piece of information, this was a tender answer to Thelma’s prayers. Thelma’s life and spiritual experiences are a source of continuous strength and testimony in my own life.

All was quiet in the Andrews household one November evening when the chemistry of calamity began to bubble.
It was innocent at first—just a minor commotion in the basement. Mom, who was writing a letter at a desk in the living room, put her pen down and anxiously looked toward the basement door. Lucy, my ninth-grade sister, pulled off her headphones. Tyler, my six-year-old brother, stopped playing with his toy cars and looked worried.
“Mom,” I asked, trying to keep my voice calm, “is Dad … is he … well, you know, is he doing what I think he is doing?”
“I think so, Matt.”
“You’ve got to make him stop!” Lucy hissed desperately. “Doesn’t he know how this bothers us? I don’t want to go through all this again.”
“We’ve got to support him. I know it’s hard on all of us, but at times like these, we need to remember that we’re a family and we stick together. Your father is a good man. He just has a quirk or two, like everyone else,” Mom said slowly.
Just then, Dad burst through the doorway from the basement, a triumphant grin curling across his face. Around his neck was a camera. In one hand, he carried a tripod, in the other, his gadget bag filled with photographic filters, lenses, and film.
“I found all the gear! How about this Saturday for the family Christmas card photo?” he boomed. “Trust me. This will be the best one yet. I can feel it. What do you think?”
None of us said a word. We knew from experience that another chapter in the Andrews Family Christmas Card Catastrophe was about to be written.
Why couldn’t we be like other families when it comes to Christmas cards? Why couldn’t we actually go to a store and buy a box of cards with a drawing of a snowy forest and a sleigh filled with happy people swooshing across the countryside toward grandmother’s house, and a nice, simple message such as “Merry Christmas” scrawled on the inside? Why did we all have to huddle together and watch Dad fumble with his tripod, set the timer on the camera, and scramble back to join us before the camera clicked?
“Well, I’m sure that one was terrific, but we’ll take a few more to make sure we get a really great one,” Dad always says after the camera fires. Then we repeat the whole process over and over.
One year we went through almost two boxes of film before Dad was satisfied. Thirty-four times we had to stand up straight, say “cheese,” or “pizza” and then smile. When we got the photos back, someone looked awful in 26 of them, five were out of focus, and in three others, Dad didn’t quite get into the picture in time and all you could see was his back. We went with one of the out-of-focus shots that year, which sort of symbolizes the whole family photo ritual.
We’ve threatened mutiny. “We don’t want to do this, Dad. We’re not going to this year,” we’d say.
“But our friends tell us how much they enjoy our Christmas cards,” Dad says defensively. “They’d miss our family photo if we didn’t send it.”
Can’t argue with that. We’re probably the best Christmas entertainment around. “Has the Andrews family Christmas card come yet?” people around the city probably ask each December. “We could use a laugh.”
Lucy slipped into my room. “Thinking about the Christmas photos?” she asked.
“Yeah. Our annual collision with disaster.”
“Remember the year Dad wanted our photo taken in the mountains? He thought a background of snow and pine trees would be perfect.”
I remembered. The day we headed to the mountains, a full-scale blizzard was blowing in. The temperature was about 12 degrees, and our car slid off the road on the way home. If you look closely at the photo from that year, you can see the blue tinge to our lips, as we shivered in front of the camera.
“The year we almost died for the Christmas photo,” Lucy recalled glumly.
“That wasn’t as bad as the year we wore Santa hats and pajamas,” I said.
“A horror show,” Lucy agreed.
Actually, it was our pressed pajamas and Santa hats. Mom decided to starch and iron all our pajamas and the effect was one of my older brother, Michael, Lucy, and me (Tyler wasn’t born yet) standing stiffly at attention in our cardboard nightwear.
“Cute, Matt. You looked pretty awesome in your fire truck jammies,” teased Nick Flander, who until that moment had been my best friend.
The list of disasters is long. One year we all looked fine, except for Lucy, who had her eyes closed and mouth wide open. Or the Christmas when we used a photo from our vacation at the beach, all of us in our swimming suits.
“I thought it would be different. Kind of cute,” Dad explained.
“Beach shots don’t cut it in December,” groaned Michael that year. At least this year he’s on a mission in Great Britain and mercifully out of reach of even the longest of my Dad’s lenses.
“Is there any way out?” Lucy asked sadly.
“I don’t think so. Pray for a miracle,” I answered. “It’s our only hope.”
It was Tyler who boosted my faith in divine intervention a couple of nights later. I was upstairs, deep into a college hoops game, when he came in.
“Can we talk, Matt?”
“Always. Trouble with homework? Depressed about the ozone layer? Need some advice about girls?”
“No, I was thinking about Christmas cards.”
That got my attention. “What about them?”
Tyler sighed. “Michael.”
The light bulb that occasionally doubles as my brain flickered to life. “Yeah. Michael. He won’t be in the picture this year. Doesn’t seem right, does it, bud?”
“Nope.”
I was sensing a good angle, one that would end our hopeless holiday tradition. “I’ll talk with Dad, as soon as I catch him in a good mood, like right after he eats dessert.”
Tyler looked a little happier. And I was feeling pretty good too. A foolish tradition of my father’s was about to come to a screeching halt. Now all I had to do was convince Dad that without Michael in the picture, we weren’t quite a family.
We have a spare bedroom in our house that through the years has evolved into the music room, the library, the den, and the sewing room. When Dad is doing some serious vegging out, he heads up there, which is what he did an hour after dinner the following night. The timing felt right. I gave Tyler a thumbs up, then trudged up the stairs. Dad was sitting in an old chair, listening to ancient music from the ’70s.
“Welcome to the inner sanctum,” he greeted me, sounding fairly relaxed for a parent.
“Hi, Dad.” My strategy was simple: link this all up to Tyler. That way if Dad got ticked, I just tell him it’s all his last-born child’s idea, and I skate home free, since parents hardly ever get upset with the baby of the family. “Dad, can we talk about Tyler for a second?”
“Sure. What’s up?”
“He’s worried about the Christmas card. He doesn’t think we should have a family picture this year because Michael is in London.” Then, feeling a surge of nobility, I lowered my voice and quietly said, “I kind of agree with him, Dad.”
Dad sat up in his chair. “You kids don’t really like the idea of a family photo, do you?”
“I think we’d like to try something else, something more contemporary. Like what other families do.”
He looked serious. Very serious. “Could be that I’ve had my blinders on,” he said slowly. “I’m not the best photographer in the world. I know that. I always thought the cards were kind of cute. Maybe it wasn’t the picture itself, just that we always were together in the photo. I suppose things change.”
This was too easy. “Change is good, Dad,” I reminded him, going for the jugular. “I think it says so in the Old Testament. Or Brigham Young said something like that.”
He took off his glasses and rubbed his chin. “Still …”
The word still made me nervous. If there is one word that throws fear into the lives of teenagers everywhere, it is still when a parent is on the verge of making a wise and favorable decision. In this case, it signaled that Dad had not been totally swayed by my logic and eloquence. The sweet feeling of victory was slipping through my grasp.
“Still,” he repeated, and I felt doom encircling me, “let’s try one more year, at least. Michael may need it. Next year, we’ll buy boxed cards if you kids don’t want the family photo. Can you live with that, Matt?”
Partial victory, at least. One more year, then the family Christmas photo would be history.
“Okay, Dad. One more year.”
“We’ll take care of it on Saturday then.”
“But not in the mountains.”
“No, not in the mountains. I’ve got somewhere special planned.”
I didn’t even ask where. I wanted to hurry out of the room and give the news to Tyler and Lucy, before he could change his mind.
In our front yard is an old oak tree, and since we’d had a mild autumn, some of the leaves were still hanging from it. When I finally got up on Saturday and made my way downstairs, I was startled to see the tripod set up underneath the oak’s long, graceful branches. Dad’s special place was right at home. An hour later, we stood under the tree while he fiddled with his camera and made all the final adjustments.
“I hope nobody sees us out here,” Lucy whispered.
“Better than being in a blizzard,” I replied.
“Okay, everyone, straighten up. Everything is set. Here I come!” Dad said exuberantly. “Now one, two, three, everyone say, CHEESE!”
What can I say? The photo was great. It was perfect. Against all odds, defying all Andrews family tradition, Dad managed to get us in focus with our eyes open, and all of us looking natural and happy. Set against the oak tree, with our red and green sweaters and Tyler’s stocking cap, we managed to look right in step with the season.
“Guess it was bound to happen some year,” Dad mumbled, looking over the photos in an unconvincing attempt to sound humble.
“Miracles still do happen,” Mom chimed in.
“Can we send this to Michael? I think he’ll like it even if he isn’t in it,” Tyler said.
“Michael will get the very first one,” Mom promised.
We didn’t have long to wait before hearing Michael’s opinion about the Christmas card. Ten days before Christmas, a letter arrived. Mom tore it open as soon as she came in from the mailbox.
Dear Mom, Dad, Matt, Lucy, and Tyler,
I can’t tell you how neat it was to see the Christmas card photo. It looked great, even if I wasn’t part of it. Maybe I’m the reason they never seemed to turn out very well!
We’d had a rough day. It was dark, windy, and cold, and we didn’t have much luck with the work. We had so many doors slammed in our faces that my companion and I joked about needing plastic surgery to straighten out our noses. Anyway, we picked up our mail at the post after lunch, and I jammed your letter into my overcoat pocket.
It was on the bus that I opened the letter. When I saw you standing in front of the tree in our yard, I started to giggle. A woman sitting across the aisle said something about how I must be reading a nice letter. I showed her the card, and she was impressed by the photo. One thing led to another, and we’re going by her home to drop off a Book of Mormon tomorrow. Who knows if anything ever comes of it, but it wouldn’t have happened if a certain photo of a good-looking family hadn’t appeared in the mail.
Mom set down Michael’s letter. “Maybe we should try the photo again next year.”
Nobody disagreed. “But no train jammies,” I said. “I draw the line there.”
“No pajamas, Matt,” Dad nodded. “Same deal though. If the photo isn’t acceptable to everyone, we won’t use it. We’ll work hard to make it a decent picture.”
That evening, I walked into the spare room. Dad was on the floor, leafing through the family Christmas photo album. He flipped to the first page. “Look at this, Matt. See something?”
I squinted at the picture, faded after more than 20 years. “You and Mom. In front of your old car.”
“What else?”
“Well, Mom had long hair, and you had more hair …”
“Anything else?”
I studied the photo. Two people. My parents, soon after they were married. The first Andrews family Christmas card. No children back then. A long way from our family as it was today.
Or was it?
Whether it was two Andrews, six Andrews, or just five Andrews with one on a mission, it was still our family. The Christmas photo was about tradition, togetherness, the season of the year, and the way we celebrate it, and not so much the photo itself. This was a history of our family, a year at a time, right at our fingertips. An occasional brush with frostbite and teasing from our friends seemed a small price to pay for the treasure at hand. We would look through these photos someday and all laugh or cry, watching our family change from year to year. Someone would notice Michael was missing from this year’s photo and certainly say, “Oh, that was the year he was on his mission. Whatever happened to the woman he met on the bus?” What great Christmas memories.
“See anything else?” my father gently asked.
“What I see is a family, no matter how many people are there. I see a lot of what Christmas is about.”
And as I said so, for the first time, I got the distinct feeling that I was not looking at just a photo but seeing the whole picture.

Bonnie H. Cordon
Growing up, my father was a career Army officer. The only downside to his job was that he had to go to war. I was 13 years old when my dad left for Vietnam for the second time. The fear of him not returning was always on my mind, but so was my trust in the Lord. Before leaving, my dad gave me a father’s blessing assuring me that the Lord would be with me and help while my dad was away. I felt peace. Although I did not know for sure that my dad would return home safely, I trusted that everything would be OK, regardless of what happened.

“The Savior once asked His disciples the following question: ‘What shall a man give in exchange for his soul?’ (Matthew 16:26).
“This is a question that my father taught me to carefully consider years ago. As I was growing up, my parents assigned me chores around the house and paid me an allowance for that work. I often used that money, a little over 50 cents a week, to go to the movies. Back then a movie ticket cost 25 cents for an 11-year-old. This left me with 25 cents to spend on candy bars, which cost 5 cents apiece. A movie with five candy bars! It couldn’t get much better than that.
“All was well until I turned 12. Standing in line one afternoon, I realized that the ticket price for a 12-year-old was 35 cents, and that meant two less candy bars. Not quite prepared to make that sacrifice, I reasoned to myself, ‘You look the same as you did a week ago.’ I then stepped up and asked for the 25-cent ticket. The cashier did not blink, and I bought my regular five candy bars instead of three.
“Elated by my accomplishment, I later rushed home to tell my dad about my big coup. As I poured out the details, he said nothing. When I finished, he simply looked at me and said, ‘Son, would you sell your soul for a nickel?’ His words pierced my 12-year-old heart. It is a lesson I have never forgotten.”
Elder Robert C. Gay of the Seventy

One of our beloved hymns expresses the plea “Thru cloud and sunshine, Lord, abide with me!”1 I was once on a plane as it approached a large storm. Looking out the window, I could see a dense blanket of clouds below us. The rays of the setting sun reflected off the clouds, causing them to shine with intense brightness. Soon, the plane descended through the heavy clouds, and we were suddenly enveloped in a thick darkness that completely blinded us to the intense light we had witnessed just moments earlier.2
Black clouds may also form in our lives, which can blind us to God’s light and even cause us to question if that light exists for us anymore. Some of those clouds are of depression, anxiety, and other forms of mental and emotional affliction. They can distort the way we perceive ourselves, others, and even God. They affect women and men of all ages in all corners of the world.
Likewise damaging is the desensitizing cloud of skepticism that can affect others who have not experienced these challenges. Like any part of the body, the brain is subject to illnesses, trauma, and chemical imbalances. When our minds are suffering, it is appropriate to seek help from God, from those around us, and from medical and mental health professionals.
“All human beings—male and female—are created in the image of God. Each is a beloved spirit son or daughter of heavenly parents, and … each has a divine nature and destiny.”3 Like our Heavenly Parents and our Savior, we have a physical body4 and experience emotions.5
My dear sisters, it is normal to feel sad or worried once in a while. Sadness and anxiety are natural human emotions.6 However, if we are constantly sad and if our pain blocks our ability to feel the love of our Heavenly Father and His Son and the influence of the Holy Ghost, then we may be suffering from depression, anxiety, or another emotional condition.
My daughter once wrote: “There was a time … [when] I was extremely sad all of the time. I always thought that sadness was something to be ashamed of, and that it was a sign of weakness. So I kept my sadness to myself. … I felt completely worthless.”7
A friend described it this way: “Since my early childhood, I have faced a constant battle with feelings of hopelessness, darkness, loneliness, and fear and the sense that I am broken or defective. I did everything to hide my pain and to never give the impression that I was anything but thriving and strong.”8
My dear friends, it can happen to any of us—especially when, as believers in the plan of happiness, we place unnecessary burdens on ourselves by thinking we need to be perfect now. Such thoughts can be overwhelming. Achieving perfection is a process that will take place throughout our mortal life and beyond—and only through the grace of Jesus Christ.9
In contrast, when we open up about our emotional challenges, admitting we are not perfect, we give others permission to share their struggles. Together we realize there is hope and we do not have to suffer alone.10
As disciples of Jesus Christ, we have made a covenant with God that we “are willing to bear one another’s burdens” and “to mourn with those that mourn.”11 This may include becoming informed about emotional illnesses, finding resources that can help address these struggles, and ultimately bringing ourselves and others to Christ, who is the Master Healer.12 Even if we do not know how to relate to what others are going through, validating that their pain is real can be an important first step in finding understanding and healing.13
In some cases, the cause of depression or anxiety can be identified, while other times it may be harder to discern.14 Our brains may suffer because of stress15 or staggering fatigue,16 which can sometimes be improved through adjustments in diet, sleep, and exercise. Other times, therapy or medication under the direction of trained professionals may also be needed.
Untreated mental or emotional illness can lead to increased isolation, misunderstandings, broken relationships, self-harm, and even suicide. I know this firsthand, as my own father died by suicide many years ago. His death was shocking and heartbreaking for my family and me. It has taken me years to work through my grief, and it was only recently that I learned talking about suicide in appropriate ways actually helps to prevent it rather than encourage it.17 I have now openly discussed my father’s death with my children and witnessed the healing that the Savior can give on both sides of the veil.18
Sadly, many who suffer from severe depression distance themselves from their fellow Saints because they feel they do not fit some imaginary mold. We can help them know and feel that they do indeed belong with us. It is important to recognize that depression is not the result of weakness, nor is it usually the result of sin.19 It “thrives in secrecy but shrinks in empathy.”20 Together, we can break through the clouds of isolation and stigma so the burden of shame is lifted and miracles of healing can occur.
During His mortal ministry, Jesus Christ healed the sick and the afflicted, but each person had to exercise faith in Him and act to receive His healing. Some walked for long distances, others extended their hand to touch His garment, and others had to be carried to Him in order to be healed.21 When it comes to healing, don’t we all need Him desperately? “Are we not all beggars?”22
Let us follow the Savior’s path and increase our compassion, diminish our tendency to judge, and stop being the inspectors of the spirituality of others. Listening with love is one of the greatest gifts we can offer, and we may be able to help carry or lift the heavy clouds that suffocate our loved ones and friends23 so that, through our love, they can once again feel the Holy Ghost and perceive the light that emanates from Jesus Christ.
If you are constantly surrounded by a “mist of darkness,”24 turn to Heavenly Father. Nothing that you have experienced can change the eternal truth that you are His child and that He loves you.25 Remember that Christ is your Savior and Redeemer, and God is your Father. They understand. Picture Them close by you, listening and offering support.26 “[They] will console you in your afflictions.”27 Do all you can, and trust in the Lord’s atoning grace.
Your struggles do not define you, but they can refine you.28 Because of a “thorn in the flesh,”29 you may have the ability to feel more compassion toward others. As guided by the Holy Ghost, share your story in order to “succor the weak, lift up the hands which hang down, and strengthen the feeble knees.”30
For those of us currently struggling or supporting someone who is struggling, let us be willing to follow God’s commandments so we may always have His Spirit with us.31 Let us do the “small and simple things”32 that will give us spiritual strength. As President Russell M. Nelson said, “Nothing opens the heavens quite like the combination of increased purity, exact obedience, earnest seeking, daily feasting on the words of Christ in the Book of Mormon, and regular time committed to temple and family history work.”33
Let us all remember that our Savior, Jesus Christ, “[has taken] upon him [our] infirmities, that his bowels may be filled with mercy, according to the flesh, that he may know … how to succor [us] according to [our] infirmities.”34 He came “to bind up the brokenhearted, … to comfort all that mourn; … to give unto them beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness.”35
I testify to you that “thru cloud and sunshine” the Lord will abide with us, our “afflictions [can be] swallowed up in the joy of Christ,”36 and “it is by grace that we are saved, after all we can do.”37 I testify that Jesus Christ will return to the earth “with healing in his wings.”38 Ultimately, He “shall wipe away all tears from [our] eyes; and there shall be no more … sorrow.”39 For all who will “come unto Christ, and be perfected in him,”40 the “sun shall no more go down; … for the Lord shall be [our] everlasting light, and the days of [our] mourning shall be ended.”41 In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

A dear friend told of the passing away of his atheistic father. As he bid good-bye to his family who had gathered around, he expressed no hope of any future, saying, “No, this is the end.”

Then, as the last moment came, he suddenly opened his eyes and said distinctly, “Mother, how good to see you! Sister, you look lovely. How beautiful it all is!” Then he died. What a surprise it must have been for him! I hope he was happy about it.

My dear brothers and sisters, when I was 12 years old, my family lived in Göteborg, a coastal city in southern Sweden. By way of reference, it is the hometown of our dear associate Elder Per G. Malm, who passed away this summer. We miss him. We’re grateful for his nobility and his noble service and for the example of his absolutely adorable family. And we certainly pray God’s richest blessings to be theirs.
Fifty years ago, we attended church in a large remodeled home. One Sunday, my friend Steffan, the only other deacon in the branch, greeted me at church with some excitement. We went to the chapel’s adjacent overflow area, and he pulled from his pocket a large firecracker and some matches. In an act of youthful bravado, I took the firecracker and lit the long gray fuse. I intended to snuff out the fuse before it blew up. But when I burned my fingers trying to do so, I dropped the firecracker. Steffan and I watched in horror as the fuse continued to burn.
The firecracker exploded, and sulfurous fumes filled the overflow area and the chapel. We hurriedly gathered up the scattered remnants of the firecracker and opened the windows to try to get the smell out, naively hoping that no one would notice. Fortunately, no one was hurt and no damage was done.
As members came to the meeting, they did notice the overpowering smell. It was hard to miss. The smell distracted from the sacred nature of the meeting. Because there were so few Aaronic Priesthood holders—and in what can only be described as dissociative thinking—I passed the sacrament, yet I did not feel worthy to partake of it. When the sacrament tray was offered to me, I took neither the bread nor the water. I felt horrible. I was embarrassed, and I knew that what I had done had displeased God.
After church, the branch president, Frank Lindberg, a distinguished older man with silver-gray hair, asked me to come to his office. After I sat down, he looked at me kindly and said he had noticed that I had not partaken of the sacrament. He asked why. I suspect he knew why. I was sure everyone knew what I had done. After I told him, he asked how I felt. Through tears, I haltingly told him I was sorry and that I knew I had let God down.
President Lindberg opened a well-worn copy of the Doctrine and Covenants and asked me to read some underlined verses. I read the following out loud:
“Behold, he who has repented of his sins, the same is forgiven, and I, the Lord, remember them no more.
“By this ye may know if a man repenteth of his sins—behold, he will confess them and forsake them.”
I will never forget President Lindberg’s compassionate smile when I looked up after I had finished reading. With some emotion, he told me that he felt it would be fine for me to resume partaking of the sacrament. As I left his office, I felt indescribable joy.
As a 12-year-old in Göteborg, I could have blamed Steffan. He was the one who brought the big firecracker and the matches to the church in the first place. But blaming others, even if justified, allows us to excuse our behavior. By so doing, we shift responsibility for our actions to others. When the responsibility is shifted, we diminish both the need and our ability to act. We turn ourselves into hapless victims rather than agents capable of independent action.
Another choice that impedes repentance is minimizing our mistakes. In the Göteborg firecracker incident, no one was hurt, no permanent damage occurred, and the meeting was held anyway. It would have been easy to say that there was no reason to repent. But minimizing our mistakes, even if no immediate consequences are apparent, removes the motivation to change. This thinking prevents us from seeing that our mistakes and sins have eternal consequences.
The fact that we can repent is the good news of the gospel! Guilt can be “swept away.” We can be filled with joy, receive a remission of our sins, and have “peace of conscience.” We can be freed from feelings of despair and the bondage of sin. We can be filled with the marvelous light of God and be “pained no more.” Repentance is not only possible but also joyful because of our Savior. I still remember the feelings that washed over me in the branch president’s office after the firecracker episode. I knew I had been forgiven. My feelings of guilt vanished, my gloomy mood lifted, and my heart felt light.

On Scott’s 16th birthday, his father entered Scott’s room and, clearing off a stack of oboe music from a chair so he could sit down, said, “Okay, you’ve been asking us to let you date Pam. You’re 16 now. So go ahead and ask her out.”
“I’m not ready to date yet,” Scott said.
“But that’s all you’ve talked about for a solid year,” his father replied.
“I’m sorry, but a guy just can’t rush into something like that. I’ll date Pam when I’m ready.”
His father left, shaking his head, wishing he understood his son.
Scott tried to get ready to date Pam, but he had known her for four years and couldn’t remember when she hadn’t made him nervous. Even when he was 12 at a Scout-Beehive class breakfast, he’d dropped his pancakes when she asked him if he’d show her how to tie a square knot.
He spent hours thinking about how he’d ask her out. Every morning when he delivered a newspaper to her family’s porch, he looked to see if he might discover a fire in the house from which he could rescue her and the whole family. He imagined her saying, “Oh, how can I ever repay you?” and he would say, “Ma’am, if you’d go with me to the stake youth dance, that’d be repayment enough.”
Every night he’d take the hall phone with the long cord into his room and close the door. With great care he’d position the phone exactly in the center of the desk. Then he would stare at it. As a warm-up to phoning Pam, he’d dial the time-of-day number and talk to the recorded voice, concentrating on lowering his voice.
He’d become sensitive about his voice when he realized that most of the other guys in the priests group were singing bass and he was still singing the melody. In the morning when he delivered papers, he sometimes put pebbles in his mouth and yelled to the dogs who chased him along the route. He tried to imitate as much as possible what John Wayne, with pebbles in his mouth, would say to dogs chasing him if he delivered papers on a secondhand, one-speed bike.
Once he dialed Pam’s number completely. When Pam answered, he cleared his throat and hung up, his face covered with perspiration.
In order to earn money for a karate course, complete with illustrated instruction manual and phonograph records (the course was guaranteed to build confidence), he found a summer job at the Dairy Dip Drive-in. He worked from 10:00 in the morning to 5:00 in the afternoon.
He worked with Becky Williams. It was apparent from the first that they would be “just friends” because she was taller than Scott—his eyes came level with her chin—she was older than he—17 compared with 16—she had little interest in the oboe, and she had a hot-tempered steady named Joe Kruglak who had gained local fame as a fighter. Joe worked as a mechanic in a garage. It was rumored that he lifted automobile engine blocks for exercise.
During the first week, Scott learned from Becky the details of working in a drive-in. Becky worked hard. When business was slow, she launched out on a project of cleaning the grill or washing the windows. But even when they were working side by side, she would seem to withdraw from him, her blue eyes reflecting unhappiness. Scott didn’t say anything to her, and in a few minutes she’d return and they could talk again.
“Basically, what’s wrong with me?” Scott asked one morning while they cleaned out the grease trays on the grill.
“Nothing.”
“C’mon, Becky, be honest. I can take it. Is it that my silver braces clash with the gold-rimmed glasses?”
“I’ve never noticed.”
“I’ve got so much metal on my face I’m afraid to get too close to a TV set. I ruin the reception. Is it that I’m only 160 centimeters tall?”
“Centimeters?” she asked.
“I think I sound taller in the metric system. Do people make fun about my playing the oboe in orchestra?”
“No.”
“The oboe hasn’t really made it in the popular market. But someday I’m going to have a group that plays for dances that will have an electronic oboe. I haven’t figured out the details yet.”
Becky never stopped working.
“Why can’t I get a date?” he asked.
“Beats me,” she answered. “Are you going to help me lift out this rack?”
“Sure.” He bent down and slid out the grease-laden rack.
“Do you try to get dates?” she asked.
“I phoned Pam once.”
“What’d she say?”
“Hello.”
“That’s all?” she asked.
“I’d rather not go into it. It’s personal.”
Everyday at noon Joe walked over from the garage to have lunch.
“C’mon out,” he’d order Becky.
While Scott cooked Joe’s hamburger, she’d sit for a few minutes with him. Joe spent his time complaining about his boss, the people who brought their cars into the garage, and her. Before he left, he’d say to Scott, “Put it on my tab,” which meant Becky would pay for it.
During the second week Scott worked there, Joe got angry at Becky for some reason. They began to argue about something. Scott tried to listen but he had a line of little league players waiting for super dips. Finally Joe stood up, banged his fist on the table, and walked off. Becky watched him go, came inside, paid for Joe’s meal, and helped Scott serve super dips. She remained quiet for the rest of the day.
After two days Joe came back. She hurried out to talk to him while he wolfed down a hamburger and fries. When she came back, she seemed happy.
A week later Scott asked her if she’d mind if he called her up at night to help him build his confidence.
“Becky, this is Scott.”
“Hello, Scott.”
“Hello, Becky,” he said confidently. “You don’t mind if I talk on the phone with you?”
“No, I don’t mind. Joe’s out at a party with some guys tonight.”
“I just want to get practice talking. Nothing serious, you understand. Like the weather. How do you like the weather?”
“Fine.”
“Me too. I’ve always liked weather,” Scott added, and then after a long pause asked, “Becky, what do girls look for in a guy?”
“That’s hard to say. It depends on the girl.”
“Well, what do you like? Somebody who treats you rotten?”
There was silence from the other end.
“He even swears in front of you, doesn’t he?” Scott asked.
“You don’t like him, do you?” she asked.
“What do I know? He’s the success, not me. Maybe it’s something I should try. Let’s say you and I were going steady. I’d go to your home after work, sit down in front of the TV, drink Fresca, and watch the baseball game. Say something to me.”
“How’s the game?”
“Don’t bother me when the White Sox are batting!” Scott roared into the phone. “Can’t you let me have five minutes in peace?
“How’d I do?” Scott asked, returning to his normal voice. “I really walked over you, didn’t I? It’s not as hard as I thought it’d be.”
“I don’t like it,” Becky said, her voice straining.
“But that’s what Joe does to you.”
“Is it?” she asked.
“Sure. You’re not very serious about him, are you? I mean, you’d never do a dumb thing like get married to him, would you?”
“I don’t know. He’s asked me.”
“I think he’d probably treat you the same way after you were married. I’d never treat you that way, though, even if we were married.”
“Oh? How would you treat me?”
“Special. Like if we were married and had two cars, I’d trade cars with you once a month and take yours in to have the oil changed. You’d never have to worry. And I’d empty the bag on the vacuum cleaner.”
“I think we’d better hang up now,” she said, her voice melancholy.
“Sure. I didn’t say anything wrong, did I?”
“No. Goodbye.”
“Yeah, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
When he went to work the next day, she worked quietly.
“You’re not mad at me or anything, are you?” he finally asked.
“No. Just thinking.”
“I’m sorry if I said anything that hurt you—about you and Joe.”
“It’s okay. Maybe I needed to hear it.”
“I think you’re a fine person, Becky. Like the time you threw in four cents of your own money so that little kid could have enough for a cone.”
“I think you’re nice too.”
“You, a girl, think that?” Scott asked, wiping off the counter. “I wish I were. I feel like the friendly neighborhood zero.”
“You aren’t.”
“If I lettered in football, then I’d be somebody. I’d have a red R on my jacket. When I walked down the street, people would stop and say, ‘Look, he’s got a letter on his jacket.’ Then I’d be somebody, and Pam would go out with me.”
“You’re somebody now. You just haven’t realized it.”
“If I was just better at talking to people. My dad talks to people all the time. Even gas station attendants. He just walks up and starts talking. By the time the tank’s full, they’re old friends.”
“You can learn,” she said. “Talk to the customers.”
“Why not?” he answered.
A few minutes later a Volkswagen with three college girls from California stopped for burgers and fries and drinks. Becky cooked the burgers and fries while Scott got the drinks ready.
“Nice day, isn’t it?” Scott leaned over the counter to talk to one of the girls.
“Yeah.”
“Tell me, how’re things in California? Are the oranges doing well?”
“What?” the startled girl asked, upset by the intense manner with which Scott spoke to her.
“The oranges in California. How’re they doing?”
“I dunno.”
Scott leaned farther out, straining to catch some threads of sanity in the conversation. “I guess if they weren’t doing well, we’d have heard?”
Now almost shouting, Scott continued. “I mean, since we haven’t heard, we can assume we’ll have a good crop of oranges this year.” Almost as a command, he barked out, “Wouldn’t you say that?”
The girl slowly backed away.
“I see you are driving a Volkswagen. How is the gas mileage?”
“I’m not sure.”
“I think that’s funny!” Scott yelled, his eyes open wide. “You got a small car so you’d get good gas mileage. And yet you don’t even know what gas mileage you’re getting. Don’t you think that’s funny? Well, don’t you?” Scott barked, his voice cracking.
“Please, could we have our food?” one of the girls pleaded.
As soon as the food and money exchanged hands, the girls ran to the car and drove off, missing the driveway and going over the curb.
Scott and Becky watched them speed off. “Now you see what I mean. I never say the right thing. That’s why I’m so afraid to call Pam. I’d mess the whole thing up.”
“Look, if you want, Scott, I’ll help you phone her after work.”
After work they crossed the street to the bowling alley where there was a phone booth. Becky sat Scott down and calmly discussed with him how to make the phone call to Pam.
Then she led him to the phone booth. Halfway there, he stopped and practiced saying hello in lower and lower tones. “Hello, hello, hello, hello.” A departing bowler stole a worried glance at him and then quickly hurried out the door.
Becky dialed the number and handed him the phone.
“Hello, hello, hello,” he said, finally reaching the desired pitch. “Pam, this is Scott. I’m your paper boy … Oh, I’m sorry about that. Tell your father I’ll try not to throw it on the roof anymore. Goodbye.
“Maybe I’ll call her a couple of times just to break the ice.” Scott told Becky as they left. “Was my voice low enough?”
Joe had been waiting for Becky, his late model sports car parked at the drive-in. When he saw Becky and Scott coming out of the bowling alley, he hurried over to them.
“What were you two doing?” he asked suspiciously.
“We were making a phone call,” Becky said.
Joe walked over to Scott, and stared at him angrily. Joe jabbed one finger at Scott’s chest.
“Don’t get ideas about spending time with Becky after work,” he said sharply.
Glancing over to Becky, he ordered, “C’mon. I’m in a hurry.”
A few days later Scott received the box containing an instruction book and record teaching karate, and an eight-by-ten glossy photograph of someone who claimed to be the king of karate.
That night Scott began his instruction. Over the next several days he spent hours looking in the full length mirror and shouting “Heaaah!” His parents grew to love and appreciate their backyard, spending much time there, as far away as they could get from the house.
“Becky, how come you sometimes don’t come to church?” he asked one morning while they cleaned up the wrappers left from the night before.
“Some Sundays I’m with Joe at the beach or else at the car races. Why?”
“Your parents don’t make you go?” he asked.
“My real parents are divorced. My stepfather isn’t a member, and my mom doesn’t want to make him mad. About the only time he’s home is on Sunday.”
They finished up outside and went in to make up some hamburger patties. “I thought it was going to be great at first when Mom remarried. The second week he took me and my sister out on Saturday. He took us to a fair and bought us cotton candy and hot dogs, took us on rides, and even bought us both a huge teddy bear. After he got us home, he quit paying any attention to us. It was as if his getting us the teddy bear proved what a loving stepdad he was. Now he doesn’t talk to us except to yell. Sometimes I wish I could leave home.”
“With Joe?”
“I don’t know. Him or somebody else. I seem to attract guys like Joe.”
Scott wiped his eyes and then continued to slice up some onions. “Becky, come with me Wednesday to church. Our Explorer post is having somebody come in to teach dancing. You’d have a good time. And you should see some of those guys. They’re all taller than me, and some of them have their own cars.”
“What about Joe?” she asked. “He gets very mad.”
“You leave Joe to me,” Scott said, looking at his karate-toughened, onion-juice-covered hand.
“What would I wear?” she asked.
“A dress if you have one.”
“I do, but I don’t wear dresses much because Joe never likes me to dress up. He says we’re never going any place where we need to worry about how we look.”
After work Scott and Becky walked over to phone Pam.
“What’re you going to say?” Becky asked.
“Don’t worry. You treat me like such a kid sometimes. I have it all figured out. A little light conversation to put her at ease. Then I just ask her if she’ll go with me to the movies Saturday.”
Becky got in the phone booth first, and he crowded in after her. With the door open they had more room in the booth, but the fan didn’t run.
Becky dialed the number for him.
“Hello, is this Pamela Robertson who lives at 345 Riverside Drive? … Pam, this is Scott McCovick who lives at 349 Riverside Drive.”
Scott cupped his hands over the phone and asked Becky, “Now what?”
“I told you we should’ve practiced,” she whispered. “A little light conversation, remember?”
He stood looking at the phone as if he’d never seen one before.
“Say something!” Becky said.
“Pam,” he continued, “I saw you spraying for dandelions a few days ago. What kind of weed killer do you use?”
Becky grimaced.
“No, that’s okay,” Scott added. “You don’t need to go all the way out to the garage to find out. I’ll ask your dad someday.”
In order to start the fan running so they could get some air, Scott crowded into the booth and closed the door. Becky could just barely breathe.
“You sure did a great job. I bet you killed off every dandelion in your yard. That’s what I like about you, Pam. You’re very thorough.”
“I’ve got to get out of here,” Becky whispered to Scott. He put the phone down, opened the door, and let her out. Then he grabbed the phone, and stepped inside the booth.
“Pam, are you still there? … No, nothing’s wrong. Pam, I’m planning on going on a mission … Yes, in about three years … Well, that’s kind of you to say. I just didn’t want you to think I was out to get married out of high school.”
“What are you doing?” Becky asked impatiently.
“I’m putting her at ease,” Scott defended.
“Pam, what did you say? … Yes, I guess it does sound like I’m talking to somebody else at the same time. Well, keep it up with your lawn. Goodbye.”
“You didn’t ask her out,” Becky said, trying to be kind.
“It didn’t come up in the conversation. Give me time. Pam is a wonderful girl. She pays attention in seminary class. I know because I sit behind her and watch her all the time. What if she says no?”
“Why should she say no?”
“Why? Who wants to go out with an oboe player who is also the oldest paper boy in town?”
“So what if she does say no?”
“Don’t say it. If she says no, it’s all over between me and girls. I’ll become an Olympic swimming champion.”
The next day at work, Scott gave Becky a karate demonstration. Resting a board between two bricks, he brought his hand down swiftly and broke the board neatly in two.
“Scott, that’s great!” Becky said.
“Well, it’s a start,” he said modestly.
“What do you mean? It’s terrific!”
“Actually it’s not as impressive as it looks. I took a board and cut about two-thirds of the way through and then filled it up with plastic wood. I’ve got another board here to show off when those little league players show up.”
During lunch Joe found out that Becky was going to activity night with Scott.
He walked up to the window and said, “Come out here.”
“Your hamburger’s almost ready,” Scott answered.
“Stay away from my girl!” Joe yelled at him.
“I just asked her if she’d like to go to church with me tonight.”
“She’s not going anywhere with you or anybody else!” Turning around to Becky, he asked, “Are you?”
“You don’t own me, Joe. I can go to church if I want to.”
Joe whirled around to talk to Scott.
“You come out here, or I’m going to come in and get you.”
“Yes, sir.” On his way out, Scott spotted the board and the two bricks. He picked them up and carried them out, setting them up on the picnic table.
“Ahhhhmmm,” Scott cleared his voice, “I should warn you,” he said, his voice still too high, “that although I may appear to the casual observer to be harmless, I’ve been trained in the martial arts.”
“Break your date with her,” Joe demanded.
“Why? So you can yell at her and make her feel crummy. She deserves better treatment.”
“I’m gonna break your head.” Joe started walking toward Scott.
“If you hit me in the mouth, you’re going to waste over a thousand dollars in dental care. There may be a law suit.”
“You asked for it, kid.”
“Wait, Joe. Don’t do anything hasty. See this board. Heeaaah!” Scott’s hand broke the board in two.
Joe stepped up to Scott and launched his right fist into Scott’s mid-section, doubling him over. Joe turned and left.
Scott lay down on the ground, gasping for breath, while Becky knelt down and tried to comfort him.
The first words he was able to speak were, “I want my money back.”
That night he met Becky at church. As she walked up to the door, one of the older guys in the post saw her and said, “Wow! Look at that! She’s beautiful! Who’s she gonna dance with?”
“That’s my friend. I invited her tonight. Of course, I had to fight her former boyfriend first. Joe Kruglak.”
“You fought Joe Kruglak?”
“Sure, I’ll tell you about it sometime. But you’ll excuse me now, won’t you?” Scott made a grandiose gesture of opening the door for Becky.
Thursday after work, Scott and Becky again called Pam.
“Pam, this is Scott … You found out what weed killer you were using? … Yes, I’m sure it’s very good. Pam, when do you get your braces off? … You know, we got braces about the same time and we’re going to get them off about the same time. I mean, it’s an experience we’ve shared, isn’t it? When I first got them, I got part of an apple peeling caught in them. Maybe you remember. That was when I spent a couple of days with my hand in front of my mouth.”
Becky closed her eyes and shook her head.
“No, Pam, Becky’s just a friend. Why? … Oh, really? He is? Look, you tell him that Becky is a fine girl … No, I think she broke up with Joe. Look, to give you an idea of what kind of girl Becky is, I hope she won’t mind me saying this. You know I work with her at the Dairy Dip. She is very good about cleaning the grease trays on the grill. Not just once a month, but at least once a week. You know what I mean? … Look, you tell Mike to come around tomorrow and I’ll introduce him to her.”
Scott turned to Becky and gave her a smile.
“Pam, if you come with him, I’ll let you have our 89 cent banana split for only 59 cents.”
Becky tapped him on the shoulder and shook her head, making a round O with her thumb and index finger.
“Pam, I’ll even do better than that. I will buy you a banana split. Just for you, though, not for Mike. Okay? Bye.”
He hung up the phone and grinned at Becky.
“Pam’s cousin is in the Explorer post at church, and he really likes you. He wants to take you to a fireside Sunday evening. You’ll say yes, won’t you? Because if you do, then I can ask Pam, and we can double, and Pam’s cousin can use his dad’s car.”
“Is he the tall one?” Becky said with interest.
“None other.”
He walked Becky home, wheeling his bike.
“Poor girl,” he finally muttered.
“What do you mean?” Becky asked.
“Pam. She’s really fallen for me.”
“How can you tell?”
“Well, maybe I shouldn’t say this, but this morning when I was delivering papers, she was outside spraying for crabgrass.”
“So?” Becky asked.
“So? You don’t see what that means?”
“No.”
“Becky,” Scott said, placing his hand on her arm, “You’d better stick with me for awhile. When it comes to things like this, you’re such a child.”

A few years ago while we were serving in the mission field, a minister who was investigating the Church said, “I hear you talk about the benefit of a living prophet. What sort of pronouncements has he made lately?” We replied, “The prophet has taught us that we need to live frugally. We need to stay out of debt, fix up our homes, and plant gardens that we may enjoy the fruit of our labor.” The minister thought for a moment and then said, “That is not what I would have imagined a prophet to say, but as I consider it, what better advice could be given?”

Sisters!
“We’re going to get sisters!” 13-year-old Lara Bisgaard thought excitedly as she put the letter back down on the counter where she found it. “Just wait till I tell Christopher!”
“No way!” 15-year-old Christopher said when Lara told him about the letter saying her parents were trying to adopt four sisters whose parents had died in Mexico. After all, Lara was always bugging their parents for more kids. Four at once, though? That sounded crazy. “It’s just not true,” Christopher said.
But Lara was insistent. She’d seen a letter talking about adoption. She’d read it with her own eyes—held it in her own hands. So Christopher and Lara decided to confront their parents with it one night when they were eating dinner in a fast-food restaurant.
“Well, as a matter of fact, it is true,” their parents told them. “At least, we’re thinking about putting the wheels in motion. We didn’t want to get your hopes up until we knew how much of a chance we had.”
Chris and Sharon Bisgaard had written the letter after reading an article in the Los Angeles Times. It told how the wife of the American ambassador in Mexico had come across four young sisters whose mother had been killed in the earthquake in 1985. Now their father lay dying of leukemia, and he begged the woman to see that his daughters would be taken care of.
The article struck a chord within the Bisgaards. They had been unable to have more than two children, and they thought this might be the ideal opportunity to expand their family. But there must have been hundreds of people who read the article and wanted to adopt the girls. The Bisgaard’s initial letter just asked if they’d even be considered.
That night, over hamburgers and french fries, as the family discussed the project, they began to realize just how important this could be to all of them. Enthusiasm was kindled, and grew and grew. They decided they’d do all they could to bring the Torres Mendoza sisters to La Cañada, California, where they would be adopted into the family.
Applications were filled out, letters were written, interviews were conducted. Question after question was answered, and many prayers were offered, until finally, the non-LDS organization responsible for the sisters decided that the Bisgaards were the most qualified candidates for the adoption.
That was only the beginning. They still had miles of red tape to untangle to make certain that everything was absolutely legal. In the meantime, the family tried to prepare for the adjustments they’d have to make when the family doubled overnight. Lara would have to move out of her room into the guest room. Five people would have to share a bathroom. Their parents wouldn’t be able to spend as much individual time with them as they had before, and big family vacations would be curtailed.
There was also a degree of racial prejudice to cope with. “It’s funny,” said Lara. “When my friends at school heard I was going to get four sisters from Mexico, they thought it was pretty neat and decided they’d have to stop telling Mexican jokes. That’s good for them.”
On top of all that, they would be responsible for helping acclimate four Catholic Mexican girls who spoke very little English to their LDS, California culture. Would Christopher and Lara be able to handle it?
Handle it? They couldn’t wait! The sisters were allowed to come visit the Bisgaards for Christmas, and the family members all fell in love. They were frustrated to learn that it would take several months longer before the girls were able to come back and stay for good. “We were so excited about having them come, and the waiting hurt so bad,” said Lara. “We needed them to be with us, and they needed to be here.”
Meanwhile down in Mexico, Claudia, 13, Sandra, 10, Yvonne, 7, and Jennifer, 3, were waiting at an all-girls boarding school. They were happy that they’d be able to stay together, and while they weren’t exactly sure what it would be like in a new family, they were anxious for the paperwork to clear. They exchanged letters with the Bisgaards and lived on hope.
Family and personal prayers were especially intent during that waiting period.
At last the big day arrived. The Bisgaards drove to the airport in the van, dubbed “The Mormon Mobile” by Christopher and Lara, that they’d recently purchased to accommodate everyone. The girls arrived in the late spring and would have the whole summer to learn English so they could attend public schools in the fall.
The first week was hectic, to say the least. A lot of tears were shed, a lot of frustrations vented. In the beginning it was a great challenge to communicate, since the Bisgaards knew only schoolroom Spanish, and the girls’ English was limited to a few words and phrases.
There were eating habits to adjust to—scrambled eggs became the common ground. There were bathing habits to adjust to—at first the girls were wary of all the water, and then found it so much fun they wanted to bathe three or four times a day. Even dressing habits were different—the girls were shocked when they were asked to put on nothing more than a bathing suit and swim in public.
Religious habits weren’t similar either. “We found the Mormon church to be very different at first,” said Claudia. “In our church in Mexico, there were Saints and statues and things all over, but in the Mormon church there’s none of that. We liked it, though. Family home evening and family prayer are all very nice.”
It’s amazing how adaptable a family can be when they work together. Within a few weeks, Christopher and Lara knew that getting A’s in Spanish would be a breeze from then on, and their new sisters learned how to communicate in English with ease. Christopher hit on a universal form of communication—teasing. “Oh Christopher!” his sisters squeal as they roll their eyes in mock disgust after he’s told them some outrageous story. But the teasing sessions usually end up in hugs and smiles.
They all learned from each other. Christopher added stroller pushing to his sports repertoire, while his new sisters added American football to theirs. When they went to see Christopher play JV quarterback on his high school team, Claudia commented, “It’s a very strange sport.”
Lara had given up dolls for basketballs and volleyballs quite some time ago, but suddenly she found herself combing and braiding hair, dressing and helping feed her younger sisters. And she loved every minute of it. Well, almost every minute of it. It was only natural for her to occasionally miss the status of being the only daughter in the house.
But one of the best adaptations of all came when Claudia and Sandra announced, out of the blue, that they wanted to be baptized. The Bisgaards had not been pushing their religion on the new family members. After all, they had enough to adjust to at first. But they were always included when they wanted to be. The Spanish-speaking sister missionaries came by now and then, but they were there to translate more than proselyte.
“One day the missionaries told us they were going to a baptism, so we asked them about it,” explained Claudia. “When they told us that in this church they baptize children when they’re eight so they understand everything, we decided that we needed to be baptized now too. We wanted to be members of the Church.”
Their new parents made certain that they understood what they were doing before they were baptized. The girls took the missionary discussions and attended many Church meetings prior to their baptismal date. Brother and Sister Bisgaard wanted to assure that their new daughters didn’t feel pressured into their decision and had sincere testimonies of the truthfulness of the gospel.
As time goes on, more and more adjustments are made and the family becomes more unified. They’re not yet perfect. What family is? There are still occasional tears, but there’s also a lot of laughter. As far as the kids are concerned, the pros far outweigh the cons. “Four new sisters mean four times as much joy,” Christopher concludes, tugging Jennifer’s ponytail as she toddles by.

Topher had looked forward all year to his fifth-grade trip to the Black Hills and Badlands in South Dakota, USA. He had saved his allowance and lawn-mowing money to pay for the trip all by himself.
The morning of the trip, Topher and his family knelt by the sofa to pray. Dad said the prayer and asked Heavenly Father to watch over Topher while he was away. Then Mom drove Topher to the school to join the rest of his class.
The bus ride was fun. Everyone sang silly songs, told stories, and made plans for what they would do when they got to their campground. At lunchtime they stopped for a picnic.
“This is the best trip ever,” Topher told his friend Alex while they ate their sack lunches. “I can’t wait to see Mount Rushmore.” All school year Topher’s class had studied the places they would visit, like the Badlands, the memorial at Mount Rushmore, and even a real gold mine. They would stay at a campground, sleep in tents, and cook their food over a fire.
“Yeah,” Alex said, but he didn’t sound very happy. “My stomach feels funny,” he whispered and pressed his hand over his stomach. His face looked kind of pale.
“Want me to tell a teacher?” Topher asked.
“No. I’ll be OK.”
Topher finished his sandwich, but Alex hardly ate anything. After lunch everyone went back to the bus.
One by one, Topher’s classmates started getting sick. Even some of the teachers and parent chaperones got sick.
By the time they got to the campground, Topher felt sick too. He managed to eat some dinner, but he quickly threw it up. He wished he were home. His parents would know how to help him feel better. Mom would make soup for him, and Dad would give him a priesthood blessing.
That gave Topher an idea.
Brother Turner, from Topher’s ward, was one of the chaperones. Topher went and found him by the campfire. “Brother Turner,” Topher asked quietly, “would you give me a blessing?”
Brother Turner looked sick too, but he managed a weak smile. “I’d be happy to give you a blessing, Topher.”
Together Brother Turner and Topher found a quiet spot nearby. Brother Turner laid his hands on Topher’s head. He paused before beginning, then gave a blessing. He asked Heavenly Father to help Topher feel better.
Topher felt peaceful as Brother Turner finished the blessing. Although he was still sick, he started to feel a little better. He found Alex and offered to get him some water.
“Thanks,” Alex said.
The next morning back on the bus, everyone was quiet. Topher thought about the blessing Brother Turner had given him. Next year Topher would turn 12 and would be ordained to the Aaronic Priesthood. He promised himself that he would be worthy to receive it and to receive the Melchizedek Priesthood when he was older. He wanted to be able to help others just like Brother Turner had helped him.

Several young women sit in a living room on a Sunday evening, talking about the gospel, as they are all wrapped up in patchwork quilts. The scene doesn’t seem so unusual until you know it’s the middle of summer in Utah, and it’s very warm outside.
One of the young women comments on the situation. “It’s not that the house is cold or anything,” she says. “We’re all wrapped up in our blankets because it’s just comforting.”
It’s comforting because these quilts have become a big part of their lives. Each young woman earned the squares on her quilt and stitched the final product together. The quilts have a very special meaning because of the growth each young woman went through as she collected squares for a year and sewed her quilt together.
When the leaders of the ward introduced the quilt project, they gave each young woman an unused pizza box with two quilt squares inside. Some of the young women were confused and not sure if they would ever have enough squares to make a quilt.
“When I got the two squares in a box, I thought, ‘How am I supposed to make a quilt out of two squares?’ ” says Maren M., 16.
But over the next year, the young women gained more squares. They earned a square for each Young Women lesson they attended and for special occasions like holidays, camp, and New Beginnings. They got squares for finishing Personal Progress value experiences and for reading the Book of Mormon. On her birthday, each young woman was given a large block with a picture of her favorite temple.
“When our leaders explained the whole project to me, I did not want to sew a quilt, so I was just going to put it off,” says Katie W., 13. “Then I started getting the quilt squares every week, and I was so excited because they were so cute. Then it built up into this huge pile.”
“Two quilt squares at a time didn’t seem like anything,” says Abby M., 14. “They were just two little squares of fabric, and I didn’t think much of it. But slowly as I’d take them home from church and put them in my box, the pile just grew and grew and became a stack. Then before long, it was already time to sew them together.”
Most of the young women in the ward had never used a sewing machine before and had no idea how to sew a quilt. So each young woman received help from a mother, grandmother, or Relief Society sister.
“I got to go up to Idaho and work with my grandma on it,” says Mikayla S., 14. “I don’t get to see or talk to her very often, so it was really nice to go up and work on something with her. I also learned that I like to sew.”
Mikayla wasn’t the only one who found a new talent in sewing. “I didn’t know how good I’d be at sewing, but I knew my grandma would be there to help me,” Abby says. “It actually just came naturally. It was a cool skill that I figured out I could do, and it was fun.”
Since making their quilts, some of the young women have even used their sewing skills for other projects. Maren made pillows for the young women she was in charge of at camp. Katie made headbands as Christmas gifts for her friends at school.
In addition to learning how to sew, the young women learned other lessons.
“I learned patience, because I’m not very good at sewing, and I had to be patient with myself and my imperfections,” says Amanda W., 16.
Madison S., 15, learned how to be humble and ask for help with her quilt. “That happens a lot in our lives,” she says. “We don’t know how to do everything we want to do, and we have to ask Heavenly Father and our leaders and those who have gone before us how they did it and how we can then do it. It’s really helpful to me.”
During the project, the young women also had the opportunity to strengthen their testimonies through the experiences that the squares represented.
“It’s the squares on the quilt that represent my testimony,” Katie says. “That’s how it is in my life. You can’t just expect a testimony to come all at once. You have to wait; you have to get it one piece at a time. It comes slowly, but in the end it builds up a big, beautiful blanket—or a big, beautiful testimony.”
Abby agrees with that. “My quilt is like my testimony,” she says. “It’s like the quilt squares are all the little parts that come together and make me all of the things that I value in life, all the things that I treasure.”
All of the young women treasure their quilts and the experiences that led them to finish the quilts. It’s a reminder of what they have accomplished.
“My favorite square would probably be the Book of Mormon challenge because that was the first time I read the Book of Mormon all the way through,” Mikayla says.
Like Mikayla, each of the young women can point to her favorite squares and remember the experiences that go along with them. Those experiences will help the young women as they look to the future.
“I sleep with my quilt every night,” Katie says. “Every night before I go to bed, I look at the temple, and it reminds me that that’s where I need to end up.”
Many young women put the temple image in the middle of their quilts to remind them the temple is their focus.
“Going to the temple is one of my biggest goals,” Amanda says. “The temple is the first thing I notice when I see my quilt. I think it gives me a sense of direction.”
Maren says that when she sees the temple on her quilt, it reminds her of how she wants to go there. “It helps me to remember to dress modestly when I get ready for school and to make good choices as I go throughout the day,” she says.
The young women are all glad they accomplished this project, and they look forward to the things that they will accomplish in the future as they continue to progress and gain the pieces that will make up their lives.

As I left California, bound for Salt Lake City to receive training and be set apart for a mission in Arizona, I experienced for a moment an alarming feeling. I had lost all of my keys. The keys to the cars, home, business, and Church calling had been left behind. I had the depressing feeling that I no longer had any keys; even my pockets seemed empty.
Then came the exhilarating thought that I still had the most important key of all, a key that I will hold eternally, if I remain worthy. That key, of course, is the patriarchal key with my family.

I was a boy during the Great Depression. I remember children wearing galoshes because they had no shoes and going hungry because they had no food. These were difficult times.
A bright light of hope shining amidst the gloom was Primary. I was 10 years old. I had a marvelous teacher. I look back upon that year as my finest in Primary, and I must say it was because of my wonderful teacher. It wasn’t because the boys in the class were particularly enlightened or unusually well behaved; on the contrary.
The laughter of the boys and the chatter of the girls at times must have been most disconcerting to our Primary leaders.
One day as we left the chapel for our classrooms, I noted that our Primary president remained behind. I paused and observed her. She sat all alone on the front row of the benches, took out her handkerchief, and began to weep. I walked up to her and said, “Sister Georgell, don’t cry.”
She said, “I’m sad.”
I responded, “What’s the matter?”
She said, “I can’t control the Trail Builders.* Will you help me?”
Of course I answered, “Yes.”
She said, “Oh, that would be wonderful, Tommy, if you would.”
What I didn’t know then is that I was one of those responsible for her tears. She had effectively enlisted me to aid in achieving reverence in our Primary. And we did.

1. A few years ago a young friend of mine—a returned missionary—was on one of the college basketball teams in Utah. He was a great young man and a very good ballplayer, but he wasn’t playing as much as he had hoped he would. His particular talents and skills weren’t exactly what his team needed at that stage of its development or his. That happens in athletics. So, with the full support and best wishes of his coaches and teammates, my young friend transferred to another school, where he hoped he might contribute a little more.
Things clicked at the new school, and my friend soon became a starter. And wouldn’t you know it—the team’s schedule had this young man returning to play against his former team in Salt Lake City.
The vitriolic abuse that poured out of the stands that night on this young man—a newlywed who paid his tithing, served in the elders quorum, gave charitable service to the youth in his community, and waited excitedly for a new baby coming to him and his wife—should not have been experienced by any human being anywhere, anytime, whatever his sport or university or whatever his personal decisions had been about either of them.
The coach of this visiting team, something of a legend in the profession, turned to him after a spectacular game and said: “What is going on here? You are the hometown boy who has made good. These are your people. These are your friends.” But worst of all, he then said in total bewilderment, “Aren’t most of these people members of your church?”
First, let’s finish the basketball incident. The day after the game, when there was some public reckoning and a call to repentance over the incident, one young man said, in effect: “Listen. We are talking about basketball here, not Sunday School. If you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen. We pay good money to see these games. We can act the way we want. We check our religion at the door.”
“We check our religion at the door”? Lesson number one for the establishment of Zion in the 21st century: You never check your religion at the door.
That kind of discipleship cannot be—it is not discipleship at all. As the prophet Alma taught, we are “to stand as witnesses of God at all times and in all things, and in all places that [we] may be in” (Mosiah 18:9)—not just some of the time, in a few places, or when our team has a big lead.
Whatever the situation or provocation or problem, no true disciple of Christ can check his or her religion at the door.

While serving as a mission president in New York City, I was with some of our missionaries in a restaurant in the Bronx. A young family came in and sat near us. They appeared golden for the gospel. I watched our missionaries as they continued to visit with me, then noticed as the family concluded their meal and slipped out the door. Then I said, “Elders, there’s a lesson here today. You saw a lovely family come into this restaurant. What should we have done?”

One of the elders spoke up quickly: “I thought about getting up and going over to talk to them. I felt the nudge, but I didn’t respond.”

“Elders,” I said, “we must always act on our first prompting. That nudge you felt was the Holy Ghost!”

Jonathon Morales, 14, leans over the front seat of his older brother’s car and guides him through the streets of Mexico City, population 20 million. Israel Morales has just returned from a mission to New York City. He has forgotten some of Mexico City’s streets. The two brothers talk softly, trying to figure out the best way to their destination. There are questions and confusion, but no impatience or sharpness. There’s a peaceful feeling in the car.
Finally the two brothers find the right street, and a few minutes later arrive at their destination. Their influence on each other is warm and genuine. While Jonathon has been looking up to his older brother for many years, the reverse is also true. Israel is motivated to do what is right because his younger brother is doing what is right. And Israel knows that Jonathon is watching him.

Whitney and her mother were cleaning out Whitney’s great-grandfather’s attic after he died. Mother pulled a large tarp off of a dresser, and her eyes filled with tears.
“What’s wrong?” Whitney asked.
“Nothing really is wrong,” Mother responded. “I just remember that when I was about your age, I would watch my grandmother take her hat out of this armoire.”
“What’s an armoire?” Whitney asked.
“That’s what this is,” Mother said, pointing. “It’s a large chest where Grandmother hung her clothes.” Mother lovingly ran her finger over the wood, and Whitney noticed that one of the doors was broken and that the varnish was chipped.
“It’s broken now, isn’t it?” Whitney asked.
Mother got a twinkle in her eye. “It is. But you know, Whitney, I think that I would like to restore this armoire. We could refinish it and make it as good as new.”
Whitney was excited. “We could paint it white and put fancy new handles on the doors!”
Mother shook her head. “No, I want to restore it. Restore means to bring something back to the way it was originally. I want it to look just the way it did when my grandmother used it. Can you think of something that is restored?”
Whitney was puzzled. “I’ll give you a hint,” Mother said. “You learn about the restoration of something when you go to church.”
“The gospel!” Whitney said. “But how was the gospel restored?”
“Jesus Christ brought back His gospel just the way it was when He was on the earth. He didn’t change it or make a new gospel. Jesus restored His gospel through Joseph Smith.”
“And Jesus is still the head of the Church,” Whitney added.
“I think you understand quite a bit about restoration,” Mother said with a smile.

Prior to the handover ceremony, 132 members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints congregations joined with other members of the community to clean the health center and prepare the building for new medical equipment.

The building had been abandoned many years ago. During the four-month renovation project, skilled laborers volunteered their time to the project. Electricians, carpenters, bricklayers, aluminum fabricators, painters, plumbers, and masons all served to ensure the completion of the project. The community youth participated by clearing debris and cutting the grass.

The coordinator of the project, Clement Okoye, was excited that months of hard work and sacrifice had come to fruition. “The community has been needing a functional health Center for a very long time,” said Okoye. “This is a dream come true. The mortality rate here is very high due to lack of medical amenities. Daily life is a risk where we live. We are grateful that LDS Charities came to our rescue.”

Ezeigwe Peter, president of the Onitsha Nigeria Stake, stated that he was overwhelmed by the support and appreciation shown by the community and was impressed by the commitment of individuals. He charged them to maintain the facility and ensure they use the donated equipment judiciously.