Gospel Story Finder

Elder Anderson returned from the mission field in May 1914. It didn’t take long for him to find a new companion. Norma Ettie Peterson was the daughter of Hugo D. E. Peterson, editor of a Salt Lake newspaper for Swedish immigrants, the Utah Posten. “She was blonde and I was dark, and I thought she was the prettiest girl in the city,” says Elder Anderson, who courted her, swimming and dancing, at the old Saltair resort near the Great Salt Lake. They were married 11 November 1915, in the Salt Lake Temple. Salt Lakers were impressed by the striking couple: Norma Anderson, with her brilliant platinum-blond hair and dark eyes; and Joseph, his handsome black mustache reminding people, much to his delight, of British movie star Ronald Colman.

Our stake held a missionary-themed youth activity. The stake center was set up like a mini Missionary Training Center. We were trained, and then we went out to help the missionaries share the gospel with people in Chimaltenango.
Some people received us well, but others got upset, lied about their phone number and address, or hid. Sometimes we got discouraged, but then we met people who did want to hear and who were maybe even touched by our message. Even if I didn’t change their lives, my testimony grew.

Tommy walked over and sat down on an upturned bucket. He picked up two spark plugs and rolled them around in his hands. “I always went to church before my dad died,” he began. “I was eleven when he died. After that we were really poor, so I didn’t have anything nice to wear. I went to church anyway, but I was worried that the kids would make fun of me. Well, they didn’t—at least not at first. Then one Sunday I had to wear my dad’s big, old dress shoes. They were all I had except my work boots, and I couldn’t wear them to church. I was worried about going to church that day, but I went. That was the last time.”
“Did they make fun of your shoes?”
Tommy nodded. “I decided then that I’d never go back. I never have.”
For a long time neither one of us said anything. I felt real bad, and I wished that I had been with Tommy when he was a boy so I could have helped him out. But I wasn’t even born then.
“People wouldn’t laugh at you now, Tommy,” I said. “I know they wouldn’t. I wouldn’t let them.”
Later I told Dad about my conversation with Tommy. We decided to stop every Sunday on our way to church and ask Tommy to come with us. But he never went with us. He just smiled and called, “No thanks. Not today.”
Then one Sunday my Primary teacher, Sister Poulsen, talked about missions and how we were all supposed to prepare for our missions. She said that when we grew up we might even get sent to Russia or Africa or India. It sounded exciting, and I was ready to go right then, even if I wasn’t nineteen yet. Then I remembered Tommy, and I thought, How can I preach to the people in Russia or China when I can’t even get my best friend to go to church?
Each Sunday Dad and I stopped by for Tommy, and I prayed for him, too, but he still didn’t come to church. I thought I was doing all that I could, but deep inside I knew I hadn’t done quite enough.
For our Primary sacrament meeting we had learned songs like “I Hope They Call Me on a Mission,” and I had to give a little talk about saving money for my mission. As we were practicing our parts before sacrament meeting the day of our program, I knew there was no way I could sing those songs and say my talk while Tommy was in his garage working.
I slipped over to my mom, who was a Primary teacher, and told her what I was going to do. Then I ran the two blocks to Tommy’s house. I was panting and puffing when I ran up Tommy’s driveway, and I could hear him pounding on something inside the garage. When I stepped inside, he stopped pounding and asked, “What are you doing here, Jared? Aren’t you supposed to be in church? I thought you were singing in a program today.”
I stared at his greasy hands and dirty pants and messy hair. I looked away from him and mumbled, “I came to get you, Tommy. I had to.”
“What?”
“Aren’t we best friends, Tommy?”
“Why sure. You know that.”
“Then I need you to be there. I can’t sing those songs and say my talk unless you’re there. It just isn’t right. I thought I could do it without you, but now I know that I can’t.”
“Well, Jared, I’m not dressed, and I’m all dirty and greasy.”
“I can wait for you. If you hurry, we can make it.”
“I don’t know. I haven’t been to church for years …”
I could tell he was thinking about it, so I started talking really fast. “You just have to, Tommy, because I need you there. Just this once, so you can hear my program, and then if you don’t want to ever go back, well, then … But I know you’ll like it, and you’ll want to go all the time.”
He put his tools away and stuffed his hands into his pockets. “It’s been a long time, Jared. I just don’t think—”
“You can sit with me,” I interrupted, “except when I sing. Then I have to go up front. But if you’re afraid to sit alone, I’ll stay right with you, because they don’t really need me to sing.”
Tommy smiled. “Do you really want me to go that badly?” he asked.
I could feel my eyes start to burn. I looked at the ground and nodded my head because I couldn’t say anything.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Tommy was going to church! I was so excited I wanted to yell. Then I got scared. What if somebody laughed at Tommy? What if nobody talked to him? What if he got upset and decided never to go back?
I started to shake, and my stomach got all fluffy and full of tickles. There was only one thing I could do. I found a clean old blanket and knelt down on it and prayed, “Heavenly Father, I know You want Tommy to go to church, and I want him to go too. But I need some help. I invited him, and he’s going, but somebody’s got to tell the people at church not to laugh at him or make him feel bad. I can’t do that part, but You can. Help them to love Tommy as much as I do. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
Pretty soon Tommy came back wearing a clean shirt and pants, and his hands were washed and his hair was combed. As we walked to church, I could tell that he was worried and scared because he didn’t talk much and he kept putting his hands in his pockets and taking them out again. I was scared, too—maybe more than Tommy—but I didn’t tell him that. I just took his hand when we went into the church.
Everything was quiet when we walked in. The chapel was full, and Bishop Call was just starting to welcome everyone to sacrament meeting. I saw room for us right next to Mom and Dad, so I pulled him over there as fast as I could.
I was so scared that I didn’t dare look at anyone. Then Dad reached over and shook Tommy’s hand and whispered, “It’s good to see you, Tommy.” Brother Baker leaned over my shoulder and whispered, “Brother Wilson, good to have you here.” Brother and Sister Roberts, who were sitting in front of us, turned around and smiled. After that I wasn’t scared any more, because I knew Heavenly Father had answered my prayer.
I remembered all of my talk without looking at my paper or down at Mom. And when I sang “I Hope They Call Me on a Mission,” I sang as loud as I could, because I was ready to go.
After the closing prayer, I tried to hurry back to my seat so that Tommy wouldn’t be alone, but I didn’t have to. By the time I got to Tommy, he was surrounded by people. Why, it looked like the whole ward wanted to shake his hand!
It was a long time after the meeting ended before Tommy and I started home. We didn’t say anything until we stopped in front of his house; then I asked, “Can I pick you up next Sunday? I don’t have to sing or do anything special, but I’d sure like you to come.”
Tommy’s eyes were all watery, and he rubbed them with the back of his hand. “No, Jared, I won’t let you stop for me next Sunday.”
I couldn’t believe it! I thought he had liked going to church. I didn’t know what to say.
Then Tommy said, “Next week I’ll take you to church.”
Tommy didn’t work in his garage on Sundays after that, because every Sunday he went to church. And when I’m old enough, I can go to India or Russia or any other place and feel good about preaching the gospel to all those strangers because now my best friend goes to church.

Bitter consequences are seen in the lives of children who need but do not have a father who loves them, teaches them, protects them, and leads them along the path of life by example and precept. Let me recount for you something I heard about two years ago in this tabernacle. The occasion was a great gathering of single men and women. Elder Marion D. Hanks conducted a panel discussion. Included in that panel was an attractive and able young woman, divorced, the mother of seven children then ranging in ages from five to sixteen. She said that one evening she went across the street to deliver something to a neighbor. Listen to her words as I recall them:
“As I turned around to walk back home, I could see my house lighted up. I could hear echoes of my children as I had walked out of the door a few minutes earlier: ‘Mom, what are we going to have for dinner?’ ‘Can you take me to the library?’ ‘I have to get some poster paper tonight.’ Tired and weary, I looked at that house and saw the light on in each of the rooms. I thought of all of those children who were home waiting for me to come and meet their needs. My burdens felt very heavy on my shoulders.
“I remember looking through tears toward the sky, and I said, ‘Oh, my Father, I just can’t do it tonight. I’m too tired. I can’t face it. I can’t go home and take care of all those children alone. Could I just come to You and stay with You for just one night? I’ll come back in the morning.’
“I didn’t really hear the words of reply, but I heard them in my mind. The answer was, ‘No, little one, you can’t come to me now. You would never wish to come back. But I can come to you.’”

Last week I received a letter from a single mother, a part of which I wish to read to you. She says as follows:
“It has been 10 years since you mentioned our family in October conference in 1996. … The words of counsel and encouragement that you gave to me and other single sisters have been a pattern used in my daily life. The phrase that has become my motto and watchword [is] ‘Do the very best you can,’ and that is indeed what my sons and I are trying to do.
“All four of my sons graduated from high school and seminary. Two of them served full-time missions. We are all working to provide for ourselves and continue to be true and faithful in the gospel. It is a great feeling to know that we have made it on our own for the past several years. … There is a certain feeling of accomplishment when you can once again stand on your own two feet and provide for your family’s needs. …
“I was encouraged to go back to college. … It is a real challenge to work full-time and attend classes at night. It has broadened my perspective on life and helped me to be a better person. My family, ward members, and co-workers have been very supportive. I will graduate this December.
“As I pondered my patriarchal blessing and made it a matter of fasting and prayer, I was able to set some realistic goals in my life that have been used as a road map to keep me on track with the principles of the gospel. I attend my meetings, pray daily, and pay my tithing. I … take my calling as a visiting teacher very seriously. …
“The Church is true, and it is an honor and a privilege to be counted as a worthy and blessed member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. We are led by inspiration from a loving Heavenly Father, who knows us and wants us to progress and grow. I thank you for your kind words of encouragement 10 years ago, and for the many continuing words of inspiration that come from the Lord through His servants. I know I am a child of God and my life is blessed by my membership in His Church.”

In the islands of Tahiti, it’s difficult for the mission president to keep track of his missionaries all the time because he sends them to far-reaching islands. Missionaries were often left on their own, so our mission president needed to know he could trust them.
One experience that stands out to me occurred when the mission president called me into his office one day and said, “Elder Kacher, we have all these islands in the Marquesas where there are no members of the Church. I want you and your companion to get on the cargo ship that takes supplies to all the little islands. Then, when you stop at each port, I want you to go out for however long you have before the ship leaves and bear testimony of the Restoration of the gospel. I want you to do this for the next 30 days.”
The cargo ship would stop at two or three different ports on each island and stay there anywhere from half an hour to a day, depending on the size of the town. I was honored that my mission president would ask us to do that, but I remember getting to the first port and feeling fear, anxiety, and great responsibility. I wondered how we could do what he asked.
At first we kind of fumbled along. We were really unsure of how to proceed and didn’t do very well at the first port or two. But then we had a feeling that we should do something else. We felt inspired to use the notebook of pictures the Church had just introduced of the Restoration and other gospel topics.
As we would go to shore, my companion began opening his notebook of pictures. The Polynesians loved the pictures, and as they swarmed around him to look at them, we would teach and testify to them.
We did that for 30 days, village after village. I don’t know how many times we taught lessons and testified, but after those 30 days, I came to understand what it meant to be guided by the Spirit, and I no longer had any fear.
If somebody made fun of me—and many people did—it didn’t matter. I knew I was doing God’s work and that He was watching over us. My ability to feel and act under the influence of the Spirit grew, as did my confidence. I was never the same after this experience.
During those 30 days, we made several visits to the six habitable islands of the beautiful Marquesas. Today, where the Church once had no members, we have branches.

I remember one night when a friend, Adam, and I couldn’t find dates, so we called up a young couple we knew and announced we wanted to give them a night out. We picked up their kids, took them to an animated movie and then for ice cream. The kids loved the movie and the ice cream. There was mint chocolate chip and rainbow sherbet everywhere. Before we dropped them off, we played Superman and twirled them around in circles until we were totally dizzy. The whole night was cool—cool-aid.

More than 1,100 years ago, Viking explorers settled an isolated island located midway between North America and Europe and just south of the Arctic Circle. This was Iceland—a place both inhospitable and beautiful. Life could not have been easy for these settlers as they endured the harsh weather and struggled to tame the rugged land.
All the Nordic countries shared a common language during this early period, and many stories, or sagas, relating heroic episodes in the founding and settling of Iceland were written. Modern Icelanders, who still speak essentially the same language as their Viking ancestors, can read these medieval sagas with little difficulty.
Little has really changed in Iceland today. Life is still not easy, but another saga is unfolding—another chapter in the history of this land is being written—even now.
In 1851, almost 150 years ago, the restored gospel of Jesus Christ was first taught in Iceland. The Church flourished for a while, but in 1914, after a difficult period of persecution, missionary work was discontinued. It was not until 1977 that Elder Joseph B. Wirthlin, then a member of the Seventy, officially dedicated the country for missionary work. Today, a comparatively small group of devoted Latter-day Saints is working hard to keep the commandments and to share the gospel message with friends and neighbors.
Their work has not been without its challenges. The language itself was one of the first obstacles—Icelandic is spoken nowhere else in the world. One of the major needs of the fledgling Church in Iceland was translated Church materials. They had no scriptures and no manuals—all the lesson materials had to be translated each week.
When missionaries returned to Iceland in 1975, Sveinbjörg Gudmundsdóttir was one of the first Icelanders to investigate the Church. She spoke fluent English, and soon after her baptism in 1976, she began her 20-year career as a translator for the Church. “My first assignment was to translate the Book of Mormon,” she recalls. “I knew I wasn’t qualified—I had never really translated anything but pamphlets for the missionaries.” She spent many hours on her knees in humble prayer. “I knew I could not do it without the help of the Lord,” she says. The task was overwhelming, but Sister Sveinbjörg felt the guidance of the Holy Ghost. The Icelandic Book of Mormon was published in June 1981.
With the Icelandic scriptures now in their hands, the Saints in Iceland found a new strength and determination. The desire to obtain the blessings of the temple became foremost in their hearts, but to those who spoke only Icelandic, the goal seemed distant. Some members who spoke English did make the long and expensive journey to visit the temple in London, England. Others with a limited knowledge of English also went, but the difficulty of understanding the words sometimes made the experience overwhelming and frustrating. They dreamed of the day when the translation of the temple ceremony would be available.
Waiting for the realization of that dream was an exercise in faith. In 1981, Sister Sveinbjörg had been assigned to go to Salt Lake City to translate the temple ceremony; However, that translation was never recorded. A decade passed before she made that long journey once again—this time to update the translation and prepare it for recording.
During those 10 years of hoping and waiting, the Church in Iceland was growing. Testimonies were being nurtured, and new members were continually adding their strength. Gudmundur Sigurdsson and his wife, Valgerdur Knutsdóttir, were baptized in 1982. He was called to be the Reykjavík Branch president in 1983, and he became the first Icelandic district president in 1986.
Gummi (as he likes to be called) remembers the struggles they faced as the Church was gaining a foothold in Iceland. “We felt so isolated because we had no background for the Church in Iceland—we had no one to ask how things should be done. Sometimes people would offer to help me, but the problem was, I didn’t know what to ask for! Now we have built a base of leadership, and they are ready to be of assistance as new leaders are called.”
One of those more recently called leaders is Bárdur Á. Gunnarsson, current president of the Reykjavík Branch. He, too, first heard of the Church in 1982, but that was a time in his life when his thoughts were far from religion. Even though his lifestyle was not so different from most other young men in his country, he had many obstacles to overcome. “I tried several times to quit smoking and drinking, but I didn’t have the strength to do it,” Bárdur recalls. He had a family, but it was one that began without the blessing of a marriage ceremony. Finally, four years after the elders first knocked on his door, his desire to unite his family and to seek forgiveness led him to be married to Ólöf Bjarnadóttir, the mother of his three daughters. Ólöf was not ready to be baptized at that time, but she did give her consent for him to take their three little girls to church every Sunday. “My patriarchal blessing told me I would go to the temple with my wife and children, and I worked very hard to make this happen,” said Bárdur.
Bárdur’s dream of uniting his family began to come true in 1994 when word was received that the Icelandic temple ceremony was scheduled to be recorded in the Salt Lake Temple. In May of that year, Ólöf accompanied him to Salt Lake City, along with the small group who had been called to make the recording. While there, surrounded by their friends, Bárdur baptized his wife in the baptistry of the Salt Lake Tabernacle. They were sealed in the London Temple one year later.
After five days, the recording project was completed. Before the group who did the recording left the temple, they were allowed to view a small portion of the finished product. “Seeing just a part of the film and hearing those first few words in our own language touched me deep in my heart—it was something I will never forget,” said Gummi. “That increased our fervent desire to share this wonderful experience with all our brothers and sisters at home.”
It was now possible to think about organizing a trip to the temple for the members of the Reykjavík Branch. There was much preparing to be done—in addition to becoming worthy for temple recommends, branch members had to do genealogical research to find family names, and they had to save money for the trip. When whole families were planning to go, this became a sizable amount!
“There was a wonderful excitement, an extra amount of love and care shown among the members as they prepared for this experience,” recalls district president Ólafur Einarsson. “It brought a feeling of unity to the branch that we had not felt before.”
The necessary preparations were completed, and 38 members of the Reykjavík Branch—adults and children—journeyed to the London Temple in June 1995. For a week, they devoted themselves to the work of the Lord. “It was an unforgettable experience to see the joy on the faces of our group as the Spirit touched our hearts,” recalls one branch member. “The love and kindness we felt toward one another continued to grow as we shared the joy of our temple experiences.” They returned to their homes and families with strengthened testimonies and a renewed love of the gospel.
As the Church becomes stronger, the saga of the Saints in Iceland continues. In June 1996—still filled with memories of their experiences the previous year—some of the members of the Reykjavík Branch made a second trip to the London Temple. There, they once again were blessed to participate in holy ordinances as they renewed their covenants with the Lord—in the language of their Viking ancestors.

My wife, Harriet, and I love riding our bicycles. It is wonderful to get out and enjoy the beauties of nature. We have certain routes we like to bike, but we don’t pay too much attention to how far we go or how fast we travel in comparison with other riders.

However, occasionally I think we should be a bit more competitive. I even think we could get a better time or ride at a higher speed if only we pushed ourselves a little more. And then sometimes I even make the big mistake of mentioning this idea to my wonderful wife.

Her typical reaction to my suggestions of this nature is always very kind, very clear, and very direct. She smiles and says, “Dieter, it’s not a race; it’s a journey. Enjoy the moment.”

How right she is!

Sometimes in life we become so focused on the finish line that we fail to find joy in the journey. I don’t go cycling with my wife because I’m excited about finishing. I go because the experience of being with her is sweet and enjoyable.

While holding a sign for a car wash fundraiser for my high school band, I was hit by a car going over 60 miles per hour (96 kph). I was rushed to the hospital. All three bones in my arm were broken, and I had to have metal plates and screws put in my arm. I have three long scars on my arm, small ones on my elbow and shin, and another long one over my knee.
The first day I went to therapy to help recover my damaged nerves, the therapist told me that when I got older I would be able to get tattoos to cover my scars. My mom and dad both said, “You don’t know James very well.” I told her that tattoos were against my standards and that I wouldn’t want one anyway.
I know my body is a gift from God, and I am not supposed to mark it up. I am grateful that I have been taught that my body is a special gift and that I do not need to put tattoos on it. I know the scars aren’t pretty right now, but they will fade. For now, they are a reminder to me that God watches out for me.

Many of you are doing remarkable things. Megan, a young woman, prayed many months for two friends who were not members of the Church, arranging for one friend to sign up for seminary and inviting the other to be taught by the missionaries. Recently these two young women were baptized. The Church needs you. President Hinckley cannot walk down the halls of your school and teach your friends, but you can, and the Lord is counting on you. We’re so proud of the courage you have as you share your love for the gospel with your friends.

A dozen years ago, in one of the countries of Africa, we had faithful members of the Church who had been meeting in their homes for several years. I went to that country to see if we could receive permission from the government to bring in missionaries and establish the Church. I met with a high-ranking government minister. He gave me 20 minutes to explain our position.
When I finished he said, “I do not see where anything you have told me is any different from what is currently available in our country. I see no reason to approve your request to bring missionaries into our country.”
He stood up to usher me out of his office. I was panic-stricken. I had failed. In a moment our meeting would be over. What could I do? I offered a silent prayer.
Then I had an inspired thought. I said to the minister, “Sir, if you will give me five more minutes, I would like to share one other thought with you. Then I will leave.” He kindly consented.
I reached for my wallet and removed this small For the Strength of Youth booklet, which I have always carried.
I said, “This is a little booklet of standards we give to all of the youth in our Church.”
I then read some of the standards I have mentioned tonight. When I finished he said, “You mean to tell me you expect the youth of your church to live these standards?”
“Yes,” I replied, “and they do.”
“That is amazing,” he said. “Could you send me some of these booklets so that I could distribute them to the youth of my church?”
I replied, “Yes,” and I did.
Several months later we received official approval from the government of that country to come and establish the Church.

Daniel Harbuck and Miguel Peña, both 18, interviewed Ferron Forsgren. They were impressed that he could once type 100 words a minute, wore racing goggles when he drove his first car, and had some good advice about impressing young women. Brother Forsgren also told them how he gained his testimony of the Church and how he has been active all his life. They found out that Brother Forsgren still plays tennis at the age of 87. Daniel says, “That’s the kind of guy I want to be when I’m older.”

At youth conferences, you always expect a crowd, but more than 200 million people attended the Knoxville Tennessee Stake youth conference on family history.
The workshops would have been very crowded if all of them had needed a seat; however, all but about 150 of those millions of people were actually on computer disk—a copy of the computerized ancestral file that the Church has compiled of people and their ancestral lines.
The 150 living, breathing attendees were young people and their leaders from the Knoxville Stake who decided on a rather unusual theme for their youth conference—family history. They wanted to follow the spirit of Elijah as they learned to “turn the heart of the fathers to the children, and the heart of the children to their fathers” (Mal. 4:6).
How do you keep genealogy from being a dead subject? This group found a way. Each participant rotated through four workshop sessions, conducted by entertaining speakers who talked about doing genealogical work to prepare names for temple work, learning how to keep personal records, writing in journals, and understanding pedigree charts.
As part of the youth conference, a miniature family history library was set up in one room complete with microfiche and microfilm readers plus the best part—a computer with a small cabinet full of disks that could be used to call up an amazing amount of information. Some of the young people were just itching to get their hands on that computer and the disks to see if they could find some of their family names. They got their chance. During free time, a small crowd gathered to put the computer through its paces.
As the youth learned, family history is a lot more than just looking at pedigree charts. They found out that part of genealogy is keeping journals and working on personal histories. Mandy Smith, of the Cumberland Gap Branch, is just 15, but she was the expert invited to speak about keeping scrapbooks for a personal history. As she puts clippings, certificates, and snapshots in her book, she also writes captions under each item, explaining a little about what she was feeling. Mandy pointed out, “Personal history is not just for your children someday. It can also be good for you. Lots of times when I’m feeling down or in a bad mood, I look back at the good times I have had. It helps me remember the things that are important to me.”
At least for a little while, genealogy came to life in Knoxville. These youth already knew that they loved their families at home, and they discovered that their hearts were turned and the love extended back in time to include thousands of relatives. Now they were interested in finding out more about relatives who may not yet be included in the Church’s records.
If they all continued with their interest in family history, as one girl mentioned in testimony meeting, “There are going to be a lot of happy spirits.”

My next step was to try my goal at school. Being the only Mormon in my school was more than a little challenging. I started by listening to my friends, not just hearing. Others began to listen back. I found there was so much to learn about each person—their beliefs, their interests, and their goals. Also, I found that each person, whether he is Jewish, Greek Orthodox, or Catholic, wants to be important; he wants others to care about him.

The red, yellow, and orange leaves crunched under my feet on the bumpy brick sidewalk. Ivy climbed up the old buildings I passed on my way, forming intricate designs. I was headed for the subway. I was happy; inside I was singing. The blue sky outlined the tall majestic buildings. When I arrived at the subway station, I dug into my pocket and pulled out a button that read, “I Care.” I smiled. I pulled out a quarter and rode up to Park Street Station. A hundred faces, each individual, each reflecting a different personality, rode with me.
I smiled at every gaze that fell my way; some smiled back and sent a part of themselves with their smile. I knew where I was going; I knew what I wanted. I wanted others to know too. I had found the true joy of living; the button was pinned on the outside of my coat and on the inside of my heart.

During my youth, my father had a stable job and made a good living. However, he was addicted to alcohol, and this affected his family life. One day, a building was completed in my neighborhood near our house, and many speculated on its use: a school, a hospital, a church?
It was a building of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. My father was invited there and he went despite the mockery and ridicule of his family members. Eventually my father was baptized.
From that moment on, we noticed a change in his character: To our astonishment, he stopped consuming alcohol and tobacco. He often read a book that later turned out to be the Book of Mormon. After my father was baptized, he invited us to join him in his new Church. The other members of my family were reluctant to join. I had always been close to my father and decided to go to church with him.
After my baptism, my two brothers and sisters joined the Church. My mother was later baptized as well.

Analú learned early how good Heavenly Father can be to His children. When she was a little girl, her father was very sick. After several surgeries, doctors had done all they could, and there was little hope he would survive. But Analú’s mother united the family in prayer and urged them to pray individually as well. He recovered, to the amazement of his doctors, who said it was a miracle. Analú knew it was an answer to their prayers to Heavenly Father, and she learned that He would answer hers.

Mary knelt in the warm dirt next to her grandma. She gently lifted the leaves of the strawberry plants, looking for rich red berries that were ripe and ready to eat. Mary felt happy when she helped at Grandma’s farm.
“Mary, look at everything Heavenly Father has given us,” Grandma said. “Look at the sun that warms us and makes things grow, the creek that gives us water, the trees that give us shade. What the scriptures say is true: all things on earth testify that there is a God.”
Mary’s happiness faded away as Grandma’s words reminded her of something her dad had said. “Grandma, Dad said that he doesn’t know if Heavenly Father is real. He doesn’t say prayers or go to church with us anymore.”
Mary stared at the dirt and poked at an ant crawling around. She felt bad saying those things because she loved her dad.
Grandma put her hand on Mary’s cheek. Looking right into Mary’s eyes, Grandma asked, “Mary, do you believe in Heavenly Father?”
“So much!” Mary exclaimed, feeling the Spirit warm her heart.
Grandma patted her cheek. “I know you do. You have a testimony. Don’t you ever doubt it, no matter what anybody tells you.”
“I won’t, Grandma,” Mary promised. “I just wish it could be like it was before, when we all went to church together.”
“So do I, sweetheart,” Grandma said with a sigh. “But people are like plants. We can’t make them believe any more than we can make these strawberries grow.”
“But don’t you pray to Heavenly Father to help the plants grow?” Mary asked.
“I sure do. Every day,” Grandma said.
Mary smiled. Now she knew what she could do.
That night Mary knelt beside her bed, bowed her head, and prayed to Heavenly Father. She thanked Him for Grandma and for Dad, for strawberries, and for the beautiful earth. Then she asked Heavenly Father to bless Dad to believe in Him again.
After her prayer, Mary felt peaceful and happy inside, like she was full of love. She knew it was the Holy Ghost she was feeling, and her testimony grew a little stronger. She knew that Heavenly Father heard her prayer and loved her. She knew He loved Dad too.
Mary hoped her dad would believe in Heavenly Father again someday. But no matter what, she would always believe in Heavenly Father. He was as real to her as sunlight and shade and water, as real as the love she felt in her heart when she prayed.

I left the hospital and found myself thinking about the moments spent with my grandparents. For the first time in my life, I realized how unobtrusively and quickly time does pass. During the years, my beloved grandparents had grown old. Grandma had already passed away, and now I wouldn’t have Grandpa much longer. They would always live on in my heart, but I wanted them to be a part of my children’s and grandchildren’s lives as well. I decided that I would write on paper my memories of the times we had spent together; in that way I would be able to share my grandparents with my own children in the future.
When I returned home, I sat down and started to recall memories. I slipped paper after paper into the typewriter, typing as quickly as my thoughts would come. I knew I was making spelling and grammatical errors but decided to concentrate on meaning while I wrote my first draft and make corrections when I did the final copy. After typing up the stories on heavy white paper the size of book of remembrance pages, I covered them with plastic protector sheets and bound the pages together in a black binder. For a title page I used three pictures of Grandpa, and on the last two pages of the book I put more pictures. For my cover I enlarged a color picture of Grandpa’s sheep camp in the mountains, framed it, and glued it on the front of the binder.
My book was completed after only two weeks; writing the memories had taken only a couple of afternoons. As I relived the weeks spent in the mountains in the old log cabin where my mother had been born, I found myself typing through tears. It was there I grew to love the earth with her wild flowers and sagebrush. Grandfather was a mountain of a man as he worked with his sheep—mighty, yet ever so gentle with the little, newborn lambs. As Grandmother cooked over the old black coal stove, she shared her philosophies of life with me. Her lemon pies became her trademark. Her ideas became my beliefs.
I wrote of the afternoons they came to visit my family. Grandpa always had a brown sack full of groceries, and as he placed it on the counter, Grandma pulled out fresh fruit and vegetables and nuts. She told us children to always eat plenty of nuts and peanuts because they were good brain foods and she wanted to have smart grandchildren. Grandpa always went straight to the couch and invited us all to get on his lap. He pulled out his gold watch and chain and let us listen to the ticking sound. He then proceeded to tell us stories.
I wrote about the many weekends I spent at their home. Grandpa usually fell asleep about 11:00 P.M., while Grandma and I were just getting ready to go on our midnight walk to the corner grocery store several blocks away. Upon returning, we finally got to bed about 2:00 A.M. By 5:30 the next morning, Grandma was up and preparing breakfast. How I tried to keep up with her!
Recalling the memories made me love and appreciate my grandparents even more. Having the shared moments in black and white made me realize all they had given me. I wanted to do something special for my grandfather while he was still alive. Then a new idea came to me: why not dedicate the book to him? It was a perfect way to express my love for him. I ended the book with the following:
So, Grandpa, I have not been able to share much with you these last few years, but I will always love you and Grandma very deeply. You have given me some of my very happiest childhood memories. I thank you for them all.
I thank you for all the pretty clothes you let Grandma buy for me …
Thank you for letting me stay with you on weekends and especially for taking me to the mountains with you …
Thank you for the use of your piano and the sheet music and songs you bought for me …
Thank you for all the hamburgers and malts and root beer floats we had at “Myrts” …
Thank you for letting me take your new Buick and letting me use a whole tank of gas …
Thank you for being my Grandpa!
I love you very much!
Your granddaughter
I went to the hospital carrying my special gift for my grandfather. As I read the pages of the book to him, some of the incidents were so humorous that he struggled to laugh. When I recalled the sorrow we had shared, tears filled his eyes and he and I cried together. The most difficult part for me was to read the closing paragraph, thanking him for all he had given me. I closed the book and laid it by his side, grateful that I had given him a precious gift.
When Grandfather died, I took the book and, heartbroken, put it away on a shelf. Now, only six years later, as I read it to my little children, they talk about my grandpa and grandma as though they really know them. The book is priceless to me, but even more priceless to my children’s children as they read it and hand it down through generations of time as part of my life story. Now I know that my grandparents will be alive in the hearts of many for years and years to come.

Age 16. From Alberta, Canada. Likes laughing, learning, and cooking the perfect hamburger.
Growing up, my parents were very active in the Church. I often felt like I was dragged to service projects without a choice. As I’ve grown older and continued to participate in service, I’ve found that it has changed me for the better. As I focus less on myself, I’m happier.
Once, I had an opportunity to go to the inner city with a few other youth to help the homeless. One man from El Salvador told me about how he had to leave his home country due to violence and ended up on the streets in Canada. I also met a man who reminded me to stay in school and not to take my opportunities for granted.
Hearing their stories and seeing their perseverance and humility had a profound effect on me. It’s easy to ignore the homeless and assume that they brought their situation on themselves. But Isaiah talks about how Jesus Christ bore our sorrows and was rejected of men (see Isaiah 53:3). I believe that as disciples of Jesus Christ, we shouldn’t ignore those who are rejected like He was.
While I may not be able to solve all their problems, I know that even the smallest acts of service can make a big difference in someone’s life.
“Even the smallest acts of service can make a big difference.”