Gospel Story Finder

Our sweet little son, Hayden, came into this world blue, not breathing, and struggling for life. No crying. No movement.
As doctors and nurses rushed around the hospital room, I knew something was terribly wrong. My husband and my father quickly gave Hayden a priesthood blessing, and Hayden was rushed off to intensive care. He was soon diagnosed with a rare heart malfunction. Within days he underwent several heart surgeries.
Through the miraculous power of priesthood blessings, fasting, and prayers, Hayden beat all odds and survived. We were overjoyed to bring our son home and begin our new lives together.

Before the temple near their home was dedicated, Olivia invited her grandma to come with her to the temple open house.
I’m happy you came with us to the open house, Grandma.
Thank you for inviting me. I’ve been a little lonely since Grandpa passed away.
I miss him too.
Mom told me that when she and Dad come to the temple, they wear white clothes.
That’s right.
When you turn 12, you’ll get to come here and do baptisms for the dead.
I’m so excited!
Sealings will be performed in this room. Stand in front of this mirror and look at the mirror across the room. What do you see?
It’s as if we go on and on forever.
Just like our family, right? We’ll even see Grandpa again someday.
You’re right. If we keep the commandments, we can be with Grandpa and all of our family because we’ve been sealed in the temple.
Olivia and Grandma followed the tour guide into the temple’s celestial room.
I like how it feels in here. I feel happy.
I do too.
I love the temple, Grandma. Someday, when I’m older, I’ll come back and be married here. I’m happy that our whole family can be together forever—even Grandpa.
That’s right. I’m very thankful for the temple, for the open house, and for you.

The rest of Dad’s family had been converted to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints after Dad was grown and had left home. Uncle Bob was the youngest member of Dad’s family, and he had a special testimony of the Church.

One day Uncle Bob stacked an armload of wood and turned to my mother. The spirit was strong in his heart as he began to explain the things he had been learning in church and through study of the scriptures and personal prayer. He told her many things about the gospel of Jesus Christ and about Joseph Smith praying to know which church was true and discovering that not one of the churches in his day had the fullness of the gospel. Uncle Bob told her how Joseph Smith had been privileged to see God the Father and His Son, Jesus Christ, and to know for himself that They had bodies of flesh and bone, just as he had. Uncle Bob’s eyes never wavered from my mother’s face as he bore his strong testimony.

Mother didn’t believe a boy so young as Uncle Bob could know these things. She became angry at the words she was hearing and told Uncle Bob, “You may come back to my house anytime, but never mention these things here again.”

Uncle Bob loved my parents and wanted to come as often as he could. He agreed. “Aunt Ruth, I will never mention these things again in your home, I promise. I also promise you that someday you will ask me to baptize you.”

Now, this was many years ago, when young people did not speak their minds. They were expected to show respect to those who were older than they. It took a lot of courage for Uncle Bob to speak to my mother this way.

We spent many happy times with Uncle Bob. He stayed with us occasionally while our parents went to Wyoming to visit my mother’s family. He never broke his promise to my mother by again speaking of the great truths of the gospel or bearing his testimony, not even when both of our parents were away.

One year Dad was farming the Phillipi place in Mackay, Idaho. Uncle Bob came to stay for two weeks. My other sister, Jeannie, made spice cake every day. We whipped a half-gallon canful of pure cream for the topping. The smells seemed to curl around the corners of the room and out to the fields where Jack and Uncle Bob worked. It made your mouth water, it was such a tangy odor. But not even then, with a stove full of wood and a stomach full of sweet spice cake did Uncle Bob break his vow to my mother.

The years kept going by, one by one. Uncle Bob grew up, married, and had six sons and one daughter. He always stayed close to the Church. He knew that it was true. He held many callings over the years. Wherever he was needed, he served, becoming in later years a stake patriarch and a temple worker in the Portland Temple.

In 1971 Uncle Bob was fifty years old. My mother was sixty-four that year, and she was living in Powell, Wyoming. She telephoned Uncle Bob.

It’s curious—after all those years, she still remembered! Mother said, “Will you come, Bob. Will you come and baptize me?” On April 15, 1971, forty years after my uncle had made his promise to her, he baptized my mother a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

One youth described how he first experienced the spirit of worship. He had been marginally active through his Aaronic Priesthood years. When he attended sacrament meeting, he usually sat in the back with a group of his friends, and he was less than a model of reverence.

One day, however, he came in a little late, and there were no seats by his friends. He sat alone, and for the first time in his life, he closed his eyes during the prayers, he sang the hymns, he listened to the sacrament prayers, and he paid attention to the speakers.

About midway through the first speaker, he found tears welling up in his eyes. With some embarrassment, he carefully glanced around; no one else seemed emotional. He didn’t know for sure what was happening to him, but the experience changed his life. It was during that meeting that he really started his spiritual preparation for his mission. He felt something, and fortunately, he acted and thus sustained those feelings.

As a young man, I developed the idea that if I took care of the Lord’s business, he would take care of me. I’m not sure where I learned such an unsubstantiated idea, but it appealed to me, so I followed it faithfully for a number of years. It provided the comfortable insulation I wanted to shield me from the necessity of being cautious and careful. It allowed me to make excuses for minor business mishaps, problems at home, and even major catastrophes. “Surely the Lord is testing me,” I remarked when a business venture failed. “Satan is really after us,” I observed when contention threatened my family.

Because I felt the Lord would always take care of me, I felt no need to “study it out in [my] mind” (D&C 9:8) before asking God. I felt a quick little prayer would do. I often said, “Father, I’ve done my best to serve you, now I ask that you bless me in this endeavor.” I felt that if I magnified my Church calling, God wouldn’t let me lose my family—that if I put God first, I’d never want financially. I did not understand that by following such a procedure, I was yielding to the spirit of the temptation given to the Savior by Satan: “If thou be the Son of God, cast thyself down: for it is written, He shall give his angels charge concerning thee: and in their hands they shall bear thee up, lest at any time thou dash thy foot against a stone.” (Matt. 4:6.)

Finally, as more “tests” came my way, complete with frustration and disappointment, I began to examine my careless attitude. I began to study the scriptures and to prayerfully examine my responsibility for my affairs. The evidence overwhelmingly suggested that God wants us to work out our own plans and actions, always seeking his confirmation that our course is right. A relationship with God is not an alternative to personal effort. It is, rather, a guide along the stairway of growth and understanding, a stairway which we must climb through our own personal exertion. As I adopted this new approach, I ordered and took responsibility for my life.

In the front window of the little grocery section of the Murdock service station in Beaver, Utah, was a poster advertising a big candy bar broken open with chocolate and nuts and filling, sending out a message the advertiser had intended. The candy bar was called Chicken Dinner. Every day I passed this window four times—twice going to school and twice coming home.
We had no money to purchase such luxuries in our home, but the gnawing desire to eat one of those candy bars kept building up in me.
Late one afternoon, my mother sent me to the store to purchase a loaf of bread for supper (one of the rare times in my young life to get store-bought bread). I had a quarter and purchased the bread for a dime.
As Mrs. Murdock gave me the 15 cents change I was staring at the back side of that candy bar poster—knowing every detail that was on the front, as I had studied it so many times.
The candy rack was to the side of the counter and open. I looked around the little store; no one else was in there at the time. I was very nervous, for I was going to be dishonest. I had made my plan, and I executed it by shoving the dime back across the counter and blurting out in a strained voice, “I’d like two Chicken Dinner bars,” and pointed to them as I put the nickel in my pocket. I don’t know why I bought two. I guess I was so nervous I didn’t really know what I was doing, and the two nickel candy bars added up to the dime I had in my hand at the time.
“Help yourself,” she said with a look and sound of questioning in her voice, like it wasn’t right for a Hutchings kid to blow a whole dime on two candy bars.
I was shaking as I reached over and took two bars and slid them in my pocket. She thanked me and I left.
I walked very fast to get around the corner before anyone saw me and I could get to where I could eat one of those candy bars. I don’t know why I didn’t want anyone to see me.
I slipped around behind Harry Deal’s electric shop, where I would be alone, and started eating one of the bars. It tasted all right, but it didn’t go down very well. Maybe I was eating it too fast since I was so hungry for candy.
Having finished the first one behind the shed, I must have felt a little braver and walked out from behind the electric shop and down the sidewalk eating the other. I walked slowly so I could finish it well before I covered the three blocks to home. Besides, I needed time to plan how to account for one missing dime.
I dropped the bread on the kitchen table and headed out of the room trying not to have eye-to-eye contact with my mother, thinking maybe she would have too much on her mind to think about wanting 15 cents change.
“Don, thanks for getting the bread. Where is the change?”
I fumbled in my pocket, pulled the nickel out, and put it on the table, pretending to search the rest of my pockets with such suggestions as, “I wonder if I lost it” or “Did Mrs. Murdock put the dime in the wrapper when she wrapped the bread?” (That last suggestion must have given my mother a clue that something was wrong.)
“Did she give you the right change?” my mother asked.
“Yes, I remember her giving me the 15 cents,” I said as my mother was reaching for the telephone to call the store.
“Then you lost it?” my mother asked with a tone in her voice of doubting. “Let’s go look for the dime,” she said as she picked up her sweater and headed out the door.
We backtracked the route and looked on both sides of the sidewalk. All the time, I was trying to call off this excursion, but my mother was locked in on getting to the bottom of the missing dime and would have no part of giving up until she found out just where that dime was.
I said a silent prayer, asking the Lord to produce me one little thin dime to get the pressure off. I had found a quarter once along that same sidewalk, and I knew that the Lord could produce a little dime now. I reinforced my petition by telling him I would never do anything like that again if he would come to my aid.
The voice inside of me seemed pretty loud, “No, Don!” I was getting desperate as we had worked our way now past Harry Deal’s electric shop and close to the store. I knew what the conversation would bring once my mother and Mrs. Murdock got together.
Oh, how thankful I am for a mother that would follow up and help a boy learn a lesson he needed so badly. I’m sure as anything that my mother knew just about what had happened before we left the house to look for the lost dime, but in her wisdom she knew a teaching moment when she saw one. I don’t think she knew, though, the torment that was exploding inside a little boy who realized he was about to get caught in a big lie.
As we stood outside the Murdock store, I told my mother, with tears running down my face, what I had done, right in front of that big poster of a Chicken Dinner bar.
My mother stood there, I’m sure with her heart aching, as she confessed to part of the blame by being so limited with money that she could not give her children some of the things she would like to, especially when it would bring one of her children to lying and stealing.
“Don, I brought the other nickel, and I would like you to go in and buy another of those bars, just to have to eat when you want it and to know that you do not have to steal anymore. Next time you come and ask, and we will find some way to buy it, the right way.”

Some years ago a Reuters dispatch which appeared in the daily press mentioned how an American who wanted to trace his long-lost relatives in Great Britain succeeded—for the price of one airmail letter to London. Mike Archdale, age 25, Miles City, Montana, knew only that his grandfather Lionel Dawson Archdale had emigrated to the United States from Northern Ireland at the end of the nineteenth century. So Mike Archdale wrote to the only address he knew in London—the British Tourist Authority—and asked for help in finding his relatives.
His letter was opened at the tourist authority by a public relations officer—named Gilbert Archdale.
Gilbert Archdale did a little research and replied to Mike: “Hello. I’m your cousin!”
The rest is history.

Some months ago I was given the assignment to interview a young man, 21 years old, to determine if his repentance was sufficient for him to serve a mission. My heart ached as I read of the serious problems and transgressions in his past. I wondered if it would be possible that one with such a background could ever prepare himself to worthily serve a mission. At the appointed time for my interview I saw a handsome young man approaching me. He was immaculately groomed and had a wonderful countenance about him. He looked like a returned missionary, and I wondered who he was. As he approached he extended his hand and, to my surprise, introduced himself as the young man I was to interview.

During the interview I simply asked, “Why am I visiting with you tonight?” Then he laid out the sordid details of his past. After reviewing and confessing again his transgression, he began talking to me about the Atonement and the years of painful repentance that brought him to this very interview. He expressed his love for the Savior and then explained that Christ’s Atonement was sufficient to rescue even a boy like him. At the conclusion of the interview, I placed my hand on his shoulder and said, “When I get back to Church headquarters, my recommendation will be that you be permitted to serve a mission.” And then I said, “I ask only one thing of you—just one. If you are privileged to serve, I want you to be the best missionary in the entire Church. That is all.”

About four months later I was speaking at a missionary devotional at the Missionary Training Center in Provo, Utah. After the devotional I was standing in front of the podium greeting missionaries when I noticed a familiar face approaching me. My first thought was that I was about to be embarrassed because I was supposed to know this young man. I could not remember where I had met him, and I knew the first question that he was going to ask me. Sure enough, he extended his hand and asked, “Do you remember me?” Apologetically and somewhat embarrassingly, I answered: “I am sorry. I know I should know you, but I just do not remember.” He then said: “Well, let me tell you who I am. I am the best missionary in the MTC.” I could not withhold the tear that slowly trickled down my cheek as I thought: “Here is a man. He met his Gethsemane. He paid the painful price of repentance. He has humbled himself and submitted himself to the redemptive power of the Savior. He has met the challenges. He has measured up to true manhood.” And I say, “Behold a man,” a man humble enough to submit himself to the redemptive powers of the Savior.

The rain made the Montana spring even greener. The air was cool and as clean smelling as anything you’ll ever smell. We drove by several motels, but my mother just shook her head. “Looks kinda run down. I’ll bet there are bedbugs.”
The rain slowed to a gentle shower, and the sun dropped down from under the clouds. Blinding rays of hot sunlight burned through the rain, making the drops shine like diamonds. My father turned the truck off the road and stopped.
“How’s this?”
Mother wiped fog from the window.
“Looks a little old.”
“It’s been kept up pretty good.”
“Let’s look at just one more.”
My father shook his head and pulled back onto the highway. “You can’t always tell what a place will be like by the outside,” he mumbled.
The rain had stopped, and it was starting to grow dark when we found a motel my mother liked. It was white with green shutters and looked new, like it had just been painted. The inside of the room was the same. It smelled lightly of the new paint.
“I get the bath first,” Kathey yelled and shut the bathroom door.
“After we get cleaned up good,” my father sank down into a chair, “how about we go back to that roadhouse we passed for supper.”
“I’d like that,” my mother answered. “It’ll be nice to go into a place clean for a change and not have people turn their noses up at us.”
Scrubbed until we were raw and smelled fresh as spring rain, we put on our best clothes and then drove over to Jack’s Dirt Cheap World Famous Truckstop and Post Office. We sat down at the booth feeling like we could pass for big city tourists on holiday. Jack, wiping his hands on a towel, came over and stood next to our table. He took a careful sniff, wrinkling his nose.
“Sheepshearers, huh. What’ll you have?” I guess we laughed for about ten minutes straight, but not as long as we did when we got back to the hotel. My mother had just walked into the room when she started laughing.
“Lloyd, you won’t believe this.”
She pointed down into a corner.
“Bedbugs,” she said with a big grin. “With green paint on their backs.”
We slept in our tent that night.

“GOLD! Gold!” I shouted, running my fingers through the sand. Everywhere I looked, gold sparkled in the sand. It wasn’t fool’s gold, either—it was real! That’s why it’s called Gold Bluffs Beach.
Above the sound of the rushing waves, my sister, Lisa, was calling, “Ryan, come wade in the ocean with me.”
I paid no attention but began stuffing my pockets full of sand and gold. Soon my pockets were bulging, so I bent over and poured sand inside my shoes.
“What are you doing?” a voice behind me boomed.
I looked through my legs at Lisa. “I’m gathering gold,” I replied, my head still upside down. “I’m going to be rich. I’m going to buy a swimming pool and the fastest bicycle in the neighborhood and—”
Lisa wasn’t listening. “Mom and Dad want you to come see the Roosevelt elk,” she said.
Trying to follow Lisa down the beach wasn’t easy. I could barely waddle along in my lumpy shoes full of sand. But I was not giving up my gold.
The next day I came prepared. I brought a big garbage bag from our campground. After Mom fell asleep on a beach blanket and Lisa and Dad went for a walk in the redwood trees on the bluff, I began furiously scooping the glittering sand into my bag.
“What are you doing?” asked a voice.
Startled, I looked up into the puzzled face of a boy a few years older than I.
“I’m going to get rich on this gold,” I announced.
“Well, you’re going to have a rough time of it,” he laughed. “No one has ever figured out how to get the gold out of the sand.”
“How do you know?” I retorted.
“I’ve lived here all my life,” replied the boy. “My father’s a ranger at this park.”
“Well, I bet my dad can get the gold out of this sand. He’s an engineer, and he can do anything.”
“I wish you luck,” the boy said with a shrug.
I watched him saunter down the beach, then settle on a smooth, whitened log and begin to read a book. He often looked up and gazed thoughtfully at the ocean, then underlined something or wrote a few words in the book’s margin.
Once he called to me and motioned down the beach. “See the elk—aren’t they magnificent! That one bull really has a big rack of antlers.”
I glanced at the big animals in the distance. Their chocolate-colored heads and necks stood out against their creamy bodies.
I looked down again. Gold was more exciting than elk. Heaving the bag over my shoulder, I searched for the sand with the most sparkles. When my bag got heavy, I began stuffing sand in my pockets. I decided to rest on a log near the trees at the edge of the beach. I struggled over to it, turning my back to drag the bag the last few feet. Just as I reached the log, I lost my balance and keeled over backward, landing in a heap on the other side of it.
Suddenly I flinched. My hand was resting on something soft and furry. Then something bleated loudly right in my ear. I jerked around. Right in front of my freckled nose was a black quivering nose. My eyes traveled past the long, floppy ears to the brown, spotted body. “An elk calf!” I gasped.
The tiny elk bleated again. Then I heard an enormous grunt.
“Look out!” shrieked the boy with the book.
I staggered up. In horror, I saw a huge cow elk charging down the beach toward me, her ears flattened against her head.
“She thinks that you’re hurting her baby,” cried the boy. Dropping his book, he ran toward the cow, trying to distract her.
I grabbed the top of my sack and tried to drag it with me, but it snagged on the log and broke. Gold-filled sand spilled all over as I lumbered away without it. Then the sand spilled from my pockets—the seams had broken from its weight.
Shaking with fear and exhaustion, I looked over my shoulder. Snorting and pawing, the cow had stopped beside her calf. She glowered at me a long time before finally lowering her head to nudge her baby.
The boy rushed up beside me. “Are you all right?” He led me to his log where I collapsed, trembling.
His small book still lay there where he had dropped it. The Pearl of Great Price—so he likes treasure, too, I thought. I got up shakily, lamenting, “We have to go back to Fremont tonight, and now I have to start all over again to get more gold.”
The boy shook his head. “After all this, I thought that maybe you’d give up.”
“Oh no,” I said, “I want to be rich.”
“What would you do if you were rich?”
“I’d buy the tallest stilts in town, a life-size transformer, maybe a whole toy store!” I was still dreaming about my toy store as I asked, “What would you get if you were rich?”
“All the money in the world couldn’t buy what I want most.”
“Really?”
He looked wistfully out at the sunlight dancing on the water. “I want to give my mother back her eyesight.”
Suddenly I forgot about my toy store.
The boy gazed down the beach, where the elk were now frolicking in the surf. They bounded and kicked and tossed their heads. “Sometimes I bring my mother here. She can feel the warm sand squish through her toes. She can hear the waves lap on the beach. But it’s not the same as seeing those beautiful elk splashing in the water, or a pink sunset stretching across the ocean.”
He motioned toward the redwood forest on the bluff. “Sometimes I take her walking in there. She can hear the breezes rustling, and she can feel the rough bark of the huge trees. But it’s not the same as being able to look up and up along one of them until it towers out of sight.
“But my mother says that she’s happy. She says that it gives her comfort to know that the very biggest ones were living when Jesus Christ was born. She says that when she’s resurrected, she’ll see the redwoods and the ocean and the elk with her own eyes. Best of all, she’ll see the Savior with her own eyes.”
“Oh,” I gulped, not knowing what to say.
The boy chuckled, not unkindly. “You know, you remind me of the man who built his house upon the sand.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve been building your dreams on a pile of sand. Even when you were charged by a dangerous elk, you tried to drag your sand with you. For me, I’d rather build my dreams on something that can’t spill out of my pockets.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“A faith in God like my mother’s,” he answered.
“Oh,” I said. I pointed to The Pearl of Great Price. “Is the ‘house on the sand’ story in that book?”
“No, it’s in the Bible and the Book of Mormon.”
I’d never read the Bible, and I’d never even heard of the Book of Mormon. “So what’s in this book?”
“It explains a lot about why God created us.”
“Wow!” As I reached for the book, Dad called. I groaned, “Oh, no! I have to go now. I really wanted to see that book.”
“Quick,” the boy said, “write down your address on my bookmark, and I’ll ask some people I know in Fremont to give you one, OK?”
“OK!” I said, scribbling my name and address. “Thanks.”
As I hurried off, I looked back at The Pearl of Great Price in the sand. I had forgotten all about the gold there.

I can tell you from experience something about how to help if you are the one sent. Shortly after I was called to the Quorum of the Twelve, I got a phone call from President Faust, counselor in the First Presidency. He asked me to come to his office. I went with some concern as to why he would take the time to visit with me.
After some pleasantries, he looked at me and said, “Has it happened yet?” When I looked puzzled he went on to say, “I’ve been watching you in meetings. It seems to me that you have been feeling that your calling is beyond you and that you are not qualified.”
I said that doubt had come to me, as if I had hit a wall. I expected that he was going to reassure me. I told him that I appreciated his being aware of my doubts and asked for his help. But I was surprised by his kind, firm reply. He said, “Don’t ask me. Go to Him.” Then he pointed up to heaven. Now years later I sit in that same office. When I walk into it I look up and remember him and how he taught me by example how to help those who are feeling overwhelmed in the Lord’s service. Find a way to send them with confidence to Him. If they will follow your counsel, they will gain the strength they need and to spare.

At school we were given an assignment to find different words in magazines. My friend and I were looking through a magazine and came across an advertisement that showed a woman dressed immodestly. I knew I should tell our teacher, but my friend wanted to leave it in the magazine and ignore it. I decided to tell our teacher that the magazine she had given us had a bad picture in it. She said thank you, and put the advertisement in the trash. I’m glad I did the right thing, and that no one else had to see the bad picture.

My dad is older than all my friends’ dads. He is too old to do anything.
At the pool last summer, Jimmy’s dad did a triple somersault off the high dive. Everyone cheered. I asked my dad if he would do one, too.
He laughed. “Steven, I wouldn’t survive a fall like that. Let’s get in the pool, and I’ll teach you the backstroke.”
So I learned the backstroke, but no one was cheering.
In the fall, I went out for soccer. Megan’s dad was the coach. He ran up and down the field with us for hours, shouting out the plays and showing us how to kick. My dad watched from the bleachers.
“Dad, can’t you be assistant coach or something?” I asked.
“I don’t have the energy to keep going for that length of time, Steven. But I’ve thought of a few new plays I’d like to tell your coach.”
Megan’s dad used the plays, and we won most of our games. At the end-of-the-season banquet, Megan’s dad got a trophy. My dad just watched and applauded.
During the winter, our class went on a ski trip. All the fathers came, and they all skied down the toughest slopes. All except my dad. He would only go on the smallest slope.
“I don’t need any broken bones at my age,” my dad said when I begged him to try a bigger hill. And instead of always skiing, my dad helped some of the beginners learn to stay up on their skis.
Then at the end of the school year, our class had a parents’ day program. Most of the parents took off work to come and talk about their jobs. Since my dad was retired, I figured he wouldn’t have anything to talk about.
I sat next to John. I didn’t see his father on the stage. “Where’s your dad?” I asked.
“He couldn’t come. He’s away on a business trip. He’s gone a lot.” John wasn’t too happy about that.
“My dad’s always around.”
“You’re lucky.”
One by one the parents got up and talked about their jobs. Some of them had really exciting jobs. One was a pilot, and one was a paramedic. One father even taught skydiving. After the skydiver, it was my dad’s turn. What is he going to talk about? I wondered.
“My job is my son Steven,” he began. “I like to help him learn things and to participate in his activities. I hope I’m always there when he needs me. He doesn’t think I do anything exciting, but to me, being with him every day is the most exciting thing I could do.”
I was so surprised, I couldn’t move. Even when everyone else in the room stood up and applauded him, I still couldn’t move.
After the program, I ran to find my dad. I told him that I understood and that I was glad he wasn’t too old to be my dad.

“Daddy!”
The tremulous little voice in the quiet darkness was followed by muffled sobs.
“Daaaddy!”
This time the plea was louder and more fearful.
Footsteps hurried down the hall toward the voice. Then, click, the bedroom filled with light. Stevie’s dad stood squinting in the doorway, his hair awry. “Stevie, what’s wrong? Did you have a bad dream?”
Stevie nodded.
Dad sat on the bed and smoothed the boy’s hair, then gently wiped away the tears.
“You’re OK now, Son.”
“I dreamed”—Stevie tried to stop sobbing and catch his breath—“that you and Mom”—he sniffed—“were gone and that … I’d never see you again!” Stevie looked up into his dad’s brown eyes. “I was all alone.”
Dad wrapped his strong arms around Stevie in a loving hug. “You know, Stevie, there used to be another little boy very much like you. Once he, too, was afraid that he was all alone. Do you want to hear about him?”
Stevie nodded.
Carlos was just about your size when his parents sent him to Mexico to stay with his grandmother. Carlos’s family was moving to a different part of Colorado, and Carlos’s father told him that as soon as they had found a new house and moved into it, they would send for him.
Carlos’s Uncle Pablo drove him to Mexico. They traveled over hot, dusty roads and through deserts and mountains. Finally, in one little village next to the mountains, his uncle smiled at Carlos and said, “We’re here.”
As they pulled up in front of a tiny white adobe house, chickens scattered in every direction, flapping their wings and squawking at the car and its passengers.
An old lady came out of the house. She had dark brown skin and white hair. Carlos’s uncle threw his arms around her and kissed her cheek.
“Carlos,” his uncle said, “do you remember your grandmother?”
“Bienvenido (welcome), Carlos.” The woman smiled at him.
Carlos just stood there. He hadn’t been with his grandmother since he was a baby, and he didn’t remember her at all. Finally he looked up at his uncle. “Uncle Pablo, I don’t want to be here!” Carlos whispered, even though he knew his grandmother couldn’t understand English.
“Now, Carlos, remember that you agreed to give it a try here. It’s just for a little while,” Uncle Pablo said. “Here, see if you’re strong enough to carry this into the house.” Pablo took the old, battered suitcase out of the car and handed it to Carlos.
Carlos dropped the suitcase just inside the door. He walked through both rooms of the house. The wooden furniture looked strange to him, as did the pictures with beads hanging from them on the walls. In the middle of the larger room stood a tall, wooden machine with rows of yarn going up and down; on the floor around it lay several balls of colorful yarn.
Carlos walked out the back door and into the cooking shed, where black pots and pans hung on the wall and firewood was piled in the corner. He saw that his uncle and grandmother were still talking, and he decided that somehow he’d think of a way to get his uncle to take him back to Colorado.
Carlos went through the backyard to the other side of the house. He saw some boys playing in the street and walked closer to watch them. Suddenly a dog ran up and started barking at him. The boys stopped playing, and one of them called the dog. They all yelled a greeting to Carlos, but he couldn’t understand them. They called again, and when he still didn’t respond, they started to laugh.
Carlos turned and ran away from them. I can’t help it if I don’t understand Spanish! he thought.
Carlos ran through the village and didn’t stop until he’d climbed a small hill. From the top of the hill he could see his grandmother’s house. “Oh no!” he agonized. “Uncle Pablo’s car is gone!”
The sinking sun had turned the faraway clouds into a red, orange, and pink sunset before Carlos returned to his grandmother’s house. She was busy making dinner in the cooking shed. When she looked up and saw Carlos, she put down the bowl she was holding and grasped his shoulders. “Carlos!” she cried, then went on excitedly in Spanish. Carlos didn’t understand her words, but he understood that she had been worried about him and that he wasn’t to wander off again without telling her. Grown-ups are all alike in every language, Carlos decided.
During dinner Grandma tried teaching him the names of the things that she pointed to: mesa (table), plato (plate), tenedor (fork), pan (bread), frijoles (beans), arroz (rice), limonada (lemonade). Carlos just picked at his food. When his mother made Mexican food, it was always a treat, but now all he wanted was a hamburger with catsup and mustard and pickles.
After dinner Grandma worked at her loom by the dim light of a kerosene lamp, weaving fabric from the colorful yarns. As she worked, she sang softly and looked up every few minutes to smile at Carlos. Carlos sat on the floor watching his grandmother, wishing that she had a television set.
Grandma let Carlos sleep in the only bed in the house. She covered him with a sheet, let down the mosquito netting, then tucked its edges under the mattress. “Buenas noches (good night), Carlos.” She went into the other room and put out the lamp.
Darkness closed in on Carlos. Crickets chirped nearby. He turned over and looked out the window at a bright star and wondered if that same star was shining down on his parents. All day he had fought tears, but he couldn’t stop them anymore. Soon he was sobbing out of control.
Grandma lighted the kerosene lamp again and came into the room. Lifting the mosquito netting and sitting on the bed next to Carlos, she pulled him up into her arms. “Carlos, Carlos.” She put her soft cheek against his forehead and gently rocked back and forth, humming softly.
“I want my dad … and my mom,” Carlos sobbed.
Grandma got up, took his hand, and led him to a wooden chest in the other room. From the chest she took brightly colored fabric and soft-colored dresses and placed them aside. Then she took out what looked like a small, woven blanket with broad stripes of green, red, white, and orange. One of the corners was slightly burned. She held it out for Carlos to take. “Sarape (serape),” she said.
Then the old woman brought out something wrapped in white lace. She took off the lace, revealing a book. Smiling at Carlos, she opened the book so that he could see it. Black and white photographs filled each page. She turned the pages slowly, smiling at pictures of a bride and a groom and babies. Pointing to a picture of a young boy, she said, “Tu papi (your daddy).”
Carlos looked closely at the picture. It was like looking at himself. It was his father, standing with the same sarape over his shoulder. Also in the picture was a beautiful young woman with her arm around him.
Carlos ran his fingers over the coarse fabric of the sarape. His father’s fingers had probably felt this fabric the same way when they were the same size as Carlos’s were now.
He looked up from the picture at his grandmother. She wore her white hair pulled back in a bun—the same way it was in the picture—only then her hair had been black. She’s still pretty, Carlos decided.
As he looked at his grandmother, she smiled, but a tear ran down her cheek too. Suddenly Carlos understood that she loved his father as much as he did and that she was as lonely for him as he was.
“Grandma,” Carlos said simply, putting his arms around her.
Tears came to both their eyes, but this time they were tears of joy.
When Grandma had tucked Carlos back into bed, she placed the sarape on the end of the bed.
“Thank you, Grandma,” Carlos said, smiling up at her. “Everything is going to be good, I can tell.”
Grandma smiled at Carlos, then bent down and gently kissed him good night. “Te quiero mucho (I love you a lot), Carlos.”
Stevie snuggled down under the covers.
Dad gently brushed Stevie’s hair to the side of his face, then left the room. Soon he was back—with a brightly colored sarape that was slightly burned in one corner. He spread the sarape over Stevie. “Te quiero mucho, Stevie.”

During an interfaith event in October, I was asked by Mrs Lynda Ford-Horne, Chair of the Poole and Bournemouth Holocaust Memorial Committee, if I would be willing to accept the invitation to be one of the volunteers to light one of the seven candles for the Holocaust Memorial Service that was being held on Sunday 26th January at The Poole Lighthouse Theatre.
The six candles represent the six million Jews that were murdered during the holocaust, with the seventh candle representing the other million victims from groups that were also murdered.
I am the granddaughter of a Ukrainian Jew and when Lynda asked me, I felt that I was being given this honour to represent my Jewish ancestors and my heart was very full.
On the day of the Memorial Service, tears fell as I stepped forward to light the candle and my heart and soul felt very close to my Jewish family that have passed through the veil. I gave thanks that I was able to do this task in their name.

At one time during the freeze, I had to leave my home to go to a boarding school. When I got there, one of the teachers heard that I was a Latter-day Saint. He singled me out to talk negatively about the Church to me. He had so many harsh words to say. I often wondered, “Why are you picking on me and saying these things? I believe in the teachings of the gospel, but I’m still a person.”
One day he asked me how I could call myself a Mormon anymore. Didn’t I know about the freeze? Now, in our culture, we don’t talk back to adults. So the fact that he was a teacher meant that I couldn’t challenge him. But in that moment, I realized that I really had a testimony. I don’t know how these words came out of my mouth, but the Spirit came to me, and I stood up and said, “The Church is in my heart. And nobody can freeze what’s in my heart.”
And after that he left me alone.
In November 1990 the government ended the freeze and said our Church members were free to worship again. We didn’t have radios or televisions on school campus, so I only found out because that teacher heard and immediately sent someone to get me. When he saw me, my teacher said, “The ban on your Church has been lifted! You can go to church again.”
He was happy for me.

From Bree-Ell Rangi, Alfriston Ward, Auckland Manurewa Stake
Throughout my life, in Primary and in my youth, I have always cherished the Christmas memories of quality time with my family and extended family. One memory I cherish most is when my grandmother gave each of my siblings and me a present. She had wrapped the present so perfectly, and when I opened it, I was surprised to see a book. It was not just any ordinary book, but The Book of Mormon. At the time I didn’t fully understand the significance of this gift. It was only later, as I grew older, that I came to know the sweetness this gift holds. This memory of my grandmother has never faded. Even at a young age, she implemented the gospel into my life. Her example and the love she had for the Saviour has strengthened my faith and my testimony.

This story happened in the USA.
It started with four square.
Four square was a game some kids played outside the school at break time. Four players stood in a square and bounced a ball to each other. If they missed the ball, they had to leave the game.
I was nervous the first time I played. But I was pretty good at it. It was fun!
Then the girl across from me missed the ball. She said Heavenly Father’s name and laughed. “Good shot, Gwen,” she said. “Guess I’m out!”
I held the ball tightly. She had just taken the Lord’s name in vain! That was like swearing.
But no one else seemed to think it was bad. They all laughed, like it was funny or cool.
We kept playing. Then it happened again. Someone missed the ball and said Heavenly Father’s name like a swear word.
A few minutes later, I missed the ball too. And just like the others, I took the Lord’s name in vain. Kids laughed and high-fived me as I got back in line to play again.
After that, I played four square every day . . . and I said the Lord’s name more and more.
One day my friend Abby joined the game. She passed the ball to me. I missed it and said Heavenly Father’s name.
Abby blinked in surprise. “You never used to say that.”
She was right. At home and in Primary, I learned that the Lord’s name was special and we shouldn’t use it to swear or joke around. And that’s what I’d been doing—for weeks! I felt sick.
After school, I found Mom in her office.
“Hi, sweetie!” she said.
I burst into tears. I told her all about four square and taking the Lord’s name in vain. “I don’t know if I can stop,” I said with a sniff.
She hugged me tight. “It might feel that way right now. But I know Heavenly Father can help you.”
“How?” I asked.
“Repentance means turning back to Heavenly Father and trying hard to do better,” Mom said. “It won’t be easy, but you can pray for help. As you use better words, your old habit will fade.”
Mom helped me make a list of new words I could say instead of the Lord’s name. Then we prayed together. I told Heavenly Father how sorry I was and asked for help to use good language.
The next day I took a deep breath before I played four square. When I missed the ball, I almost said Heavenly Father’s name again, but I stopped. Instead, I said a word from my list.
“Oh, bananas!” I said. That felt good!
Each day I tried hard to use better language. I still messed up sometimes. But I kept praying and trying. Soon I went a whole game without saying the Lord’s name. Then a whole week. Then a whole month!
I knew Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ had helped me repent and change my habit—and that felt better than winning any game!

Our children will be more able to survive the challenges that will come to them when they know and understand that keeping God’s commandments can bring them peace and joy in their lives and enable them to walk uprightly. While traveling in the car with her mother and younger sister, five-year-old Clara sensed that her mother was deeply troubled about something. “Mommy, what’s the matter? You seem so sad.”
Not wanting to go into detail about her concerns, but feeling that she needed to acknowledge to her daughter that she was worried, Clara’s mother asked, “Clara, what would you do if you felt sad and frustrated?”
“Well,” responded Clara, and there was a long pause, “you need to take time out and think. Then you need to pray all the time and read the scriptures, especially the Book of Mormon. You need to bless other people. Just think about the good things people do for you and the good things in your life, not the bad.” Young Clara is beginning to understand how to walk uprightly before the Lord.

Picked at random, the following spiritual experiences speak well for the close relationship Wilford Woodruff had with his Father in heaven.
—“My missions have been by [the] Spirit of Revelation. I was told to go to the Fox Islands by that same still small voice. In the time of the great apostacy in Kirtland the Spirit of the Lord said to me, ‘Get you a partner and go to Fox Islands.’ I knew no more what was in Fox Islands then what was in Kolob. I went there, however, baptized a hundred. …”
—Once when lost in a severe storm, “groping like the blind for the wall, a bright light suddenly shone around us, and revealed to us our dangerous situation at the edge of a gulf. The light continued with us until we found the road. We then went on our way rejoicing, the darkness returned and the rain continued.”
—Another time, after he had parked his carriage for the night and had retired in it, “a voice said to me, ‘Get up, and move your carriage.’” A short while later, a big heavy tree, caught by a whirlwind, was thrown where his carriage had been parked.
—While in London as a missionary, he had a terrifying experience with a “Prince of darkness.” As he was about to overcome me I prayed to the Father, in the name of Jesus Christ, for help. I then had power over him and he left me, though I was much wounded. Afterwards, three men dressed in white came to me and prayed with me, and I was healed immediately of all my wounds, and delivered of my troubles.”
—“… two weeks before I left St. George, the spirits of the dead gathered around me, wanting to know why we did not redeem them. Said they, ‘… we laid the foundation of the government you now enjoy, and we never apostatized from it; but we remained true to it and were faithful to God.’ These were the signers of the Declaration of Independence, and they waited on me for two days and two nights. … I straightway went into the baptismal font and called upon Brother McAllister to baptize me for the signers of the Declaration of Independence and fifty other eminent men, making one hundred in all. …”