Gospel Story Finder

Jay Roberts stared out the window and sighed, then slowly stirred his cereal. He could hardly believe that summer was already gone.
“Hurry up, Jay,” Mother called from the hall. “Dad is ready for family prayer before he leaves.”
After the prayer, Jay carried his cereal bowl to the sink, then trudged up the stairs to brush his teeth. Who invented school anyway? he wondered.
When the school bus arrived, he dutifully climbed on. There were only a couple of seats left. He chose the one across the aisle from his best buddy. “Hey, Lance,” he said.
“Yo,” Lance replied. He said “yo” all the time now, after seeing a guy in a movie do it.
“Who do you want for a teacher?” Jay asked.
“Anyone except Mrs. Turnbull,” Lance replied. “I heard she’s really hard.”
Suddenly Jay was aware of a slight groan beside him. He turned around and saw a very small boy sharing the seat. “Hey,” Jay said to his neighbor, “I’m Jay.”
The little boy hesitated a moment before mumbling, “My name’s Rickey.”
“Well, hello, Rick,” Jay answered. “What grade are you in?”
“None.”
“None? What does that mean?”
“I’m just in the kid garden.”
“You mean in kindergarten?” Jay asked, trying not to smile.
Rickey nodded solemnly. “And I’m not sure where the garden is.”
“It’s OK,” Jay assured him. “There will be teachers at school to help you get where you’re going. And if there aren’t, we’ll show you.”
Rickey stared at Jay for a moment and then asked, “What’s your grade?”
“Lance and I are in fifth grade,” Jay replied, motioning toward his friend.
The little boy looked across the aisle and waved to Lance.
“Yo, Rick,” Lance said, nodding his head.
“This bus is pretty scary, huh?” Rickey said. “I mean, I never was in such a big car before.”
“Yeah,” Jay replied, “it’s bigger than anything else on the road. Everybody gets out of the way of the bus. And all the cars have to stop when we’re getting off and on.”
“Oh,” Rickey replied, looking around with a new interest. He turned toward the window. “I do kind of like looking down at all the cars.”
“I’ve been riding the bus for years,” Jay said importantly. “It isn’t too bad.”
Rickey looked at Jay’s bag. “What’s in there?” he asked.
“It’s my lunch—a peanut-butter sandwich, an apple, some raisins, and if I’m lucky, a brownie.”
“How do you know?” Rickey asked.
“I told you, I’ve been doing this a long time. Mom used to pack a different sandwich every day, but then she found out that I just traded them off, so now she just packs peanut butter.”
“Traded?”
Jay nodded. “Right. It works pretty good. Whatever you don’t like, you just trade with someone else. Sometimes you can get some really good stuff.”
Rickey considered this information. “Lunch sounds fun.”
“Did your mom tell you about recess?”
“Yes,” Rickey replied. “That’s playtime. But I don’t know who to play with.”
“You’ll make friends,” Jay replied, looking at Lance. “I guess friends are the best thing about school.”
“How come?” Rickey asked.
“Because they help you solve problems and get you through the tough stuff.”
“Like what?”
“Like when you don’t do so well on a test, and they play with you at recess and help you remember you’re the best soccer player in school. Or when you get a goofy part in a play, and they tell you it’s cool in front of all the other kids. That kind of stuff.”
The bus pulled up in front of the school, and Rickey still looked scared.
“It’s OK, Rick,” Jay told him. “Come on.”
“I’m afraid of the teacher.”
Jay gently pulled Rickey to his feet. “You don’t have to be afraid of the teachers. They’re kind of like your mom or dad away from home.”
“Really?”
“Absolutely,” Lance chimed in. “I even called my kindergarten teacher ‘Mom’ once.”
Jay looked at his friend with a raised eyebrow.
“Well, it was only once,” Lance said, shrugging.
“Let’s go,” Jay said, as the three boys walked toward the door. When they arrived at the kindergarten class, Rickey peered inside and was greeted with a smile from his teacher.
“Gotta go,” Jay said. Lance was already hurrying toward the fifth-grade classrooms.
“Listen, Jay,” Rickey told him, “if anyone makes fun of you about that play or something, just tell them you’re my friend.”
Jay nodded his head. “For sure!” With a wave he started off down the hall. Turning the corner, he saw Lance motioning to him.
“Hey, Jay,” Lance called, “we’re in the same class. We have Mrs. Turnbull!” Surprised by the grin on Jay’s face, he asked, “Did you hear me?”
“Absolutely!” Jay kept on grinning.

I had been on my mission for 13 months when I received a phone call from my mission president informing me of the death of my dear sister Solange. This news broke my heart, and I shed tears of sadness as I remembered the beautiful moments we had spent together throughout her life of nearly 20 years. My pain over losing her was very deep.
As we approached the weekend, I realized that we were coming up on general conference. And in spite of my sorrow and pain, my companion and I went to watch the conference broadcast at the chapel.
Who would have known, but in his talk entitled “Confide in God Unwaveringly,” Elder Ulisses Soares recounted an experience that exactly described my situation. He said, “Years ago while serving as a mission president, I received a phone call from the parents of one of our beloved missionaries informing me of the death of his sister. I remember, in the tenderness of that moment, that missionary and I discussed God’s marvelous plan of salvation for His children and how this knowledge would comfort him.
“Although he was stunned and saddened by that adversity, this missionary—through his tears and with faith in God—rejoiced in his sister’s life. He expressed unwavering confidence in the tender mercies of the Lord. Resolutely, he told me that he would continue to serve his mission with all faith and diligence in order to be worthy of the promises that God had for him and his family. In this time of need, that faithful missionary turned his heart to God, placed all of his trust in Him, and renewed his commitment to serve the Lord with faith and with all diligence” (Liahona, May 2017, 35).
Dear brothers and sisters, I felt that every word, every sentence of this talk was addressed directly to me—and what a source of comfort! I testify that God speaks to us every six months through the mouths of His servants in general conference.

Since the Fall of Adam, all mankind are in a lost and fallen state. Like most of you, my being “found” started with two faithful missionaries. In the year 1913, in Copenhagen, Denmark, Elders C. Earl Anhder and Robert H. Sorenson taught my grandparents the gospel of Jesus Christ and baptized them. My parents taught me the importance of hard work, honesty, and integrity. However, in one short generation we became lost to activity in the Church and a knowledge of the gospel. Looking back, I recall, at a very young age, my playmates inviting me to Primary. My first Church experience was built around Primary friendships.
As a boy several months shy of my 12th birthday, one Saturday afternoon I answered a knock at my front door. Several of my friends—deacons dressed in white shirts and ties—sought me out to come to my very first priesthood meeting. Our leader walked beside me as we made our way down the hill to the Tabernacle on Temple Square. That was April general conference priesthood session.
Lloyd Bennett was my Scoutmaster. Very often on a Saturday afternoon he would pick me up and take me to the Scout office to buy needed badges and supplies. As we rode, we talked. He became a trusted friend. Lloyd Bennett, like so many, took time for the one.
These wonderful friends and leaders understood Elder M. Russell Ballard’s recent counsel to “find … one more” (“One More,” Liahona and Ensign, May 2005, 71), and they understood what that entailed. Sometimes it’s the one in the corner whom we hadn’t considered.
My own Enos experience came at 18 years of age as I knelt in my army barracks in Fort Ord, California. After the lights were out and I knelt on a hard floor, like Enos I came away found. I was to serve a full-time mission. My heart is filled with gratitude for the many who assisted in helping me to come to know who I am and to know of Christ and His gospel. I came to understand that my way home is through our Savior Jesus Christ.
“And he shall come into the world to redeem his people; and he shall take upon him the transgressions of those who believe on his name; and these are they that shall have eternal life, and salvation cometh to none else” (Alma 11:40).
The Old Testament prophet Isaiah, in seeing our day when the gospel would be fully restored, declared:
“Thus saith the Lord God, Behold, I will lift up mine hand to the Gentiles, and set up my standard to the people: and they shall bring thy sons in their arms and thy daughters shall be carried upon their shoulders” (Isa. 49:22).
As we care for the one, brothers and sisters, we see the fulfillment of that prophecy. Can you see how you have been carried in arms and on shoulders—carried to safety?
What would our Savior do with the opportunities that we have to affect the one? As we apply that principle If Christ had my opportunities, what would He do? our decisions in life will be Christ-centered.
I know personally that our beloved Elder Neal A. Maxwell always sought to find the one. For, as Nephi, he labored “diligently to write, to persuade [all of us] to believe in Christ, and to be reconciled to God” (2 Ne. 25:23). I know that Elder Maxwell made more than one call to those, even to the one, that he was trying to bring unto Christ.
Whether we are a Primary teacher, Young Men or Young Women leader, Scoutmaster, home teacher, visiting teacher, or friend, the Lord will use us, if we will listen, to seek out and find the one.
How grateful I am for the decision to serve a full-time mission, which became a great turning point in my life. Young men, you have the privilege of serving, even to labor diligently. Stay worthy; prepare to preach the gospel; do not delay—go and serve! Young women, you can do so much to build the kingdom. Dear seniors, we need you!
Our family had the privilege of serving in Canada with wonderful, dedicated elders, sisters, and senior missionaries. With heart to heart, spirit to spirit, and in the strength of the Lord, they sought after the one and found him or her, as dedicated missionaries do the world over.
“And thus they were instruments in the hands of God in bringing many to the knowledge of the truth, yea, to the knowledge of their Redeemer” (Mosiah 27:36).
Each one of us can make a difference in someone’s life, even his or her eternal life, but we must act; we must do; we must labor diligently. Perhaps you have received an impression to invite someone to return to church or to hear the message of the restored gospel for the first time. Go ahead, follow that impression. Why don’t we all invite someone to come tomorrow and listen to a prophet’s voice? Would you do that? Will you make that invitation today? With faith and a willing heart (even desire), we must trust that the Spirit will give us “in the very hour, yea, in the very moment, what [we] shall say” (D&C 100:6). I know that to be so.
How grateful I am for this call to serve once again, this time in Australia. I express my eternal love and appreciation to my wife and our nine missionary-minded children for their love and support. I bear solemn witness that the fulness of the gospel is restored upon the earth, that Joseph Smith is a prophet of God, and that the Book of Mormon is the word of God. Today we are led by a living prophet, even President Gordon B. Hinckley. And I know that God lives, and I know that Jesus is the Christ, our Savior and Redeemer. It is in the Shepherd’s loving arms and on His shoulders that we are carried home. Like Enos, may I humbly say: “I must preach … unto this people, and declare the word according to the truth which is in Christ. And I have … rejoiced in it above that of the world” (Enos 1:26). To these truths, I bear witness in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

I’m very happy with my name, Janetta Ann McBride. Brigham Young gave me that name and blessed me when I was a baby. He was one of the elders who visited at my parents’ home in Church Town, England, where I was born on Christmas Eve in 1839. It isn’t everyone who can claim that a prophet gave them a name and a blessing.
My father was originally from Scotland. He came to England for work. There he met my mother and married her. They joined the Church just a few years later.
When I was six years old, my family moved to Island of Bute, Scotland. I at-tended the School of Industry, where I learned how to sew and keep house. I graduated when I was eleven years old. That’s when most children began working to help their family with expenses.
I, too, would have gone straight to work, except I got sick. Instead, I was sent to live with my grandmother by the seashore. It was thought that the sea air would be good for my health. It must have been, because I got well. But Grandmother had a serious accident one day and died. By that time, my family had moved back to England, and I moved there to live with them.
At the age of fourteen, I was apprenticed to a dressmaker and learned how to make beautiful dresses. I worked for her for two years. Then my family made the decision to move to America. Times were hard in England. Jobs and food were both scarce. Also a call had gone out from the Church for the Saints to gather to Zion.
At age sixteen, I was the oldest of the children in our family. Heber had just turned thirteen. Ether was eight, Peter six, and Margaret was still a baby, not quite two years old. We loved the Lord with all our hearts. We had been commanded to gather to Zion, and so we began our journey, one step at a time. Little did we know what would face us on the journey ahead. I think, though, that even if we had known, we still would have gone.
The Church had a special fund at that time that loaned money to members for travel to Salt Lake City, Utah. In 1856, however, there wasn’t much money in it. To cut expenses, it was decided that my family, along with many others, would travel across the plains by handcart. The journey from Liverpool, England, to Salt Lake City would then only cost about forty-five dollars per person—much less than the cost of using wagons and ox teams to cross the plains.
But first we had to sail to America!
I was excited when my family packed up their belongings and headed for Liverpool. It was a great seaport, teeming with ships of every kind. I loved watching the ships being loaded and unloaded with every kind of article you could imagine. Spices from India scented the air. Passenger ships were a hive of activity as their holds were loaded with food and water. There was so much to see!
Our ship was the Horizon, a good ship. We had fine weather all the way across the Atlantic, except for a few days when it was so foggy that we couldn’t even get candles to burn! On June 30, 1856, we safely landed in Boston, Massachusetts. We were thrilled to be in the land where the gospel had been restored!
I don’t think any of us had any idea how big America really was. When we landed in Boston, we didn’t realize that our long journey was just beginning, rather than nearing its end.
From Boston, we traveled to Iowa City, Iowa, by railroad. The new railroad saved us weeks of traveling by wagon. The cattle cars were crowded, but we endured the journey well. The train stopped in Buffalo, New York, on the Fourth of July. We could only watch the people celebrate. How I wanted to join them!
Finally we arrived in Iowa City. From the train station, we walked three miles in rain and mud to the place where we were to meet the Church’s agent in charge of organizing the trek. We had been assured that everything would be ready for us when we arrived, but it wasn’t. The handcarts hadn’t even been built! We camped and worked at preparing for the journey until all was ready.
Eventually the handcarts were obtained, and our family was assigned to Captain Edward Martin’s company. Near the end of July 1856, we cheerfully began our journey to Zion. Our family had three carts when we started out. Each cart could carry about 120 pounds of baggage, 100 pounds of flour, cooking utensils, and additional food. There were 576 people in our company. I’d never been with so many members of the Church!
Pulling the handcarts wasn’t bad at first. But many of them broke down because they were built of green wood. We pulled those carts three hundred miles to Florence, Nebraska. The last members of our company, and the Willie company, arrived there on August 22. As soon as we arrived, there was some disagreement as to whether we should continue on. Some said that it was too late in the year. They felt that we should set up a winter camp in Florence and wait until spring to travel to Salt Lake City. But most of the Saints were for starting immediately. After much discussion, it was decided to continue on. We were anxious to finish our long journey. About a thousand miles remained ahead of us, but we had already come so many miles that another thousand seemed like a short trip. We didn’t know that the worst part of our journey was still ahead.

Perhaps a personal experience will help to illustrate the point. When I was a young resident physician at Boston Children’s Hospital, I worked long hours and traveled between the hospital and our home in Watertown, Massachusetts, mostly by bicycle since my wife and young family needed our car. One evening I was riding home after a long period in the hospital, feeling tired and hungry and at least a bit discouraged. I knew I needed to give my wife and four small children not only my time and energy when I got home but also a cheery attitude. I was, frankly, finding it hard to just keep pedaling.
My route would take me past a fried chicken shop, and I felt like I would be a lot less hungry and tired if I could pause for a piece of chicken on my way home. I knew they were running a sale on thighs or drumsticks for 29 cents each, but when I checked my wallet, all I had was one nickel. As I rode along, I told the Lord my situation and asked if, in His mercy, He could let me find a quarter on the side of the road. I told Him that I didn’t need this as a sign but that I would be really grateful if He felt to grant me this kind blessing.
I began watching the ground more intently but saw nothing. Trying to maintain a faith-filled but submissive attitude as I rode, I approached the store. Then, almost exactly across the street from the chicken place, I saw a quarter on the ground. With gratitude and relief, I picked it up, bought the chicken, savored every morsel, and rode happily home.
In His mercy, the God of heaven, the Creator and Ruler of all things everywhere, had heard a prayer about a very minor thing. One might well ask why He would concern Himself with something so small. I am led to believe that our Heavenly Father loves us so much that the things that are important to us become important to Him, just because He loves us. How much more would He want to help us with the big things that we ask which are right? (see 3 Nephi 18:20).

A. J. Schumann, 17, spent six hours helping his dad and neighbors clear a 30-yard firebreak in an effort to save his and other houses. “It’s amazing to see how people rally together in a crisis,” he says. “Ward members, whose homes were not in danger, came to help us. After we evacuated, somehow two of our friends made their way back and hosed down our burning fences. All eight houses survived, but I’ve learned people matter more than things.”

My wife and I were having a serious discussion recently in which we were counting our many blessings. We named a host of things that have come to us, because of the Church, because of our family, because of the glorious restoration of eternal truth that has taken place in this day; and then she climaxed the discussion by asking this question: “What’s the greatest blessing that has ever come into your life?”
Without a moment’s hesitation I said, “The greatest blessing that has ever come to me was on the thirteenth day of October in 1937 at 11:20 A.M. when I was privileged to kneel in the Salt Lake Temple at the Lord’s altar and receive you as an eternal companion.”
She said, “Well, you passed that test.”

I started attending my new senior school last September. In a school of over a thousand students, I was the only Latter-day Saint. In my religion class of 30 people, only I and one other girl attend church of any kind. On my first day of class, my religion teacher, Mrs. Johnson*, asked us to name the holy books that are used in different religions. I said the Book of Mormon, and at first she wasn’t sure which church used it. I explained that I was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. She asked me to choose my favorite scripture for the following week and also tell the class about my church.
The following week I read Moroni 10:4, which was the first scripture the missionaries shared with me and my mom. I told the class about the First Vision and how Joseph Smith received and later translated the gold plates. I was really nervous because my friends think that you are a geek if you go to church. I was afraid that they would make fun of me. But when I started speaking, the Spirit was with me, and everybody listened with interest. Afterward, they asked questions.
Since then, Mrs. Johnson has started reading the Book of Mormon and the Ensign, although she hasn’t yet come to church. Also, in every religion lesson we talk about my beliefs. And some of my friends are planning to come to church activities.
My prayer is that one day I will be just one of many Latter-day Saints at my school. Everyone deserves an opportunity to learn about Jesus Christ and His Church and return to live with Heavenly Father. If we keep the gospel to ourselves, we are being selfish. We should share it with everyone, no matter who they are. That is what Jesus Christ wants us to do, and I am trying to be like Him.

One of the great examples of mercy in our time was extended by the Prophet Joseph to W. W. Phelps during the troubles of the Saints in the state of Missouri. Elder Phelps fell into apostasy. After suffering buffetings, on June 29, 1840, while in Dayton, Ohio, W. W. Phelps wrote to the Prophet Joseph:
“I have seen the folly of my way, and I tremble at the gulf I have passed. … I will repent and live, and ask my old brethren to forgive me, and though they chasten me to death, yet I will die with them, for their God is my God. The least place with them is enough for me, yea, it is bigger and better than all Babylon. …
“… I have done wrong and I am sorry. … I have not walked along with my friends according to my holy anointing. I ask forgiveness in the name of Jesus Christ of all the Saints, for I will do right, God helping me. I want your fellowship; if you cannot grant that, grant me your peace and friendship, for we are brethren, and our communion used to be sweet.”
To this the Prophet Joseph replied:
“It is true, that we have suffered much in consequence of your behavior—the cup of gall, already full enough … , was indeed filled to overflowing when you turned against us. One with whom we had oft taken sweet counsel together, and enjoyed many refreshing seasons from the Lord—‘had it been an enemy, we could have borne it.’ …
“However, the cup has been drunk, the will of our Father has been done, and we are yet alive. … And having been delivered from the hands of wicked men by the mercy of our God, we say it is your privilege to be delivered from the powers of the adversary, … and again take your stand among the Saints of the Most High, and by diligence, humility, and love unfeigned, commend yourself to our God, and your God, and to the Church of Jesus Christ.
“Believing your confession to be real, and your repentance genuine, I shall be happy once again to give you the right hand of fellowship, and rejoice over the returning prodigal. …
“‘Come on, dear brother, since the war is past,
“‘For friends at first, are friends again at last.’
“Yours as ever, Joseph Smith, Jun.”
W. W. Phelps remained true and faithful and wrote the words to the marvelous hymn “Praise to the Man,” affirming his great love and admiration for the Prophet Joseph:
Praise to the man who communed with Jehovah!
Jesus anointed that Prophet and Seer.
Blessed to open the last dispensation,
Kings shall extol him, and nations revere.

Discussing Church activities, Arda Gallete announces casually, “I’m the Junior Sunday School chorister and teach the four-to-nine-year-old class. I’m president of the Laurel class. I’m on the scripture chase team, and I’m in a folkloric group that promotes missionary work in Chile.” Then, reflectively, she adds, “I’ve undergone many tests, and I wouldn’t be here working in the Church if I didn’t know that God is really my loving Father and that I am one of his warriors who must try by every means to combat Satan. A fine nonmember dancer came to our group and asked about the Church. I explained a great deal to him and so did my bishop. He was able to help us with our dances too. He went on a stake camping trip and in the testimony meeting he said he felt something he had never felt before. He cried when he stood up to speak, said we had been a great help to him because of the love and acceptance we gave him, and told us that what we taught him by example was something very special. He is now a member.”

I would like to share another of the challenges I have faced in my life. I started as faculty at BYU when I had one daughter at home and was expecting a second daughter. The first few years as faculty are grueling and overwhelming—at least they were for me. When my second daughter was several months old, I was struggling. I felt numb. It was hard to feel any emotion, especially hope. At this time, I continued pushing to do the things I knew helped me be the best I could be. I kept praying, even though I didn’t feel much response. I kept reading my scriptures, even though I didn’t feel anything. One day I was reading Nephi’s psalm,15 and a section of it stood out to me:

Awake, my soul! No longer droop in sin. Rejoice, O my heart, and give place no more for the enemy of my soul.
Do not anger again because of mine enemies. Do not slacken my strength because of mine afflictions.
Rejoice, O my heart, and cry unto the Lord, and say: O Lord, I will praise thee forever; yea, my soul will rejoice in thee, my God, and the rock of my salvation.16

When I read this, I didn’t feel a connection. I didn’t feel the Spirit. But I remember thinking intellectually, “Hmm, I should feel a connection to this. This seems like what I want to happen to me. I want my soul to feel awake. I don’t want to be burdened. Why can I not connect?”

I wrote the verses that I wanted to feel and put them on my cookbook stand in the kitchen. In hindsight, I can see this as a toehold the Savior created to help me scale this seemingly insurmountable cliff. At the time, all I could do was encourage myself to look at the toehold. I couldn’t attempt to use it. For months I would read these words in my kitchen, sometimes in casual passing, sometimes forcing myself to focus on them. During this time, I also met with my doctor, was diagnosed with postpartum depression, and started treatment.

Over time, this plea of Nephi’s became my plea. I was able to use this toehold, this connection to my Savior, and I slowly started to make the same heartfelt plea for my soul to awake. Eventually, these verses became precious to me, and I felt them in my soul. As I read them now, years later, they are a reminder to me that my Heavenly Father didn’t forget me. At a time when I couldn’t feel or hear His Spirit, He used another part of my brain—a clinical, logical part—to help me identify a scriptural passage that I could work toward feeling a connection with. When I couldn’t come up with hope myself, He gave me Nephi’s words to use as my goal.

Do not become blinded by common solutions. Be creative in identifying ways to press through or across your challenges. When struggling with postpartum depression, I asked to serve in the nursery. My bishop was surprised. But once I began serving in nursery, I suddenly wanted to be at church—those little children needed me. They often weren’t old enough to talk, so I didn’t have to worry about carrying on conversations. I could just go and be who I was at that moment and receive the gift of love from little ones in the form of a smile or a hug or sometimes a half-eaten Goldfish cracker.

In June 1994, I learned a lesson that, I hope, will be forever engraved in my memory.
I had planned to climb with a coworker more than 1,200 meters up Spain’s Sierra de Alhamilla. From the top of this independent mountain range, we would each take off in our hang gliders. We planned to take advantage of bright blue skies and enjoy a marvelous flight over the Tabernas desert and the valleys of Pechina and Viator.
The night before our intended flight, my evening prayers were interrupted by a strong impression that I should not fly the following morning. I was surprised not only by the strength of this impression but also by its persistence. Though I had enough experience to know better—I was a member of the district council and was the district Young Men president—I foolishly ignored the prompting; I thought that perhaps the impression was a product of my imagination or my fear of a new experience. I decided that I would go ahead with the climb, but that I would cancel my flight if the weather conditions were not right.
The following day seemed perfect as my friend and I began our climb. I forgot about the impression I had received the night before and looked forward to my flight.
When we got to the top, we found that the wind was not blowing from the expected direction. As I assembled the glider, the wind changed again and began blowing from a different direction. I felt a great weight on my shoulders and questioned our decision to fly. Nevertheless, I felt some pressure to keep the promise I had made to my friend, and being stubborn, I decided to be the first one to take off.
As soon as I left the mountaintop, I knew I should not have done it. I dropped rapidly toward the trees right below my take-off point, my alarming descent announced by a constant beeping coming from a gauge I had with me. The tree tops, which at first had seemed far away, rushed toward me, getting bigger and bigger. Wind turbulence tossed the hang glider about like a leaf in the wind, and I lost control. Trapped in a narrowing canyon and unable to keep a flight path, I feared that I would crash into the mountainside and be killed. The wind was blowing in my ears, threatening me. It sounded as if it were saying, “You shouldn’t be here.”
Just at this terrifying moment, I remembered the impression from the night before. I realized it had been a warning, and I immediately repented of my disrespect for the concern the Lord had shown for my welfare. I prayed aloud, begging him to help me get out of the maelstrom that gripped me.
Suddenly, I seemed to gain a measure of control and saw a small clearing that I could use as a landing place. I was closing in to land when the wind hit me again. I fell 10 meters, the hang glider dropping fast toward the ground as if there weren’t any air. Just as I was about to hit the ground, the wing of my hang glider tipped up and I was able to land. When I pulled myself from the hang glider, I found I had a few cuts and the hang glider had two broken parts. And I had learned a lesson I will never forget.
I left the mountain feeling great gratitude toward the Lord for his tender care. In spite of my hardheadedness, he had preserved my life.
Some days later, I was preparing a program for a baptism when I was surprised to feel the Spirit bearing witness of the materials I was putting into the program. Among the items I had collected was a picture depicting Joseph Smith being visited by the Father and the Son. I noticed that below the picture was a caption: “I … called upon my servant Joseph Smith, Jun., and spake unto him from heaven, and gave him commandments” (D&C 1:17).
As the Spirit filled my heart, I felt forgiven for my lack of obedience. I rejoiced that the Spirit would once again communicate with me. And I promised myself that never again would I ignore any prompting the Lord was gracious enough to give me.

After moving to Nauvoo, Illinois, Joseph and Emma Smith built the Red Brick Store. It served as Joseph’s office and as a business to support his family.
I’ll take 20 pounds of flour, Emma.
Do you need anything else?
James had recently moved from England to Nauvoo with his sister and her husband, Henry. James was not a member of the Church.
We’ve searched for work all day, Henry. I don’t think we’re going to find anything.
Let’s ask the Prophet for help.
James had never met Joseph Smith or been near him before. He felt an overwhelming spirit just by looking at him.
He is truly a prophet of the Most High God.
Brethren, how can I help you today?
Mr. Smith, have you any employment?
Can you make a ditch?
We’ll do our best.
Joseph took the men a little way from the store and stretched out a measuring tape.
Can you make a ditch three feet wide and two and a half feet deep along this line?
When they finished the ditch, they called Joseph out to inspect it.
I could not have done better myself. Come with me.
Joseph gave the men two of his largest and best pieces of meat and two sacks of flour.
This is too much, Joseph.
We’ll do more work for it.
If you are satisfied, boys, I am.
Because of this encounter with the Prophet’s kindness and because of other experiences in which he felt Joseph’s power from God, James learned the gospel and was baptized and confirmed later that year.

My sister’s name is Buster.
There’s no need to adjust your glasses or blink your eyes. You read correctly. My sister’s name is Buster. Actually, her name is Anne Marie, but when she was five years old, she announced at dinner one night that she preferred to be called Buster because it was a good boy’s name.
“But you’re a girl!” my mother pointed out.
“That isn’t my fault,” retorted Anne Marie, now Buster.
“I rather like girls,” my father said.
“Sure, you can say that because you’re not a girl!” she pouted. “I want to be tough!”
“We are not calling you Buster and that’s that. Anne Marie is a perfectly lovely name. It was my great-grandmother’s name.” Mother thought the issue was closed.
It wasn’t.
My father gave in first. Frankly, he’s a sucker where daughters are concerned, and if Anne Marie wanted to be called Buster, he would call her Buster.
She wore me down next. She wouldn’t talk to me at all unless forced to: “Go ask Susan if she’s finished with the scissors,” mother would say to her. She would stare at me in the left ear and ask coldly if I had the scissors. I got tired of the snub. The day I began calling her Buster she beamed at me and said, “Thanks, kid.” I just about fell on my face laughing.
Mother was more determined. She thought the name Buster was a travesty. If Buster didn’t answer when mother called “Anne Marie,” mother would make her sit in her room for half an hour and then demand an apology. Buster apologized this way: “I’m sorry I disobeyed.”
“Next time will you come when I call?” mother would ask.
“Will you call me Buster?” Buster was brazen. I have seen my mother shake her fists at the air and in a strangled voice say, “What have I done to deserve this?”
After a long while, mother also succumbed and called her Buster. At first she hissed it to show her disapproval, but later she said it quite naturally as if she herself had chosen the name.
So it was that my mother, who grew up with ballet lessons and felt most at home with chintz draperies and delicate Queen Anne furnishings, had to raise Buster, who sat mostly in trees or on garage rooftops. Mother collected recipes. Buster collected bottlecaps and baseball cards. Mother wanted to own a hundred antique dolls. Buster said it would be nice to have eleventy Tonka trucks like Billy Weinberg.
One of the more unnerving events of the following few years was when Buster, unilaterally, cut off her two pigtails that had grown to her waist. I thought we’d have to give mother mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. But mother learned patience and long-suffering and, like Job, waited for the right moment, hoping yet to instill in her daughter Buster some kind of feminine identity, however modest.
The “moment” came when Buster was 13. The bishop asked her to give a five-minute talk in sacrament meeting on one of her ancestors. Buster was disgusted.
“What a can of worms!” she exclaimed after telling my parents about the assignment. They were eating ice cream in the kitchen.
“Who are you going to talk about?” asked my father.
Buster shrugged and rolled her eyes back in her head as only she could do.
“Why don’t you talk about my Great-Grandfather Wheatley? He was a real pioneer and went on three missions for the Church. I don’t like looking at the whites of your eyes, Buster,” he said somewhat irritably.
“Sorry,” she returned laconically and clanked her spoon into her dish. “Everyone in the ward already knows about old Ezra Wheatly. You’ve talked about him before, and besides he’s a …”
Bore is, I believe, what she had in mind there but she evidently thought better of it and after a pause said, “He’s a pioneer. Everybody talks about his old pioneer ancestors. Don’t we have any ancestors who weren’t pioneering it all the time?”
I thought my father was going to roll his eyes back in his head, but he restrained himself.
Tactfully, my mother handed my father a plate of cookies and turning to Buster said, “Why don’t you tell them about your Great-Great-Grandmother Anne Marie McIlhenny. She wasn’t a pioneer.”
“She was a wrestler!” My father lost all cool.
“Was she? Was she really?” Buster was ecstatic.
“Not exactly,” corrected my mother, giving my father a try-not-to-help-me-look. “But she did set up an athletic program for the girls in her town. They competed in track events, arm wrestling,” she eyed my father, “and soccer.”
“Did she live around here?” Buster remained interested.
“No, in Nova Scotia, outside a city called Yarmouth.”
“Was she a professional athlete?”
“No, she taught school.”
Buster’s face fell.
“But she loved sports!” my mother continued anxiously. “She thought girls should be allowed to enjoy and participate in sports as much as boys. Wait a minute and I’ll get the book of remembrance. There’s a picture of her in there and a story of her life written by her daughter.” Mother left the room and returned shortly with a large black volume opened up to the picture of Anne Marie McIlhenny. She was a pretty woman wearing a lace dress.
“She doesn’t look like any athlete there!” complained Buster.
“Oh she was feminine, but she was strong.” My mother made a ridiculous looking fist. “Read her story,” she urged. “She did all kinds of amazing things, yet she remained feminine too!” Mother had to have her nickel’s worth of preaching. Her face reddened with excitement. Here, at last, was the opportunity to teach Buster that one could be feminine and enjoy tree climbing too. Maybe she would even drop the name Buster!
My father winked at me.
“You were named after her, you know,” my mother was saying to Buster. “Of course, we didn’t know you would be so much like her then—when you were a baby, I mean. See, you even look like her. If you had a lace collar like that, you’d look exactly like her!” There was a remarkable resemblance.
Buster was skeptical but took the book of remembrance to her bedroom.
On Saturday morning mother, armed with pen and pencil, went into Buster’s bedroom to help her with her talk. To her surprise, Buster didn’t want help.
“Are you sure?” mother asked.
“Positive,” Buster replied. “I know what I want to say. I can write it myself. Did you know,” she raised her eyebrows, “that Anne Marie McIlhenny finished building a barn with her own two hands after her husband broke both his legs?”
“Yes, I know.”
“She was sensational,” Buster muttered, forgetting mother was there. “Simply sensational.”
“She doesn’t want any help,” mother told father and me in the kitchen, “and she thinks Anne Marie McIlhenny was sensational!” She clapped her hands. “Maybe she’ll want us to call her Anne Marie again. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”
My father laughed and shook his head. “Don’t count on it,” he grinned.
Mother went downtown to celebrate Buster’s “growth into womanhood” as she dramatically put it. Her celebration took the form of buying Buster a new dress to wear for her talk. Buster hated dresses, especially new ones.
“Did you know,” Buster began as mother unwrapped the box, “that Anne Marie McIlhenny had her own horse and rode bareback whenever she could? And she loved the wind.”
“I’d forgotten that,” said my mother. “How do you like this dress?” She held it up. It was, every inch, white eyelet. I kid you not.
I thought of Anne Marie McIlhenny in her lace dress.
Buster stared at the dress for what seemed an hour and a half.
“It’s okay,” she said finally.
Mother knew good luck when it clobbered her on the head like that and quickly hung the dress in the closed before Buster changed her mind. She hummed steadily through dinner. She was victorious. Here was Buster giving a talk all by herself and about her own great-great-grandmother and not her usual favorite—Goliath. And she was going to wear white eyelet doing it. Mother was sure that any moment now Buster would demand that we call her Anne Marie!
That evening Buster did not want to rehearse her talk for us. She said she could do it herself. She sat on the garage roof and practiced. I could see her lips moving from the kitchen window.
“Do you think it’s safe to let Buster give a talk without our hearing it first?” my father asked.
“I think she can handle it.” murmured my mother. “After all, she’s Anne Marie McIlhenny’s great-great-granddaughter.”
On Sunday I sat with my parents in sacrament meeting. Buster sat on the stand dressed in white eyelet, as feminine as orange blossoms, and looking for all the world like our great-great-grandmother. I noticed my mother’s foot swing back and forth in nervous rhythm. My father’s face was deadpan, but he swallowed frequently. Finally, the bishop introduced Buster as one of the prettiest Scouts in the ward. My mother winced slightly.
Buster stood behind the pulpit without any notes and in a clear voice began to speak. “I would like to tell you about my great-great-grandmother, Buster McIlhenny!” Then she looked down at my mother’s stricken face and said to her alone, “A lady as strong and fine as Great-Great-Grandmother McIlhenny deserves a good name like Buster, and since she shared her name with me, I want to share my name with her. And one day,” she added softly, “maybe I’ll even be as neat a lady as she was.”

The day before they were to be married, Cristi and James Koch received devastating news. Test results showed that Cristi had breast cancer. What’s more, the cancer was already at stage 4, spreading throughout her body.

Cristi: They said I had about two years to live. I told James I would understand if this was more than he wanted to take on. “This is your chance to get out,” I said. But he said, “I’d rather be with you. We’ll fight the cancer together and do whatever we can. We’ll take whatever time in this life Heavenly Father will give us. Just remember, we’re in this for eternity.” And he is right, you know. An eternal marriage doesn’t end just because one of you moves into the next life.

James: I knew she was who I wanted to be sealed to. We had both been married before, and I fasted and prayed for a long time to find her. I prepared to be worthy of her and to be a husband who would take care of her. I wasn’t going to just walk away from that.

Cristi and James were sealed in the Draper Utah Temple.

Cristi: We decided we wanted to do all we could to be happy now and happy in eternity.

James: We’ve both always been physically active, and we decided to keep doing the things we love for as long as we could—running, hiking, swimming, traveling, dirt biking, and riding motorcycles. And we love spending time with our family. Even after surgeries to remove tumors from her chest and her back, Cristi kept doing as much as she could for as long as she could. At the same time, she started doing other things she felt needed to be done too.

Cristi: From previous marriages, James had five children and I had four. I decided I needed to write letters to them. So, I wrote this whole box of letters, and guess what—years have passed since then, and now my arm is so swollen and full of tumors that I can’t write anymore. Just a few days ago I tried to write a letter to my daughter for her birthday, and my arm was in such horrible pain that I was out of breath. So, writing those letters when I did was inspiration. I’m glad I listened to that prompting because now I wouldn’t be able to do it.

James: Cristi has this Christlike ability to see the good in others. She has a deep testimony of her Savior and a great desire to do missionary work.

Cristi: I remember trying to bargain with the Lord. For a while, it was like, “Come on, heal me. I want to gather Israel!” I tried to boss God around, but it didn’t work. Then I thought, “OK, my name, Cristi, means ‘follower of Christ.’ While I’m still here, I want to bring as many souls to Christ as I can.

James: And that led to another prompting.

Cristi shared her challenges but also shared upbeat messages of faith.

Cristi: I started doing a social media message each day, a little message of hope and love. I called it “It’s a Great Day to Be Alive.” People started hearing about it. My sister-in-law was an atheist, but she said, “Will you start sending me your messages?” Over time she became a believer, and now she’s a member of the Church. And my brother started reading the messages. They helped him to find faith again. Now he’s active in the Church.

James: I was traveling a lot for work, going to small towns in Texas and Georgia. Cristi often went with me. We’d meet people we wanted to stay in touch with, and she would say, “Can I send you one of my messages? Then you can decide if you want to keep receiving them.”

Cristi: The number of people who wanted my messages kept growing. Now there are about 200. Some are Church members; some are not. For a long time, I sent out a thought every day, but now that’s getting harder and harder. I think the messages will be like a little history. When I’m gone, my family and friends will still have my witness about what I know is true.

James and Cristi both agreed, “We’re in this for eternity.”

James: What she has written will help us to keep an eternal perspective. She keeps telling me she’ll be watching over me, watching over us. We want to be an eternal family. That’s the real goal.

Cristi: It’s been seven years since I was diagnosed. As it gets harder to write my message, I sometimes call it, “It’s a Great Day to Be Grateful.” I am so grateful for Jesus Christ and His Atonement. I think of the words of the hymn “Count Your Blessings.”1 If we lose everything in this life, we still have the promise that families can be forever. We can always count that blessing, and it will lift us.

Editors’ note: Soon after this article was written, Cristi passed away with James at her side.

Cristi filled her life with hope and helped others to do the same.

Keep Striving!
No matter what she was going through physically, Cristi shared a spirit of hope, faith, and good cheer. Here are edited excerpts from a few of her many posts.

Empathy
Since cancer came my way, I’ve learned serious empathy for others. My heart goes out to all who suffer. I testify that there is a God, we are His children, and He loves each one of us. He will help us get through the pains and trials of mortality.
Look for the Good
Make sure you look at the good today and see God’s hand working in your life!
Remember Who We Are
We can turn to our Heavenly Father in prayer and search out the truth in the gospel of His Son, Jesus Christ. Then we will remember who we are and find our purpose in life.
Count Our Blessings
The sun is shining, even when we close our eyes. Without God, light dims and hope is hard to grasp. But our days brighten if we seek Him through study, prayer, and counting all our blessings. Take time to think of the good in life. I promise the blessings always outweigh the bad.
A Glorious Future
If only we could look beyond the horizon of mortality into what awaits us beyond this life. Is it possible to imagine a more glorious future than the one prepared for us by our Heavenly Father? Because of the sacrifice of Jesus Christ, we need not fear, for we will live forever, never to taste of death again. And because of His infinite Atonement, we can be cleansed of sin and stand pure and holy before the judgment bar of God. “Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart of man, the things which God hath prepared for them that love him” (1 Corinthians 2:9).
The Great Physician
Jesus Christ is the Great Physician, and who on this earth doesn’t need a Great Physician? We are all sick, hurt, or in pain in some way or another. He knows how to heal us. I love that I can be comforted by a Savior who loves me and knows me perfectly. I know I can trust Him.
I Can Still Hobble
I went for a run. Well, let’s be honest and call it what it really is—the tumor hobble. I exercise to keep breathing right and keep my lungs clear. However, it is difficult when my tumors hurt so much. I cried, then prayed for Heavenly Father to help me. The words of a Christmas song came into my mind, and I started singing:
Be near me, Lord Jesus; I ask thee to stay
Close by me forever, and love me, I pray.2
I must have looked and sounded pretty funny, but that doesn’t matter at this point. I’m just grateful for the words to this song.
Then my cousin called to tell me about her daughter that just went through her second brain surgery. She reminded me that it’s a blessing I can still hobble! Nothing changed. My pain was still there, but I was lifted. I knew I could get through this day.
When things are pressing down on you and you think things are just too hard to bear, sing the third verse of “Away in a Manger,” and our Lord will be with you.
Gratitude Is Joy
Gratitude can heal our hearts, bringing us closer to God. Everyone suffers, but gratitude cushions the suffering. Without my freedom to choose gratitude, I would shrivel and die. Gratitude is joy! Keep striving, abounding in gratitude, and you will have joy no matter what comes your way!
The birth of a grandbaby brought lots of joy.
It’s Up to Us
What test or proving ground is easy? Trials come to all of God’s children. Sometimes we suffer because of others’ mistakes, sometimes because of our own. And sometimes things happen just because we live in an imperfect world. But it’s up to us to decide how we deal with what comes our way.

Illustration by Joshua Dennis
I had always thought of myself as a healthy person. So I was shocked when I woke up one morning feeling like my chest was being squeezed so hard it was about to explode. I was rushed to the hospital, but after hours of testing, doctors couldn’t find the problem. They sent me home, even though I still suffered excruciating pain. Thus began a seven-month-long ordeal of doctor’s appointments, hospital stays, and the worst pain I’ve ever felt in my life.
I started to become depressed. I had to drop my college classes and move back in with my parents. I couldn’t go out with friends. I hurt too much to do any of my hobbies. I felt that everything I cared about—my aspirations, my relationships, my talents—had been shattered, and now the pieces of my former self seemed impossible to put back together. And I started to wonder: How could Heavenly Father let this happen to me? Didn’t He love me?
After yet another disappointing and painful doctor’s appointment, all I wanted to do was curl up in a ball and cry. But as I arrived home, I saw something strange on the porch: an old, tattered shoebox covered in tape and addressed to me.
A letter on the box revealed that the package came from one of my friends. She had heard that I was sick and wanted to cheer me up. When I opened the shoebox, I found that it was full of little pieces of Styrofoam. It was a homemade puzzle made especially for me.
As I put the puzzle together, I began to cry. The puzzle formed my name, surrounded by sweet messages of love and encouragement. I felt that the shattered pieces of myself were now being put back together as I assembled my friend’s gift.
A short time later, I started taking a medication that reduced my symptoms and helped the doctors make a diagnosis. I had a rare but treatable condition, and with the proper medicine, I could return to normal life.
Even as my body healed, I knew I would never forget what I had learned. Because of my friend’s sweet gift, I knew that I was loved and that Heavenly Father had not forgotten me. After months of feeling shattered, thanks to the kindness of a friend and the love of my Father in Heaven, I became whole again.

Mr. Gibson got up from his chair and walked over to Steve and Cathy. “You two come with me, and I’ll show you what life does to people and their ideas about forever.”
They followed him into a small back bedroom. The blinds were pulled, and there was only one bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. The room was filled with pictures and trophies and sports equipment.
“Go ahead, look around.”
As they examined each picture, it was as if they were viewing the growth of a small boy into a young man—pictures of a three-year-old being held on a quarter horse by his proud father, a seven-year-old standing beside his father displaying a string of fish, a thirteen-year-old wearing a 4-H jacket and showing a hereford steer he had raised, a boy kneeling beside a trophy elk he had shot, a seventeen-year-old beside a cute girl in a formal gown, a proud graduate in a black cap and gown, a nineteen-year-old in front of the small white house wearing an army uniform.
The last picture frame contained a telegram announcing the boy’s death in combat in Vietnam.
“It took us 19 years to raise him,” the man said bleakly, “but they killed him in one second with a land mine.”
“We’re both sorry,” Cathy said.
“I don’t need your sympathy,” the man said bitterly. He reached down and picked up a fishing reel in his hand, turning it over slowly, studying it. “He was a good boy, and if he’d lived, by now he’d be married and have children, and I’d have some grandchildren, and life would have some meaning.”
He put the reel down on the shelf and turned to confront them. “Who remembers my boy anymore?”
They didn’t know what to say.
“Nobody does. Not anymore. This is all that’s left of him. What you see in this room. A few pictures and some ribbons from a county fair. And when my wife and I die, somebody will buy the house and toss it all away.”
He took a step toward them, his face in agony. “Now you tell me, where is this forever you keep harping about? Where is forever for my boy?”
Cathy threw her arms around him as if he were her grandfather. Steve could hear her crying. At first the man stood there mutely, his arms at his side, untouchable in his grief. But then, seeing that she shared his sorrow, he put an arm around her to comfort her.
A moment later she stepped back and said, “God loves your son. His body is destroyed but his spirit is alive. Someday his body and his spirit will come back together, and he will stand on this earth with a perfect body. I know that is true.”
He examined her face, searching for any insincerity, but he found none.
She continued, “God has commanded that temples be built so that we can help those who have died to receive the rich blessings they might have had if they’d lived. Your boy will live again.”
Somehow the despair that had filled the room lifted. Steve felt the sweet influence of the Holy Ghost bear witness to Cathy’s words.
The man looked at her upturned face for a long time and then simply said, “Nobody’s ever told me that before.”
“Mr. Gibson,” Cathy said, “today I was in one of those temples. I’ve never been more certain that God loves all his children. He loves your son David.”
The man slowly nodded his head. “David was a good boy.” Then looking around and seeing for the first time that it was only a room, he said simply, “It’s cold in here, isn’t it? Let’s go in the living room and talk some more.”

Although my remarks have been directed to the youth of the Church, for parents and grandparents, I offer the following:
Recently, Elder David A. Bednar described a simple way to conduct a family assessment to mark progress on the covenant path by essential ordinances. All that is needed is a piece of paper with two columns: “name” and “plan for next or needful ordinance.” I did this recently, listing each family member. Among them, I noted an infant grandson, soon to be blessed; a six-year-old grandson, whose preparation for baptism was essential; and a son turning 18, whose preparation for the priesthood and temple endowment was imminent. Everyone on the list needed the sacrament ordinance. This simple exercise assisted Lesa and me in fulfilling our role to help each member of our family along the covenant path, with an action plan for each of them. Perhaps this is an idea for you which will lead to family discussions, family home evening lessons, preparation, and even invitations for essential ordinances in your family.

Even during my darkest times, I have always felt peace in my trials through the Holy Ghost. But that changed when I underwent treatment for chronic pain that left me bedridden for two months.
The pain lessened after my treatment ended, but I began to struggle with depression. At the same time, it seemed to me that I had lost my ability to feel the Spirit.
For six months, I felt abandoned and desperately longed to feel the Spirit again. My healing was long and painful, which seemed even more daunting without the Spirit.
I met with my bishop, who explained that depression sometimes masks the Spirit so that we cannot feel it. His counsel comforted me, and a priesthood blessing from my husband gave me added strength as I waited hopefully to feel the Holy Ghost again.
General conference had always been a source of spiritual strength for me, but during the opening session of the April 2019 general conference, I felt nothing. That changed during the next session when a combined choir from Brigham Young University sang “Jesus, Once of Humble Birth.”1
The lyrics and the imagery of Jesus Christ as a lamb softened my heart. I realized that a wall of anger, depression, and false feelings of abandonment had masked my ability to feel the Spirit. A fortress of darkness had surrounded me, making it impossible for the Spirit to enter my heart. When the choir sang the second verse, that fortress began to crumble.
Elder Jeffrey R. Holland of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles followed the hymn with his talk “Behold the Lamb of God.”2 With the added power of his words, a love for the Savior and Heavenly Father washed over me.
Many impediments can hinder us from feeling the Spirit, but we can work through these barriers with help from Heavenly Father and His Son. Jesus Christ perfectly understands my struggles. Out of love for us and His Father, “He groaned in blood and tears.”3
Heavenly Father knows what will bring us comfort, and He knows when to bless us for our greatest spiritual growth.

When I was a young bishop, an experience in our ward taught me about covenant belonging as manifested in the strengthening of one another in the Savior’s love. Ward families Hans and Fay Ritter and Larry and Tina O’Connor, along with other wonderful families, were constantly ministering to others and were beloved by all.
One day our stake president asked if I would check on the Ritters. When I arrived at their home, I noticed some sagging in the floor and a well-used kettle.
“Bishop, it’s like this,” Brother Ritter said. “Our water heater leaked, and warm water seeped through the floor. Termites came. That’s why the floor sags a little. We had to shut off the water heater, and that’s why we heat water in a kettle.”
The Ritters agreed to let me discuss their situation with our ward council. Our ward council was amazing. Members knew someone who could help with floors or walls or carpets or appliances or paint. Volunteers came and helped in countless generous ways. Among them was Larry O’Connor, a skilled builder who was frequently at the Ritters’ house.
Larry’s wife, Tina, recalled that Larry and other quorum members would sometimes go to the Ritters on Friday and stay all night. “One Saturday morning, I took them breakfast,” she said. “There was Larry coming out of a bathroom holding plumbing tools.”
Tina added that it was from men like Hans Ritter and others “that my husband learned to become a man—kind, thoughtful, tender. As my Larry served together with such good men, including in the nursery, he became an even more wonderful husband and father.”
When the house was finished, we all rejoiced.
Hans and Fay Ritter have been gone for some time, but I spoke recently with two of their sons, Ben and Stephen. They remember that the quiet service of others maintained the dignity of their father, who worked tirelessly to take care of his family.
While at a ward activity not long after the Ritters’ home was completed, Larry and Tina O’Connor received emergency word that their home was on fire. They rushed to their home and everywhere saw broken windows (to vent smoke) and punctured walls (to check for hidden flames).
“We were devastated,” Tina said. But then the ward came.
“Everyone helped,” Tina and Larry said. “The whole ward came together in love. We were there as a family.”
And who were among the first to come and the last to leave as the O’Connor home was being rebuilt? Yes, the Hans and Fay Ritter family.
Ben and Stephen are modest but remember their family coming to help the O’Connors. “We were all there together,” they said. “That’s the way service works. We all take care of each other, sometimes by helping others and sometimes by allowing others to help us.”
To me, there can be a wondrous, virtuous, harmonious circle as we strengthen each other in the Savior’s love. The O’Connors help the Ritters, the Ritters help the O’Connors, and all the while a community of Latter-day Saints is being established. Each day in myriad ways, we each need, and can offer, ministering love and support in small, simple, powerful, life-changing ways.