Gospel Story Finder

I had always had a feeling that I’d serve my mission in Switzerland where my ancestors once lived. So when I got my call to Italy in 1970, I was surprised but excited. In the language training mission (now called the missionary training center), I found out that southern Switzerland, where my ancestors came from, was actually part of my mission. I knew Heavenly Father called me to that specific place for a reason.
Partway through my mission, my companion and I were assigned to be zone leaders over an area that included southern Switzerland—and we had a car.
We went to my family’s village, Vergeletto, and looked up one of my cousins. He showed us around and introduced us to the parish priest, who, upon request, showed us the books of vital records for the area. We then returned home, but a seed had been planted in me that would grow throughout my mission.
With just a month left on my mission, I felt like I needed to take action and find my family’s records before I returned home. I prayed to know if there was something more I could do, and I felt a distinct prompting from the Spirit telling me that I needed to get a copy of those vital records that I had seen months ago. I told my mission president that I felt like I needed to return to my family’s village in Switzerland and explained why. The village was 87 miles (140 km) away, but my mission president gave me permission to go anyway.
It was dusk when the narrow winding road took us up the mountain into the hamlet of Vergeletto. We stopped at the focal point of town, the Catholic church. My companion and I were then drawn to the cemetery across the street from the church that was all lit up with candles.
As we entered the cemetery, I clearly and strongly felt the Spirit guide me like I never had before. That feeling and the fresh alpine air created a sensation I will never forget. In the cemetery, it seemed that every other tombstone had my last name on it. We even saw my great-grandfather’s tomb; it said people went to him to repair their broken bones.
We returned to the church to see if we could find the priest. There we met an old man, who told us it was Il Giorno dei Morti, or a holiday known as the Day of the Dead (which would explain all the candles in the cemetery). The man told us that the priest had services in neighboring villages and would be back in two hours.
My companion and I waited, and when the priest returned, I reminded him of our encounter a few months earlier and then asked if I could see the vital records of the parish again.
He agreed.
The priest brought out a box of books that were hundreds of years old. I told the priest that our Church was microfilming parish records in Parma, Italy, 170 miles (274 km) away. I asked if he would allow us to take the records for a few weeks and have them copied.
He again agreed. I was shocked.
As we left town, I marveled at what had just happened and even checked the rearview mirror to see if the priest was running after us with a change of heart. Two weeks later, we returned the records to him, as promised.
Due to the penmanship, the use of Latin, and the deterioration, the records were hard to read. But then, just a few years ago, I noticed hundreds of records from Vergeletto had been linked to my ancestors in FamilySearch. Family lines that used to only go out three to four generations now extended seven to nine generations!
It turns out a professional genealogist in Alabama, USA, who is not a member of the Church shares a branch of the global family tree with me. He had accessed and read the records from the books I had copied in Italy and attached them in FamilySearch. This man is amazing; we have since collaborated several times. He explained that uploading those names and sources is his way of paying back the Church for all their work in making records available in FamilySearch.
Now my dad’s side of my genealogy fan chart is full of names. And I’ve been blessed to do their temple work.
I’ve often looked back wondering why a Catholic priest would allow a young American—who was also a missionary for another faith—to take his collection of vital records out of the country for copying. Were my ancestors praying for me? Were they praying for the priest’s heart to be softened?
I don’t know—it could have been both those things. But I do know that Heavenly Father can help bring about miracles when we seek His help. And as Elder Dale G. Renlund of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles has promised, family history work holds so many blessings for those on both sides of the veil: “God will strengthen, help, and uphold us; and He will sanctify to us our deepest distress. When we gather our family histories and go to the temple on behalf of our ancestors, God fulfills many of these promised blessings simultaneously on both sides of the veil.” 1 The Lord directs this work, and when you trust Him, He can work miracles for you and your family as you strive to gather Israel.

My mother worked in a fashion boutique in Paris and liked the Americans she met there. She grew to love the English language and encouraged me to study English even as a young child. During the summers, she sent me to England or Scotland to stay with English-speaking families. One year she encouraged me to get involved in an American summer camp exchange program. Through this program I became a camp counselor in Sharon, Vermont—the birthplace of Joseph Smith. Perhaps the Lord, even then, was trying to turn the wheels once more. Unfortunately, I heard nothing of Joseph Smith or the Mormons while I was there.

Several years later, however, the wheels turned again, with great power. I was studying English, with a specific focus on American culture, at Paris’s Sorbonne University. As I began thinking about a master’s thesis topic, I remembered the documentary about the Mormon pioneers. I asked my adviser if I could do something on them. No one at the Sorbonne had written a thesis about the Mormons, and so my adviser thought the subject might prove interesting. But he insisted that I pick an aspect of Mormonism that was unique.

After doing some preliminary research, I discovered that there was not enough information about the Mormons in the university library. I concluded I would have to talk to them. By then I had learned that the official name of the Mormon Church was The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. With that information, I located the headquarters of the Paris Mission and boldly knocked on the front door. I asked the missionary who answered, “Is there someone here who can tell me about the Mormons?”

The surprised young man managed to stutter, “Yes, yes, come in!”

As my research at the mission home progressed, I learned that Latter-day Saints believe in ordinances performed for dead ancestors. The more I read about temple work for the dead, the more I wanted to use that topic. The title I finally chose for my thesis was enough to make even long-time members of the Church pause: “Genealogy and the Mormon Church.” That’s how I became known in the Paris Mission as the “Genealogy Girl.”

It was at this point, just two months after my first visit to the mission home, that I met my future husband. He was a freelance American photographer and writer traveling in France. The missionaries told him about me, and he decided to interview me for a possible article for the Church magazines. After talking with me about the Church, he asked if I had ever considered joining. I shrugged my shoulders and said, “I’m really just curious.”

But as an afterthought, I reflected, “There is something unusual about your church. I always feel a sense of peace when I come to the mission home. Actually, I welcome reasons to come back.” Still, I insisted that my interest was only academic curiosity.

A few months later I decided to continue my thesis research by visiting the famous genealogical facilities in Salt Lake City. I arrived in Utah the day before President Joseph Fielding Smith’s funeral, and I went to the public viewing with an LDS girl I had corresponded with while I was in France. I was impressed by the lack of despair at the services.

During this time, the photographer I met in Paris returned to Salt Lake City, and we became reacquainted. I asked him to help proofread my thesis, and as time went on, he noticed my comments in the thesis becoming more and more positive—starting with “the Mormons believe …” and later expressing, without my realizing it, “We believe …”

One evening, he asked if I would like to take the missionary lessons. I hesitated and gave my former response, “I’m only curious.” But there was less certainty in my voice, so he suggested, “What have you got to lose?”

I smiled and said, “Well, nothing, I guess. OK.” Three weeks later, I was baptized, and the wagon wheels turned again as I became a pioneer myself—the only member of the Church in my family. Soon I would be privileged to give many of my ancestors the opportunity to choose to become members of the Church of Jesus Christ.

A year and a half after my baptism, the photographer and I were married in the Salt Lake Temple. Little did he know when he met me how the wagon wheels shown in a French documentary would affect his life.

Now it is 1997, the 150th anniversary of the pioneers entering the Salt Lake Valley, and as I tell my story I truly do feel the jar of the wagon wheels as they crunch the rocks and churn the dust in a deeply rutted trail. It is a day like many others, and I am pulling a handcart as part of the 1997 Sesquicentennial Mormon Trail Wagon Train on the old historic pioneer route near Big Sandy Crossing, Wyoming. During this reenactment, I am playing the part of an actual pioneer girl from France who joined the Church in Italy and came to Zion in the 1850s. It seems incredible that I am walking the same trail, breathing the same dust, and hearing the same sounds as she and so many other pioneers did so long ago.

As I walk, I remember the documentary I saw when I was a young girl in France, and I can feel the presence of the many Latter-day Saints who lived and died along this trail. However, the part I am playing is not just a story from our pioneer past, it is also my story—for I am a pioneer, too.

During a youth conference in the Uintah Mountains, I convinced my dad to hike with me to the top of a mountain. While waiting for him, I sprawled out on a rock and fell asleep. However, the medication I was taking at the time warned against staying out in the sun for too long, so when I awoke, I had a pounding headache.
My dad and I headed out, but I knew there was a problem. With every step I took, my head pounded, and I began to feel lightheaded and dizzy. I got slower and slower and fell farther behind my dad. All I could think about was the pain I was in, and how I wasn’t going to be able to finish.
My dad guided me to a rock, where we sat down. When I explained what was wrong and that I wanted to turn around, he offered comfort. He said, “I would do anything to take the pain away from you. I wish I could feel it for you, just so you wouldn’t have to feel an ounce of it.” He reminded me of my desire to hike the mountain and offered to go slower so that we could finish.
Once again we began. This time I was in the front so I could take it at my own pace. Although the headache was still painful, I was no longer sick to my stomach and dizzy, and we proceeded to work our way up the rocks.
My dad had just given me an example of true love and of what Christ has done for all of us. Christ took our sins upon Himself in the Garden of Gethsemane and on the cross so that we, through repentance, might not have to suffer and so that we may return to our Heavenly Father forever and be with our families. I’ve had many lessons on the Savior’s love, but until that moment I hadn’t ever truly made that connection. I not only realized how much my dad loved me but also how much my Savior and Heavenly Father must love me.

Tom jumped off the school bus, shouting his good-byes. Mrs. Lee, the driver, waved to him, and the bus rumbled on. Tom heard a snort and turned to see his horse leaning over the fence, blowing frosty clouds into the icy air.
“Hi, Taffy,” he called. “I can always depend on you to meet me,” he said as he rubbed the little buckskin horse on the nose. Then he slipped onto Taffy’s back, and galloped bareback the half mile through the pasture to his house.
Later, as Tom sat down to dinner, Dad sternly asked, “Why didn’t you feed your horse this morning, Tom?”
“I’m sorry. I forgot,” Tom replied. He had overslept and had almost missed the school bus.
“You forgot twice last week,” his father continued. “And there’s something else you have to remember. In this cold weather, it’s important to keep the ice broken in the water trough. I found Taffy trying to get a drink this morning by licking the ice.”
Tom lowered his head.
“I don’t want to rub it in, Tom,” Dad said in a kinder tone, “but when you got your horse, you agreed to take care of him. Remember, son, if you take care of Taffy, he’ll take care of you.”
Tom quickly ate a little food and then excused himself. All he could think about was his horse. I just have to think of some way to remember Taffy every morning, no matter what, he decided.
He slowly undressed, said his prayers, and climbed into bed, murmuring, “Remember to feed and water Taffy. Remember to feed …” Suddenly Tom sat up. “I know,” he said, jumping out of bed. He grabbed his marble jar and raced barefoot to the hall closet. Taking his gloves from the pocket of his jacket, he stuffed a marble into a finger of each glove. “That will do it!” he said, pleased with his plan as he went back to his room. “When I feel those marbles in my gloves, I’ll remember Taffy.”
Morning came cold and gray. It was snowing. Tom was slow getting up. He gulped his breakfast and gathered up his books. It was time for the bus. Tom struggled into his heavy coat and pulled on his gloves. His fingers touched the marbles. “Oh, no,” he groaned. “I have to take care of Taffy. I’m late now and I’ll probably miss the bus!” But then Tom remembered what his father had said to him the night before. He removed the marbles as he ran to the corral.
Taffy neighed a greeting. Tom measured some oats into the feed bucket, then broke the thick ice the length of the trough with a hammer from the shed. He gave Taffy a quick pat, and ran down the lane toward the road.
Snow was falling heavily now, and luckily the bus was late. Tom was glad the school bus had been delayed as he climbed aboard.
All morning the snow fell. Then the wind picked up, threatening to turn the storm into a blizzard. At noon school was dismissed. The buses headed home through the blowing snow.
About half the children from Tom’s bus had been let off when the driver turned to Tom. “We’re almost to your house,” she said, “which is lucky because I can hardly see the road. I hope your folks will let the rest of us stay at your house tonight. Can you help me find the turnoff to your lane?”
Tom stood beside the driver, peering through the snow. “I think it’s just ahead, Mrs. Lee,” Tom said, but the storm was so bad he wasn’t sure, for just then a terrific blast of wind turned everything outside into a gigantic white wall.
Mrs. Lee pumped the brakes. Gradually, the bus tilted sideways until Tom had to lean against the window for balance. The older children began shouting, and a younger child started to cry.
“Don’t be afraid,” said Mrs. Lee. “We’ve gone off the road, but we’re not far from Tom’s house so we don’t have anything to worry about.”
Tom stared through the windshield. He could see nothing but swirls of white. When a lull in the storm came, he glimpsed a familiar form. Tom pushed open the tilted bus door and forced himself out into the blizzard before Mrs. Lee could stop him. Then he heard Taffy’s welcoming whinny. He plunged blindly across the snow-filled ditch toward the sound and came up against a barbed wire fence. He slipped and went down in a heap. The next thing he heard was a hoarse whuff and Taffy was nuzzling him.
“Taffy!” Tom said, giving the horse a loving pat. “You didn’t have to meet me in this blizzard. You’ll freeze. And so will I if I stay here.” He looked back, but couldn’t see the bus. He knew that if his friends were not found until morning they might all freeze too.
Tom made his decision. He climbed the fence post and mounted Taffy. “You’ll have to take me home,” he told his pet. The snow stung his face and the wind tore at his body. He leaned forward and buried his face in the horse’s mane. They barely plodded along, and Tom had no idea where they were. He felt numb when Taffy stopped.
“Go on, Taffy,” he urged. “Don’t give up.” But the horse wouldn’t budge. Tom squinted into the snow. There, at the end of Taffy’s nose, Tom finally made out a gate—the corral gate! Tom slid off and opened it. “First things first, old fellow,” said Tom, and he led the horse into the safety of the shed. Then Tom followed the fence hand over hand till he reached the house. He opened the door and tumbled into the arms of his mother and father.
It took his father three jouncy trips in the jeep to bring everyone on the bus through the snow and safely to the house. Finally, when they all were gathered safely around the roaring fireplace, Tom began pulling on his coat and gloves.
“Where are you going, son?” Dad asked.
“Out to the shed. I want to rub down Taffy and snap on his blanket,” Tom answered. He smiled at his father as he continued. “We made a deal, remember? I take care of him and he takes care of me.”
Dad gave Tom an understanding look. “Right, son. But it’s still blowing pretty hard. Hold on, I’ll go with you.”
And together they headed for the shed.

Every year my family spends Christmas at a beach near Matinhos in Paraná, Brazil. We begin preparing for the trip in November and survive the hot days of December only by anticipating the excitement of the Christmas holidays.
It is not just the chance to play in the ocean that makes the trip so exciting. It is also a reunion with my father’s family—all strong Latter-day Saints. My grandparents joined the Church long ago, and both my parents were born in the Church.
One year’s trip, the year I was 13, was particularly unforgettable.
It was 22 December 1994 when, after so many preparations, we finally arrived at the large beach house where we were met by my grandparents, cousins, aunts, and uncles.
“Hey, Isaac,” I heard my cousin Charles calling me. “Let’s go take a look at the waves.”
“Sure, let’s go,” I excitedly yelled back. After all, I did not want to lose one second of my long-awaited holiday.
As we made our way to the ocean, my mother counseled: “Do not go very far from the beach. Try to stay in the shallow water with your cousin.”
But after entering the water, we began pursuing the rolling waves and gradually moved farther out. Before we noticed it, we were far from the shore. Suddenly Charles said, “Isaac, the water is deep. It’s so deep I can’t put my foot down.”
“Let’s go back,” I answered. “I can’t touch the bottom either, and I don’t think we can swim against the tide.” Charles seemed to be more frightened than I, but I was also afraid, not knowing what was going to happen to us.
Some minutes passed as we tried to reach the shallow water, but it seemed the more we struggled, the farther out we went. We were a long way from the shore when I looked over the waves and saw many people running back and forth on the beach trying to see us. At that moment, I thought of my mother. She would be angry because I had disobeyed her, and she would be worrying that I wouldn’t return. I was glad my father was at work and hadn’t joined us at the beach yet. He would have been frantic. Oh, how I wanted to be safe on the beach with my family!
I kept struggling and telling my cousin not to quit as we tried to keep our heads above the water. He kept encouraging me also. When we saw a lifeguard coming to get us, he looked very small in that immense ocean. I yelled, “We’re saved!”
But my joy was short-lived as I saw how hard it was for the lifeguard to reach Charles and carry him back to the beach. Left alone, I was pulled by the current farther and farther away. I became so tired I could hardly breathe. At that moment, I remembered something I had learned from my parents: “All things are possible to him that believeth” (Mark 9:23).
Trusting my parents and my Heavenly Father, I began to pray. I asked Heavenly Father to send dolphins to save me. When the dolphins appear, I will grab one of their fins, and I will be saved, I thought. I had no doubts about my request; I knew my prayer would be answered. I waited … and waited.
I soon became so exhausted that I held my nose, went deep under the water, then returned to the surface. Nevertheless, hope and patience did not abandon me, not even for a second. I kept fighting.
By then, Charles was safe on the beach, but he was in a very bad condition. People asked him about me. He could only cry. The people on the beach continued trying to spot me among the waves.
From the other side of the beach, which seemed an easier means of rescue, two lifeguards started toward me. As they approached, I realized in my very tired mind that my prayers had been answered. Two courageous men had not become discouraged by what seemed a hopeless situation. They were the dolphins I was waiting for! I remember they said to me, “Rest and everything will be all right.”
When we reached the shore, I was laid on a stretcher and taken to a first-aid station. People watching from the other side of the beach could see only my motionless body, and they thought I had drowned.
My mother quickly reached my side and found I was still breathing. How good it was to see her! How good it was to be alive!
“Well, young man, you are very lucky,” the surprised doctor remarked. “Not one drop of water entered your lungs. I have never seen an accident like this where someone has been so lucky.”
My mother looked at the doctor. “It wasn’t luck,” she said firmly. It was clear that she knew it was the Lord, not luck, who had saved me.
My parents have always taught me to have faith. They have taught me through their examples to look to my Heavenly Father in any difficulty. I realized that day that there are always consequences when we disobey—sometimes serious consequences. But I also learned that faith and prayer can give us the will to endure even in the worst difficulty. I know that when we ask in faith Heavenly Father answers our prayers—not necessarily with what we ask for, but with what we need most.

Josh followed Dad into the basement storage room, where he rummaged through some boxes and pulled out a shiny trophy with a football player on top.
Josh’s eyes grew big. “An MVP award! And it has your name on it!”
Dad nodded. “I received this when I was a junior—the first junior ever to earn it at our school. I thought I was the toughest, meanest, most powerful seventeen-year-old on earth. I played on both sides of the ball, but I preferred defense because I really got to unload on people. I loved to hear the crowd cheer when I made a hit.”
Josh stroked the trophy lovingly. “Why isn’t this where everybody can see it?”
Dad shrugged and put the trophy back into the box. “It just doesn’t seem that important anymore. Maybe that’s because my senior year I got an award that taught me a lot more.” He opened his wallet and took out a plastic bracelet.
Josh looked it over. “It’s like the bracelet Mom wore in the hospital when she had Stacey. But this one has your name on it.”
Dad nodded. “I earned it in the homecoming game. I’d intercepted a pass on the other team’s twenty, and only one man was between me and the end zone. He was so small, I didn’t bother putting any moves on him. I just lowered my head and charged. When I came to, I was lying on the field, and, Josh, I couldn’t move! This big, tough, proud football player was lying there eating grass—crying like a baby and scared out of his mind.”
Josh didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t imagine his strong, calm father frightened and helpless. “What happened?” he asked at last.
“They strapped me to some kind of a contraption, carried me behind the stands, and put me into an ambulance. I could hear the crowd cheering, and I thought, They’re watching the game again. They’ve forgotten all about me.
“My father was out of town, so my mother rode in the ambulance with me. Brother Jones got in too. Besides Dad, he was the only Melchizedek Priesthood holder in our little town. He was also the math teacher at school, and I didn’t like him much. He was small and soft-spoken, and he called the students ‘ladies and gentlemen.’ We all laughed at him behind his back.
“My mother asked if he would give me a blessing, and he said, ‘I’d be honored.’ He anointed me with oil. Then he put his small hands on my head and told me that Heavenly Father knew me and loved me. He said that people in wheelchairs can still serve valiantly, but that I had some work to do on foot. He promised me that I would walk again.”
“And you did!”
“It turned out that my spinal cord was only bruised. My recovery took a long time, though, and it wasn’t much fun. No one was kinder or more helpful than Brother Jones. Sometimes he held me up while I learned to walk again, and I was amazed at the strength in his small hands. I began to understand that power doesn’t come just from muscles, that some heavy weights can be lifted only by kindness, gentleness, and love. Do you understand, son?”
Josh looked at his feet. “A little.”
Dad put the bracelet back into his wallet, and Josh followed him upstairs to the living room. Taking a picture of the Savior from the wall, Dad said, “On my last day of school, I hobbled into Brother Jones’s room and told him that I hoped to be as strong someday as he was. He smiled and handed me a graduation gift. ‘Thank you,’ he said, ‘but here’s a better example to follow.’ I unwrapped this picture. Since then I’ve studied the life of the Savior and done my best to follow his example.”

I can remember when I was called as a bishop, my predecessor, Bishop Russell Johnson, warned me that I would have to be careful what I asked the members to do. He said, “Some will respond to every suggestion, even at great sacrifice.” He mentioned one widow in her 80s who had cared for both a husband and a son through long illnesses before they passed away. Bishop Johnson said that despite having small resources, she would always try to respond. I found this to be true. Every time I mentioned the need for contributions or service to bless others, Sarah was often the first to respond.
One Saturday another sister called me and said, “Bishop, come quick! Save Sarah!” This sister reported that 80-year-old Sarah was on top of a ladder cleaning out this neighbor’s rain gutters. This sister was terrified that Sarah would fall and wanted the bishop to intervene.
I am not suggesting that everyone can or should imitate Sarah. Some feel guilty because they cannot meet every need immediately. I love the quote Elder Neal A. Maxwell often used from Anne Morrow Lindbergh: “My life cannot implement in action the demands of all the people to whom my heart responds.”18 King Benjamin taught, “See that all these things are done in wisdom and order; for it is not requisite that a man should run faster than he has strength.”19 But he added that we should be diligent.
My heart rejoices as I observe the Saints all over the Church doing everything they can to provide Christlike service wherever there is a need. Because of member contributions, the Church can quietly and quickly, without fanfare, respond to needs all over the world.20 The Church is already responding to the natural disasters in the Philippines, the Pacific Islands, and Indonesia.
Last year our members responded to Hurricane Gustav. The Church worked closely with a humanitarian organization led by Martin Luther King III. Mr. King subsequently visited Salt Lake City and said: “I originally came to express my appreciation to the Church for their humanitarian support, but I quickly learned that the essence of who you are is so much deeper and profound. Between the Humanitarian Center, Welfare Square, and the temple open house, I now have a greater appreciation for why you do what you do.”
In all of our stewardship efforts, we follow Jesus Christ. We try to emulate what He has asked us to do, both by His teachings and His example. With all our hearts we express our appreciation to the membership of the Church for their generous contributions and Christlike service.
Isaiah, speaking of the fast and feeding the hungry and clothing the naked, in touching language promised, “Then shalt thou call, and the Lord shall answer.”21 Isaiah continues: “And if thou draw out thy soul to the hungry, and satisfy the afflicted soul; … the Lord shall guide thee continually, … and thou shalt be like … a spring of water, whose waters fail not. … [And] thou shalt raise up the foundations of many generations.”22
My hope is that each of us will review individually and as families the stewardships for which we have responsibility and accountability. I pray that we will do so knowing we are ultimately accountable to God and that in this life we will be adhering to the unenforceable.
I am grateful for the counsel of a loving, faithful prophet to serve and rescue those in need. As we follow his counsel, I know we will qualify for the Lord’s promise: “And whoso is found a faithful, a just, and a wise steward shall enter into the joy of his Lord, and shall inherit eternal life.”23
I bear my witness of this sacred truth in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Angela stormed into the house, slamming her books onto the kitchen table. Her fifth-grade math book fell to the floor at her mother’s feet. Seven-year-old Caleb, who had run home from the bus stop, sat in shocked silence.
“I’m never going back to school again!” Angela yelled. Her anger turned into tears as she dropped into a chair. Between sobs, Angela wailed, “Sheela is making life miserable for me. I tried to be nice to her when she called me names. I ignored her when she teased me about my clothes. Then today she told everyone that I told her secrets about Ammon Young. Now Ammon’s afraid to talk to me.”
Mom sat down and put her arm around her daughter. Angela raised her tear-streamed face. “Mom, Ammon’s my best friend. He’s the only other Church member in my grade. We always help each other choose the right.” She laid her head against Mom’s shoulder and cried for a long while.
Caleb, uncomfortable with the silence, said, “My Primary teacher said that Jesus taught us to pray for our enemies. Maybe you should pray that Sheela gets really sick and misses lots of school.”
“I don’t think that is what Jesus meant,” Mom gently corrected.
“Then, maybe you could pray that Sheela moves to another country,” Caleb suggested.
Mom shook her head. “No, Caleb—but you’re right that we should pray for our enemies. In fact, this Sunday is fast Sunday. Let’s use this opportunity to fast for Sheela. When we combine faith, prayers, and fasting, miracles can happen.”
Angela, who had calmed down a bit, sniffled and added, “Like the time we all fasted and prayed for cousin David when he was born two months too soon?”
“That’s right, Angela,” Mom said. “Heavenly Father blessed us for our faith. He always does.”
Angela prayed many times throughout the weekend that Sheela would stop being mean to her. As she fasted, she hardly noticed when her stomach growled.
Before leaving for school on Monday morning, Angela knelt by her bed once again. “Heavenly Father, please help Sheela to stop being mean. I’ve fasted and prayed. I have faith that Thou canst change her. In the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.”
Angela bounced happily down the stairs. “Good-bye, Mom.”
“Have a great day,” Mom said, kissing her and Caleb good-bye.
“Oh, I will—I just know it!”
She was sure she would when she arrived at her class and found that her teacher had rearranged the desks. Angela was no longer sitting next to Sheela. She was on the opposite side of the room. Angela silently offered a prayer of thanks. Ammon even smiled at her as he walked past her desk. This really is going to be a great day! she thought.
After lunch, she stopped by the rest room to make sure that no food was stuck in her braces. Her heart raced when Sheela walked out of one of the stalls. Summoning her courage, Angela smiled and said, “Hi, Sheela—do you have fun plans for the weekend?”
Sheela just smiled—not exactly a friendly smile, but a smile. The two girls left the bathroom at the same time.
“Hello, Sheela. Hello, Angela,” Mrs. Keiter, the music teacher, said as she passed by.
“Hello,” the girls answered. Angela was glad Sheela had not said or done anything mean in the bathroom. She was happy, too, when Sheela went to the office instead of out to the playground. Again, Angela offered a quiet prayer of gratitude to Heavenly Father for His help.
A few minutes before school was over for the day, the secretary spoke over the intercom. “Mrs. Winn, will you please send Angela Valencia to the office. The principal would like to see her.”
Angela stood and walked across the room, wondering what the principal wanted. As she passed Sheela’s desk, Sheela smirked and cooed, “Good luck.” It made Angela feel cold all over.
The principal, Mr. Cooper, was waiting for Angela when she arrived. He shut the door behind her. “Angela, I’ve received a report that you have been defacing school property. Someone scratched ‘Angela Valencia loves Ammon Young’ on one of the stalls in the girls rest room. The student who reported this said that Mrs. Keiter saw you leaving there during lunch recess. I’ve checked with her, and she said that you were there at that time.”
Angela was stunned. How could this be? Hadn’t she fasted and prayed and used all her faith that Heavenly Father would make Sheela be nice? Sheela had been in the rest room at the same time. She must have scratched the names on the stall.
“Mr. Cooper,” Angela said softly, “I did go into the rest room after lunch, but I didn’t scratch anything on the stalls.”
“I’m sorry, Angela, but I have your word against another student’s and a teacher’s. You will help the janitor, Mr. Hamblin, during recess for a week. Maybe that will help you respect school property more.”
Caleb knew by the look on Angela’s face when she got on the bus that things had not gone well. He walked silently beside her on the way home from the bus stop. Entering the kitchen just ahead of her, he blurted, “Angela’s faith didn’t work.”
“Caleb! That’s not nice,” Mom scolded.
“No, Mom, Caleb’s right,” Angela sighed sadly. “I must not have enough faith for Heavenly Father to make Sheela be nice.” She told Mom about her day.
Taking Angela by the hand, Mom led her into the living room. “Angela, we can’t pray away another person’s agency, no matter how much faith we have.” Mom explained, “When we pray for our enemies, it changes how we feel about them and brings us peace. We change for the better, and sometimes our goodness helps our enemies to change. Sadly, some never change. But we should never let our enemies choose how we will act.”
“So what does Angela do about Sheela?” Caleb interrupted. “How does all this faith, prayer, and fasting help her if Sheela is still mean?”
Angela nodded, tears starting to spill over her eyelashes. “I thought faith could produce miracles.”
“It does. I promise you that it does,” Mom assured her. “Do you remember from family scripture study last week the story of Alma and his people in the land of Helam?” Mom reached for her scriptures sitting on the end table.
“A little,” Angela said. “Alma’s people were being good, but they still were captured by the Lamanites. Things got even worse when the Lamanites put Amulon, one of the wicked priests of King Noah, in charge over Alma’s people.”
“And Amulon was Alma’s enemy,” Caleb added. “He knew that Alma had believed the prophet Abinadi and had tried to save him from being burned.”
“That’s right,” Mom said. “Amulon made slaves of Alma and his people and gave them hard work. He even put guards over them to kill anyone caught praying.”
“But they still prayed in their hearts, didn’t they?” Caleb asked.
“Yes, and the Lord answered their prayers,” Mom replied. “He didn’t help them escape right away, but He helped them with their trials. Let’s read what happened in Mosiah 24:15:
“‘And now it came to pass that the burdens which were laid upon Alma and his brethren were made light; yea, the Lord did strengthen them that they could bear up their burdens with ease, and they did submit cheerfully and with patience to all the will of the Lord.’
“So, what do you think you should pray for now?” Mom asked gently.
Angela sat quietly, then, breathing deeply, she answered, “To endure my trials cheerfully.”
The next day, after sanding and painting over the writing in the bathroom, Angela was emptying trash cans from the classrooms when Sheela walked by. Loudly she said to the girls with her, “It looks like we have a new janitor at our school.” The group left, giggling.
“Please help me to be cheerful and patient,” Angela prayed in her heart.
Just then Mr. Hamblin walked up. “Angela, you’re a good worker. I appreciate your help.” Then he smiled a big smile. “You didn’t scratch those words on the bathroom stall, did you?”
Angela shook her head.
“That’s what I told Mr. Cooper. And while we were talking, Ammon Young came to report that he’d overheard Sheela Kelly bragging about doing it herself and getting you in trouble. Ammon even volunteered to take your punishment himself if the principal didn’t believe him.” Mr. Hamblin smiled again. “So, Mr. Cooper wants to see you again in his office. He’s a fair man, young lady, I think you’ll be happy to talk with him again.”
Patience and cheerfulness, prayers and faith, Angela thought. They really do produce miracles. I don’t think my troubles with Sheela are over, but I’ll keep trying to do what’s right. Maybe I’ll try to talk with her again. And as she hurried toward the principal’s office, she silently prayed, Thank Thee, Heavenly Father, for helping me with my trials.

President David O. McKay spoke about his horse Dandy, who wanted complete freedom and no restraints. President McKay said:
“Under the saddle he was as willing, responsive, and cooperative as a horse could be. …
“But Dandy resented restraint. He was ill-contented when tied and would nibble at the tie-rope until he was free. He would not run away, he just wanted to be free. Thinking other horses felt the same, he would proceed to untie their ropes. …
“… His curiosity and desire to explore the neighborhood led him and me into trouble. Once on the highway he was hit by an automobile. …
“Recovering from that, and still impelled with a feeling of wanderlust, he inspected the fence throughout the entire boundary. He even found the gates wired. …
“One day, however, somebody left the gate unwired. Detecting this, Dandy unlatched it and took another horse … with him, and together they … went to an old house used for storage. Dandy’s curiosity prompted him to push open the door. … There was a sack of grain. What a find! Yes, and what a tragedy. The grain was bait for rodents! In a few minutes Dandy and the other horse were in spasmodic pain, and shortly afterwards both were dead.”
President McKay continued: “How like Dandy are many of our youth! … They are impulsive, full of life, full of curiosity. … They, too, are restive under restraint, but if they are kept busy, guided carefully and rightly, they prove to be responsive and capable; but if left to wander unguided, they all too frequently violate principles of right which often lead to snares of evil, disaster, and even death.”

I’m trying to read the whole Book of Mormon before I turn eight. In family home evening my dad talked about setting goals, so I decided to read three pages a day to meet my goal. Sometimes I take my Book of Mormon to school so I can read it during silent reading. My friends have asked me about the Book of Mormon, and I have been able to tell them about it. I’m happy that we can have the scriptures to read and share with others.
Emily S., age 7, Texas

Jane’s mother was a wonderful gardener. She could grow beautiful flowers even in a patch of rocky soil. “No matter how tired I get, working in the garden or just looking at a meadow of Maine wildflowers always perks me up,” she had once told Jane.
After Mama got sick, Jane picked flowers for her each day, filling her bedroom with forget-me-nots, daisies, lady’s slippers, and wildflowers of all the colors of the rainbow.
But then autumn came, and there were no more flowers.
“The frost killed the last flowers,” Jane whispered one day as she brought a handful of bright orange and red maple leaves to cheer her mother.
Mama took her hand. “When spring comes, Jane, remember to look at the flowers for me.”
Jane thought that the long Maine winter would never end. The house seemed so cold without Mama. Little Rose and Isaac had been sent away to Aunt Ellen’s. Father was grave and silent.
One day her father said, “Aunt Ellen has found a cousin of your mother’s who can come and keep house for us this spring. If she does, then Rose and Isaac can come home.”
“What’s her name?”
“Kate. Cousin Kate.”
Cousin Kate didn’t look much older than a girl. She was plump and wore her dark red hair in braids piled on top of her head. Rose and Isaac came home. They missed Mama, and so did Jane. But Cousin Kate cuddled Rose and Isaac and made them laugh. Even Papa smiled a little at her funny ways. But Jane still could not laugh.
Finally the beauty of spring touched the world. Mama’s daffodils came up; then the forsythia bushes burst out in bright yellow. There were new leaf buds on the trees. One night Jane caught the sweet scent of lilacs from the bush under her window.
But Jane only wanted to scream and yell at the flowers. How could they be here when Mama was gone?
One morning Kate said, “Jane, we must set about spring cleaning.”
Kate and Jane began a whirlwind of turning over mattresses and shaking out rugs. After the whole house had been cleaned, Kate said, “We haven’t touched your mother’s dresses. Come and help me go through them.”
Reluctantly Jane followed Cousin Kate into her parents’ room. Mama’s dresses still hung in the closet.
“We’ll put some of these dresses aside for you, Jane. Then you’ll have something of hers to wear when you’re grown.”
Kate began to sort through Mama’s dresses. Jane sat on the floor, holding a familiar red wool dress her mother had worn often to church. She felt the tears run down her cheeks and turned toward the window so that Kate wouldn’t see them.
Outside, Papa was just visible near the barn, and Rose and Isaac were playing near the garden. Kate had worked hard in the garden, and it was blooming with the promise of all kinds of flowers and vegetables.
Jane looked down at the dress in her hands. She didn’t want to give it—or any of them—away. They would help her remember Mama during the long, cold winters when there were no flowers. Suddenly she had an idea. “Remember to look at the flowers,” Mama had said. Jane turned to her cousin and said softly, “Kate, could I have one of my mother’s dresses now, before I’m grown?”
Kate stopped and looked at Jane. “These dresses bring her back, do they?”
Jane nodded. “I want to make something to remember her by. I could make a quilt, but I’m not very good at quilting.”
“Did your mama teach you how to make rugs? She made some beautiful ones herself, with appliqué and embroidery.”
“Oh yes! Mama did teach me! I remember she said that if you knew how to make a rug, you could make any house into a home.”
“Well, let’s see,” said Kate, nodding her head. “The red dress you have there would be perfect. Here’s a black wool one too.” She smiled at Jane.
She understands how I feel, thought Jane.
The rug would be made from wool, so it would last. Jane began to plan its design—it must have lots of flowers!
Jane worked on the rug each summer evening. It was big—almost four feet wide and six feet long—perfect for in front of a fireplace or in the kitchen.
She filled the center of the rug with pictures of everything around her that summer: trees, their old cow, birds sitting on their nests in the apple orchard, her father riding his horse to town. She even put in their house, with its two large windows downstairs, four windows upstairs, and two big chimneys. She embroidered a beautiful starflower, and a dozen lovely hearts. In the very center she copied her mother’s favorite vase filled with a bright bouquet.
“You don’t have any more room in the center,” Kate laughed one evening. “Now what will you do for the borders?”
“Vines and more flowers,” Jane said.
“That’s quite a project for an eleven-year-old,” her father observed. “I don’t recall ever seeing anything like it in the whole of Maine.”
“Oh, Papa!”
“Well, in Wiscasset, anyway. It’s sure to win a prize at the Harvest Fair,” he said.
“Jane has put a lot of love and memories into the rug, and it shows,” Cousin Kate agreed.
Jane cut out over one hundred flowers to appliqué around the border. She used her mother’s brightest clothes. She embroidered curving leaves, vines, and flowers trailing up and down the sides of the rug. Each night when she went to bed, she had to shake her hand because her fingers were so tired and sore from holding the needle. But each morning she looked around her more eagerly, wanting to capture the beauty her mother had taught her to see.
Finally it was done. Cousin Kate helped her press it with a warm iron the night before the Harvest Fair.
They took the wagon to the center of Wiscasset to the big churchyard. Quilts and rugs and samplers of all kinds were already displayed.
Jane hesitated.
“Come,” said Cousin Kate, taking her arm. “Let’s enter it.”
“What have we here?” Mrs. Kingsbury asked.
“A rug made by Jane Gove, age eleven,” said Kate proudly, while Jane stood shyly to one side.
In the morning sunlight the bright cloth and the colored threads shone and sparkled on the black wool.
“Why it’s almost like being in a garden! You’re Mary Gove’s oldest, aren’t you? Your mother would be proud!” Mrs. Kingsbury exclaimed.
As they walked around the churchyard, looking at jams and jellies and animals and pumpkins, it was almost like being a family again. Cousin Kate couldn’t ever take Mama’s place, but Jane was glad that she had come to live with them. It was good to see Isaac and Rose laughing again. And Papa seemed to walk with a lighter step. But we haven’t forgotten Mama. She is still in our hearts.
After supper, the winners were announced. After seeing the display of needlework, Jane didn’t really think her rug would win. But suddenly she heard her name!
“For the 1845 Wiscasset Harvest Fair, first prize for needlework, the winner is Miss Jane Gove. This young lady is only eleven years old, but she has created one of the most extraordinary pieces of needlework our judges have ever seen!”
Although Jane grew up and made other rugs for her own family, she always kept this special rug. It stayed in her family for a long time, and finally someone decided that it should be seen by other people as well. It is now recognized as a masterpiece of American folk art and is displayed in the Natural History Museum of Los Angeles County, California.
As long as she lived, Jane kept the joyful memory of her mother in her heart. And she never forgot to smile each spring when the flowers came back to the gardens and meadows.

It was the first time I’d been able to drive my family’s car to work in weeks. When I pulled into the parking lot, I failed to notice how inappropriately fast I was driving. I thought a one-handed parking job would be rather impressive.
Crunch!
I was wrong.
The car next to me jolted from the impact.
“You just hit that car!” I yelled at myself.
My forehead sunk to the dashboard in despair. I felt like such an idiot.
Had anyone seen? I looked around but didn’t spot anybody. My heart was thumping in my chest. I threw open the door and ran around the front of my car to survey the damage. I examined the front bumper and right panel carefully but saw no sign anything had happened.
Then I turned and looked at the new Toyota Camry I had hit. On the left, back panel there was a small dent where some of the shiny green paint had come off.
I scanned the parking lot again. No one was around. I’d heard kids at school talking about dinging cars and just taking off. It happens to everyone.
“I could just leave, and no one would ever know,” I thought. “If it ends up costing very much I won’t have enough money to take my vacation to Europe in a couple of months. These people probably have tons of money anyway, and I’ve been waiting my whole life for this trip.”
I clutched my wad of keys and gave my predicament a little more thought. I could see my forehead wrinkled with indecision in the reflection of the car window. I took a deep breath and knew it didn’t matter that no one would know. I would know. I could take off and avoid having to pay for the damage I had caused, but I wouldn’t be able to escape denting my soul.
I took out my planner and a pen and wrote a note to stick on the car’s windshield.
“I’m sorry I hit your car. Here’s my name, number, and e-mail address. Please contact me so I can pay for the damage.”
I walked into work feeling sick to my stomach. If I’d done the right thing, why did I feel so awful?
The owners of the car called me that night. I felt embarrassed and angry at myself and almost choked when they told me it was going to cost $800 to get the panel replaced. How was that possible? It took me months to make that much money at my part-time job. I knew I could kiss my vacation plans good-bye.
Even though I felt horrible about what had happened, I never regretted my decision. It felt good to know my integrity was worth more to me than $800 and a little embarrassment.
I learned that honesty is sometimes just between Heavenly Father and me. Honesty is about doing the right thing when nobody is watching and then facing the uncomfortable consequences afterward. I could have escaped the monetary consequences of my mistake but not without cheapening my integrity. I know Heavenly Father is proud of me for keeping my soul dent-free.
By Allyson Taylor

The first time we were in a shoot,” Abe says, “it was like, ‘You guys ready to start? Okay, let’s pray. All the cameramen, the sound guys, us, the directors, and the producers all came in and we prayed. We know what we’re there for, and we ask the Lord to help us.

Ivey tells about going to St. George, Utah, and Valley of Fire, Nevada, to film on location. “We shot real film rather than video, so we could get the beautiful scenery. But real film is more expensive. The cameramen bought special equipment so they could film in the sun. There was a huge storm. But it had to be sunny. That day was the last time we could film.
“We prayed and the weather cleared up in time for us to do our shots. We finished our last take and then the clouds came in and it was totally cloudy and snowing. Our director said to remember to thank Heavenly Father for the break in the weather, because it had cleared just long enough for us to do what we had to do.”

As much as I loved my mission, I struggled to apply the lessons I learned while serving to my life afterward. I ended up returning home sooner than I expected due to mental health struggles and then moved from my home in the Philippines to the United Arab Emirates to start working.
Since moving here, I’ve had a hard time feeling like I’m making progress and moving forward on the covenant path. On my mission, I could devote all my time and energy to the gospel. I worried very little about my temporal needs or what I was going to do with my life after my mission. But now that I’m trying to balance other demands of life, I feel like I keep falling short.
And since I’m lacking both the supportive, faithful community I had back home in the Philippines and the schedule of a missionary that makes progress much easier and clearer, sometimes I feel like I’m not progressing at all.
As I’ve continued to struggle with these feelings, I’ve felt strongly that I should implement a habit I had on my mission. As a missionary I learned how important it is to connect with Heavenly Father every night through prayer and honestly evaluate my actions each day. I would ask Heavenly Father what I had done well, ask for forgiveness from my sins and for strength to overcome my imperfections, and then ask Him how I could do better the next day.
At first I was scared to start doing this after my mission, especially since I’d been feeling like I was already failing myself and Heavenly Father. I didn’t want to feel even worse about my shortcomings. But I remembered what I’d learned on my mission: repentance brings joy. As Elder Craig C. Christensen of the Seventy explained: “Repenting daily and coming unto Jesus Christ is the way to experience joy—joy beyond our imagination [see 1 Corinthians 2:9]. That is why we are here on earth. That is why God prepared His great plan of happiness for us.”1
I’m so grateful for that prompting—checking in with Heavenly Father each day has changed so much for me. Realizing that Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ give me the chance to become better every day helps me have more self-compassion—if They believe in me enough to keep giving me more chances, why shouldn’t I believe in me too?

Inspiring is the missionary service rendered by Walter Krause, who lives in Prenzlau, Germany. Brother Krause, whose dedication to the Lord is legendary, is now 92 years of age. As a patriarch, he has given more than a thousand patriarchal blessings to members living throughout many parts of Europe.
Homeless following World War II, like so many others at that time, Brother Krause and his family lived in a refugee camp in Cottbus and began to attend church there. He was immediately called to lead the Cottbus branch. Four months later, in November of 1945, the country still in ruins, district president Richard Ranglack came to Brother Krause and asked him what he would think about going on a mission. Brother Krause’s answer reflects his commitment to the Church. Said he: “I don’t have to think about it at all. If the Lord needs me, I’ll go.”
He set out on December 1, 1945, with 20 German marks in his pocket and a piece of dry bread. One of the branch members had given him a winter coat left over from a son who had fallen in the war. Another member, who was a shoemaker, gave him a pair of shoes. With these and with two shirts, two handkerchiefs, and two pairs of stockings, he left on his mission.
Once, in the middle of winter, he walked from Prenzlau to Kammin, a little village in Mecklenburg, where 46 attended the meetings which were held. He arrived long after dark that night after a six-hour march over roads, paths, and finally across plowed fields. Just before he reached the village, he came to a large, white, flat area which made for easy walking, and he soon arrived at a member’s home to stay the night.
The next morning the game warden knocked on the door of the member’s house, asking, “Do you have a guest?”
“Yes,” came the reply.
The game warden continued, “Then come and take a look at his tracks.” The large, flat area on which Brother Krause had walked was actually a frozen lake, and some time earlier the warden had chopped a large hole in the middle of the lake for fishing. The wind had driven snow over the hole and covered it so that Brother Krause could not have seen his danger. His tracks went right next to the edge of the hole and straight to the house of the member, without his knowing anything about it. Weighed down by his backpack and his rubber boots, he would certainly have drowned had he gone one step further toward the hole he couldn’t see. He commented later that this event caused quite a stir in the village at the time.
Brother Krause’s entire life has been to pray and then to go.

I have a friend who served as a priests quorum adviser. The boys and the adviser planned a kayak activity at Flaming Gorge, Utah. After some initial planning, one of the quorum members quietly approached the adviser and said: “We better not plan a kayak trip. Mike won’t be able to go because he can’t paddle.” Mike was partially paralyzed on his right side. When he learned that the quorum was not going on the activity because of him, he told the boys, “I want to go. I can paddle.” The quorum adviser placed his hand on Mike’s shoulder and said, “OK, Mike. You’re my paddle partner.”

So from January to August, the boys built their kayaks. They departed to the reservoir in the first week in August.

Rhythm, togetherness, and teamwork are essential to keep a kayak in a straight line. Mike and his partner had more trouble than the others getting their rhythm and strokes coordinated. Mike had almost no stroke of consequence on his right side. His adviser had to compensate by paddling easy on the left and hard on the right.

After several hours of learning to work together, Mike said to his adviser, “You wouldn’t happen to have a Band-Aid, would you?” The adviser pulled his wallet out and gave Mike a Band-Aid. He placed it over a big water blister that had just popped in the crook of his hand between his thumb and his first finger. The hand and arm that was little used now had to help hold the paddle.

Several hours later, Mike turned again to his adviser, who was in the rear cockpit, and said, “Do you have any more bandages?” The adviser pulled out several and handed them to Mike. By now the crook between Mike’s right thumb and his first finger was becoming raw. Mike applied the Band-Aids and resumed paddling.

The next day the crew set out again. The adviser encouraged Mike to rest from paddling and let his hand have a respite. The words fell on deaf ears. Instantly, Mike was paddling as he had the day before.

This day found a usual midday and afternoon wind blowing directly at the flotilla of kayak paddlers. It required stronger strokes and took much energy and time. Wincing from the hurt, Mike continued to paddle. Each suggestion that he rest intensified his will to carry his load.

Throughout the week, Mike persisted in holding his own. Though his hand was as raw as hamburger and awful to look at, he would not give up.

During the week’s trip, the conversation with his senior companion often centered around his desire to go on a mission. Repeatedly Mike asked, “I hope they will let me go on a mission. Do you think my problem will prevent me from going?” Mike walks with a noticeable limp of his right leg. He has a firm handshake with the left hand, but his right hand doesn’t open up all of the way.

How many who have no visible blemish have a heart like Mike’s? How many young men with not a single cell out of place fail to soften their hearts and desire to serve the Lord? How many who have so much forfeit their blessings because of selfish desires or inability to set lofty priorities?

My adviser friend said, “Mike taught eleven others that though one may appear to be a little less physically capable, the heart makes the difference in those who choose to overcome many odds and set a standard for others to follow.”

Mike fulfilled an honorable mission to California and is now working in his hometown.

Ha Phuoc Thach and his wife, Nguyen Thi Hong, are Vietnamese converts of nearly three years. In 1990 all three of their teenage children were lost at sea in a boat filled with Vietnamese refugees. Despite—or perhaps because of—this tragedy, the couple embraced the gospel when they heard it. Speaking about their baptism, Ha Phuoc Thach says: “Our lives changed. It was a spiritual change.” His wife adds, “I want everyone to pray, because God does answer prayers.” He serves as a counselor in the branch presidency of the Vietnamese-speaking branch. His wife is the Relief Society president. When asked why with all they have suffered they are always smiling, the couple respond, “Because now we are happy.”

As Carole reached to examine her work more closely, something fell from within the scarf. She withdrew her hand for a moment, then grasped a well-worn Book of Mormon. On the cover was printed, “NAOMI STEWART SWEET.” Carole opened the book to the inside cover and read,
“To Sweetie,
“This is a copy of the book I was telling you about. I hope you’ll read it even though you think it’s all fairy tales and wishes. Daddy says that you should read it and then pray to Heavenly Father and ask him if it’s true.
“I’ve already read it with my family, and even though I don’t understand everything, I know I can understand more each time I read it. I think the stories have good messages, and I love the prophets that wrote them. I also love Jesus, and I want to be like him. I love you, and I want you to know Jesus like I know him.
“With love from Carole.”
Carole clutched the book and looked out the window at fluffy snowflakes falling in glistening crescents along the corners of the windowpanes. How could it be that she had known Jesus so much more when she was only eleven years old? Where had her love of the Savior gone? She again thumbed through the book and looked at its color-streaked pages. Sweetie had read it and read it countless times. It was not age that made the book look like an antique, but its use. Carole had brought Sweetie the gospel message, and now she felt she was letting her down by wavering in her own testimony.
Carole began reading the marked verses and the notes written in the margins. One verse marked in yellow caught her eye, “O … the foolishness of men! When they are learned they think they are wise, and they hearken not unto the counsel of God, … wherefore, their wisdom is foolishness and it profiteth them not” (2 Ne. 9:28).
Images of her professors and their accusations of the irrational nature of religion and of the Church flashed through her mind. Yet she felt triumphant that she had been defending what she knew deep inside was right. She continued to read, “But to be learned is good if they hearken unto the counsels of God” (2 Ne. 9:29).
Carole felt a flicker of hope. She was doing something good by learning at college. She just needed to keep up her study of the gospel. All at once, her guilt fled, and she realized she had a lot of work to do to get her testimony to the height it had been during her Primary days. For the first time in months, she felt happy.
Carole quickly put everything back into the trunk and came down the stairs. Sweetie was waiting with eager anticipation.
“Well, do you like it? Did you find the ring? I was sure you’d want it,” she smiled.
“Oh, Sweetie, thank you. Thank you for the best present anyone has ever given me!”
As Carole hugged Sweetie, she smelled cinnamon and ginger, and she smiled as a new feeling of hope grew inside of her.
“Come on, Sweetie,” she said. “You’ve got a tree that needs trimming.”

Early in Joseph’s marriage, he learned that his success in doing the work of the Lord was directly linked to the harmony that prevailed in his home. While he was working on the translation of the Book of Mormon, Joseph and Emma had “some words,” as every young married couple occasionally does. Joseph went upstairs in the Whitmer home to continue the translation of the Book of Mormon, but he discovered that he could not, for “all was dark.” It wasn’t until Joseph had retired to the woods to pray for forgiveness and then returned to obtain Emma’s forgiveness that the Spirit of the Lord returned so that the translation could continue. (See B. H. Roberts, A Comprehensive History of the Church, 1:130–131.)

At a young age, Sister Cristina B. Franco learned that if she had a question, she could turn to Heavenly Father in prayer for an answer.
“I remember going to my mom when I was 11 or so and asking her a doctrinal question,” she said. “She answered my question but told me, ‘You don’t have to take my word for it.’ So I prayed and asked my Heavenly Father if it was true.”
Her prayer was answered, and from then on she knew she had a Heavenly Father who loved her and would answer her prayers.