Gospel Story Finder

It was Sunday, November 9, 1975, in Bountiful, Utah. The chapel was filled, and the doors into the overflow were opened. The echo of sliding chairs being set up in the cultural hall could be heard above the prelude music. It was because so many friends and family had come to rejoice with Elder Thorne in his sacred call from a prophet of the Lord—a call to serve for two years as a special witness for Christ to his brothers and sisters in Argentina. Just before the music stopped, Elder Thorne and his parents left the door where they had been shaking hands and made their way to the stand. All eyes were on them as they took the remaining seats just behind the pulpit. It was easy from where I sat to look over the audience and locate his proud grandmother and grandfather. This was an occasion for the entire family; they were all a part of this special event. His four younger brothers were smiling, probably because they would get to expand into Gale’s room as soon as he entered the mission home, or maybe because they anticipated how they would feel in just a few short years when they would respond to the call of a prophet.
In this setting I recalled the words of President Spencer W. Kimball:
“The gospel must go to all the world, to every creature, every clime, every people, every soul. It calls for an ‘all-out’ effort. This appeal is not for the rich nor for the poor, for the successful or the intelligentsia, but to every heart and mind in the world, to every corner of the earth. We are still far from our goal.”
This call to arms was given by a living prophet. He further stated, “We call for more missionaries, but we want more worthy missionaries and more able missionaries.” (Regional Representatives Seminar, October 2, 1975.)
I observed, in this large audience, an unusual number of young girls, many of them visitors to our ward. They brought with them the excitement and enthusiasm of youth. Their very presence added to the beauty and importance of the occasion. Among them I spotted the plain, the confident, the bashful; but common to each was the radiant, youthful expression of anticipation and commitment. I studied the expressions on the faces of several of these young women and followed their gaze resting upon Elder Thorne—the dark suit, the white shirt with the conservative tie, and the little-shorter-than-usual haircut.
The young women and young men in the audience represented a circle of friends bursting with pride and sharing the honor of one of their number. It was not hard to believe that in the heart of each one were the words, “I’ll go where you want me to go, and I’ll do what you want me to do.”
Since the girls were sitting in groups of twos and threes and fours, it appeared evident they were not competitors seeking the missionary’s attention. It was obvious that they too were part of the “all-out” effort spoken of by the prophet.
But what part did they play? What had their influence been in Elder Thorne’s preparation? In his closing remarks I began to sense the powerful influence friends had had on this young man who was spiritually mature beyond his years. After expressing gratitude for family and loved ones, and before his final testimony, he grasped the pulpit on either side and leaned forward. He dropped his head just a moment. Then, looking up, he quietly said, “And I give thanks to all my friends, especially you girls in the audience who have kept the standards and encouraged me to do the same.” His voice deepened as he continued, “Thank you for your influence that has helped me prepare for a mission.”
After the closing prayer there seemed to be a spontaneous gravitation as young men and women from all parts of the building quietly, with increasing power, moved forward until they encircled their young missionary friend. Without accompaniment their voices united in singing “God be with you till we meet again” like a prayer to heaven from the voices of living angels. The tears flowed freely from the eyes of these youth who had played a very vital part in helping to build a more worthy and a more able missionary.
In that moment I witnessed a power of love and support from friends that would serve as a reservoir of strength to each one of them in the days to come.

In my freshmen year of high school, I came across a popular new video game that was exceptionally violent. After a few times playing it, I began to enjoy it. I’d come home from school and plop down lazily on the couch to play, and I’d tell my younger siblings to go away because the game wasn’t appropriate for them.
It didn’t take long for the effects of my decisions to start happening. Slowly, I lost patience, love, peace, and the Spirit. My thoughts became violent and my temper became high. I was rude to people and pushed away kind acts. This happened for way too long.
One day I was reading the For the Strength of Youth booklet in the “Entertainment and Media” section when I realized what I had been doing. I’d been ignoring the warnings and silently been suffering for it. That day I repented and promised never to play games like that again. It was not easy in any way. I hadn’t realized my addiction to the awful game, and I have been nothing but blessed for quitting. I have become closer to my family and to my Father in Heaven.
I also learned a valuable lesson about keeping myself pure. The Lord wants us to become like little children (see Matthew 18:3), so if something is inappropriate for a little child to play, then it’s inappropriate for me.

Elder Scott remembers an incident in his youth that reinforced the importance of staying true to his beliefs. As a teenager, he worked on an oyster boat, earning money for college. The crew was rough and suspicious of this young man who refused to join them in living it up on shore. One night, he was roughly awakened by a drunken crew member who said a man had fallen overboard. “Scotty,” as he was called then, was the only one in condition to save the man. Quick action averted a tragedy.
Elder Scott said of the lesson he learned that night, “Publicly the crew members ridiculed me, but privately they respected me for my standards.”

Toward the end of World War II, my father was drafted into the German army and sent to the western front, leaving my mother alone to care for our family. Though I was only three years old, I can still remember this time of fear and hunger. We lived in Czechoslovakia, and with every passing day, the war came nearer and the danger grew greater.
Finally, during the cold winter of 1944, my mother decided to flee to Germany, where her parents were living. She bundled us up and somehow managed to get us on one of the last refugee trains heading west. Traveling during that time was dangerous. Everywhere we went, the sound of explosions, the stressed faces, and ever-present hunger reminded us that we were in a war zone.
Along the way the train stopped occasionally to get supplies. One night during one of these stops, my mother hurried out of the train to search for some food for her four children. When she returned, to her great horror, the train and her children were gone!
She was weighed down with worry; desperate prayers filled her heart. She frantically searched the large and dark train station, urgently crisscrossing the numerous tracks while hoping against hope that the train had not already departed.
Perhaps I will never know all that went through my mother’s heart and mind on that black night as she searched through a grim railroad station for her lost children. That she was terrified, I have no doubt. I am certain it crossed her mind that if she did not find this train, she might never see her children again. I know with certainty: her faith overcame her fear, and her hope overcame her despair. She was not a woman who would sit and bemoan tragedy. She moved. She put her faith and hope into action.
And so she ran from track to track and from train to train until she finally found our train. It had been moved to a remote area of the station. There, at last, she found her children again.
I have often thought about that night and what my mother must have endured. If I could go back in time and sit by her side, I would ask her how she managed to go on in the face of her fears. I would ask about faith and hope and how she overcame despair.
While that is impossible, perhaps today I could sit by your side and by the side of any who might feel discouraged, worried, or lonely. Today I would like to speak with you about the infinite power of hope.

Many years ago, on my first visit to the village of Sauniatu in Samoa, my wife and I met with a large gathering of small children—nearly 200 in number. At the conclusion of our messages to these shy yet beautiful youngsters, I suggested to the native Samoan teacher that we go forward with the closing exercises.

As he announced the final hymn, I suddenly felt compelled to greet personally each of these children. My watch revealed that the time was too short for such a privilege, for we were scheduled on a flight out of the country, so I discounted the impression. Before the benediction was to be spoken, I again felt that I should shake the hand of each child. I made the desire known to the instructor, who displayed a broad and beautiful Samoan smile. In Samoan, he announced this to the children. They beamed their approval.

The instructor then revealed to me the reason for his and their joy. He said, “When we learned that a member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles was to visit us here in Samoa, so far away from Church headquarters, I told the children if they would earnestly and sincerely pray and exert faith like the Bible accounts of old, that the Apostle would visit our tiny village at Sauniatu and through their faith he would be impressed to greet each child with a personal handclasp.”

Tears could not be restrained as the precious boys and girls walked shyly by and whispered softly to us the sweet Samoan greeting “talofa lava.” A profound expression of faith had been evidenced.

One night there was a tornado in our area and the sirens were going off. My dad was with us, but my mom was out of town, so she couldn’t comfort us. My sisters and I were afraid. I said, “We should say a prayer.” When we finished the prayer, the storm had calmed and the sirens stopped. I knew God had protected us. We said another prayer, thanking Heavenly Father. I know that when we pray, the Lord will bless us.
Alyson O., age 9, Iowa, USA

When we were called to help start service missions in the UK and Ireland, in the middle of what became a year of lockdowns and self-isolation, the obstacles seemed overwhelming. But we embraced the new reality of virtual meetings. This increased our capacity to meet leaders and members without having to travel the long distances that this calling would have required. We have seen many blessings due to making ourselves available, giving all that we can to this exciting new chapter of the Church in the UK and Ireland.

The week after Christmas, my mom and dad talked to me about fasting for the first time. My dad explained that we fast to ask Heavenly Father for extra help or to tell Him that we are extra grateful. I decided to fast for my baby brother to feel better because he was teething and didn’t feel very good.
The night before fast Sunday, my dad helped me start my fast. At first I was nervous, but he helped me know what to say when I prayed. My dad said to pay attention to how I felt throughout my fast. I felt really good before I went to bed.
The next morning, I started getting hungry. But I had promised not to eat, so I kept my promise the best I could. I tried really hard not to complain. And I did activities to help me learn about Jesus so I wouldn’t just think about food. My dad fasted with me, and that helped a lot.
Later, I was really hungry and needed to end my fast earlier than I planned. I felt sad, but my parents said Heavenly Father just wants us to try. I know He loves us and is happy when I try.

The priest flipped on a recently installed electric light, and as the uncovered bulb swung gently from its cord I looked around the shadowy room it illuminated. The floors were concrete, and except for two ancient and sagging cabinets against the wall, all the room contained was an unsteady wooden table and chairs. As the priest opened the shuttered windows for us, we saw a mixture of wild shrubs and flowers and could hear a donkey braying somewhere close by.
My husband, George, who had spent many hours here on previous trips, looked around with a smile of enormous satisfaction and went with the priest to an adjoining room to get the record books. I was left alone in the room, trying to get used to what I was seeing.
So—we had really made it after all! I thought of how impossible a trip to Spain to do genealogical research had seemed in the first place, how much planning it had taken to assemble a clientele, the weeks of agonizing over finances, the prayers and tears over leaving the children, and the lists and lists of things to do.
George was soon back with the records, and with excitement showed me the heavy volumes filled with page after page of thick parchment where priests had been noting marriages, baptisms, and deaths since the 1500s. They were impressive, and I settled down to help George search them, hoping that his enthusiasm would sustain me.
Unfortunately, as the hours and days wore on, I found that what came so naturally to George didn’t to me. He could spend hour after hour studying over the pages, totally oblivious to his physical surroundings. But I found that I noticed—and responded to—every detail. The wooden chair became unbearable to sit in after a couple of hours, the shadows from the light bulb made it hard to read, and it was so cold that my back ached at night from shivering.
My reactions were both embarrassing and frustrating to me. George had always found genealogical research stimulating, and I had prayed that the experience would be just as exciting for me. But the long, cold, stiff hours seemed endless.
Finally it came time to start a new line in a different parish. Since this was a new family line for us, George searched through the marriage book while I worked on baptisms and births. Although I was looking for the children of three different couples, I found myself particularly intrigued by one family in the records. I began to feel like I knew the mother as I found the record of each of her children’s births. The spacing of her children was similar to mine, and I reminisced about my own pregnancies and the reactions of our children to each new baby. I had been away from home for two weeks now, and the memories of a home full of children’s noises, soggy kisses, and exuberant hugs were sweet to me.
Then George suggested that I work on death records for a while. Since I was still in the same period, the names I found were familiar to me, and I noted the deaths of several of the older family members. But I was not expecting so many younger deaths, and tears of sympathy filled my eyes when I recognized the name of one of my “friend’s” children who had died at the age of three. When I turned the page and found, eight days later, the death record of her six-year-old, my heart lurched and the tears spilled.
I thought again of my own little ones, exactly the same age—the feel of their little bodies nestled in my lap, the sound of their laughter and voices in the house. The distance of an ocean gave me compassion, and I continued to cry and empathize as I turned the pages.
But when I found the death of her husband six months’ time later, I was so upset I had to stop writing, and even George noticed my sobs. “I just can’t understand why she had to go through this,” I told him. “It doesn’t seem fair.”
And then suddenly a true understanding of phrases I had been hearing and saying my entire life came to me, and feelings and thoughts rushed together. “Dear friend,” I thought, “that’s why I’m here. Your suffering wasn’t without purpose; there is something I can do for you. Thanks to a loving Savior and a temple of God, I can help give you back your husband and your children. They can be yours forever now, just as I have mine.”
The tears kept running down my cheeks, but they were tears of peace and joy, a humble gratitude for temples and families and a chance to do something to help.
Since returning from Spain, going to the temple is a deeper experience for me. As I check the name pinned to my sleeve, I feel a respect for this woman. She coped with physical deprivations and a closeness with death that I have never had to experience. And although I am not able to share with her my hot water or shampoo, or the medicine I so nonchalantly give my sick children, I can share that which means the most to me, the blessings of the gospel.

Shelby didn’t like hearing bad words, especially when her friends at school took the Lord’s name in vain.
“Please don’t say those words around me,” she’d say to her friends.
But sometimes they forgot, and she had to remind them.
One day Shelby’s friend Beth rolled her eyes and said, “Oh, yeah, I forgot. Nobody says those words in front of Shelby. She’s trying to make us good like she is.”
The other girls laughed.
Shelby was embarrassed. She felt bad for always asking her friends not to say those words around her—especially when they didn’t think the words were bad.
When Shelby got home from school, she flopped down on her bed. Her mother came in a few minutes later, and Shelby told her what had happened.
“Try not to worry about it,” Mom said. “You just keep doing the right thing, and eventually your friends won’t want to say those words anymore.”
“Why does it matter if my friends say those words?” Shelby asked. “It’s not like I am swearing.”
“The prophets have taught us that we should keep ourselves worthy to feel the Spirit at all times. Bad words offend the Spirit,” Mom said.
Shelby remembered times she had felt the Spirit: at family home evening, when she bore her testimony, when she got a blessing from her father. Shelby liked feeling the Spirit, and she didn’t want to do anything that would offend that warm, peaceful comfort.
She made up her mind to keep being an example to her friends and help them to understand that she didn’t like to hear those words.
The next day at school, she heard those words again.
“Please don’t say those words around me,” Shelby asked Becca.
Becca glared at Shelby and then ignored her. Shelby was glad she had said something but felt sad that her friend was upset.
At recess Shelby heard someone say those words again. This time it was Beth.
“Please don’t say that around me,” Shelby said.
“Sorry,” Beth said, rolling her eyes.
Shelby felt silly once again.
At softball practice after school, Shelby hit a ball. It bounced to first base and got there before Shelby did. Shelby heard Bonnie, the new girl on the team, take the Lord’s name in vain.
Shelby hesitated. She was tired of asking people not to say those kinds of words around her. She didn’t want the other girls to make fun of her.
“Please don’t say those words around her.”
Shelby turned around to see who had spoken.
Beth was telling Bonnie that Shelby was a Latter-day Saint and that she didn’t say those kinds of words and didn’t feel comfortable hearing those words either.
Bonnie turned and looked at Shelby. “Sorry, Shelby. I didn’t know.”
Beth grinned at Shelby. “I guess we’re all becoming more like you,” Beth said.
Shelby smiled. She was happy she had made the decision to be a good example to her friends and to follow the prophet’s counsel to keep the Spirit with her.

Alan picked up one of the beer cans and studied it. “When’s the last time I held one of these?” he thought to himself.
It was in high school and he had been working at a gas station after school. He was just finishing up one night when a carload of kids from high school came in to get a dollar’s worth of gas. The driver, Nick Hill, got out and talked to him. Alan and Nick had played on the football team.
“Hey, when are you through working?” Nick asked.
“In about five minutes.”
“Why don’t you come with us? We’re just driving around. We’ve got an extra girl.”
“I should get home,” Alan said.
“You’re not afraid to go, are you?”
“No.”
“Then come along.”
“My folks’ll expect me home.”
“So what? You’re old enough to do what you want, aren’t you?”
“Okay, I’ll come, but just for an hour,” Alan said.
He had been in the car for only a few minutes when someone handed him a can of beer and an opener. He nervously stared at the can for a long time. The girl beside him looked at him with curiosity.
“Are you through with the opener?” someone in front asked. He handed the opener forward and gently placed the unopened can on the floorboard of the car.
Nick drove the car to an overlook above the town and parked. There were a few nervous jokes, and then it grew silent. Alan turned and looked at the girl next to him. She smiled awkwardly at him.
“Do you want to take a walk?” he finally asked her.
They got out and walked down a path near the edge.
“It’s a nice view,” he said.
“Yes, it really is.”
“I forgot your name,” Alan said.
“Candy.”
“Oh, sure. I’m sorry about tonight. I’m not very good at things like this.”
“That’s okay,” she said. “You didn’t drink the beer.”
“No.”
“Are you a Mormon?”
“Yes.”
“I thought you were. I was wondering what you’d do.”
“They said they were just going to drive around,” Alan said.
“You knew what it’d be like, though, didn’t you?” she asked.
“I guess so. Maybe I did. Maybe I just got tired of always saying no to people. Why did you come?”
“I don’t know,” she replied. “It’s fun to be asked—to be important to somebody—even for just a few hours. I can’t take being a nothing.”
“Is that what you think you are?”
“Yes. Isn’t that what you think I am?”
“No. You’re special.”
“I wish I were. I dream that I am—a movie star or something like that. But I’m just plain.”
“Can I teach you a song? A Mormon song? Would you mind?”
“What’s the name?”
“‘I Am a Child of God.’”
When they got back, they made noise purposely so Nick and the others would know.
“How long are we gonna be here?” Alan asked.
“We just got here,” Nick replied.
“I need to get home.”
“What’s the matter, are we corrupting you? We found your beer in the back. You didn’t drink it.”
“I don’t want it. You drink it.”
“Are you ever going to grow up and act like a man?” Nick asked.
“You don’t mean act like a man. You mean act like you. Never. I never want to be like you. Does that answer your question?”
Nick got out of the car, as did one of his friends. There was a fight, and before it was over, it was Nick and his friend against Alan. When they were through, they drove off and left him and Candy. After they stopped the nosebleed they both walked down the dirt road to the highway where they phoned a friend who came and gave them a ride back to town.
Alan tossed the empty beer can into the garbage container.

I grew up in what some of you might call a boring farming community: Virden, New Mexico, population 135. One summer night when I was a boy, my cousins, some friends, and I were looking for ways to create some excitement. Someone suggested we play a harmless prank on a neighbor. My conscience whispered it was wrong, but I didn’t have the courage to resist the enthusiastic response of the group.
After performing our mischievous act, we sprinted down the dark country road to make our escape, laughing and congratulating ourselves as we ran. Suddenly, one of the group stumbled, crying out, “Oh no, I kicked a cat!” Almost instantly we felt a very fine mist settle over us. It carried a horrible odor. What my friend thought was a cat was actually a skunk. It had sprayed us in self-defense. Very few odors are as nauseating as skunk spray, and we smelled terrible.
Dejectedly, we went home in search of a little parental comfort for our pitiful plight. As we stepped inside the kitchen door, Mom took one sniff and shooed us out into the yard. We were cast out of our home. Then she launched the cleansing process. She burned our clothes. Then, it seemed that every home remedy or concoction in the community was volunteered in our behalf. Among them, we endured a variety of baths: first tomato juice, then cow’s milk, and even harsh homemade lye soap. But the stench remained. Even my dad’s powerful aftershave lotion could not overpower the stench. For days we were condemned to eat outside under a tree, sleep outdoors in a tent, and ride in the back of the pickup truck.
After a while, naively thinking the smell was gone, we tried to approach some normal-smelling girls. They would not allow us within yards, shattering our fragile teenage egos!

Two weeks after I got my driver’s license, my parents let me take the car for the whole day. I was ecstatic! I couldn’t wait to go driving around town. That morning in my prayers I had a strong feeling to pray for safety and that the Holy Spirit would guide and direct me. I hopped into the car and headed to town to do some shopping with my sister. I was surprised at how comfortable I felt driving. But I was uneasy. I had a feeling that at sometime during the day some sort of obstacle would be in the road and I would have to stop suddenly. I wondered if I was just nervous because it was my first time driving alone. I decided to drive slower than usual. I drove all day without incident but still had that feeling. When we headed home, it was dark out, and we had a 45-minute drive home in the country. I decided to drive about 5–10 miles under the speed limit. Just as I came around a bend, I saw a deer standing in the middle of the road. I had to quickly slam on my brakes to stop. I stopped a couple of feet in front of the deer, which just walked off, leaving us with our hearts pounding. I couldn’t believe how close it was. I know if I had not been warned by the Holy Ghost and had been going faster, I would have hit that deer. I am so grateful to have the Holy Ghost guiding and protecting me.

Even though I had been attending a preschool for three years to help me with my speech problems, when I started kindergarten, my family, friends, and schoolteachers still had a hard time understanding what I was saying. My parents were concerned. My family fasted for me, and my dad gave me a priesthood blessing. My speech didn’t improve overnight, but by the middle of the school year my teacher, my family, and my friends could understand me better. Heavenly Father blessed me and the people who worked with me. I could finally bear my testimony. I still have to take speech classes and work hard, but I know Heavenly Father hears and answers our prayers.

I understand what it feels like not to feel peace. When I was ten years old my father died. Everyone told me that Heavenly Father would comfort me, but for the first few months I felt only pain and anger, not comfort.
One night, in the midst of all this hurt, I had a dream about my father which helped me to understand what had happened and to feel at peace with myself. I know that my dad is doing a great work helping people on the other side. I also know that you must look deep within yourself to find true peace in order to live a happy and peaceful life.
Bente Heiselt, 16Powell, Ohio

“Happy Birthday, Itte petit,” my mother whispered to me as we awoke early one morning in the Japanese concentration camp in Java, Indonesia. “You are nine years old—a big girl. Pretty soon we’ll be able to celebrate your birthday in freedom, with cakes and lemonade and ice cream. You’ll see!
“You have always been a special child, born to me because you have a destiny. You have come to earth to live because you have a goal to reach. There is a purpose for your life, and being in this camp is only temporary.” Softly, my mother insisted that some day the war would end and peace would prevail.
My older sister, younger sister, and younger brother had been with us in the camp for eighteen months—ever since Japanese soldiers had forced us from our home. Our three older brothers were in another camp. We knew that my father was in a camp in Japan or the Philippines because of his involvement in the resistance against the invasion of Indonesia.
I was depressed and lonely. The world was so unfair! We were confined behind barbed wire, infested with fleas and lice, and plagued with flies and mosquitoes. Each person was allotted only one and one-half meters of space in our cramped, hot building. People bickered and were unkind to each other, children were always crying, and we had to take turns going to the latrine.
“What will my tenth birthday be like?” I wondered. “Will I be free?” How I wished I could walk on soft green grass—roll in it, smell it! How wonderful it would be to sing if I wanted to, scream if I wanted to, or just be by myself!
One day, the need to be alone made me disregard my mother’s warning to stay close to our building. I wandered away, taking my only possession—a stick—with me. My mother often wrote on the ground with that stick, making a game of teaching us the letters. She also told us Bible stories and stories about things we used to do or things she had done as a child.
I was thinking about these “good old times” as I wandered farther and farther away from the main compound, toward the outskirts of camp and the feared barbed wires. Oblivious to my surroundings, I was dreaming about our old house in the mountains, my pony, and my toys. Oh, why had I left my doll—Pop Mientje—sitting in the chair when the soldiers came to take us away? I had been too frightened and too sleepy to think of my old rag doll, and I had left her at home. How I wished I had her now!
I also missed my nanny, the older Javanese woman who used to watch over me. When I had been frightened or had hurt myself it was my nanny—Baboe Kit—who had comforted and consoled me. I could still remember the feel of her sweet, soft hands caressing me, the smell of her fragrance, and the sound of her voice whispering consoling words. I even imagined that I could hear her call out to me: “Nonny Kitty, Kitty!”
But wait! Listen … It was not my imagination.
I heard it again: “Nonny Kitty, Kitty. Very carefully, look to your left. I am in the bushes. Don’t come too near. The barbed wire is very sharp, and they say there are land mines around here.”
Carefully, I turned my head and looked into the underbrush. There she was: my nanny!
“You have come to take me away from this awful camp?” I asked.
“No, Nonny. I have come to give you something because it is your birthday.”
I came closer, pretending to play with the stick on the ground.
“Nanny, please, I want to come with you. I hate it here. Please let me touch you. Oh, Baboe Kit, please!”
Her voice became stern. She told me to keep very still, to keep my voice down, and to listen to what she had to say.
“I brought you Pop Mientje to keep you company because baboes are not allowed in this camp, and it is too dangerous for a European child to live in the village. Always say your prayers to ask for strength to endure what you have to endure, because Allah is wise and all-knowing. He knows when the war will end and is only testing us to see if we can stay faithful and endure to the end. And the end will be sweet to us. Take Pop Mientje, and promise me that you will not lose her. Take her with you wherever you go. If you do that, she will bring you happiness one day.”
I knew that whatever Nanny told me was true, and I had learned to obey her at all times. But at that moment I needed her touch—no matter how dangerous it was. I shifted my position and crawled toward the barbed wires. She handed me Pop Mientje. Our hands touched. She stroked my hand.
“Oh, please take me with you! Please don’t go away!” I threw the doll aside and reached out for her with both hands, cutting my face as I brushed against the barbed wire to press my body closer to her. I could smell her fragrance. I closed my eyes, savoring the seconds of feeling her hands caress my face.
“Go, Nonny. Go now, quickly. Take the doll and go quickly. I have to go. Quickly!”
I was not quick enough. A sentry saw us. He saw her run away, and took aim and shot my nanny—my Baboe Kit—in the back. A gaping wound appeared, and she turned around and waved at me with her hand, as if to say, “It is okay!”
Amid the confusion of shouting sentries and screaming women that followed the shooting, no one paid attention to me. I stood there in shock, unable to move. Someone picked up Pop Mientje and handed her to me. I stooped to pick up the stick, and as I straightened up, I saw a Japanese soldier standing in front of me. He looked at me and whispered, “Go quickly.”
I ran all the way to our compound. I had been saved by my enemy—a Japanese soldier! My mother was waiting for me. She had been looking for me all over. When she saw me running toward her with Pop Mientje, she knew that I had seen Baboe Kit.
I told her what had happened. “If only I had been a little bit quicker! If I had not been so slow and had listened to her, Baboe Kit would be alive!”
My mother folded me into her arms and comforted me, telling me over and over again that what had happened was not my fault.
I wrestled with guilt for many years before I fully understood the meaning of Baboe Kit’s sacrifice. Meanwhile, I took Pop Mientje with me everywhere.

As my parents reached middle age, my mother encountered early-onset Alzheimer’s. My father was determined to faithfully serve as her caretaker, even when her condition required full-time care. Even through these latter years, my father reached out to me through weekly, and, in some periods, daily, phone calls and letters. I had always had a close relationship with both my parents, but during the last 10 years of my father’s life, we became particularly close. I realized then too that he was equally successful in drawing near to my three siblings in the same way—even given the differences in interests and faiths we chose as we all grew older.
Photograph by Del Benson
My parents and my family lived on opposite coasts of the United States during those last years, and they made two cross-country visits, even though my mother’s Alzheimer’s had advanced to the point where assisting her on a long-distance flight was very difficult for Dad.
At this same time, one by one my children all decided to stop attending church. Two eventually had their names removed from Church records. This has certainly been the trial of both my wife’s and my life. And even though he wasn’t a Latter-day Saint, my father was pained and confused by our children’s choices as well. He was a privately religious man, and he joined us through those years in praying for them.
In 2005 my father passed away after being diagnosed with cancer, and my mother passed away three years later. My wife and I rejoiced in acting as their proxies in providing temple ordinances after their deaths.
I’ve long prayed to understand how best to relate to our children now that they’re adults, some with their own spouses and children, none of whom are LDS. We are emotionally close to all four of our children, and we are grateful that they often reach out in love to us.
I eventually received a very clear answer of how I must conduct myself, possibly for the rest of my life, regarding these adult children. I needed to do what my father had done with me. In spite of the different lives we lived and the different religious perspectives we had, my father was determined to draw closer to me as a father and a friend while I experienced the pain of seeing my children choose different lifestyles and beliefs from mine. I realized I must follow the example of my father, who taught me how to treat children of a different faith: love them completely, just as the Savior would.

Giving a Priesthood Blessing
“In 1878 my great-grandfather George F. Richards was 17 years of age. As was sometimes the case in those days, he had already been ordained an elder. One Sunday his mother was groaning in intense pain. As his father was not available, the bishop and several others were invited to give her a blessing, but no relief came. Accordingly, she turned to her son George and asked him to lay hands on her head. He wrote in his diary, ‘In the midst of my tears for my mother’s suffering and the task of performing an administration such as I had never yet done, I retired to another room where I wept and prayed.’
“When he became composed, he laid his hands on her and gave her a very simple blessing. He later noted, ‘My mother ceased her groaning and received relief from her suffering while my hands were yet on her head.’ He then recorded in his diary [that he] felt that the reason his mother did not get relief from the bishop’s blessing was not because the Lord failed to honor the bishop’s blessing but because the Lord had reserved this blessing for a boy, to teach him a lesson that the priesthood in the boy is just as powerful as the priesthood in the man when exercised in righteousness.”
Elder Tad R. Callister of the Presidency of the Seventy

It was the last day of school. The sun was shining. The temperature was perfect. Everyone had fun playing softball, running races, and eating hamburgers. But now it was time to go home, and for Jena, it wasn’t fun anymore.
This was her last day at Buckingham Elementary. This was her last day to see her teacher, Miss Wilson. This was her last day to be a fifth-grader and have recess. This was her last day to see many of her friends. Most of them were going to Pilot Butte Middle School next year. She was going to High Desert Middle School.
Jena cried when it was time to get on the school bus. All her friends cried, too. They hugged each other over and over. The deep noise of the bus engine started up, but the driver waited patiently. Finally, after more tears and hugs, she and her friend Randy boarded the bus. Jena lowered the bus window and yelled, “I’ll call you this sum—”
Jena never finished her sentence. She remembered that she couldn’t call anyone this summer. She was going to live with Grandma Hunt while her parents took summer classes at the university.
“This is going to be the worst year of my life,” Randy choked out. And even though everyone else on the bus seemed happy and excited, she slumped down in her seat and cried. “We probably won’t get to see our friends from Buckingham any more, and we won’t even see each other all summer.”
Jena wanted to say something to make Randy feel better, but she didn’t know what to say. She knew that if she tried to talk, she’d cry, too.
Just before the bus came to her stop, Jena turned to Randy and gave her a hug. “Write me,” she said. “I’ll write back. I promise.”
The first night at Grandma Hunt’s, Jena thought about Randy. She wondered if Randy was as lonely as she was.
“How about a good game of Irritation?” Grandma Hunt asked as she got out the board game.
Normally, it was Jena’s favorite game. But she didn’t feel like playing this time.
“You really miss your family, don’t you?” Grandma asked.
“Yes. I can’t quit thinking about them and my friends back home. Most of my friends are going to a different school next year. It won’t be any fun without them.”
“It’s true that we have some friends for just a short time and some of them longer. But they each make a difference in our lives forever. So each friend is to be treasured. And new experiences should be fun because they give us a chance to meet new friends.”
“If you say so, Grandma,” Jena faltered.
“Jesus Christ was the perfect example of a good friend. He served His friends. He fed the people, He visited them when they were sick, and He shared the gospel with them. He did things for all of us that we can’t do for ourselves.”
“Their lives were happier because He was their friend,” Jena said.
“That’s right. Their lives were different, better, because of what He did. Our lives are better because of what He did for us. You should look forward to going to your new school and meeting new friends. Be excited about it. You will have experiences you’ve never even dreamed of, experiences that can make you a better person. Just make certain that the friends you choose are trying to do what is right. Now, let’s play this game!” Grandma declared. “In the morning I’ll take you to visit one of my very good friends. I treasure her friendship. I hope you will, too, even though you’ll probably know her for only one summer.”
“Could we take the Irritation game with us and ask her to play?” Jena asked.
“She’d like that.”
The next morning, Jena and her grandma stopped at a store and purchased four large red marbles and four large yellow marbles.
“June B., that’s my friend, just got out of the hospital. She was in a terrible car accident and broke about all her bones, it seems to me,” Grandma explained. “She’s also partially blind from the accident, so these large, bright marbles might be easier for her to use.”
When they got to the house, June B. was sitting in a wheelchair. Her left arm was in a cast, and her right leg was in a cast. Her head was bandaged, and so was her nose.
“Come in, come in,” she called. “It’s so nice of you to come.”
“I brought my granddaughter, June B.,” Grandma said. “This is Jena.”
“I’m glad to meet you, Jena. Thank you for coming.”
“I brought a game.”
“I love games! Sit right here and we’ll play it.”
Jena played three games of Irritation with June B. while her grandmother cleaned the house and prepared some lunch. The games took time because June B. had to bend way over the board to see where each of the marbles was and make a decision where to move.
“There you go,” June B. said when she won the third game in a row. “You’re nice to let a blind lady win.”
“But I didn’t let you win.”
“I know—I’m just more ‘irritating’ than you. Would you help me take a bath now?”
“Well, I, ah …”
“There’s a bucket in the bathroom. Fill it half full of warm water and bring me a washcloth and the soap. I sit right here and scrub most of me. I only need help with my back and feet.”
Jena helped her grandma in the kitchen while June B. bathed. When she needed help, she called to them.
Grandma Hunt gently washed June B.’s back. “Would you like to bathe her feet?” Grandma asked.
“Well, I, ah … sure.”
Jena couldn’t believe her feelings as she knelt and gently lifted June B.’s left foot into the bucket. Ever so carefully she rubbed soap onto her hands and then rubbed the lady’s foot and toes. She lowered the foot into the water again and rinsed it carefully. Then she dried it with a towel.
Before Jena was halfway through, she started crying softly. Now she knew what Jesus Christ must have felt like when He helped others. And now she understood that Heavenly Father wanted her to meet many new friends. She could help them. And they could help her.
“Can I come and play a game with you tomorrow?” Jena asked softly.
“I’d love that!” June B. said. “And I promise, I won’t be so ‘irritating’ tomorrow.”

Relief Society should be organized, aligned, and mobilized to strengthen families and help our homes to be sacred sanctuaries from the world. I learned this years ago when I was newly married. My parents, who had been my neighbors, announced that they would be moving to another part of the world. I had relied on my mother’s nurturing, wise, and encouraging example. Now she was going to be gone for a long time. This was before e-mail, fax machines, cell phones, and Web cameras, and mail delivery was notoriously slow. One day before she left, I sat weeping with her and asked, “Who will be my mother?” Mother thought carefully, and with the Spirit and power of revelation which comes to women of this kind, she said to me, “If I never come back, if you never see me again, if I’m never able to teach you another thing, you tie yourself to Relief Society. Relief Society will be your mother.”

Mother knew that if I was sick, the sisters would take care of me, and when I had my babies, they would help me. But my mother’s greatest hope was that the sisters in Relief Society would be powerful, spiritual leaders for me. I began from that time to learn abundantly from women of stature and faith.

Three different women held the calling of Relief Society president in my wards during the years my parents were away. Alta Chamberlain invited me to teach time management and home organization to the other sisters, perhaps because she saw that I needed to improve those skills. Jeanne Horne encouraged me to complete my first serious personal study of the Book of Mormon. Norma Healey gave me my first assignments at the cannery and taught me much about service. These wonderful women understood the purpose of Relief Society.