Gospel Story Finder

When she saw me, my best friend knew immediately that something was wrong. “We broke up,” I told her quietly. I was coming home after a long conversation with the young man I had been dating. Although we were sad to part, we both agreed that it was right for us.
But as the weeks went by, I started to feel unsure about my decision. What if I never found anyone else to date and never married? What if I had made too big a deal out of our incompatibility?
I felt so lonely and unsure that I even considered seeing whether he was willing to give our relationship another try. I was, as Elder Jeffrey R. Holland of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles described, “dissatisfied with present circumstances and [had] only dismal views of the future.”1
One evening a few weeks after our breakup, I was reading about the Savior’s Resurrection. The Gospel of Luke recounts that on the third day after the Savior had been laid to rest, faithful followers went to anoint His body with spices. But they found that the stone covering the tomb had been rolled away and the body was gone. Two angels then appeared to them and said, “Why seek ye the living among the dead? He is not here, but is risen” (Luke 24:5–6).
The angels’ question struck me suddenly with powerful force. I had never thought about how the visitors to Jesus’s grave might have felt, realizing they were looking in the wrong place for their Savior. I had never thought about what a challenge it must have been for them to believe that Jesus had left behind the decay of the tomb and had risen in glory.
The scripture spoke a gentle rebuke. I realized that, like the Savior’s friends, I was looking in the wrong place for comfort. Wallowing in the past and “yearn[ing] vainly for yesterdays”2 was not consoling me or motivating me to fruitful action. I realized I needed to stop looking in the tomb of past experiences. I needed to replace my fear with faith and trust that the Savior could create life from the experiences of my past.

One day when I was home alone with my youngest son, I slipped on a step and fell. Resulting abdominal pain persisted for several days, so I went to see a doctor.

I was pregnant at the time, and tests indicated that my placenta had become detached. This condition required complete rest, or I could lose the baby.

I was worried because we had three little children and could not afford to pay for help. The sisters in my branch, however, found out about my condition and, without being asked, came to my aid. They organized themselves into three groups that helped me in the morning, afternoon, and evening.

They came to wash, iron, cook, clean, and help my children with their homework. A sister named Rute, who was baptized into the Church while I was confined to bed, became well-known in our home. Rute, a nurse, helped at night and administered necessary injections.

I didn’t need to ask for anything; these sisters anticipated my needs and took care of everything. When they had more help than they needed, one sister would sit and visit with me. They did this for three months.

These sisters gave me strength, love, and dedication. They gave of their time and talents. They made sacrifices to be there. They never asked for anything in return. They loved and they served, following the example of the Lord, who taught us, “Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me” (Matthew 25:40).

Enilze do Rocio Ferreira da Silva, Paraná, Brazil

The next day was to have been spent “puddle jumping” (visiting one lake after another). “But when we got to the first one, Wall Lake,” said Marlene Neal, 15, “we liked it so well that we stayed.” Activities at the lake included cliff diving, fishing, and swimming.
“We had to check it out and make sure it was safe before we started cliff diving,” Marlene explained. “We had to make sure there were no rocks on the bottom and that the water was deep enough. And an adult supervisor trained in lifeguarding and first aid had to be there all the time, too.”
At first, the divers were scaring the fish away, so the swimmers moved to another location. Then one of those fishing scared the fish away! “Sister Visker helped me get a little fake fly way out away from the shore,” Maria said. “As soon as it landed in the water, a big fish came along. It scared me, so I threw a rock at it.”
Marlene also had her problems fishing: “I’d hook the grass at the bottom and all my lures and sinkers would get torn off. But it was still fun.”

My younger brother was going on his first date. I had called home from college to talk to Mom, and she told me that Chris was preparing to leave soon. I insisted on talking to him, and Chris and I visited for a few minutes. I told him I loved him and was very proud of him, and we said good-bye.
That was the last time I spoke to my brother. Less than two weeks later, I received the news that Chris had died in a car accident, and I needed to come home.
A flood of memories washed over me as I made the long journey of more than 3,200 kilometers home.
As I settled into my seat on the airplane, I remembered fondly the day we picked up my mother and baby Chris from the hospital. I was only three and a half years old, but I remember that moment clearly. Mom had wrapped him in a yellow blanket she had made for him, and he was with her in the front seat as we drove home in our old station wagon. I was sitting in the backseat with the rest of my family, but I couldn’t help leaning as far forward as I could to see my new baby brother.
I remembered the time one of my older brothers and I wrapped five-year-old Chris in bathroom tissue until he looked like an Egyptian mummy. His blond hair was barely visible through the white tissue covering his entire body.
About a year later, Chris fell and broke his arm because he was following my lead and jumping on and off Mom and Dad’s bed. Mom quickly let me know that it was my fault, too, for being such a bad example. I felt so bad for him that I decided right then that I would try to be a better sister to my younger brother. And I was. Chris really looked up to me, Mom said.
Before long I was looking up to him. When I came home for Christmas after my first semester at college, I was surprised to find that Chris had outgrown me by a couple of inches. I looked up to him, but not just because of his height. Chris had turned into an impressive young man.
He often shared his spiritual experiences with me. One night when I was in high school, Chris and I were outside on the driveway looking at the stars. It was a beautiful, clear night, and we were reluctant to go inside. We started to talk about the beauty of the earth and all of God’s creations. Chris bore his testimony to me, and I remember thinking how proud I was of him.
Chris and I were friends, and although we didn’t always get along, we were always glad to be brother and sister. I took my job as older sister very seriously. I taught him how to dance, how to drive a car with a manual transmission, and how to be a gentleman. Every year after I got my driver’s license, we would go shopping for Christmas gifts together and talk about anything and everything.
As the memories flooded my mind, I wished with all my heart that I could have had one more chance to hug my little brother and tell him how much I loved him. Tears streamed down my face as I heard an answer to my heartfelt desire. “You will,” a clear voice spoke comfort to my mind. “You will.”
I knew it would be a long time before I would see Chris again, but the sweet peace of the Comforter had now filled me with hope. I knew with certainty that Chris’s spirit was not dead. Because of the Savior, I could someday see Chris again. Jesus Christ died for us that we might live, that through our faithfulness we might return to our Heavenly Father, that families might be together forever. I could be with my younger brother again because Jesus Christ had provided the way!
As I stared out the airplane window at the clouds and sky, I prayed that both Chris and the Savior would know how much I missed and loved them. And I prayed for strength to do what is right so that I might be able to be with them again.
When the airplane landed for refueling, I wiped away my tears. I knew that the rest of the journey home to my family would be difficult, but with the Lord’s help, I would make it. And I know, too, that with the Savior’s help I can make it home to my Father in Heaven to be with my family and loved ones there.

For the first 12 years of my life, my father didn’t go to church. He and my mother had been married in the temple, but he had stopped going to church after that. My mother and I prayed for him, and almost every Sunday morning we went to the edge of his bed and said, “Please get up and go to church with us.” He was never upset or unkind to us about it, but he always had something else to do.

I was an only child until I was 12 years old. Then my mother was able to have another child, a little sister. The Sunday came to take her to church to be blessed. My mother said to my father, “Your little daughter is going to be blessed today.” I said, “Dad, please come with us to church. You can’t miss it.” A little while later, he came out of the bedroom dressed in a suit, a white shirt, and a tie.

We went to church and sat on the second row in the chapel. After the opening hymn and prayer, the bishop picked up my little sister and took her to the front of the chapel to be blessed. I sat close to my father on his left side, and during the blessing I felt his arm begin to quiver. I looked up, and tears were running down his cheeks. After the blessing, I asked him, “What’s wrong?” He said, “I’ll never let this happen again.” I asked him what he meant. He answered, “I’ll never let another man do what I ought to do.”

Three or four weeks later, our bishop called my father to be a counselor in the bishopric. A year and a half later, he was called to be a member of the stake presidency.

Heavenly Father answers prayers, and people can change. Be patient. The Spirit can help people you love to change bad habits.

Thank you so much for printing “Hidden Agony” in your March 1992 issue. It came at a point in my life when I really needed it the most. My older brother sexually abused me when I was about nine years old. I knew it was wrong, and felt awful and dirty because of it. I felt guilty, worthless, and totally confused. That was nine years ago, and it still affects me. Reading the article helped me realize I am not alone and there are people who understand. I am realizing it was not my fault and that our Father in Heaven understands and still loves me. Thank you very much.
Name Withheld

Three weeks before Christmas Dad gathered the family together for family home evening. He and Mom sat on the couch, while the four children, Lisa, Janie, Brian, and Kevin sat on the floor. “I have something important to tell you,” he said soberly after the opening song and prayer. “You know that I’ve been laid off from my job until at least January, so I’m afraid that there won’t be many Christmas presents this year, even from Santa. I hope that you children won’t be too disappointed.”
“Can we still put up our Christmas decorations?” Lisa asked.
“We can decorate the house with the things we have packed away,” Mom answered. “Christmas will still be Christmas, even without a lot of presents.”
“Are we still getting a baby?” Kevin piped up. “That would be the best Christmas present.”
Dad nodded. “The adoption agency called last week and said that our baby from Korea would be coming anytime.”
“Is the baby a boy or a girl?” Janie asked.
Dad chuckled. “We won’t know until the baby arrives. That’s going to be a surprise.”
“Surprise!” Brian repeated, clapping his hands.
“Where’s Korea?” Lisa asked.
“Korea is across the ocean. This baby doesn’t have any parents and needs a loving mother, father, brothers, and sisters.”
“We have all those things in our family!” Janie exclaimed.
“That’s right,” Dad said. “We want to give the love we have to this baby too. Now, let’s have our lesson.”
After family home evening was over and the younger children were in bed, Lisa pulled the four flannel stockings out of the box in the closet. Each had a child’s name on it in red flannel letters. Her own looked old and worn after eleven years. Next came Janie’s, then Kevin’s and Brian’s. Brian’s stocking was the newest and looked the best. Next Christmas Mom would make another stocking for the new baby.
“May I hang them on the mantel, Mom?” Lisa called into the kitchen.
Mom came to the door, wiping wet hands on her faded jeans. “Just yours. I’m sure that Janie and the boys will want to hang their own stockings in the morning.”
Lisa nodded. I hope that at least our stockings are filled to the top with goodies, she thought. It will be hard enough to see a tree without all the usual wrapped packages under it. Of course, acting out the story of Jesus’ birth is special, and we’ll still do that.
Each Christmas Eve the family acted out the story while Dad read aloud from the Bible and the Book of Mormon. It was Janie’s turn to be Mary this year, and Kevin would play Joseph. Lisa supposed that she would be the angel and Brian a little shepherd. He was too big to be the Baby Jesus, so they’d have to use a doll for that role this year.
The family made December as special as they could without spending any money. The mountains near their home had lots of good pine trees, and after getting the necessary permit, they cut down a little one and hauled it home in their station wagon. Then they unpacked boxes of ornaments and decorated the tree.
The children created cards out of red and green construction paper decorated with glitter. They wrote poems for the greeting inside, then delivered them to friends and neighbors.
This year Christmas Eve was on Sunday, and the family all participated in the Christmas programs at church. Lisa enjoyed singing the Primary songs and listening to the ward choir during sacrament meeting.
On the drive home Lisa thought about their tree and the few gifts under it. It was difficult not to feel disappointed.
As they walked in the door, the telephone rang. Mom answered it. At first a look of surprise crossed her face, then she cried, “Oh yes! We’ll be there as fast as we can.” She hung up and turned to the family. “Lisa, can you tend the younger children for a few hours? Dad and I need to go to the airport.”
“Now? Today’s Christmas Eve.”
Mom nodded as Dad hurried to get their coats. “I think we just might have a surprise gift for Christmas. We’ll have our program when we get back tonight.”
The children waved good-bye from the window, and Janie murmured, “I wonder what it is. Mom and Dad were so excited. Maybe it’s the baby! Or it might be that Grandma’s coming from California.”
Lisa smiled at her sister. “I don’t think it’s Grandma—we’d have been getting a room ready for her. I guess we’ll have to just wait and see.”
The rest of the afternoon Lisa kept her brothers and sister occupied with stories and games. It was nearly dinnertime when their parents returned.
The front door opened with a whoosh of cold winter air, and Lisa, Janie, Kevin, and Brian ran to the door, practically stumbling over each other. “Where’s Grandma?” Kevin asked excitedly.
Mother laughed. “It’s not Grandma, honey, but it is somebody we’ve been waiting for.”
Dad went over to the couch, opened his great, heavy coat, and pulled out a large bundle. The bundle was a huge red and green stocking with blue and gold bows tied all over it. Inside was a baby boy with black hair and brown skin.
He opened his tiny almond eyes and blinked sleepily. On his head perched a red santa hat with a shiny silver bell.
Janie cried, “Our stockings on the mantel might be empty right now, but this one’s full to the top!”
Lisa thought that she would burst with happiness. Everybody was smiling at everybody else, and there were tears in Mom’s eyes.
“We have our Christmas baby now,” Kevin cried, and he hurried to set up the manger bed with Janie’s doll cradle.
“Please get me the scriptures, Lisa,” Dad said. He gave her a warm, understanding look, and the heavy, anxious feeling she’d had the past three weeks lifted from her heart.
Lisa pulled the book of scriptures from the bookcase. When she gave it to Dad, he gently put the baby in her arms. It didn’t matter anymore that there weren’t many presents under the tree. They had each other, and the spirit of Jesus Christ had come to their house that night through a tiny baby from halfway across the world.

I have come to realize that in my early life, in my mind, Christmas was all about me. Today it is more about others and family. Traditionally we have always gathered together as a family at our home over Christmas and enjoyed a braai, together with salads, ice cream, cool drinks, and a swim. Those were great days for us. My nieces and nephews still remember those days with fondness.
As a family we felt we needed much more of a focus on the Saviour and started a tradition of having a special family home evening on Christmas Day—inviting the extended family into our home. We gather early and enjoy singing carols and listening to some talks from assigned family members after reading the Christmas story. They have become very special experiences for us as the Spirit has been present in great abundance. Those of our family who now reside elsewhere and are unable to attend still mention how they miss those times.

Marco D., 17, points out the importance of obeying the commandments, specifically the law of chastity. “The adversary tempts us in every way, trying to get us to mess up,” says Marco. “Friends can also be a bad influence.” Several years ago Marco had to change the friends he spent time with because he recognized the negative influence they were making on his choices. “I had to find friends who accepted me for who I am and not for who the world expects me to be.”

Sometimes in our climb up the mountain, we stumble. When this happens, “go see the bishop and talk openly with him,” urges Marco. “The bishop is our brother. We can trust him.”

His efforts to be obedient and stay pure give Marco opportunities to serve God now, and they are also preparing him to be worthy to one day serve a full-time mission.

The Isaac Morley farm in Kirtland was the site of the service project. Overgrown with thorny vines, grass choking the lanes, trees crowding the old home, the farm was discouraging. Cleaning it up looked like an impossible task. But never underestimate a determined group of LDS teenagers. They tore into their assigned tasks with a vengeance. “I haven’t worked that hard in years,” said Autumn Cornaby, 17, of the Dublin Ward. “You could feel everyone working together. I thought we would never be able to clear this road.”
The group stuck with it, ignoring the scratches and the heat. By the end of the day, the road was cleared, the lawn cut, the trees trimmed, and the flowerbeds around the house cleaned out.
After a day of hard work, they heard the stories about the wonderful visions that were given to early Church leaders on the farm. One verse in the 64th section of the Doctrine and Covenants, which was received on that farm, took on a personal meaning. “Wherefore, be not weary in well-doing, for ye are laying the foundation of a great work. And out of small things proceedeth that which is great” (D&C 64:33).

Several months ago I spoke at a Relief Society conference at which more than 300 women were in attendance. The Young Women had also been invited to this event, and I noticed a number of teenage girls in the audience. Early in my talk I heard the sound of whispering at my extreme left. Looking in that direction, I saw three attractive young women talking quietly to one another.
Immediately I felt a little resentful. I am used to audiences giving me their full attention, and I am not very tolerant of people working against what a speaker is trying to do. However, I have spoken to enough young groups to know the gigantic challenge it is to keep them with you, to keep their eyes riveted on the speaker, their hands out of their purses or away from combing each other’s hair, to keep them from trying on each other’s shoes or from poking each other and giggling.
Yet I believe strongly that audiences, even young ones, have an obligation to give complete courtesy to a speaker, to listen without causing distraction. My usual course of action, when a person in the audience continues to cause a disturbance, is to stop speaking, look at the offender and smile until I am noticed and the disturber is sheepishly brought back into line. Then I continue speaking. This generally works.
I glanced occasionally at the three girls on the front row as they continued to whisper to one another, but they did not notice my glances. My resentment built. Where were their mothers, anyway? Why did they come if they didn’t want to hear what I had to say? Why do the leaders force young people to go to things they don’t want to go to and aren’t prepared to appreciate? How dare they talk through my incredibly marvelous and moving presentation when everybody else in the hall was clearly spellbound?
I was reading “The Steward,” my favorite poem to read aloud, and the quiet buzz continued. Several times I looked at them and they looked back and then went on with their quiet conversation, the three of them leaning in together. At the end of the poem I closed the book and looked directly at them. I smiled. They smiled back. And giggled. I smiled at them until they stopped giggling and looked at me without a sound. I then continued my talk.
Their conversation was not totally squelched, however. It was quieter, but every once in a while I noticed them leaning in to one another and whispering. I gave up and finished out the talk, wishing that whoever had made them come had just let them be and wishing that young people these days placed a higher value on courtesy.
After the talk, as we were having refreshments in the cultural hall, a woman came up to me and shook my hand. “Sister Pearson,” she said, “I hope those girls didn’t disturb you too much. Let me tell you about them. They’ve only been in the country a week. They came from Lebanon, and they just missed the massacre [September 16–17, 1982] by eight hours. They probably would have been killed, but somehow they were taken out of the country and arrived here. Our ward has sort of adopted them. We wanted to have them come tonight in spite of the fact that they don’t speak English very well. They were sitting there trying to help one another figure out what you were saying.”
A tremor ran through my consciousness, shattering a perception and letting me see behind judgment into reality. I no longer wanted to take the girls and shake them by the shoulders. I wanted to take them in my arms and tell them how glad I was that they had come. Suddenly I knew their secret, and it changed everything.

He bears his missionary testimony as a special witness without the fear of man. I have observed it. At the Copenhagen Denmark Area Conference held August 3–5, 1976, President Kimball went to see Thorvaldsen’s beautiful sculpture The Christus, the resurrected Christ, which has been reproduced, as you know, for the visitors’ centers in Salt Lake City, Los Angeles, and New Zealand. After a few spiritual moments admiring The Christus, President Kimball bore his testimony to the caretaker who stood nearby. As he turned to the statue of Peter and pointed to the large set of keys in Peter’s right hand, he proclaimed: “The keys of priesthood authority which Peter held as President of the Church I now hold as President of the Church in this dispensation.” Then he stated to the caretaker, “You work every day with Apostles in stone, but today you are in the presence of living Apostles.” He then introduced President N. Eldon Tanner, Elder Thomas S. Monson, and Elder Boyd K. Packer. He presented the caretaker with a Book of Mormon in Danish, and bore his testimony of the Prophet Joseph Smith. The caretaker was moved to tears in acknowledgment of the Spirit he felt in the presence of a prophet and Apostles. He acknowledged to me as we left the church, “Today I have been in the presence of servants of God.”

We must be careful of the misuse of credit. The use of credit cards in many places has increased consumer debt to staggering proportions. I am reminded of the story of “an elderly farmer [who] wrote to a mail order house as follows: ‘Please send me one of the gasoline engines you show on page 787, and if it’s any good, I’ll send you a check.’
“In time he received the following reply: ‘Please send check. If it’s any good, we’ll send the engine.’”

My family was going camping that weekend, and I had a problem. My big brother, Neil, told me that toy rabbits are not allowed to go on camping trips, and I always sleep with Mr. Long Ears.
Neil said that stuffed bunnies are for babies. He said to take a flashlight instead. But a flashlight isn’t cuddly like Mr. Long Ears.
My little brother, Benjy, is almost two years old. Neil said Benjy could take his blanket because he’s a baby. Sometimes Benjy borrows my rabbit. But he always puts him back in my room at bedtime.
At breakfast Neil told me all about camping. He’s been camping with his friend Jeff.
“Is it dark in the tent at night?” I asked.
“Yes,” said Neil, “like the inside of the darkest cave.”
“That sounds very dark,” I replied. I decided to hide Mr. Long Ears in my backpack. His body fit OK, but when I closed the pack, his ears stuck out. I thought Neil would be suspicious.
“What else do you like about camping?” I asked Neil after school.
“The wild animals come out at night,” answered Neil. “You can hear them chomping all around the tent.” Neil bit into his apple and made loud chomping sounds.
I imagined wild animals eating a hole in the tent, and then I went to my room and took Mr. Long Ears from my backpack and rolled him up in my sleeping bag. There was a funny lump on one side. I thought Neil would be suspicious.
At dinner I asked Neil, “What happens if you want a drink of water in the middle of the night?”
“You crawl out of the tent and walk down the long, dark path to the water pump,” Neil explained. “You have to shine your flashlight all around first so you don’t step on a moose’s foot.”
I tried to think of a better place to hide Mr. Long Ears.
On Friday morning the backyard was covered with boxes and bags full of camping gear.
“Put your parka in the duffel bag, Josh,” said Mom, “just in case it gets cold tonight.”
I found my parka, and when I opened the duffel bag, Dad’s huge orange parka was right on top. A rabbit, even one with long ears, could fit inside that orange parka nicely. I ran and got Mr. Long Ears and zipped him inside Dad’s parka. I thought, When Dad gets his parka out, I’ll say, “What a surprise! How did Mr. Long Ears get in there?”
We drove for a long time, and Dad kept saying, “We’re almost there.” I was squashed in the backseat between Benjy’s car seat and Neil. Benjy had his blanket, and I had a flashlight. Neil had his popgun, his canteen, two flashlights, his toy camper truck, his baseball and bat, his cowboy hat, and his Frisbee.
Finally we arrived at Avalanche Creek. We started to help Dad put up the tent, but Benjy kept tripping over the ropes.
“Will you boys take him away?” Dad asked.
First we played sheriff and outlaws. We arrested Benjy and put him in the Avalanche Creek Jail (the tent). Then we played prospectors looking for gold, and the tent became the Avalanche Creek Mine. Next we played Indians, and the tent was a wigwam. We had a wonderful time all day.
After dinner we roasted marshmallows over the campfire coals. I roasted two at once—one for Benjy and one for me. It started getting very dark. Neil wanted to tell stories about the ghosts of old prospectors and outlaws still wandering around Avalanche Creek. I wanted Dad to get his parka.
“Aren’t you cold, Dad?” I asked.
“No,” Dad replied.
It looks like Mr. Long Ears will have to sleep in the car, I thought.
Mom took Benjy into the tent to put him to bed. Suddenly Benjy started to bawl.
“Maybe there’s a snake in Benjy’s sleeping bag!” Neil shouted. We rushed over to the tent to see what was wrong.
“Benjy lost his blanket,” said Mom.
“Don’t worry,” Neil told her, “we’ll find it with our trusty flashlights.” We started into the dark woods. I could hear Avalanche Creek gurgling. It sounded like a giant drinking from a huge water bottle. I kept shining my light all around to make sure no wild animals were lurking anywhere. We looked everywhere but couldn’t find Benjy’s blanket. Benjy was still crying when we got back to the tent.
“Maybe we’ll have to go home now,” said Mom, “instead of in the morning.”
“No, we can’t go home!” cried Neil. He was really disappointed.
Suddenly I had an idea. “Will you unlock the trunk of the car?” I asked Dad. Standing on the bumper, I shined my flashlight inside the trunk, opened the duffel bag, unzipped Dad’s parka, and pulled out Mr. Long Ears. I ran over to Benjy and put Mr. Long Ears in his arms. Benjy hugged Mr. Long Ears and stopped crying.
“You saved the day,” said Dad, giving me a hug.
“You mean, ‘the night,’” said Neil with a happy grin.
When we crawled into our sleeping bags, Neil didn’t say anything about Mr. Long Ears being in Dad’s parka. Instead, he showed me how to use my flashlight and my hand to make fun shadows on the tent walls.

Seppo paced restlessly up and down the small pier. One by one the lights in the old farmhouse winked out, and then a lantern bobbed along the path to the boat landing. It was early, this Saturday morning in December, and dark. Winter with its long nights would soon come to Finland.
Father, Mother, little sister Eila, and Seppo climbed into their boat and cast off. They were on their way to the market square by the harbor in Helsinki to sell their wares.
“What a load we have this morning,” said Mother above the sound of the chugging motor. “Potatoes, bunches of birch leaves, and cranberries that Eila and Seppo picked yesterday!”
“And Mother’s great bundle of weaving,” said Father as he guided the large motorboat over the dark waters and through the clusters of little islands toward Helsinki. “One more rug and one more tablecloth, and there would have been no room for Eila and Seppo!”
“Oh, but we had to come today,” insisted Seppo. “This is the day I buy my new skis.”
When the Gulf of Finland froze each winter, Seppo would ski over the ice to school on the mainland. Every February he entered the ski-day race. However, his skis had been broken, so all summer and through the fall Seppo had worked for neighboring farmers to earn the money to buy new skis in Helsinki. This year he felt sure that he would win the race.
“And this is the day I buy my special candle for Independence Day,” said Eila, who had saved all the money she had earned by gathering birch leaves for Father to sell. December sixth is Independence Day in Finland and candles glow in every window to mark this special day. Eila’s heart was set on having the most beautiful candle she could find in Stockmann’s Department Store.
Father steered the boat into the south harbor, past the piers for the large ships and ferryboats, and into their own spot by the harbor’s edge. When Father hopped out and began to tie up the boat, some men were already putting up the stalls and orange canopies in the marketplace. The dome of the big white cathedral gleamed through the early morning mist.
“Seppo, will you please carry this roll of rugs to my stall?” asked Mother. “You will have time before the stores open to help me set up.”
Seppo, his arms clasping the bulky bundle, waited for Eila to climb out of the boat and onto the stone steps at the harbor’s edge. The boat was bobbing up and down, for a brisk wind was making the water choppy. Eila moved slowly, holding her purse in one hand.
“Hurry up, Eila, these rugs are heavy!” Seppo said crossly.
Eila turned her head to answer, and almost lost her balance. She grabbed the edge of the boat to steady herself, and her purse flew out of her hand into the water.
“My money!” wailed Eila, as Father snatched an oar from the boat and poked it down through the water to see if he could rescue the purse.
“I’m afraid it’s gone,” he said finally. “I’m sorry, little girl.” Gently he helped Eila out of the boat and Seppo followed with the bundle of weaving. Seppo, Eila, and Mother trudged along in silence to the stall, while Father stayed in the boat with the cranberries, birch leaves, and potatoes.
Mother quickly arranged the rag rugs, tablecloths, and mats. She put on her special gloves that left her fingertips bare for handling small coins. Mrs. Salonen, who sold birchbark baskets in the stall next to Mother’s, also wore gloves this chilly morning.
After Seppo had brought his mother and Mrs. Salonen hot possu (doughnuts) from a nearby stall, he cleared his throat and said, “I think I’ll go now and buy my skis. Want to come along, Eila?”
Eila shook her head. “I can’t go now. Mrs. Salonen is paying me one mark to help her,” she said, sighing. “Then I can buy a tiny candle, and wait till next year for a special one. A year isn’t so long,” she added, trying to smile, but Seppo knew she was near tears.
He turned and walked rapidly out of the market square, hardly noticing the people he passed, who were bundled up in their fur hats and heavy coats. Instead, he kept seeing Eila’s horrified face as her carefully saved money sank out of sight. An uncomfortable thought began to nag Seppo: If I hadn’t tried to hurry Eila out of the boat …
In the store the clerk greeted him. “Aha, you are in luck. The skis that you have been admiring all fall are still here!”
Seppo touched the skis and looked at them for a long time. Their bright blue enameled surface gleamed in the electric light. He knew that Finland’s best skiers used skis exactly like these when they won their races.
Reaching into his pocket for his wallet, Seppo seemed to hear Eila saying, “A year isn’t so long.”
“Just a moment,” Seppo said as the clerk started to remove the championship skis from the rack. “I think … I think,” he said, pointing to a cheaper pair of hickory skis just like the ones he had broken, “I’ll take these other skis instead.”
Anyway, reasoned Seppo as he rushed back to the marketplace, if I’m going to win the race, it’s more important to use the right wax and to keep practicing than to worry about the kind of skis I have.
After he had carefully stored his new skis in Father’s boat, Seppo went to Mrs. Salonen’s stall. A sad-faced Eila was still stacking baskets.
“Could you spare Eila to go with me for a little while?” he asked the older woman. “We have an important errand to do at Stockmann’s.”
Mrs. Salonen nodded her assent.
“Stockmann’s, Seppo?” Eila asked as she hurried to catch up with her brother.
“Yes, come on,” Seppo encouraged, “before someone else buys your special candle!”
And this time Eila, her eyes shining, needed no urging.

When I was about eleven years old, I gained an understanding of our Heavenly Father’s love. My parents were not then very religious, but they were good people. They loved me and taught me to be good, clean, and honest, and they helped me to develop righteous desires. Although they were always interested in questions of truth, they did not know God, so they could not tell me about Him. I had an undeveloped hope for the reality of God, but never seemed to find anyone who knew Him and could tell me about Him.
I remember seeing a person killed in an accident. Faced for the first time with death, I was so shaken that I couldn’t sleep for a couple of days and became ill. No one could tell me what happens after death. A great fear developed within me that some accident would happen to my father and nobody would be able to explain where he had gone.
Later, during World War II in my home country of Germany, I lived with my mother and four sisters far away from home in southern Germany in two very small, humble rooms. We had fled from our home because of the many air attacks that had destroyed our city and threatened our lives. My father was separated from us because he had been drafted into the army. And I was too young to understand the dramatic events happening around me during that terrible war.
Lying in bed one night in the room I shared with two of my sisters, I remember an intense feeling of loneliness. My mother and two other sisters slept in the next room, but I still felt lost in our temporary home and strange surroundings. The people even spoke a different dialect than I was used to. I had a most frightening thought: What is the purpose of my being here on this earth? I could not answer this question, and it led right into another one that was even more frightening: What is eternity?
I looked into my heart for the answers to these questions. But the more I thought about eternity, the more lost I felt. There was nothing to hold onto, nothing to stand on. I had the feeling of falling, falling, falling without stopping. It scared me terribly.
I can still remember the details of that room—the pale light of the moon and the sound of the church clock bell ringing every fifteen minutes. I was awake until early in the morning, and I was so overcome with despair that I began to cry. I wept and wept.
Suddenly something changed. A comforting power enveloped me, and a small voice said to my soul, “You are My child. Have trust in Me.”
Immediately joy and happiness filled my heart. All my fear, loneliness, and despair were changed into feelings of warmth and comfort. That night I learned for the first time that there is some unseen but loving Person who is concerned about me. Especially is this true when I feel despair and need help.

One day when I was 13, we sang “True to the Faith” (Hymns, no. 254) in sacrament meeting, and I thought it was just about the coolest hymn I had ever heard. I thought, Hey, I remember how to play the piano—sort of. At least I remember what a piano is. I convinced myself that, based on what I knew about piano playing, I could learn to play “True to the Faith.”
The only problem was that I didn’t realize “True to the Faith” is also a very difficult hymn to play. It’s written in a key with just one sharp, but lots of extra sharps and flats are thrown in here and there. After six months of practice I learned it, and I was on my way to being a pianist.
I continued with the piano over the next few years and found myself getting better. Heavenly Father increased my abilities, and I improved in sight-reading, improvising, and other related skills. My mother taught me chord theory and some other useful information. I frequently accompanied soloists and was the pianist for priesthood and Sunday School.
In college I played for sacrament meeting in my student ward and also began to create some arrangements of hymns for Christmas and Easter. At this point in my life I was playing the piano a lot.
During all this I received lots of praise. When I was still learning, members of my home ward would encourage me, telling me how well I was doing. Now people would compliment me on my prelude and postlude music, and my rendition of “Called to Serve” (Hymns, no. 249) always drew a few comments. I tried to acknowledge the Lord’s hand in my abilities and not let it go to my head. But sometimes I liked the praise and would do something snazzy with my playing to ensure that I received compliments.
When it came time for my mission I had my father give me a priesthood blessing. Before the blessing, he asked if there was anything in particular I was worried about. I told him I was a little concerned that if I didn’t have much chance to play the piano and write, and all the other things I enjoyed doing, when I came home I would be too rusty. Considering I hoped to make my living doing some of these things, my ability to do them was of major concern to me.
My father gave me a wonderful blessing. In the blessing I was told that while it’s true we need to exercise our talents or lose them, that rule doesn’t apply to missionaries; if I served faithfully, even if I never used my talents once in those two years, when I came home my abilities wouldn’t have diminished but would have increased. What a promise.
I didn’t have much chance to play while I was in the MTC until the night before I left. Those from my branch who were leaving had a meeting together with the branch president for some final words of advice. There were many tears and tender feelings. And I was asked to play the closing hymn, “God Be with You Till We Meet Again” (Hymns, no. 152). This stirred up more emotions and made the Spirit even stronger.
After the closing prayer, which built upon the Spirit we already felt, I played some quiet postlude music as people talked and began to filter out. I played “The Spirit of God” (Hymns, no. 2) very softly on the upper keys. It’s hard to explain, but sometimes just believing in the words of the song you’re playing, and having the Spirit with you, causes you to play so that the people listening feel what you’re feeling. You can actually express your emotions through the way you play the song. It doesn’t always happen (at least not to me), but it happened this time. I really felt what I was playing, and I really wanted to convey a message by the way I played it.
As I played, I noticed that someone was behind me watching and listening. I finished the hymn and quickly glanced to see who it was. It was Elder Smith, someone I didn’t know very well. He was standing there, crying.
He had already felt the Spirit during the meeting, like the rest of us, and now the music was helping to intensify it. So I kept playing.
That’s when it struck me. For perhaps the first time, I was playing the piano, not for my own enjoyment and not to receive praise, but to help someone feel the Spirit. I actually, truly wanted to be an instrument in the Lord’s hands and serve him. In this case, the best way I could serve him was to help convey the Spirit to one of his children through music.

To assist scientists in their study of terrestrial (land) plants and animals, a number of excellent zoos and botanical gardens have been developed. And to study aquatic organisms that inhabit freshwater lakes and streams, many large aquariums have been built. However, attempts to create similar large facilities for the study of marine or saltwater creatures have always met with frustration; that is, until recently. For on October 15, 1980, the Smithsonian Museum of Natural History in Washington, D.C., opened its doors to a new 3,000-gallon piece of transplanted ocean that is home to over 200 species of marine plants and animals, including about twenty different types of living corals. And that was a real accomplishment, because living corals had never before survived for any length of time in an aquarium completely isolated from the sea.
When my family and I read of this feat, we decided that we would try it too. Our first step was to write to the Smithsonian scientists for advice. We waited anxiously for a reply; but after a couple of weeks without hearing from them, we decided that they probably thought we were not serious about it. So we tried another approach. I had to attend a meeting of scientists at the Scripps Institution of Oceanography, so I took two of my young sons with me. While there, we visited as many marine biologists as we could, getting tips on how to proceed. After some discussion with them, the best advice they could give us was, “Don’t try!” Well, their negative advice only heightened our desire to take up the challenge.
Since our home in Tempe, Arizona, has a very mild climate, we decided to construct an outside pond rather than an indoor tank. Our first step was to dig—and dig and dig. Every member of the family helped at one time or another, as did many of the neighborhood children. We not only had to excavate a basin for the water, but also a much deeper hole for an underwater viewing chamber.
We started near the end of November, and about a month later the excavation was complete, including the viewing chamber and a twenty-foot arching bridge that spanned the two-lobed basin at its midpoint. We waterproofed the sides of the pond by laying five layers of black polyethylene plastic over the soil. Then came several trips to the dry bed of a nearby river, where we collected thousands of pounds of smooth, round rocks to put on top of the black plastic. These rocks were then covered with fine sand—fourteen tons of it.
Last of all, a friend of ours helped us install a pump and sand filter to circulate and purify the water. Initially, all this system consisted of was an intake port at the bottom of the pond and a return port beneath the center of the bridge. Later, however, we expanded it to include a return port at the deep end of the pond and another at the shallow end. Then, since the shallow end had an island in the middle of it, we built up two ridges of river rocks between this island and the pond’s banks to create a tidal pool into which the shallow return port would empty its water.
Lining this pool with crushed seashells created another filtering system, as the water entering the tidal pool had to flow through these shells and rocks to reach the bottom of the pond where the pump withdrew it.
In addition to water impurities, another problem we had to worry about was temperature. It seemed likely that the pond would probably get too cold in winter and too warm in summer. About that time we read where the Steinhart Aquarium in San Francisco had just installed the first solar panels ever to moderate the temperature of a saltwater tank. So as in the case of the Smithsonian Museum, we again asked, “Why not us?” And two weeks later we had our own solar heating and cooling system ready to go.
The last bit of construction was a four-by-six-foot piece of plywood supported by four redwood supports in the deep end of the pond. It protruded about six inches above the water surface, and to it we strapped several long palm fronds to provide a place of shade and refuge for those sea creatures that shun the sight of humans. Then, a twelve-inch diameter plastic pipe was positioned at the bottom of this area and partially covered with rock and sand to create a cave for extremely reclusive creatures to hide in.
Finally, everything was ready. It was time to fill the pond and hope that there were no leaks. Since we wanted to know how much water it held, we checked the water meter to our house and then turned our hose into the basin. Several hours later when the water reached the top of the surrounding banks, we calculated a volume of 4,000 gallons—larger by a good margin than even the Smithsonian’s system.
In the midst of our initial success, however, we still had some reason for concern. Water began to seep into the observation room from around the viewing port. After a few hours, though, it subsided, probably due to the wood swelling when it became wet. Fortunately, it has not leaked since.
The first creature to inhabit our pond was a small dime-store turtle, secretly supplied one night by one of the neighborhood children. Then came fifty black mollies from a local aquarium shop. All of them did extremely well as algae began to grow in the pond, and several different types of aquatic insects appeared. Still, the pond was just a pond. We had yet to add the synthetic sea salts that would start it on its way to becoming a true marine ecosystem.
Join with us next month and read about this conversion process and the first of our several trips to Mexico and the Gulf of California, where we collected specimens for our “backyard ocean.”

Elder Sorensen remembered that some of the happiest times that he had were the summers he spent with his cousins on his uncle’s farm in Idaho. “Three of us boys, all about the same age, slept in an old bed out in the orchard under an apple tree. It was there on the farm that I learned to milk cows, thin beets, and weed potatoes. We were allowed to help thresh the peas when the big steam threshing machine came to our farm. Some people thought that that was hard work, but I thought that it was fun—and I still like to ‘farm’ in my big garden in Salt Lake City when I can.”

What do you do when you’re not quite 16, but you desperately want to attend a dance at your school? Several girls from the Bountiful, Utah, area came up with a solution that worked well—they invited their dads.
Anissa Johnson, Shauna Howard, Cindee Olsen, Jill Stauffer, and Shari Salmon all found unique ways to invite their fathers and planned a dinner together before the dance. In accordance with the dance’s tradition, the fathers and daughters all wore matching shirts.
“It was a little strange when we first got to the dance and there were all our friends,” said Shari. “But the strange feeling only lasted a few minutes, and I didn’t think about it anymore; I was having too much fun!”
Cindee summed up one of the reasons she and her friends had such a great time with their fathers. “I didn’t have to impress him,” she said. “I already knew he liked me.”