Gospel Story Finder

One of these challenges came when I chose to pay an honest tithe when I was away from home. Every year my dad would take us to tithing settlement. He would help us calculate our tithing, and we would pay it. All during the time I was growing up, I developed this habit of paying tithing. If you had asked me at the time, I would have told you that I had a testimony of tithing.

When I finished high school, I had been admitted to Harvard University, so I worked that summer and earned money to pay for the expenses that weren’t covered by my scholarship. By the end of the first semester, I had foolishly spent all the money that I had earned to get me through the whole year.

At the start of the second semester, I got a job. I couldn’t work very much because I was a full-time student, but I worked a few hours a week and received my first paycheck. Of course, it wasn’t very much, but it was all I had to get by until the next paycheck.

Then the question arose in my mind, “What about tithing?” I had been in the habit of paying my tithing but had always had sufficient money to pay the tithing. Here I was faced with the challenge: do I pay my tithing when I don’t know if I’ve got enough money to get through the next two weeks?

As I thought about it, I remembered the scripture in Malachi 3:10, where the Lord promises, “Prove me now herewith, saith the Lord of hosts, if I will not open you the windows of heaven, and pour you out a blessing, that there shall not be room enough to receive it.”

So I realized that was my answer. I would leave it up to the Lord. I paid my tithing, not sure if I had enough money to carry me until the next paycheck. And a miracle happened. I made it through that two weeks.

It came to me so powerfully that the Lord keeps His word. The Lord came through the way He promised. Just as the scriptures say, if we pay our tithing, He will bless us. That same miracle happened every two weeks throughout the rest of the semester. Before, I had thought I had a testimony of tithing, but now, because of my correct decision, I had a powerful testimony of tithing. The Lord always does what He says, so my testimony continued to grow step-by-step.

George Staples (pictured as an adult)

George Staples left his home and family in England to travel to Utah. When he was 16, he joined a company of Saints in the United States, but as they crossed the plains, George was separated from the group. The company had to keep moving or risk running into warring Sioux Indians. As the story goes, he stayed behind.

George later joined a Sioux tribe and lived as an honorary Sioux for years.

People in the Salt Lake Valley heard about a white boy living as a Sioux. Eventually, a group came looking for him. As the group neared the tribe, George recognized someone. With a wild whoop, he ran to his father. They were thrilled to see each other, but George’s Sioux mother was devastated to lose her adopted son. So, before leaving with his father, George promised to return and visit his Sioux family. He kept his promise.2

Two years later, at 16, Jim joined my seminary class. He soon started dropping by my home after school, along with several other of my students. They would come for a swim, a haircut, advice, conversation, and, of course, food. I tried to serve up what each of them needed. In group dynamics, Jim was still the quiet one. He had graduated to making short statements, but they were usually succinct one-liners. He wasted no words. He was, however, a comfortable, undemanding kid to have around; and he was well liked by everyone. I came to know him better by observation than by communication.
San Diego is a Navy city, and many of the families in our ward were in the Navy. Jim’s dad was transferred to Okinawa later that year. Jim struggled with the idea of a move so far away but decided to move overseas with his family.
Jim didn’t write very much, though I wrote to him. One day, however, the mail brought a beautiful cloisonne bracelet for me. There was no card, just a return address: Jim’s. His parents also wrote to us occasionally, so I knew what Jim was up to. I twice received job recommendation requests, so I knew he was working as a lifeguard at the base pool.
During the next year, I was surprised one day to find Jim standing on my doorstep. He had flown military standby, along with his sister, to visit friends on the mainland. Most of his friends were in school or were working so he spent quite a bit of time at my house—usually by playing quietly with my boys, building Lego structures. He seemed to feel comfortable in my home.
We talked about Okinawa and his experiences there. Again, he would simply answer my questions. I asked of future plans, and he said he wasn’t sure what he was going to do after high school graduation. After a few days, he flew back to Okinawa.
Jim popped up again after he graduated, on his way to Brigham Young University. He showed up a few times more as he traveled from Utah to California, and sometimes to the Far East. I came to expect his unannounced visits. However, I was surprised by the physical changes as he grew and matured into a handsome young man.
He grew up, coming and going through my door. After Jim’s 19th birthday and a year in Provo, he announced his intention to serve a mission. I was thrilled but a little surprised. He had never spoken of a testimony. His group of friends were split—some were going in the military, a few were planning on missions, and a few others struggled with worthiness problems.
Jim went back to Okinawa again, this time to receive a mission call. In a few month’s time he was on my doorstep again, on his way to the Missionary Training Center. We acknowledged how ironic it was for him to leave the Far East to come to the United States for a mission. During this visit, Jim began to talk. We talked about Japan, about his two dates, about his friends and their plans, and we discussed his recent trip to the Tokyo Temple to be endowed. We laughed, reminisced, and speculated about our future lives when he returned as an “R.M.”
Secretly, I worried about him. How was this quiet, private young man, who was just now conversing openly with me after a five-year friendship, going to survive on a mission? I couldn’t imagine him tracting, speaking in church, or teaching a discussion. Would he be an ever-silent companion? I hoped for understanding, sensitive, and gregarious companions for him. When the departure day arrived, I hugged and waved him off to the MTC with a prayer in my heart—for his growth and for his survival.
Jim’s letters were few and far between, but they were treasures. I finally got to know some of his thoughts. He began to share some of his feelings and his testimony with me. Missionary work was hard. He hoped he could “do the job.” He liked some companions and struggled with others. He was always full of faith. His letters proved the adage, “Still waters run deep.”
Fate and time brought a move for us and a relocation for Jim’s parents. We both moved to the state of Washington. His mother, when we communicated, helped fill in the gaps between Jim’s infrequent letters. She gave me news of transfers, of companions, of a new assignment: zone leader. I tried not to be surprised. I matched the depth of the well-written letters with the emergence of this “new” personality who trained elders and taught successful discussions.
When Jim returned from his mission, I was privileged to join his family at the airport to welcome him. As I drove to the airport, I reviewed our friendship and Jim’s growth and maturation. I speculated about his appearance and his demeanor.
He was the last person to emerge from the jetway, which caused extra anxiety for his waiting family. Finally, he appeared—taller than I remembered, and thinner. His naturally curly hair was darker and was cut so short that there was no curl. He wore the missionary uniform: dark suit, white shirt, dark tie, black “mailman” shoes. The suit was very worn and looked like it could stand on its own and still hold the shape of Jim’s body. He was bent a little from the weight of his carry-on luggage.
When he saw us, he smiled a little, then dropped his head as he walked the last few feet of the walkway. When he raised his head again, his eyes were red and he was weeping. He dropped his bags and embraced his mother in a tight hug and cried openly as he kissed her, then held her in his arms for a full minute more. He released her to repeat this exchange with his brother, sister, and his father.
It is a rare privilege to observe such an exchange of pure love among people. I thought, this is how it must be to return to our heavenly parents after completing our earthly missions. What a sweet experience to return, knowing you’ve served faithfully.
Jim then turned to me, and without hesitation, embraced me in a bear hug. As we parted, we both wiped tears from our eyes. And he said, “Thanks for being here.”
I spent another two hours with Jim that morning before we had to head in different directions. During that time, I watched him start a conversation with the man next to him while waiting for his luggage. Within 15 minutes, he had given the man a Book of Mormon and a pamphlet and had parted as a friend. I saw him spend a few private tender moments with his younger brother and sister as he sensed their need and focused on them individually. He gave half of his lunch to his little brother, when the ten-year-old complained of being hungry still.
Jim related a few mission experiences: of singing a duet in church with his companion, of a Sunday when he had 17 investigators at church on the same day, and of the mission farewell the night before. He had been amazed that so many of the missionaries had wanted to gather to say good-bye to him. Jim wept again as he expressed his concern for a companion who had recently lost his dad to a sudden, unexpected death. Here was compassion, love, humility, confidence, and power. Sitting before me, in his grayed shirt, wrinkled tie, and well-worn coat, was someone who had been seemingly magically transformed. His smile was the only trace of the shy, quiet boy who hesitated to pray in front of someone.
We send our young men and women out to preach the gospel of Jesus Christ. We ask them to study, to work hard, to endure, and to serve. And in the end, these children return to us whole, ready to teach and inspire by their loving and humble example. And, having been touched by divine light, we are, none of us, the same again.

That is a question that a lot of us would like to know the answer to. Scientists also are searching for the answer to such a strange phenomenon. To find out what they are learning, two of my sons and I took a trip to Scripps Institution of Oceanography last March. While visiting the aquarium there, we picked up a pamphlet that listed the times of high and low tides for the area around San Diego. Sandwiched in the center of the booklet was an article called “The Grunion Story.” It described the strange habits of a small silvery fish called the grunion that beaches itself upon the sand in very large numbers about twice each month at certain times of the year. These “runs,” as they are called, can be predicted fairly accurately from a knowledge of the tides. The booklet indicated that a grunion run was expected to begin about one o’clock the following morning. Well, you can probably guess what happened when my boys read that!

In the dead of night, Keith’s wristwatch alarm rang to wake us up. We got dressed and headed outside, where we were greeted by a fog so thick that we could only see a few feet in front of us. Undaunted, we climbed into our car and inched our way down the winding street to the ocean’s edge.

Except for us and a couple of sleepy-looking birds, the beach was deserted. Where is everyone? we wondered. We watched wave after wave roll in and break upon the sand and then recede, but no grunion appeared. I stood watch on a rock a little farther out, where a large wave broke over my feet and filled my shoes with water. But still no grunion. After an hour of fruitless waiting, we gave up and wended our way through the heavy fog back to the motel, where we lapsed into sleep.

Suddenly Keith’s alarm rang again, and we saw that it was light outside. It was almost time for the aquarium to open, so we hustled off without eating breakfast. When we got there, however, the aquarium was still closed. Puzzled, we peered through the glass door to see a large clock on the wall with its big hand on six and its little hand between seven and eight. Keith’s watch also had its big hand on six, but its little hand was between eight and nine. Then we realized the reason for the absence of people and grunion at the beach that night. Keith’s watch was an hour fast. We had arrived an hour early and left just before the grunion run was supposed to start!

One evening we were eating treats outside and reading in the Book of Mormon about the fall of the Nephites. I felt impressed to ask the children why they thought the Nephites had turned so wicked. Six-year-old Celeste said she thought the Nephites and Lamanites had stopped saying their daily prayers. We all agreed that the fall of the Nephites started with forgetting prayer and other seemingly little things. At that moment, the thought came to me to invite the children to pray with more thought and feeling.

The following day I asked them how their prayers went. This gave them a chance to share their experiences and gave me a chance to further share my testimony of prayer. Not every family scripture study experience has gone this well, but when we have had discussions and invitations to act as part of our study, the scriptures have become more meaningful.

Caregiving has been one of the most difficult experiences we have ever had, but also one of the most rewarding. We have seen so many miracles. There were moments when the right resources and people seemed to come out of nowhere exactly when we needed them. Moments when certain medications suddenly became available. Moments when, after an unbearable day, unexpected peace would wash over us. And one of the most beautiful miracles I (Stephen) experienced was watching tender tears fall down Kay’s cheeks as she departed from this world, finally at peace, and seemingly recalling things she hadn’t remembered in years.

With a basketball in his hand and his naturally quick feet, Dax Crum from Kirtland, New Mexico, is a fine shooting guard. He also serves as a great example to other young people in how to deal with obstacles.
When basketball commentators say that Dax Crum of Kirtland, New Mexico, is single-handedly leading the offense, they are telling the truth. Dax was born without a right hand, yet when he was growing up he refused to listen to those who said he would never play basketball. As a high school junior, he scored 22 points in the game leading up to the 2002 state championship and 17 points in the final game. He also has not listened to those who said he wouldn’t be able to play baseball (he hopes to earn a college scholarship as a pitcher). In addition, he was the leading scorer on his soccer team, and he runs sprints and anchors the relay team in track.
Dax is a priest in the Kirtland Second Ward in New Mexico and is the fourth of six children. He’s a straight-A student, loves to be with his friends, and enjoys playing his guitar. His parents, Richard and Valerie, have always encouraged their son to overcome obstacles, and they saw their son become relentless in learning to do things. Dax says, “I don’t let my hand embarrass me. I guess if people feel sorry for me, they can. But I don’t feel sorry for myself.”
Dax is the perfect person to talk to young kids about facing hard problems. Just like the advice he gave to one young boy, also born without a hand, “I just said, ‘You can do anything. Don’t let anything get in your way.’”

Q. There was another time you altered your career plans for other goals—when you took two years off to serve a mission. How did you make that decision?
A. It was difficult. To be honest, I met this girl (whom I ended up marrying. Her name is Melodie. It’s perfect). And when she started talking about the kind of guy she wanted to marry, she said he had to be an “R.M.”
I misunderstood her and thought, “Why is it so important for her to marry a nurse?” But then she explained. I thought, because I’d joined the Church later, I’d be off the hook with the mission thing. She didn’t buy that theory, and I knew it wasn’t right either. But I was worried that I would come back and I wouldn’t have my music anymore. I think athletes go through the same thing. They’re afraid they won’t be able to play when they get back.
Q. And what happened?
A. I went to Yugoslavia. I was able to use my music a little. I played piano for church and for city things, but I really didn’t do a lot of music on my mission. So when I got home, I was pleasantly surprised to find that not only had I remembered how to write music, but the maturity, perspective, and depth that I’d gained really helped. Plus I realized the power of music.

Gwendolyn’s Gifts by Patty Sheehan Queen Gwendolyn was bored. Every time she said so, King Cornelius told her, “Perhaps you need a change, my dear,” and ordered something new to be made for her. Finally she took matters into her own hands and learned how to make things for herself, and she was never bored again. King Cornelius learned a lesson from her, and became a gourmet cook. Perhaps you need a change, too, my dear?

Pamela and I met at a dance when we were teenagers. I asked her for a dance, and as we talked, she told me that she was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. That was the first time I had ever heard of the Church. I wasn’t interested in religion then—but she was so different from the other young ladies I knew!
She had a strong character; she knew what she believed, and she knew what she wanted. Early on, she let me know that there would be no chance of any marriage between us, because in the temple was the only place where she would marry. She had made promises, covenants, with Heavenly Father, and she had the loyalty to keep those promises. Soon I realized that what made her so attractive was the gospel. She reflected truths of the gospel in her life. We met in April, and I was baptized that August. Three years later, she agreed to marry me. We were sealed in the temple at last.

Truman Osborn Angell was born in 1810 in North Providence, Rhode Island, to James and Phebe Osborn Angell. The fifth of ten children, Truman learned responsibility at an early age. When he was only nine, his father left home for a time, and the young boy became responsible for much of the work on the family farm and was able to attend school for only two winters. At the age of seventeen, Truman was apprenticed to a joiner to learn the craft of carving and fitting beautiful wood trim for homes.
About this time, an important occurrence took place in his life. In his journal he wrote, “I felt an earnest desire to become a subject of Christianity.” For months he prayed for guidance, and his “mischievous life and shortcomings were laid aside.”
This change prepared Truman to accept the message of two Latter-day Saint missionaries a few years later, after he had moved to western New York. He was baptized, and so were his wife, Polly, and his mother. Then, fired with the spirit and happiness of the gospel, Truman and a cousin traveled east five hundred miles, preaching daily for nine weeks.
Truman had a desire to join the main body of the Church, and in 1835 he moved his little family to Kirtland, Ohio, where he found work waiting for him in the temple. Pulpits, pews, stairs, window casings, and doorjambs all needed to be built. The Prophet Joseph noticed his fine work and put him in charge of many other buildings in Kirtland.
When the Kirtland Temple was almost completed, Truman was ordained a seventy. Eagerly he prepared for another mission. But shortly before he was to go, Joseph Smith asked him to stay and build a store. Truman told the Prophet that he was now a seventy and wanted to serve a mission. The Prophet simply said, “Well, go ahead.”
After Joseph Smith left, Truman struggled with his thoughts: How could he bear testimony of a prophet of the Lord if he, Truman, was not willing to heed that prophet’s counsel? Truman remained in Kirtland and built the store and many other buildings that were needed. Joseph Smith prophesied that the joiner would have enough work for twenty men, and he did.
Continuing to move wherever the main body of the Saints settled, the Angell family suffered from mobs and persecution in Missouri and Nauvoo, and over the years several of Truman’s young children died. While the last of the Saints were being driven from Nauvoo, Truman and a few other brethren remained behind to complete the temple and dedicate it to the Lord. The young joiner must have been heartsick to hear how that sacred building was later desecrated and burned.
Truman was among the first group of Saints to enter the Salt Lake Valley in 1847. Two years earlier he had been told in a patriarchal blessing that “thy calling is more particularly to labor in assisting the Saints to build cities and temples than travelling abroad to preach the gospel.” The young joiner’s abilities as an architect were recognized by Brigham Young, and soon Truman was busy designing homes, schools, churches, a sugar factory, forts, stores, a penitentiary, a theater, a governor’s mansion, and, most importantly, temples.
Many beautiful buildings still stand today as proof of Truman Angell’s architectural talent. The Salt Lake and St. George temples and Brigham Young’s Beehive House, Lion House, and Eagle Gate are just a few examples of his work.
Truman considered his work a calling rather than a job. Most workers donated a tenth of their time to Church projects, but full-time workers like Truman were paid in tithing scrip, which could be exchanged for groceries, clothing, and other necessities.
Truman studied architectural design and innovations in building. The constant pressure of being the Church’s architect was a strain on his health, so Brigham Young called him to serve a mission in Europe, where he was to not only preach to the people but also visit the great buildings and study the architectural styles there. He had been on his mission for thirteen months when he was called to return to help with the Salt Lake Temple.
Work on the temple did not progress very rapidly at first. There were several delays, such as the time President James Buchanan sent United States troops to Utah with a new governor to replace Brigham Young. The Saints, remembering the mob violence of the East, were not going to allow their new homes and lands to be plundered again. They stripped their homes of valuables and filled them with straw to be set afire if and when the enemy troops came. Even the foundation of the temple was covered with dirt, making it appear to be only a plowed field. Fortunately a peaceful settlement was reached before the troops arrived in Salt Lake.
As the building of the temple progressed, Truman sought the advice and counsel of President Young almost every step of the way. There were many details that had to be taken care of, and the work required Truman’s constant supervision. All his efforts were devoted to serving the Lord, despite constant poor health and personal heartaches.
The architect did not live to see the completion of the beautiful Salt Lake Temple, but the majestic structure will stand for many years to come as a monument to his and other Saints’ dedication in building the Lord’s kingdom here on earth.

President David O. McKay tells: “I remember as a deacon chopping wood for the widows on Saturday. We met as a group of nine boys, held a short meeting, took our axes, went to the widows, and chopped enough wood for each to last that week.”
And President McKay continues: “As a priest, I recall administering the sacrament and my failure the first time I offered the prayer. We did not have the prayer on a printed card before us then as is frequently the case now. We were supposed to memorize it. The sacrament table was just under the pulpit, and my father, the bishop, always stood right over the one who asked the blessing upon the bread and water. I thought I knew the prayer, but I had memorized it privately, and when I knelt and saw the congregation before me, I became flustered.” (Cherished Experiences, comp. Clare Middlemiss, Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Co., 1976, p. 190.) This challenge did not cause him to become discouraged, my young friends. He made additional preparation and lifted himself to a level of excellence.

Finances became a major concern. I had enough money in the bank to cover 11 of the remaining 15 months of my mission and hoped Mom could get enough together for the remaining four. My plans for college were now pushed back into the realm of hopes and dreams. However, the Lord takes care of his missionaries.
I received a letter from my mother telling me that I needn’t worry about finances anymore. A man had contacted my bishop and asked if he could support me for the rest of my mission. This is not too unusual, since there are many good-hearted men in the Church, but the twist in this instance was in what the man told my bishop: “I’m not a member of your church, but out of the love and respect I have for Horace Rappleye, I’d like to support his son for the rest of his mission.” And he did. For 15 months the money was placed regularly in my bank account by the anonymous benefactor.
He remains anonymous to this day.

I have a best friend. Her name is Barbara. We love watching and singing along to movies. We go on walks together and look at the flowers on the temple grounds. We read princess stories together every night. When I’m around Barbara, I can be myself. Not only is she my dearest friend, but she is also my sister.
Barbara has cerebral palsy, a condition that affects her physically and mentally. She can’t walk, and she needs to be fed through a tube. She loves singing but struggles to verbally communicate her feelings, wants, and needs. And although Barbara is 29, mentally she acts like a toddler.
Even though Barbara is four years older than me, I’ve always felt like the “big sister.” My family’s whole world revolves around her. She is the sun, and we are the circling planets. While the situation sometimes has amazing benefits—like being able to skip lines at amusement parks—other times it means making sacrifices, like not going to certain activities or needing to host events in our home. Each day we review our schedule to make sure someone is always taking care of Barbara and her needs.
To help my parents take care of her, my older brother and I matured very quickly. We had to learn how to identify when Barbara was having a seizure and what to do, how to feed her through a tube, how to change her diapers, and how to prepare her medications when we were very young. While this early maturity helped me have confidence in myself, it did make socializing a huge struggle.
I felt so different from everyone my age. Even if I was invited to hang out with friends and my parents encouraged me to go, I struggled to have fun because I felt guilty that my parents had so much to do at home. Other times I would have a hard time enjoying myself when Barbara was struggling with her health. Most of the time, I just wanted a friend to sit down with me and listen.
Sometimes I felt like no one understood what I was going through. But a few things helped remedy that loneliness. I decided I’d try to reach out to people who might be feeling similarly. When I did go to activities or church, I tried to include those who were sitting alone or who looked like they were having a bad day. As Elder Gerrit W. Gong of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles taught, “Miracles occur when we care for each other as He would.”1 And I saw miracles come into my life. I felt much more comfortable going to activities and was happier when I offered love to others.
Another thing that helped was realizing how much the Savior truly understood me. I realized that He knew exactly what I was going through and would always be with me. I focused more on getting to know Him through the scriptures and prayer. Sometimes when I prayed, I would imagine that He and Heavenly Father were sitting with me and listening. When I have difficult feelings and feel overwhelmed at how unfair Barbara’s situation seems at times, I remember that Christ will help me find peace and reassurance. Elder Dale G. Renlund of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles explained this perfectly when he said, “In unfair situations, one of our tasks is to trust that ‘all that is unfair about life can be made right through the Atonement of Jesus Christ.’”2
Having a loved one with a disability can require near-superhuman strength. It affects your life physically, mentally, emotionally, financially, and spiritually. For the past 29 years, my parents have awakened nearly every day at 2:00 in the morning to care for Barbara. We all go to the gym regularly so we can be strong enough to lift and carry Barbara when necessary. And so many other responsibilities can take a toll on us all.
How do we possibly do everything?
This can be described in one word: grace.
“Grace [is the] enabling power and spiritual healing offered through the mercy and love of Jesus Christ. …
“The grace of God helps us every day. It strengthens us to do good works we could not do on our own.”3
What do I love most about Barbara? With her I’ve learned more about the Savior’s love for us. You can’t help but feel of His love when you’re around Barbara. Despite all her difficulties, she is always smiling, singing, and making us laugh. However, there are also days where I feel helpless, when nothing seems to make her feel better. But because of my experiences, I know with certainty that the Savior understands what both Barbara and I are going through. No matter our earthly trials, a beautiful aspect of the Savior’s enabling power is that we can not only be given strength to experience and overcome hard things but also do it all with joy.
Editors’ note: Since the time that this article was written, the author’s sister has passed away.
You can submit your own article, ideas, or feedback at liahona.ChurchofJesusChrist.org. We can’t wait to hear from you!

Years later I started visiting many churches, but I never felt at home. One day I returned home from work, and my landlady told me that my wife and I must move out by the next day. I could not think of any wrongdoing or problems that would cause her to ask us to leave.
I went to a friend’s house to ask for help in quickly finding a new apartment, and there I met the missionaries. They introduced themselves and said they could answer my questions at the end of the lesson. As they taught about the Prophet Joseph Smith and the Restoration of the gospel, I thought about how I had moved from one church to another without finding the truth. I made an appointment with the missionaries, and they taught my wife and me. Soon we were baptized and confirmed.

As a young college student, fifty years ago, my member friend was bold. She asked me directly the golden questions: “What do you know about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints? Would you like to know more?” As I learned, understood, and gained a testimony of the gospel, I wanted to share it with my family—even though I knew that many of them might not be receptive. And indeed, they were not! But my desire remains strong to be bold. I am constantly thinking of ways I can boldly but gently invite them to come unto Christ.

The account of a homecoming as related by successful prison warden Kenyon J. Scudder brings to the surface tender feelings held in the heart:
A friend of his happened to be sitting in a railroad coach next to a young man who was obviously depressed. Finally the young man revealed that he was a paroled convict returning from a distant prison. His imprisonment had brought shame to his family, and they had neither visited him nor written often. He hoped, however, that this was only because they were too poor to travel and too uneducated to write. He hoped, despite the evidence, that they had forgiven him.
To make it easy for them, however, he had written to them asking that they put up a signal for him when the train passed their little farm on the outskirts of town. If his family had forgiven him, they were to put up a white ribbon in the big apple tree which stood near the tracks. If they didn’t want him to return, they were to do nothing, and he would remain on the train as it traveled onward.
As the train neared his hometown, the suspense became so great that he couldn’t bear to look out of his window. He exclaimed, “In just five minutes the engineer will sound the whistle indicating our approach to the long bend which opens into the valley I know as home. Will you watch for the apple tree at the side of the track?” His companion said he would; they exchanged places. The minutes seemed like hours, but then there came the shrill sound of the train whistle. The young man asked, “Can you see the tree? Is there a white ribbon?”
Came the reply, “I see the tree. I see not one white ribbon, but many. There is a white ribbon on every branch. Son, someone surely does love you.”
In that instant, all the bitterness that had poisoned a life was dispelled. “I felt as if I had witnessed a miracle,” the other man said. Indeed, he had witnessed a miracle. (See John Kord Lagemann, “Forgiveness: The Saving Grace,” The Reader’s Digest, Mar. 1961, pp. 41–42.)

In junior high school, pitching quarters was the game that dominated the perimeter of the schoolyard, always out of view of adults. However, our fetish with this game eventually found its way into the classroom. As soon as the teacher turned his or her back, our quarters would fly toward the wall, and the person with the quarter closest to the wall won, taking everyone else’s quarter. This game became very detrimental not only to our studies but also to our relationships. Friends were pitted against friends, and fights occasionally broke out. I remember people who lost several days’ lunch money in a matter of a minute. Five or six bad tosses and you were one broke eighth grader.
In high school, quarters became merely small change. Our attention was drawn to larger sums of money with bigger wagers, usually around big-ticket sporting events. Every week there seemed to be a big game, and betting circles were frequently established. Obviously, the more people there were contributing to a pot, the greater a winner’s takings would be. I remember one student who kept a notebook with the particular bets, the odds, and the individuals involved. Between and sometimes during classes he would approach you, asking if you would like to bet.
Unfortunately, the gambling scene pervaded other high school activities and went beyond school boundaries. While traveling with my baseball team, both on the bus and in the hotel rooms, card games took over much of our spare time. I recall watching a card game where two teammates had $120 on the line, with the luck of a particular card deciding the fate of the game. Someone won that day, but I don’t remember who. What I do remember is the chaos, the screaming and vulgar language, the laughing at someone else’s expense. Most importantly, I remember feeling void of the Spirit. It’s a dirty, ugly feeling.
Near my home was a hotel we often went to that had an arcade, a bowling alley, and a good restaurant. I spent many fun times bowling with my brothers and our friends. To get to the bowling alley, we had to go through the hotel’s casino. There is a distinct image in my mind to this day of the smell of cigarette and cigar smoke and the dropping of coins into the metal basins from the slot machines. The image of countless people sitting in the same place for hours playing cards or pulling levers on slot machines seems to be a constant reminder to me of the shallow habit of gambling.
One day a friend of mine, while leaving the bowling alley, tried his luck at a game of chance they called “Megabucks.” The winnings were well over a million dollars. You had to play several dollars at a time to have a chance at winning. Of course, he lost, and he kept on losing. Within five minutes he lost $60, and the only thing he had to show for it was his contribution to the grand total that would eventually go to someone else. My friend lost $60, yet I gained a greater distaste for the gambling habit and a greater resolve to keep the Lord’s commandments. Like other occasions in my life, this became a defining moment that strengthened my resolve to put my occasional past blemishes behind me and turn to the Lord with full purpose of heart.
Through a loving Heavenly Father and the guidance of exemplary parents who avoided the practice of gambling, I was able to put my lapses with games of chance behind me. Far too many friends and acquaintances didn’t stop at pitching quarters or playing cards. Gambling and the other bad habits it leads to are overtaking far too many of Heavenly Father’s children. With an unresolved determination to avoid it, you can become a victim very quickly. Gratefully, two years before I became “legal” in the eyes of the state of Nevada, I was “about my Father’s business” preaching the gospel in the Washington D.C. South Mission.
You may need courageous fortitude as the world thrusts the acquisition of riches and the madness of materialism upon you before you’ve even graduated from school. Understanding true doctrine and living by the principles taught in the scriptures and by living prophets will strengthen you. With this strength, you can refuse and conquer any behavior offensive to the Spirit.

Because you are a first-generation member, each choice you make is important. Seemingly small, insignificant decisions will impact past and future generations, as well as your own life. One young first-generation member, Chris, was offered a drink of alcohol at work the day after his baptism. His friends were all there and were drinking. There was considerable pressure. No one else knew that the day before, he had been baptized and made promises to the Lord. He made the decision not to drink and was treated poorly. Reflecting on that event later, he wrote: “It is now forty years since I made those [baptismal] promises and I can truthfully say that I have … kept the Word of Wisdom. … I believe if I had accepted [that] drink that I would, perhaps, never have been able to keep the Word of Wisdom.”

But Chris kept his baptismal promises. Later he met and married a faithful member. Together they raised eight children in the gospel. Now in the sixth generation, his faithful descendants number in the hundreds. Dozens have served missions and introduced the gospel to others. His efforts in family history opened the blessings of the gospel to hundreds more. One small decision by a first-generation member made a difference for thousands.

While at the hospital where they took my daughter Natalie (who had already passed), I was in a state of shock. I was completely numb, physically and mentally. Things were happening around me that I could see but not feel: police asking questions, friends crying, medical staff informing. It’s all a blur yet perfectly clear.
My former bishop and his wife were there. A colleague of mine had called them. My daughter, Natalie, and I had moved from their ward only a few months prior. My bishop and his wife were beloved friends of ours.
The bishop’s wife, also named Natalie, said I would be staying with them. The next thing I knew, I was in their vehicle riding back to my old neighborhood. I had no comprehension of time passing, yet I was aware it was dawn of the next day when I received a priesthood blessing from the bishop and a friend.
I was kept in the loop with all of the funeral arrangements, yet I was unaware of all the details. I would get dressed when I was told to get dressed. I would get in the car when I was told we had somewhere to go. I was a robot following simple commands. That was all I was capable of doing. Surprisingly, I had not yet shed a tear.
My daughter’s funeral was beautiful. There was a lot of laughter mixed with tears, and the Spirit was very much present. My oldest daughter, Victoria, traveled back to Utah from another state. She wrote a song and performed it at the funeral.
I was never approached about the funeral costs except to be informed it was being handled. Within a few weeks the funeral had been paid in full by donations from Church members.
At the time, I was still staying with my former bishop’s family. Members from my previous ward were looking for a new place for me to live. A cute little basement apartment became available, and the next thing I knew, I was signing a lease. This did not happen by my own doing. It was the actions of a network of Church members, including my dear friend Natalie, the bishop’s wife.
Ward members helped move my personal effects and got me and Victoria settled in. The first two months’ rent had been paid in advance—again, by Church member donations. I still had no perception of time, and I was still emotionally numb to a certain degree, yet I was starting to get feeling back.
A few weeks after my daughter’s death, the realization and magnitude of what had happened started to creep in. It was like heavy, thick black smoke seeping in at first, followed by all-consuming billows until I was surrounded by complete darkness. Grief in its rawest has its own dimension of blackness.
Natalie had died on Thanksgiving Day. It was now Christmas. The holidays only magnified my loss. The agony lingered throughout the day and tormented me throughout the night. It was relentless. The tears poured endlessly for days. Minutes passed like hours. Hours passed like days. Days passed like years.
As a divorced woman, I did not have a husband who could go out and earn a living. If I could have, I would have curled up in a ball, locked myself in a closet, and remained there forever. But I didn’t have that luxury. I had to somehow gather the strength to function. I had to find a job. I was working when Thanksgiving Day happened, but somehow in all the chaos, I had forgotten about my job. I could have gone back to it, but my Natalie loved to hang out there, and the thought of going back without her was unbearable.
By the first week of January, I had gotten a low-paying job. I tried to act like I was normal. My body kept going, but I felt like my soul had died. No one knew I was a hollow shell of a being just going through the motions. It was only during the drive to and from work that I was able to break down emotionally. This was my new normal.
I started going to my new ward a little at a time. I just knew if someone asked me how I was doing, I would fall to pieces. I desperately wanted to go to church, but I didn’t want to talk to anyone, much less make eye contact. I wished with all my heart that I could be invisible. More than anything, I just wanted to rip this all-consuming pain out of my chest!
I have no idea what the sisters in Relief Society thought of me, and at the time I didn’t much care. I was too busy just trying to breathe! I’m sure I gave off the impression that I wanted to be left alone, for none of them bothered me. They did, however, occasionally give me a warm smile that I found a little comforting—just the exact small dose to keep me from running out the nearest exit, which was a constant thought.
Time is a healer. It doesn’t erase events, but it allows gaping wounds to slowly close.
That fateful Thanksgiving Day was in 2011, and it took me a few years to realize just how much I was helped by my brothers and sisters in the Church. I felt like I was carried off the battlefield after having been critically wounded. I was nursed back to health and cared for until I could stand on my own.
Countless blessings have come my way, in a variety of ways. My testimony has grown to near full maturity. I know now what it feels like to be held in the loving arms of our Savior.
So to answer my friend’s question, “How did the Church help you through this ordeal?” I say, “They didn’t help me. They saved me.”