Gospel Story Finder

Matthew slapped a pickle on top of his peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich. He opened his mouth wide for an extra big bite. Crunch! Matthew bit into the pickle. “Yummmm,” he said, jelly sliding out one corner of his mouth and peanut butter sneaking out he other. He wiped his sleeve across his lips.
Peanut-butter-jelly-and-pickle sandwiches were Matthew’s and Grandpa’s favorite. Matthew had showed Grandpa how to make them, and Grandpa said they tasted great!
Grandpa used to live at Matthew’s house. But one day Grandpa got a terrible disease. It made him very sick. The doctors tried to help him, but there didn’t seem to be anything they could do. Then one day Grandpa died. Matthew missed him. He missed him a lot. Mom said that Grandpa was now living with Heavenly Father and that he wouldn’t be in pain anymore. Matthew was glad Heavenly Father would take care of Grandpa, but he still missed him.
Matthew licked the jelly off each finger and picked up the valentine that sat next to his glass of milk. He had made it all by himself. Red hearts covered the card, and silver glitter formed neat letters that spelled out “I Love You.” Tomorrow was Valentine Day, and this special valentine was just for Grandpa.
“Mom, tomorrow can we mail my valentine to Grandpa?” Matthew asked as Mom tucked him into bed that night.
Mom smiled. “Grandpa is in heaven. The post office doesn’t deliver mail to heaven.”
“But I made it just for Grandpa!”
Mom bent over and kissed Matthew on the forehead. “Grandpa would love your valentine, but I’m afraid there just isn’t any way to get it to him. Good night, dear.” She turned out the light as she left.
Matthew lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling. He folded his arms behind his head—it was his best thinking position. “That’s it!” he blurted, sitting up in bed. “I know how to get my valentine to Grandpa.” Then he snuggled down under the covers and went to sleep.
The snow glistened in the morning sunshine. Valentine Day had arrived! Matthew’s boots crunched through the snow as he stomped his way out to the giant oak tree in the corner of the yard. He clambered up the rope that hung down from his tree house. He could see Mrs. Johnson’s house next door. She had lived all alone in that house as long as he could remember. Grandpa said that she was lonely and needed a friend. Once, Matthew had helped Grandpa gather the eggs from the henhouse and take them to her.
Matthew squinted as he gazed across the frozen snow that covered his own backyard. Then he looked way up into the sky. An icy breeze bit at his nose. He shivered and buttoned the top button of his jacket. He didn’t mind the morning breeze, though. He knew it was just what he needed to make his plan work.
He reached under his coat and pulled out the valentine, now neatly folded into a paper airplane. Holding it tightly between his fingers, he thrust it out into the icy air and shouted, “Fly, valentine. Fly all the way to heaven!”
The wind caught the valentine and sent it whirling and twirling into the sky, across the yard—and onto Mrs. Johnson’s front porch.
“Oh, no!” Matthew moaned.
He scampered down the big tree and across the yard and peeked over the fence. Mrs. Johnson was nowhere in sight. Slipping through the gate, he bolted toward her door. In three giant steps he reached the porch and scooped up the valentine.
But before Matthew could retrace his steps, the front door opened and Mrs. Johnson stood in the doorway. She stared at the valentine in Matthew’s hands. She smiled and tears welled up in her eyes. “Bless you child,” she said.
Matthew looked at her. He studied his valentine. Then he smiled and slipped it into her hand.
“This is the best valentine I have ever been given,” she said. “I hope this means that you will be my friend, too, like your grandpa was.”
Matthew felt all warm inside. And just maybe Mrs. Johnson would even like peanut-butter-jelly-and-pickle sandwiches!

When I was growing up, each summer from early July until early September, my family stayed at our cabin at Vivian Park in Provo Canyon in Utah.
One of my best friends during those carefree days in the canyon was Danny Larsen, whose family also owned a cabin at Vivian Park. Each day he and I roamed this boy’s paradise, fishing in the stream and the river, collecting rocks and other treasures, hiking, climbing, and simply enjoying each minute of each hour of each day.
One morning Danny and I decided we wanted to have a campfire that evening with all our canyon friends. We just needed to clear an area in a nearby field where we could all gather. The June grass which covered the field had become dry and prickly, making the field unsuitable for our purposes. We began to pull at the tall grass, planning to clear a large, circular area. We tugged and yanked with all our might, but all we could get were small handfuls of the stubborn weeds. We knew this task would take the entire day, and already our energy and enthusiasm were waning.
And then what I thought was the perfect solution came into my eight-year-old mind. I said to Danny, “All we need is to set these weeds on fire. We’ll just burn a circle in the weeds!” He readily agreed, and I ran to our cabin to get a few matches.
Lest any of you think that at the tender age of eight we were permitted to use matches, I want to make it clear that both Danny and I were forbidden to use them without adult supervision. Both of us had been warned repeatedly of the dangers of fire. However, I knew where my family kept the matches, and we needed to clear that field. Without so much as a second thought, I ran to our cabin and grabbed a few matchsticks, making certain no one was watching. I hid them quickly in one of my pockets.
Back to Danny I ran, excited that in my pocket I had the solution to our problem. I recall thinking that the fire would burn only as far as we wanted and then would somehow magically extinguish itself.
I struck a match on a rock and set the parched June grass ablaze. It ignited as though it had been drenched in gasoline. At first Danny and I were thrilled as we watched the weeds disappear, but it soon became apparent that the fire was not about to go out on its own. We panicked as we realized there was nothing we could do to stop it. The menacing flames began to follow the wild grass up the mountainside, endangering the pine trees and everything else in their path.
Finally we had no option but to run for help. Soon all available men and women at Vivian Park were dashing back and forth with wet burlap bags, beating at the flames in an attempt to extinguish them. After several hours the last remaining embers were smothered. The ages-old pine trees had been saved, as were the homes the flames would eventually have reached.
Danny and I learned several difficult but important lessons that day—not the least of which was the importance of obedience.

As a young boy, I knew I wanted to be involved with space travel and the great adventure of exploring the “final frontier.” Engineering was a good career to help me. I studied hard and took classes in math, science, and engineering. I also learned that listening, communicating, and public speaking were important too. These skills prepared me to work for the USA’s National Aeronautics and Space Administration (NASA).
At first I was a space shuttle flight director. Later I became director of the space shuttle program. I planned the shuttle missions to space and managed the missions from launch through landing. I worked with hundreds of engineers, scientists, and astronauts to put the shuttle together and have a successful mission.
Watching the giant space shuttle blast off from Kennedy Space Center was a thrill every time I saw it. With a rush of sounds that shook the ground, the space shuttle roared to life. In just eight minutes, the shuttle soared miles above the earth’s surface, traveling more than 25 times the speed of sound. I loved working with others to accomplish this goal together.
My priesthood quorum and Boy Scout activities helped me develop leadership skills for my career. As I grew, the principles of the gospel of Jesus Christ helped me as well. President Thomas S. Monson teaches, “When the time for decision arrives, the time for preparation is past.”* This simple idea helped prepare me for my life and for every space shuttle mission. In my job, I have been able to witness the majesty of the universe and God’s creations.

The last few days had seemed almost like fall, the days when you want to grab a sweater. Today was no exception. The sun was bright yellow, and the refreshing cool breezes seemed out of place for August. But then again, I had felt out of place myself these past few days, as if a certain coolness had entered into my own life.
As I entered the small, dark bedroom my senses were filled with a medicinal odor. Adjusting to the dim light, I noticed the delicate lace curtains at the two long windows. I had always loved the feel of that crisp lace, but years had changed its crisp loveliness into a limp, but still elegant, fabric. On the opposite wall in an old oak bed rested the small form of my grandmother.
I walked hesitantly to her side and sat quietly on the bed. Her eyes opened, and a weary smile formed on her wrinkled face. As I lifted her small hand, I looked into her eyes. The eyes had once been crystal clear blue, but age and years of hard work had dulled their beauty. Those crystal blue eyes had caught the young Air Corps man’s fancy many years before. They were the eyes my grandfather had looked to for comfort and peace, the eyes he had seen the world out of the last few years of his life. Her eyes had beheld many seasons, many times of peace and comfort, and many of pain and tragedy.
Her cool hand clung to mine, and I gripped it tighter. Her hands were small yet strong. I looked at the contrast of our hands and felt her strength. Her hands were wrinkled, rough, and dark from the sun and age; mine were smooth, soft, and white. At first the sight displeased me. How could she have let her hands get so rough? My mind ran back to all the things she had done. With those small, seemingly frail hands she had lifted bales of hay, planted gardens, canned countless bottles of fruit, held children, braided hair, rubbed baby lambs to dryness, and quilted. Yet these same hands had also enjoyed the velvety touch of a rose petal, the smooth rich feeling of fine soil, and later felt the sharp pains of arthritis.
The sun hit on the old windowpanes and found its way into the room. It was a warm ray of sun, yet blinding to the eyes. As I moved to pull the blind, she clutched my hand tighter and then wearily pointed to the small robin in the flower box outside. She had always loved the simple things in life: the flight of a bird, the rain clouds of early summer, the sweet taste of freshly picked raspberries. Her life had been simple and unpretentious. She had no fine clothes or jewelry. But that didn’t matter to her. She had what she needed and cared about.
I suddenly became aware with a fear I had never known, that my grandmother was dying. I suppose I had thought about it, but the reality of it had not touched me before. Suddenly I realized I might never look into those eyes again, never again feel the touch of her hands. I had loved her for years, but only today did I really see my grandmother as she was—a beautiful, caring woman.
She noticed the tears in my eyes and patted my hand, forming the word no on her parched lips. She didn’t want me to feel sorry for her. I realized then that she was relieved. She had lived her life, and it had been a good one. But now it was coming to an end, and she would soon see Grandpa again. I kissed her gently on the cheek and walked away, glancing at the old lace curtains once again. They, like Grandma, had in their aging acquired a beauty all their own.

I should like to tell you the experience of one of our young men we will call John, who went east to an officers’ training school. A new commanding officer came into the school, and they put on a banquet to honor him. There, by every plate, was a cocktail glass. When the proper time came, every one of those potential officers stood up with his cocktail glass to toast that incoming officer—that is, all but one boy, and he raised a glass of milk. It would take a lot of courage, wouldn’t it, to stand there with all those officers and see all of those cocktail glasses come up, and stand and raise a glass of milk!
Well, the officer saw it, and he made a beeline for that boy after the entertainment was over and said, “Why did you toast me with a glass of milk?”
“Well, sir,” he said, “I’ve never touched alcohol in my life. I don’t want to touch it; my parents wouldn’t want me to touch it; and I didn’t think you would want me to either. I wanted to toast you, so I thought you would be satisfied if I toasted you with what I am accustomed to drinking.”
The officer said, “Report to my headquarters in the morning.”
I suppose that boy spent a sleepless night, but when he went to the officer’s quarters the next morning, do you know what happened? The officer assigned him a place on his staff with this explanation: “I want to surround myself with men who have the courage to do what they think is right regardless of what anybody else thinks about it.”

It seemed like any other basketball game as I coached the Young Women’s team of our ward in the Lakewood Colorado Stake. Little did I know I was about to witness a powerful example of Christlike love on the court.
On the opposing team was a young woman named Nicole. Nicole is well known by the girls in the stake. She is a very loving and caring person. She also has Down’s syndrome.
On our team was a very competitive athlete named Kayla. Kayla excels in sports in high school. She also has a tremendous love and knowledge of the scriptures and is rarely seen without them.
During the second half of the game, I witnessed an event that made a powerful impact on everyone attending. Nicole received a pass from her teammate. She took a shot at the basket and missed. Kayla, who was not on Nicole’s team, rebounded and passed the ball back to Nicole. Nicole again shot and missed.
All of the other players stood still as Kayla continued to rebound Nicole’s missed shots and return the ball to Nicole. Finally, after the ninth try, Nicole made a basket. Everyone rose to their feet, and the whole gym erupted in cheers, hugs, and high fives. Nicole grinned ear to ear.
Much more important than the score that night was watching someone help another to succeed. That night Kayla truly demonstrated how “to stand as [a witness] of God, at all times and in all things, and in all places” (Mosiah 18:9).

So does an employer who is unfair to his employees. An idealistic young professional wrote Church headquarters about the plight of migrant farm workers. He had observed treatment that was probably illegal and certainly unchristian. When I read his letter, I thought of the positive example of Jesse Knight, the great benefactor of Brigham Young Academy. At a time when most mine owners exploited their workers, this Christian employer paid his miners something extra so they could earn their living in six days’ labor and rest on the Sabbath. He did not require them to patronize a company store. He built his workers a building for recreation, worship, and schooling. And Brother Knight would not permit the superintendent to question his workers about their religion or politics (see Jesse William Knight, The Jesse Knight Family, Salt Lake City: Deseret News Press, 1940, pp. 43–44; and Gary Fuller Reese, “Uncle Jesse,” master’s thesis, Brigham Young University, 1961, pp. 26–28).

I drummed my fingers on the wooden chair’s narrow armrest, then twisted to the right and looked at the photograph of the First Presidency hung on the light-blue wall. Calm down, I said to myself. After all, I had requested this visit. I could hear a familiar voice grow louder as the bishop left the clerk’s office, crossed the hall, and came inside. He smiled and said, “Well, Jeff, how are you doing?”
“Fine, just fine,” I said out loud while thinking to myself desperately, What am I doing here?
Bishop Smith pulled his heavy chair from behind his strong, heavy, dark desk, put it alongside me, sat down, and smiled again. Bishop Smith was a big man, very round, and when he smiled, his whole body seemed to radiate right along with his face. I basked for a moment in all that warmth and then said, “Actually, bishop, I guess things aren’t all that great. I’ve thought a lot about our talk last month, a lot about a mission. And, well, frankly I just can’t go.”
“You don’t think you can go?”
“Yeah. I’m 22. I’d be 24 when I get back. I’d be too old.”
“Too old for what?”
“Oh, bishop. You know, I just graduated from state university. I’m a pretty good botanist. How can I work with someone who was a junior in some high school when I was worrying about passing Professor Gotlieb’s Advanced Plant Pathology? I can tell you anything you want to know about wheat germs.”
Bishop Smith looked at me for a moment, leaned forward, and asked in a gentle manner, “Is that your real reason?”
I wasn’t ready for that question. I had hope for a cheery smile and ready agreement. “Well, yes. Mainly,” I stammered. “I mean, basically.”
“Jeff, we’ve had some serious talks, you and I. Tell me, what are some other reasons to go with this basic reason?” The chair creaked as Bishop Smith leaned back.
“Oh, you know.” I spread my hands out in front of me and then picked some lint off my slacks. Bishop, I haven’t exactly made the best decisions in my life. Being inactive for seven years didn’t help any. How can I say to some investigator, ‘I just loved Sunday School when I grew up,’ or ‘I’ve always believed living the Word of Wisdom was important’? How can I talk about goals or loyalty or testimony?”
“Converts can talk about testimony and goals and loyalty, and they weren’t always active members.”
“But they choose to join, not to leave.”
“You chose to come back.”
I didn’t have anything to say at that moment, and all I could hear was a rustling out in the hall. After a moment the bishop said kindly, “I don’t quite understand. Are you worried about worthiness?”
“Bishop,” I replied firmly, “I’ve got my life going again. I have nothing to hide. I know the Lord loves me, and I love him. But at every sacrament meeting or general conference or whatever, I hear that the Lord wants only the best, the strongest, the most reliable to be his missionaries.
“I think in a small way I see, Jeff.” Bishop Smith paused and tapped his thick fingers against each other. “Have you talked to your dad about this?”
“Only a little. I guess I haven’t said much at all. At least I told him I was coming here tonight.”
“Jeff, maybe it’s time to talk to your dad. I know him; he’s a good man. Talk to him and then come and talk to me again. Okay?”
The interview hadn’t gone quite as I had planned it. Suddenly I really didn’t know what to do. “Okay,” I said, and we stood up. Bishop Smith walked me to the door, and just after he shook my hand, he gave my shoulder a squeeze.
“Remember,” he said, “come and talk to me again.”
As I left the building, I considered going to see some friends. I even thought about going up on the university campus and walking through the greenhouses. Although I had already graduated, I was still helping Professor Gotlieb work with some sunflower research. And then I decided to talk to my dad.
My parents are pretty understanding. We’ve always talked together fairly well. When I quit going to priesthood, and then Sunday School, and then Church completely, they never threatened or yelled at me. I’m sure they felt unhappy inside, but I always knew they loved me. I never really ignored my parents, but I had friends and things at school and got pretty busy. In fact, when I first started going back to church, because of two great home teachers, I didn’t say much about it to my parents. I remember the little pause the first time after I asked them to attend church with me at the institute, and then my dad said, “Are you sure?”
I was surprised when I got home and found the lights off and the car gone. But I noticed the backyard light was on, so I got out of my car and went around the side. Out back I saw my dad working on his pride and joy, his small, old sailboat. When I was little we would go sailing on Lake Lourraine, up north. The boat really wasn’t very much. Only one at a time could get in it, but we all liked to try it, even if we spent most of the time in the lake and not the boat. As everybody grew older, everybody got busier, and we didn’t take the boat out much. Finally, it sat pushed against the garage until my youngest brother scraped it with the car; then, we hid it under some waterproof canvas behind the house. Now that all the kids are gone, my dad’s interest in sailing has increased again. Late last year he started to work on the boat. A few weeks ago, I helped him paint it white.
“Ship ahoy,” I called as I walked around the house.
“Hey, what a surprise! Just what I needed, another hand.”
“Sounds fine. I was in the area and thought I’d come by. Where’s mom?”
“Oh, she’s over at the neighbors. Did you just see Bishop Smith?”
“Whatever happened to not asking direct questions?”
“I’m sorry. I was just thinking about you tonight. Here, help me sand a little.” My dad gave me some yellow, fine-grade sandpaper. We both started to work.
“Well,” I said, “do you want to know what we talked about?”
“Whatever happened to subtlety?”
I smiled sheepishly. “I’m sorry.”
“Did you tell him you’re too old?”
“Yes.”
“Was he fooled by it?”
I looked quickly at my dad. He was grinning at me. “No,” I said, “bishops aren’t fooled by much of anything. I guess dads aren’t either.”
“I guess not. So, what are your plans?”
I walked over to the back steps and sat down. “I don’t know. What do you suggest?”
“What’s more important is what you think. It’s up to you Jeff. You and the Lord. Have you ever talked to him about your future, about a mission?”
The words weighed on me, and I played with a stem of grass I had pulled up. “No,” I said quietly, surprised that the night was so still.
“Do you mind if I ask why?”
“I’m afraid he wouldn’t answer or want me. I’ve let him down before.”
My dad started sanding again, and I looked up at the sky and saw Venus burning brightly. “Isn’t she a beautiful boat?” my dad said.
I was glad to change the subject. “She sure is. A real beauty.”
“I hope you’ll go sailing with me sometime.”
“You can depend on that.”
“She might sink on us, you know.”
“Oh, no,” I laughed. “She’ll float just fine.”
“Well, she used to be a wreck.”
“But look at her now,” I said. “We’re proud of her. I’d be a fool not to sail in a boat as good as this one.” I paused for a moment and looked straight at my dad. “You know, I get the feeling you want to tell me something.”
“Son, we’d all be in pretty bad shape if we couldn’t start over when we make mistakes. We wouldn’t have a chance to become better.”
“I know, dad.”
“Why don’t you ask the Lord, Jeff. You might be surprised.”
“Do you think he’ll answer me?”
“I promise you he will.”
“Thanks,” I said, looking at my dad’s hands still holding the sandpaper. “I mean it.”
“You know, Jeff, maybe you’d like to fast before you ask. Your mom and I would be glad to fast with you.”
We sanded some more, and I told my dad about work with Professor Gotlieb. When mom came home, we talked about fasting together. My parents supported me, and we agreed to do it. As I drove to my apartment, I could smell the scent of rain on the pines in the mountains mixed with apple tree blossoms. I thought of some things I’d like to do before I fasted. And for the first time, way back in my mind, I knew I’d be calling Bishop Smith soon, sooner perhaps than even he expected. And this time, I wouldn’t be going to his office with any excuses.

Years ago an acquaintance of mine was captive for over twenty years to a serious alcohol problem, which bound him every day. He would leave work, buy his alcohol, drive into the countryside, and drink until he could barely find his way home. He truly was under the captive spirit of the devil and lived in hell. A faithful home teacher loved this brother, saw him often, taught him to pray for help, and prayed for him often. One day while he was driving his pickup truck into the countryside to begin his daily alcohol ritual, he felt a powerful influence to stop his truck, walk out into a field, fall to his knees, and plead for help from his Father in Heaven. Later, he tearfully testified that as he arose from his knees, the desire to drink alcohol had completely left him. He had been delivered from a twenty-year prison. God heard his prayer, felt the desire of his heart, and opened the prison doors that bound him.

Story and photography by Don O. Thorpe

Girls’ camp in Italy can be much different from girls’ camp anywhere else on earth, and not just because a stray herd of cattle might come traipsing through one day. The camp is called Fiaccola, which means “torchlight,” and it’s held in the L‘Aquilla Mountains near Rome. One hundred thirty girls attended, including some Americans who didn’t know the language. The Italian girls went out of their way to help the English speakers fit in and have a good time.

Around the campfire with no fire (because open flames are illegal in those mountains), the girls discussed how excited they were to be with so many other LDS girls. Many are the only members in their towns.

“Experiences like this help me have more faith in God and love for the people around me,” said Iris Cartia. “They get me away from everyday problems and help me concentrate on important things like planning my life so I can go on a mission and get married in the temple.”

A true story from Finland.
Phoebe’s heart fluttered like snowflakes. Today was Christmas Eve! Grandma and Grandpa would be here soon. The Christmas tree sparkled. Phoebe tiptoed around the tree and looked at the colorful gifts beneath it. She wondered what her present would be!
Mom and Dad were busy in the kitchen making yummy food. It smelled so good! There were Finnish meatballs, casseroles, and gingerbread cookies. Mmm!
“Is it time for presents yet?” Phoebe asked.
“Not yet. We’re going to watch a video about Jesus first,” Dad said. “Christmas is when we celebrate Jesus Christ’s birthday.”
Everyone gathered to watch a video about baby Jesus. Phoebe watched quietly.
“Jesus wasn’t born in a hospital,” Phoebe said. “He was born in a stable with grass and animals!”
“That’s right,” Mom said. “Jesus is God’s special gift to us. He came to show us how much God loves us.”
Phoebe felt warm and happy inside. She thought about Jesus and how much He loved her. She knew He was the most special gift of all.
Illustrations by Violet Lemay

I had just passed my twelfth birthday and had my interview with my bishop for ordination as a deacon. My father, who had served as a bishop a few years previously, ordained me. During his prayer he blessed me that I might appreciate those who had made it possible for me to enjoy the blessings of the Church and especially the priesthood.
Being only twelve years old I didn’t quite understand what he meant. The next Sunday I assisted in passing the sacrament. Mother had fussed over me to see that I was properly dressed for this occasion, while Dad just looked on and smiled.
I must confess it was an interesting and exciting event. Being a deacon meant I was growing up, and this was a comforting thought.
After lunch that day my father came toward me with a family book in his hand. He explained it was the journal, or the life story, of my grandfather who lived in Wales.
“I want you to read this,” he said, “especially these last pages.” With that he placed it on the table in front of me and left.
Now why would a twelve-year-old boy want to read an old book like that when there were friends outside to play with? There was only one good reason, and that was my father wanted me to read it. He had put a marker in the page where he wanted me to start.
This is what I read:
It is November and cold outside. I can hear the wind whistling through the trees down in the woods. I am sitting in front of my fireplace in my old leather-back chair with Mother’s old knitted shawl over my lap. There is a little table by my side, and I am writing on a lined tablet. The lines are wide because my eyesight is not as good as it once was. The dancing flames from the fire seem to stimulate my thoughts, and I relive the years when my beloved wife and I first joined the Church. The wind was blowing off the ocean when we waded into the water off the coast of Wales. Bess’s health was poor, she being with child, and she was concerned about the effects of the cold water on her and the unborn baby. The presiding elder blessed her that all would be well, that there would be no bad effects from the cold water. It turned out that way. There are other places in my history where I have told of the persecutions we endured, but now I must tell you about my three sons.
William was the firstborn, and from the beginning there was a strong bond of love between him and his mother. Then when he was a young man she died suddenly and he was brokenhearted. No longer was he the carefree young man we knew. He became quiet and withdrawn. Then one day he came to me and said, “Father, I have decided to leave home and go to America. I want to go to Zion where the Saints are. I have applied for a visa, and when it comes I shall be leaving.” About a year later the visa was granted, and William made preparations to leave.
Then came the day of his leaving. How can I describe that day? I stood on the doorstep of my cottage on the hillside and watched him go down the hill with his trunk on his shoulder. I knew I would never see him again, and part of me went with him. Would I miss him? Would I miss the sun if it failed to rise over the mountains out my window? He was my firstborn son, whose life was a lesson in faith and humility. He was the peacemaker in the family. The days passed, and the ache in my heart was eased. His letters came with regularity, and they told of his joy of being with the Saints.
One day a year or so later my second son, John, spoke to me at supper, “Father, I have decided to join my brother in America. I have applied for a visa.”
I looked at this boy, hardly into manhood. How different he was from his brother. Handsome he was with dark hair that curled a little. He had a smile that was captivating, and he was very popular with the girls. Somehow he reminded me of when I was a young man. I too had dark hair that curled a little, and I was popular with the girls. But Bess came along and stole my heart.
I went to the railroad station and wished him good-bye. My tears fell on his shoulder as the train pulled into the station. As it left I felt as if part of my life went on that train.
The walk back home was the loneliest walk of my life. I had to try hard to keep bitterness out of my heart. That which I loved most, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, had taken away my two sons.
Ivor, my third son, was still living in the village. He was destined not to be with me long. He had been born two months early and was so tiny that his mother carried him on a pillow. He grew to manhood but suffered from a heart disease. He was the poet in the family, and even though his health was poor he was always happy. I can hear him yet as he sang to the trees in the woods that bordered our home. I remember that just a few days before his heart failed him that we walked together up into the meadow and we looked across the valley. He took my hand in his and spoke softly. “Listen, Dad,” and across the valley came the plaintive call of a cuckoo bird. “Isn’t it lovely? The cuckoo tells of the coming spring, and soon the meadow will be white with daisies, and the birds will sing joyful tunes. Oh, Dad, its a grand world that God has given us.”
He died in his sleep and was buried beside his mother in the little cemetery on the hill.
The funeral was quite an event in our village. It was the first Latter-day Saint funeral ever conducted there. Many people came out of curiosity, but most came because Ivor was loved and respected. Mr. Jones, the undertaker, in his black suit and top hat drove the wagon with the casket with a pair of black horses.
It was only a short distance to the cemetery, and the mourners walked behind the wagon. Soon the villagers started to sing. At first their voices were quiet like the summer breeze on the mountains. Then as the words came, “Feed me till I want no more,” their voices raised in a great crescendo like waves breaking on a rocky shore. Oh, my people from whom I came, your songs of mourning are still in my heart, and I know that my son and my Bess heard.
When I returned home after the funeral, I took my son’s letters out of a drawer and read them again. My oldest son wrote, “I am now the high priest group leader, and also a supervisor at the temple. I am so grateful that you taught me the gospel.”
The letter from the second son read, “I am excited today, for I have been ordained the bishop of my ward. How can I thank you enough for teaching me the gospel?”
The fire is burning low, and my hand is so tired I can’t write more at this time.
The next words were in my father’s handwriting:
Your grandfather passed away a few days later, and he was buried beside his wife and third son.
As I finished reading I looked up to see my dad standing there. His eyes were moist and so were mine, but a twelve-year-old cannot stay sad very long.
“Dad,” I asked, “were you the second son?”
“Yes, my boy, I was the second son.”
“Your hair is not dark anymore, but there is still a little curl to it.”

An elder from Germany told me how he had “always known” that he did “not know the truth.” He described how he sometimes “prayed to God” to find it. After leaving the military service, he was employed in Switzerland. One day, living alone and feeling lonely, he prayed again, “Please God, send me the truth.” A few days later when he was walking down the street, a stranger approached him and said, “Young man, I am supposed to talk with you, but I don’t know why.” In this missionary’s words, “I looked into his face and knew he had the Spirit of God. His face was beautiful.” The stranger was a Church member who had been walking down the same busy street and felt inspired to speak to a young man he didn’t know. This new elder spoke of his mission as a privilege.

When I got my first paycheck for my first real job (at a sandwich shop), I rewarded myself with a shopping spree. I bought some music and a cute outfit. After spending every dollar I’d earned, I thought about my purchases.
“There goes two whole weeks of work,” I thought. And a sick feeling started to grow in my stomach.
As I thought about all those hours of hard work making sandwiches, my superficial purchases hardly seemed worth it. I vowed to be more careful with my money.
So from then on, I saved every penny for college and a possible mission and never bought anything I wanted ever again.
Yeah, right.
I was still a normal teenager who wanted stylish clothes, good music, and fun activities with my friends. But coming from a big family, I knew that if I wanted those things, I would have to save money to pay for them myself.
It might sound impossible, but I found ways to be financially prepared for the future and have fun at the same time—even with a part-time job that didn’t pay very much. Here are some tips on how you can increase your “money smarts.”

“Dear brothers and sisters, my talk today is on friendship, and the story I want to tell you is about how a boy and I became true friends. This boy’s name is Matt. I used to call him ‘Mean Matt,’ and he would get mad and start fights with me. We would get in fist fights or throw rocks at each other. I would beat him up for fun and in order to get even with him. Sometimes he would go home with a black eye or a bloody nose.
“I would always show off for this friend and try to make him very jealous. Sometimes he would get mad and try to get even, but I won most of our wars. But often, underneath it all, he made me jealous—once he got a new bike, and he did things with his family. Then one night he invited me over to a meeting called family home evening. That’s when I became interested in the Church. I was later baptized.
“This story is a true story about my next-door neighbor Matt Taylor. We both became very active in the Church. We enjoy Scouting, and now we do things together without any fights or trouble. I am thankful. I am thankful Matt brought me into the Church, and I hope that you can bring someone in the Church so they can have the feeling I have.” (Shawn Bell.)

These brethren are not alone in their commitment to serve. I am reminded of a sister in Peru who has been called by her bishop to be a “special proxy” at the Lima Peru Temple. Her day begins at 3:00 A.M., and she begins her trek to the temple at 4:00 A.M. She has to take three different buses to get there. The cost of the bus takes more than one-third of her small monthly income. During a bus strike in Lima, she still came. Once she arrived in the back of a truck headed in the direction of the temple. What marvelous devotion to service!