Gospel Story Finder

illustration by Thomas Girard
Junior high was not an easy experience, and I wasn’t expecting my first day of high school to be any better. All through junior high I was painfully shy. Terribly, awfully shy. I didn’t feel comfortable talking to new people, because I didn’t feel confident in who I was. In between classes I mostly kept to myself, walking quickly to and from my locker with my head down, trying to look busy. Most of my weekends were spent by myself, either reading books, doing homework, or re-watching beloved TV shows.
I wanted my experience that year to be different, but I wasn’t sure how it was going to be. As I went to my first class, I looked around at the other students and felt a surge of terror. “I don’t want to talk to any of these people,” I thought. I didn’t want to go through painful introductions and awkward silences. So instead I spent the hour staring firmly at my desk, not looking at or talking to anybody.
By the time homeroom came along, I was convinced that my freshman year was going to be just as lonely as junior high. Fighting back tears, I silently slid into my seat, once again determined not to look away from my desk.
“Hello,” said a voice beside me. “My name is Taylor. What’s yours?” I looked up and saw a nervous-but-sincere-looking girl sitting across from me.
“Oh,” I said, “hello. My name is Rachel.”
After that Taylor mentioned that she had just moved into the area a couple weeks ago. She knew even fewer people than I did, and she was hoping to make new friends. Then we talked about the normal things—school, classes, and our hopes for high school. Our conversation was a little awkward, but overall, talking to Taylor was really nice. The next day in homeroom when I ran into her again, she invited me to sit by her and we talked more. The more I saw her and the more she casually said hello to me, the more comfortable I felt responding back. In the following weeks, Taylor became the one person I felt OK stopping to talk with between classes.
A few months later, I was feeling particularly down. I didn’t feel confident in myself and found it hard to believe that anyone would want to be friends with me. This feeling lasted day after day, until one evening, after a week or so of this, my phone started to ring. I answered it.
“Hey,” said the other person on the line. “This is Taylor. How’s it going, Rachel? I just wanted to call and say hi.”
Taylor and I talked for a while, and this time our conversation was a lot smoother. I really enjoyed talking with her—she showed genuine interest in getting to know me, and that helped me feel like I was worth being friends with. Later when our conversation ended, I began to realize something important. I felt as if Heavenly Father was trying to help me realize that I could be happy about who I am and what He has given me. Taylor’s phone call and her continual invitations over time helped me realize that who I am is great and that I can make feel comfortable being my reserved self.
After that phone call, Taylor and I started spending a lot of time together as friends. She accepted me as I was, and we had many great adventures in high school.
I knew Taylor was a true friend because she was friendly in a way that was not superficial. She was genuinely interested in getting to know me and was consistent in her interest. When it comes to making friends with others, behaving as Christ would—with charity, understanding, and sincerity—makes all the difference. Taylor did that for me through her warm attitude and honest interest in me as a person.
I’m still a shy person, but now I know that even shy people like me can have great friends.

Elder Kay’s father died when Arthur was eleven years old. “My youngest sister was born just three weeks before Father passed away,” Elder Kay recounts. “So there were five children younger than I. Mother had been afflicted with a series of strokes that left her partially paralyzed. But the things that I remember most about her were her faith, her courage, her devotion, and her trust. Whatever our family circumstances, Mother’s faith never waned. And she never complained. She was the town clerk for a number of years, and even though her lower limbs were not very functional, she had an excellent hand and kept immaculate records. She earned a few dollars that way; the farm supplied the rest of our income.

“I have fond recollections of my aunts, uncles, and cousins too. We were a close family and met together often for fun and for family dinners. A special treat was the five-gallon freezer of ice cream that Grandmother often made.

“I can’t think of anything in my life that I would change, except, perhaps, my reactions to some things. As I look back now, every experience has been a blessing. I know absolutely that God lives and that the Savior is real and that He is our Redeemer. I have a strong testimony of the divine calling of the great men who preside over the Church.

“Several times my life has been preserved because of the warning of the still, small voice. I’ve learned to listen to that voice. I’ve also learned to trust the Lord with all my heart, might, mind, and strength. And I tell the children of the world that I know that He hears and answers prayers.”

Wendy and James were devastated when their first child was born with Down’s syndrome. Questioning their belief in a loving Heavenly Father and fearing rejection by others, they withdrew from Church and social activity, and eventually their marriage suffered.
Wendy’s life was at its bleakest when Margaret moved in next door. Slowly, Margaret, who had herself lost a child a few years earlier, was able to understand the sorrowing heart of her neighbor. She helped Wendy find the confidence she needed to lift herself out of her despair, return to full Church activity, and give both her husband and child love and acceptance.

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

Illustrations by Shauna Mooney Kawasaki
It’s time for family prayer, everybody. Gather around.
I believe it’s Matt’s turn to pray.
Are you sure? It seems like I just had my turn.
I have a question for everyone. Suppose Matt wanted to talk to the leader of our country—or any other country. How long would it take him to get an appointment?
A week?
A month?
It would probably take many months. And it might never happen at all. Even if it did, such a busy person couldn’t talk to him long and might not pay very close attention.
And yet in a few seconds, with no appointment and no waiting, Matt will be speaking on our behalf to Heavenly Father—the God of the whole universe—for as long as he likes. And Heavenly Father will listen as if Matt were the only person in existence.
Wow! What do you guys think of that?
I think I’m glad it’s my turn, and that I can have a turn whenever I want.

I remember my husband sharing an experience he had years ago as he participated in a 20-kilometer running race. Running in a very hot climate, in the middle of the day can be very challenging. The heat is unbearable, your feet, knees and legs ache, you may have injuries and blisters. You may wonder why you engaged in this challenge and wished you could have just stayed home sleeping or doing something fun! You may even want to quit. But why are you here? You came to accomplish a goal, something important to you, to overcome a difficulty and feel the satisfaction, the joy of making it to the finish line. He shared what helped him stay focused and make it to the end. When you have a race like this, you have people posted on the road holding out bottles of water to every participant. Just imagine if you had to run a 20 kilometers without being able to drink along the way? Finishing would be impossible.
But because of this fresh water found all along the way, he was able to reach his goal.

I guess I’d have to say that it all started with a bad attitude. When I was about ten years old, I formed the opinion that most people around me weren’t as “good” as they seemed to think they were. This feeling of disillusionment grew as I grew.
While there were other youth in the ward, even others my age, who enjoyed church and got something out of it, my friends and I became the group that went through a Sunday School teacher every month and were proud of it.
The members of the ward really didn’t approve of our attitude toward them and toward life, and some of them just gave up on us. Some did not. We had a very patient bishop and some great leaders. Most of them, however, we considered hypocrites, and we used their perceived weaknesses as an excuse for our own.
In junior high, this same group excelled in scholarship, athletics, and popularity. We had a lot of fun and decided we didn’t need and didn’t want the Church. When “forced” to enroll in seminary, most of us managed to get ourselves kicked out before too long.
We didn’t really give in to peer pressure—we exerted it. We were among the first of our age group to start drinking. We were the first to smoke pot and experiment with other drugs. We saw the chance to make some money in it, and so involved others to increase our own profits by dealing drugs. We were living high. Immorality also became a goal in our minds.
Some of my friends resisted. They said we were stupid, that there was no way they’d get involved. But by the time we got out of high school a few years ago, only one had stayed straight. He took a lot of verbal abuse and pressure, but he did it. I have more respect for him than for any other guy my age.
We were the leading partygoers all through school. The scriptures say, “Ye shall know them by their fruits” (Matt. 7:16). I don’t know all the fruits of our behavior, and I’m thankful for that. I do know many of them, though. Many of my friends that I grew up with, even some honor students, leaders, and athletes, dropped out of school. One committed suicide. Most have spent time in court, and some in jail, for a variety of things. I knew a lot of girls who had babies or abortions while in high school. Some went into prostitution.
I quit taking drugs when I had some serious health problems. I almost died a few times—many times actually, both from overdosing on drugs and driving while my senses were gone. One night I was bored, so I took everything I could find and then sat there and watched TV while my pulse dropped to 20 beats per minute. I forced myself to stay awake, because I felt that if I went to sleep I wouldn’t wake up.
In order to straighten myself out, I had to leave my friends. Afterwards I tried to help them quit too. A few of my old friends came with me, but most really didn’t care anymore.
After I quit drugs, I went way overboard with alcohol, and can honestly say I was a high school alcoholic. When I decided I wanted to quit, I couldn’t, on my own. I didn’t care enough about myself to do what I knew I needed to do.
Then I became close friends with a good, active LDS girl. She couldn’t understand what I was going through, but she did know I was honestly trying to get out of the hole I was in. It hurt her when I slipped back. I finally quit drinking because I knew it hurt her, and I knew I wouldn’t lie to her.
Keeping my morals straight was so hard under my weakened condition that I avoided any social contacts with girls except as good friends like this one.
I hadn’t prayed for years, but I finally had to go to my knees. I was afraid to, because I knew my guilt. That first time, honestly wanting to change and repent, was the biggest turning point in my life.
I tried to pray, but I couldn’t. I started to cry, the first time in years, and I felt like I was being torn apart inside. I fell over, still in a kneeling position, and my body went into convulsions. I kept praying in my mind, “Please help me!”
I almost blacked out. Then the physical pain passed, and I just lay there crying. I had a long way to go, but I knew that the first step was the hardest. I didn’t understand the Atonement, but the feeling of peace and comfort that engulfed me left no doubt that it was real.
There was a lot more. You see, chemicals that are used to cover or bury emotions tend to cripple a person emotionally, because you stop growing. I recovered pretty well physically and mentally. I started progressing spiritually. But emotionally I was a mess. The girl who helped me so much for so long didn’t understand that, and I lost her as a friend while trying to overcome the scars of the past. She saw the outward changes and thought that was the hard part. The hardest struggle was inside me, emotionally. My pride was a fierce adversary, and the painful memories sometimes dropped me down into depression.
I still have a long way to go, and a lot of work to do. I am now trying to help other people with similar problems. It has taken a few years so far to get to where I am, and I’ve done a lot of fasting and praying. When I look back, the memories hurt. I know now that we learn through experience, from our successes and our mistakes. I just wish I could have learned more without the burdens and scars that came with my method of learning—mostly from my mistakes.
I put myself through a lot of pain, and it kills me inside to see others following me. Young men, young women, think about yourselves and your friends. Before you give in to temptation—and believe me, pride and a bad attitude are temptations—think about the effect your actions will have on others, and on yourself in the years to come.
It is always possible to repent and come back. But it is so much better not to begin. Please, please, don’t give in. You will never regret staying pure, keeping the Word of Wisdom, coming home on time—the rules are there for a reason. I have seen the results of ignoring the rules, of saying, “That won’t happen to me.” My friends and I knew that no matter how clean a girl was morally, if we could get her drunk or stoned, she would eventually give in.
The first step down is the easiest, and the first step back is the hardest. When you’re on your way down, there are a lot of people who are eager to help you, but the farther down you go, the more alone you will be when and if you start back.
I have gained a strong testimony of the truth of the gospel. My fellow members are still not perfect, but I finally realized that their imperfection doesn’t make the gospel any less true. It just shows that they, too, are human.
I know the power and reality of the adversary, but now I know the power and reality of the Lord and of the priesthood, and I know that “they that be with us are more than they that be with them” (see 2 Kgs. 6:15–17).
Never be ashamed to be innocent. I envy you that. Once innocence is lost, it is gone. Please, be strong. More people than you will ever know are counting on you—your friends, family, and unborn children. Don’t let them down.

“When our oldest son was about three, he would kneel with his mother and me in our evening prayer. I was serving as the bishop of the ward at the time, and a lovely lady in the ward, Margaret Lister, lay perilously ill with cancer. Each night we would pray for Sister Lister. One evening our tiny son offered the prayer and confused the words of the prayer with a story from a nursery book. He began: ‘Heavenly Father, please bless Sister Lister, Henny Penny, Chicken Little, Turkey Lurkey, and all the little folks.’ We held back the smiles that evening. Later we were humbled as Margaret Lister sustained a complete recovery. We do not belittle the prayer of a child. After all, our children have more recently been with our Heavenly Father than have we.”(Ensign, October 1999, page 2.)

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

As I poured the boiling water into the mush pot and stirred in the cracked wheat, I thought of other Thanksgivings. Last year when Grandma was taking flaky crusted pies out of the oven with a towel, her thumb accidentally touched the hot tin pan and she dropped a currant pie upside down on the kitchen floor. Steaming red juice trickled across the clean linoleum, and I thought it was a disaster until Grandma said, “You youngsters can have that pie.” She wasn’t one to waste anything. I remember my aunts saying that Grandma was so saving that if a mosquito lit in the molasses, she’d lick its legs before turning it loose. Maybe so, but no pie ever tasted so good as the one she dropped.

While in school, I met my husband, and we were married in 2007. My mother also joined the Church that year. She told me that she had never known why I was so happy, even with all the terrible things that had happened to us. But once she joined the Church, she understood. The gospel of Jesus Christ has blessed my family, and I’m happy to see my mother blessed after all the sacrifices she has made. I will always be grateful for her.

She was shy. I was outgoing. Why was she getting all the attention?
This question must have passed through my mind a million times every Sunday during my early teen years. Donna Gilliam was in my Beehive class, a quiet, pretty girl whose parents were deaf. Because of this she knew sign language perfectly. And all the adults thought that was so sweet. She would translate at Young Women functions, and the mothers would cry. She would translate at everything. And everyone, except me it seemed, was deeply moved.
That was a time in my life when I was selfish, wanting attention, wanting to be in the spotlight. But competing with Donna was impossible. In her shy way, she, and her family too, found a special place in our meetings and in the hearts of the ward members. Nevertheless, my jealousy continued.
A month after I turned 14, my mom was in a very serious car accident. Though she did not die, she suffered serious injuries. She had to stay in the hospital in traction for a month and a half. The accident happened in November, and it soon became clear that our mother would be spending Christmas in the hospital. Because it was important to include her in all the family activities we could, that meant we too would be spending Christmas in the hospital.
Others in my family looked forward to that Christmas as a growing experience. I viewed it as plain terrible.
I wasn’t much of a spiritual uplift to my family on Christmas Eve. I isolated myself in the corner of the hospital room and just sat there feeling terrible inside. We were all just looking at each other, about ready to open our presents, but somehow the usual anticipation and excitement of Christmas were absent.
That’s when Donna walked in.
“Hi, Sister Fee,” she said quietly to my mom as her parents came in behind her. “We just came by for a minute. We thought we might sing.”
We all looked up in surprise. Her parents were deaf! How could they sing? I put my presents to the side and lifted my head in interest. I wasn’t exactly happy that they were going to sing, considering my jealousy of Donna, but I listened anyway.
I wasn’t at all prepared for the feelings that burst from within me as I listened to their soft voices sing “Silent Night.” Their hands moved in simultaneous motions, telling of the Christ child and heavenly peace. Tears spilled from my eyes, though I tried to control them. I heard the soft crying of my mother from the hospital bed. Donna’s eyes were tear-filled too. It became all too clear to me that I had been unfair to her.
When the song ended, their hands rested at their sides. We all looked at each other, overcome with emotion. Then they left, as quietly as they had come. Still in the corner of the room, I pondered the new perspective I had gained. Why had I ever been jealous of her? She had a very special talent. She and her family had brought a special spirit into our Christmas, changing it from a gloomy one into a celebration of renewal and hope. The Spirit assured me that my mom would be okay. That Spirit also brought me a new realization that I had talents too.
Right there in that hospital room I then promised myself that I would work on my own talents and stop being jealous of others. With that goal in mind, I found peace within myself. The song repeated softly in my head, “Silent night, holy night.”
All was calm in my heart.

My wife, Nancy, is also a convert to the Church. She has mentioned to me many times over the years the joy she has felt in her life since finding, accepting, and living the gospel of Jesus Christ. What follows is a reflection from Sister Maynes on her experience:

“As a young adult in my early 20s, I was at a point in my life when I knew I needed to change something in order to be a happier person. I felt like I was adrift with no real purpose and direction, and I didn’t know where to go to find it. I had always known that Heavenly Father existed and occasionally throughout my life had said prayers, feeling that He listened.

“As I began my search, I attended several different churches but would always fall back into the same feelings and discouragement. I feel very blessed because my prayer for direction and purpose in life was ultimately answered, and the fulness of the gospel of Jesus Christ was brought into my life. For the first time I felt like I had a purpose, and the plan of happiness brought real joy into my life.”

“Do you like our bishop?”
Robby thought for a minute. He remembered the time the bishop came to his house when his mother was very sick and couldn’t care for the family. After that, some church ladies came by to help take care of them and his sick mother. The bishop seemed really nice. “Yeah, I think he’s OK.”
“Well, believe it or not, I used to be his Primary teacher.”
“Oh.” Robby nodded. “I guess you could have been; you are pretty old.” Robby blushed when he realized what he’d said.
Sister Jensen laughed heartily. “That’s true! He was a sweet little boy, just like you. You and he have a lot in common—his parents never brought him to church, either. I used to pick him up all the time. He even sat with me in sacrament meeting.
“When he was about your age,” Sister Jensen continued, “he decided to make choices that would help him the rest of his life. He had a little problem with angry words, and he decided that every time he became upset, he’d say ‘How exasperating!’ I told him that that was a good start, but that he also needed to fill his mind with good things. That way only good things would come out of his mouth.”
The next Sunday, Sister Jensen picked Robby up in time for sacrament meeting. The bishop was conducting and seemed to be having a difficult time with some of the announcements. Finally he put down the paper he was reading, smiled at the ward members, and exclaimed, “How exasperating!”

I learned this lesson while working and studying chemical engineering in college. I was asked to be the activities planner for a singles ward. This was my nightmare calling. Still, I accepted, and at first it was drudgery. Then at one activity a beautiful girl was smitten by the way I served the ice cream. She returned three times, hoping to catch my attention. We fell in love, and she proposed to me just two weeks later. Well, maybe it wasn’t quite that fast, and I was the one who proposed, but the truth is this: I shudder to think of missing out on Heidi had I said no to that calling.

We will have opportunities throughout our lives to share our beliefs, although we don’t always know when we will be called upon to do so. Such an opportunity came to me in 1957, when I worked in the publishing business and was asked to go to Dallas, Texas, sometimes called “the city of churches,” to address a business convention. Following the conclusion of the convention, I took a sightseeing bus ride through the city’s suburbs. As we passed the various churches, our driver would comment, “On the left you see the Methodist church” or “There on the right is the Catholic cathedral.”

As we passed a beautiful red brick building situated upon a hill, the driver exclaimed, “That building is where the Mormons meet.” A lady in the rear of the bus called out, “Driver, can you tell us something more about the Mormons?”

The driver pulled the bus over to the side of the road, turned around in his seat, and replied, “Lady, all I know about the Mormons is that they meet in that red brick building. Is there anyone on this bus who knows anything more about the Mormons?”

I waited for someone to respond. I gazed at the expression on each person’s face for some sign of recognition, some desire to comment. Nothing. I realized it was up to me to do as the Apostle Peter suggested, to “be ready always to give an answer to every man that asketh you a reason of the hope that is in you.” I also realized the truth of the adage “When the time for decision arrives, the time for preparation is past.”

For the next 15 or so minutes, I had the privilege of sharing with those on the bus my testimony concerning the Church and our beliefs. I was grateful for my testimony and grateful that I was prepared to share it.

Elder Francisco J. Viñas (Spain): I want to share with you an experience we had during my service as mission president in 1989. While we served in the Argentina Salta Mission, a few days before Christmas, we received instruction from the Missionary Department that the missionaries had to stay in their apartments until further notice because of the invasion of Panama by the United States.

On the morning of December 24th, we loaded the mission cars and divided the mission into two parts: the assistants went to the north part of the mission, and my eight-year-old son and I went to the south of the mission. The purpose was to visit each companionship in their apartment, deliver food, and share a Christmas message with them. This was a great experience for my son and me. Being in each apartment and sharing with the missionaries was a wonderful experience for both of us—one we always cherish as a great Christmas memory.

My wife and two daughters stayed in the mission home, and my son and I returned in the early morning of December 25th. That was the first time that we were not together as a family for Christmas Eve, but it was for us the most memorable of Christmases.

Lydia watched Mommy get ready for work. Mommy put on pretty pink lipstick. She looked beautiful.
Lydia looked in the mirror. She felt sad. “I don’t have any lipstick,” Lydia said. “So I’m not beautiful.”
Mommy hugged her tight. “Wearing lipstick isn’t what makes people beautiful. Being strong and kind makes people beautiful.
“You are strong and kind when your hands help others.
“You are strong and kind when your heart loves everyone.
“And you are strong and kind when you smile. That makes everyone happy too.
“Being strong and kind makes you beautiful inside, not just outside.”
Lydia wanted to be strong and kind!
She used her hands to carry the mail in for Grandpa. She gave her last cookie to her cousin.
She felt love in her heart when she played with a new neighbor. And she felt love when she gave coins to a girl collecting money for people who didn’t have homes.
She smiled at people she saw. They all smiled back.
That night Lydia told Mommy, “You are right! I feel strong and kind. I used my hands and my heart and my smile today.”
Mommy smiled. “You are strong and kind, just like Jesus wants you to be!”

There is an urgency in this work that motivates us to extend the blessings of the temple to as many of our Heavenly Father’s children as possible. I was impressed with an experience of President Wilford Woodruff when he told of a visitation he received from the Prophet Joseph Smith some time after the Prophet was martyred. According to President Woodruff’s own account: “[Joseph Smith] came to me and spoke to me. He said he could not stop to talk with me because he was in a hurry. The next man I met was Father Smith; he could not talk with me because he was in a hurry. I met half a dozen brethren who had held high positions on earth, and none of them could stop to talk with me because they were in a hurry. I was much astonished. By and by I saw the Prophet again and I got the privilege of asking him a question.

“‘Now,’ said I, ‘I want to know why you are in a hurry. I have been in a hurry all my life; but I expected my hurry would be over when I got into the kingdom of heaven, if I ever did.’

“Joseph said: ‘I will tell you, Brother Woodruff. Every dispensation that has had the priesthood on the earth and has gone into the celestial kingdom has had a certain amount of work to do to prepare to go to the earth with the Savior when he goes to reign on the earth. Each dispensation has had ample time to do this work. We have not. We are the last dispensation, and so much work has to be done, and we need to be in a hurry … to accomplish it.’

“Of course, that was satisfactory,” President Woodruff concluded, “but it was new doctrine to me.”

I never met my great-grandmother Hettie, but I have always felt a connection to her for many reasons. She was described to be similar to me in appearance, with her very pale skin and dark hair; she was from England (which I believe is where my love of all things British stems from); and she was known especially for her astounding faith in the gospel of Jesus Christ.
I was casually studying her life a short time ago when I remembered a story I’d heard about how she had helped her husband, my great-grandpa, miraculously recover from an illness that had brought him to his deathbed.
As I researched further, I found a journal entry from my grandpa (Hettie’s son), and I found out that this illness wasn’t just any sickness—my great-grandpa had contracted the deadly Spanish flu during the pandemic that lasted from 1918 to 1920.
I was shocked.
The journal entry explained that my great-grandfather had come home from work feeling sick. A doctor came, diagnosed him with the dreaded Spanish flu, and put up a red quarantine sign in the yard to make sure no one visited their home.
The Spanish flu was highly contagious, just like another virus I know.
My grandpa described how most of the homes in their city had these quarantine signs in their yards and explained how terrifying the whole ordeal was for those two years.
It’s not often I can fully relate to my ancestors, but when I read this, I felt tears prickling my eyes.
It was no coincidence that I was reading this story at this time.
In the journal, my grandpa went on to explain how the doctor visited their home again about five days later, when his father had grown so sick that he was unresponsive. After seeing how quickly people were dying from this terrible disease, the doctor concluded that there was nothing more he could do for my great-grandfather and told Hettie that all she could do was keep him comfortable until he passed away.
My grandpa wrote that Hettie cried quietly for a few moments after the doctor left, but then suddenly looked up with a determined look on her face. She told my grandpa and his brothers to kneel and pray for help. She explained to Heavenly Father that she knew He had the power to help her save her husband if it was His will, and that she would do whatever she could to save him. She pleaded with Him to let him live.
After the prayer, my grandpa explained that Hettie was inspired to create a thick paste out of mustard and hot water and to spread it over thick strips of fabric. She then wrapped them all around her husband’s chest in one last effort to clear his lungs. She covered him with blankets and stayed up all night, holding his hand, squeezing it every now and again to see if he would respond.
At around four o’clock in the morning, she finally got a good, strong squeeze of response from him, and eventually he opened his eyes. That night he was able to hold full conversations. Because of the Lord and because of Hettie’s faith in Him, my great-grandfather was going to live.
It was a true miracle.