Gospel Story Finder

On the other side of town, in a fine, large home live the van Littens, a family that has preserved Christmas traditions from Holland for generations. Dirk is wistfully remembering the fun when Sinterklaas (Saint Nicholas) came to their house on December 5.
Dirk had put his shoes on the hearth and filled them with sugar and hay for Sinterklaas’s white horse. The next morning the sugar and hay were gone, and in their places were a fine set of paints and new skates for Dirk.
Dirk sighs. The saintly old bishop in his red robe is gone, along with the gay parties and nonsense of Saint Nicholas’s Eve. Christmas Day is for going to church and eating a great dinner. Dirk wishes that Sinterklaas would come again instead.

When I was a mission president, a fine elder came to me. I asked, “How can I help you?”
“President,” he said, “I think I’m losing my testimony.”
I asked him how that could be possible.
“For the first time I have read some anti-Mormon literature,” he said. “I have some questions, and nobody will answer them for me. I am confused, and I think I am losing my testimony.”
I asked him what his questions were, and he told me. They were the standard anti-Church issues, but I wanted a little time to gather materials so I could provide meaningful answers. So we set up an appointment ten days later, at which time I told him I would answer every one of his questions. As he started to leave, I stopped him. “Elder, you’ve asked me several questions here today,” I said. “Now I have one for you.”
“Yes, President?”
“How long has it been since you’ve read from the Book of Mormon?” I asked.
His eyes dropped. He looked at the floor for a while. Then he looked at me. “It’s been a long time, President,” he confessed.
“All right,” I said. “You have given me my assignment. It’s only fair that I give you yours. I want you to promise me that you will read in the Book of Mormon for at least one hour every day between now and our next appointment.” He agreed that he would do that.
Ten days later he returned to my office, and I was ready. I pulled out my papers to start answering his questions. But he stopped me.
“President,” he said, “that isn’t going to be necessary.” Then he explained, “I know that the Book of Mormon is true. I know Joseph Smith is a prophet of God.”
“Well, that’s great,” I said. “But you’re going to get answers to your questions anyway. I worked a long time on this, so you just sit there and listen.”
And so I answered all of those questions, and then asked, “Elder, what have you learned from this?” And he said, “Give the Lord equal time.”

Stephanie Kinderman, 15, of Wilmington, Delaware, has earned an unusual kind of recognition. Her mother, Deborah, writes:
“Three years ago her dad left. We are divorced now. At the time, Stephanie was the oldest of six children and only 12 years old herself. During this last three years, she has cared for her younger brothers and sisters while I have had to be gone to school or work. She has accepted this responsibility without complaint, recognizing the necessity due to our financial situation. Often she has had to sacrifice social events and activities for the welfare of the family. She is very talented at the piano, but her studies were interrupted and her opportunities limited because of our circumstances.
“Stephanie is a beautiful, talented girl and mature beyond her years. She has displayed leadership in her family equal to any organization president. Many of the things that could have come to her in life, she has sacrificed for our family. She will never receive a certificate or award for what she has done, but her achievements are surely equal to any of those who do. She attends seminary, is a member of the Band Front at school, plays Church basketball, and participates in all of her Mutual activities, but above all, her greatest accomplishment is what she has done for her family.”

“One of the first things my parents acquired for their home was a piano. Mother sent me for piano lessons. But at about age ten, I decided that I would rather work in my dad’s office than sit long hours practicing the piano. Much to Mother’s dismay, I terminated her plans for my musical career. Of course I have lived to regret that shortsighted action. I have since spent many hours trying to teach myself to play the piano and the organ. I believe my deceased mother would be happy knowing that I now play the organ at the regular meetings of the General Authorities in the temple.”

A few days before Christmas, I went to a busy shopping area in Buenos Aires to do some errands. Like everyone else, I stopped to look at the Christmas decorations that seemed to be everywhere. “If only I had those decorations to get my house ready for Christmas,” I thought.
On the way home, my bus stopped at a small square. On a bench sat a well-groomed young man with nice clothes and shoes. He was smiling, talking to, and most of all, listening to an old man with long hair and a beard. The old man’s clothes were dirty and torn, and he had no shoes. The bench seemed to be his home.
I thought about the stark contrasts between the two men—in appearance, age, and walk of life. What a pleasure it was to see them talking together, especially because the old man had a lot to say and really seemed to be enjoying the conversation. At that moment I felt that Christmas had arrived. There were no twinkling lights, no ornaments, no wreaths, no Christmas trees—just someone giving the gift of his time, just listening to another with respect. There was no disdain, no prejudice, no selfishness, no discrimination, no arrogance.
It was then that I realized we can give such gifts of love all through the year. We can kindle little lights of hope for those who need them.
I vowed never again to allow getting ready for Christmas to keep me from living Christmas.

Before basketball games, there is always a sense of excitement as adrenalin starts to flow. When I was in junior high playing for a local team, the feeling was no different. Everybody in the locker room would be riled up and excited, ready to play the game. But before we would head out onto the court, I made it a habit of going to a corner of the locker room by myself and kneeling in prayer.
Then one day things were different. Instead of praying alone, I was joined by two of my teammates who had asked me where I was going. When I told them, they asked if they could participate with me. Before long, word had spread and all my teammates knew about the prayer I had before every game. It was then we decided to have a prayer together as a team. When we asked Coach Thompson to join us, he obliged as long as he didn’t have to offer the prayer. That day in that huddle of young men there was a spirit that cannot be described.
At our next game, we were playing horribly and nothing was going right. In the middle of the second quarter, Coach Thompson called time-out and told everybody to drop down to one knee. He was going to offer a prayer. Though there were vocabulary words not often heard in prayers, the Spirit was felt.
By the end of the year I received some awards for the season I had played. However the most meaningful award for me was when I saw old rough-and-tough Coach Thompson, humble and in tears, talking about the basketball team that taught him how to pray again.

On 16 October, the St Albans Stake hosted a family fun day for Syrian and Iranian refugees. Working in partnership with local charity Herts Welcomes Refugees (HWR), members of the stake ran craft activities for children, outdoor games for teenagers, blanket making and chess and card games for adults. A speaker from Herts Wildlife gave a talk about animals in Syria and a magician entertained members and guests while they enjoyed homemade halal meat pizzas and popcorn. Members and guests also joined together to make baby blankets for Project Linus, a volunteer organisation providing homemade quilts and blankets to sick and traumatised children. Arab music played in the background and members soon learned how to say simple Arabic words: ‘shukran’ (thank you), and ‘salaam alaikum’ (hello).
Volunteer members were overwhelmed by the positive responses from the guests, who spoke of their appreciation for the fun event and the warm welcome they received at the stake centre. A man from Syria described the day as beautiful. Many refugees feel isolated from the communities in which they live. HWR volunteer and stake Relief Society first counselor, Joyce Farnsworth, described the event as an opportunity for members to extend the hand of friendship to refugees and to give them an opportunity to practice English, have fun and to feel welcome.
Our stake JustServe lead, Sister Catherine Bruce, shared an uplifting experience from the event: “Although we were not proselyting, I was asked about the Church’s beliefs by a volunteer from HWR as we sat together helping children with crafts. She was interested in lay clergy and asked what I did in the Church. I said I was involved in community outreach, which provoked a very positive response from this woman. She felt that was what it’s all about. I agreed wholeheartedly.”
In 2016, Elder Patrick Kearon1 reminded Church members that the Jesus Christ Himself was once a refugee, fleeing to Egypt as a young child to escape King Herod. Approaching the Christmas season, this event helped members heed the Saviour’s counsel that serving others is the same as serving Him.2 By blessing and welcoming refugees, the members themselves felt blessed to feel the true spirit of JustServe.

Snowflakes fell as Sofia stepped outside. Snow usually made her happy. But this year, things were different. She bent down and scooped up some snow in a bowl, then went back inside.
The kitchen was warm, and Mama was at the stove cooking breakfast. Sofia dumped the snow into a pot so it could melt. They would use the melted snow for washing their hands and faces.
“Merry Christmas, Sofia,” Mama said.
Sofia wanted to say Merry Christmas back, but the words stuck in her throat as she walked toward the barn to help feed the animals. The barn was attached to the house by a long hallway, and Sofia was grateful she didn’t have to go outside again.
Papa and her older brother Isak were already in the barn when she got there. A knot formed in Sofia’s stomach as she looked around. Cows, goats, and sheep were chewing their breakfast. Chickens pecked around her feet. But the barn was a lot emptier these days.
A month ago, some of their animals got sick and died. People in the community were afraid the disease would spread to other farms, so Sofia’s family’s farm had been quarantined. That meant no one was allowed to visit or leave their farm until they could be sure the sickness was gone.
Sofia had not seen any of her friends. She could not go to school or church. Her family could not sell their milk or go to the store. They were like prisoners on their own farm.
“Merry Christmas, Sofia!” voices squealed when Sofia returned to the kitchen. Her little brother and sister, Frej and Kaia, were sitting at the table eating bits of bread soaked in milk.
“You won’t have any room in your tummies for dinner!” Sofia said, smiling.
“Not that it matters,” she thought. Christmas dinner was going to be the same food they’d been eating for a month. Bread. Potatoes. Dried vegetables. All things they had stored from summer. They couldn’t even afford to eat one of their chickens. Who knew how long the quarantine would last?
“Hey, everyone,” Isak said, coming in from the barn. “Get your coats on. I want to show you something.”
Isak led them through the pine forest near the farm.
“Are we going to cut down a Christmas tree?” Kaia asked.
“I don’t think so,” Sofia said. “We can’t go to the store to buy decorations. We don’t even have any presents to put under it.”
Kaia and Frej looked disappointed, but soon they were running through the snow, trying to see who was fastest.
“Wait!” Isak called after a few moments.
Sofia peered into the forest. “What’s that?” she whispered.
There was a little click, and suddenly a light flared in the darkness.
“Oh!” they all gasped.
In front of them was a table built from fallen branches. A small stable made from moss sat on top, and inside was their family’s Nativity set. Angels, shepherds, and Wise Men gathered around Mary, Joseph, and the baby Jesus. A small lightbulb in the roof of the stable lit the scene.
Kaia and Frej stared, fascinated. Sofia stared too. It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.
“Merry Christmas,” Isak said.
And suddenly Sofia knew that it was. There would be no presents, no tree, and no special dinner. But there would always be the precious gift of the Savior. And that was enough.

When I first learned the restored gospel was true, I was a 19-year-old young man trying to make sense of my own identity as both a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and someone who had been raised in the beloved teachings of my American Indian heritage. I had joined the Church at age 14, yet at that time I had no real understanding of the doctrine. I only knew that the restored gospel was good and of God.
I also knew what my lineage taught me about who I am—that I was good and of God. This was my struggle: If both are good, why do I feel I am being forced to choose between them? How can I pick one and bury the other? Choosing to love one and hating the other meant hating a part of myself, or so I thought.
The teachings of the gospel of Jesus Christ and of my American Indian heritage were handed down from generation to generation until they came to shape and form me. Yet my identity as a member of my tribe conflicted with my identity as a member of the Church. I was fortunate to find other Church members who had dealt with this internal conflict too, but their answers, while helpful, did not remedy any of my pain, nor their own. They had to reject their native heritage or ignore the internal conflict altogether. Though I was grateful for these conversations, they never truly sat easy on my own troubled heart.
My father was a prominent leader and the last authorized historian in our tribe, but he was not a member of the Church and was antagonistic towards those who were. My mother had a similar love for her indigenous heritage, but she was a member of the Church and loved the restored gospel. Her desire to be active in the gospel and my father’s enmity towards Christianity because of the harm caused by those who claimed to be Christian were a fitting embodiment of my own internal struggle.
As a teenager, I had never read the Book of Mormon, and I did not know who Jesus Christ was, and I wondered how He and this book fit into who I am. How could I reconcile the harm that was done by those who claimed association with His teachings? And how could I also honor what had brought me this far?
These were the issues I brought to my first reading of the Book of Mormon. If I could find the answers here, I knew what my responsibility would be in return. I would become a committed Latter-day Saint, serve an honorable mission, marry in the temple, and love God with all my heart for the rest of my life. But if I were to truly become converted, I needed to know. I knew I was asking hard questions whose answers only God could give.
I began reading and learning about Lehi and his family, Nephi’s vision of that beautiful tree of life, and the angel referring to the Savior as the “God of nature” (1 Nephi 19:12). When I came to King Benjamin’s address, I found myself reading it over and over again, circling passages about raising children, taking care of the poor, and our utter dependence on God for daily physical and spiritual survival. I then came to the Waters of Mormon and read and reread the covenant of baptism. I loved the story of the brothers Nephi and Lehi as missionaries and their journey to redeem God’s children. Despite all of these moving accounts and the doctrine, I still had questions.
Then I arrived at 3 Nephi, where the account of the Savior’s visit was given. From the time He appeared—showing the wounds in His hands, feet, and side—I was captivated. I kept asking myself, “Who is this man?” In my bedroom on that summer day, I felt His words more powerfully than I ever did before as I read them.
When it was time for Jesus Christ to leave the people that day, He said, “Behold, my time is at hand” (3 Nephi 17:1). I felt what the people felt, pleading with tears in our eyes, “Please don’t go.” And in this moment in my bedroom, He went from being a stranger to something more. I had been a stranger, but now I was more.
I finished 3 Nephi and began to read 4 Nephi. It was night now, as I had not stopped reading that whole day, and it was here that I found my answer:
“And it came to pass that there was no contention in the land, because of the love of God which did dwell in the hearts of the people.
“And there were no envyings, nor strifes, nor tumults, nor whoredoms, nor lyings, nor murders, nor any manner of lasciviousness; and surely there could not be a happier people among all the people who had been created by the hand of God.
“There were no robbers, nor murderers, neither were there Lamanites, nor any manner of -ites; but they were in one, the children of Christ, and heirs to the kingdom of God” (4 Nephi 1:15–17).
This was the sacred truth of my people, handed down generation to generation—that all people are children of God. I had found it here in this little blue book. It was for all peoples, regardless of ethnicity, to truly understand in their souls they are children of God and to accept the responsibility that came with it.
To find yourself was to find God. This was the great truth my father had taught me, and this was the great and sacred truth the Book of Mormon confirmed. The two warring pieces of my heart were now at peace because I realized they both need each other in order to exist. My lineage was not a sword that needed to be buried, nor a master that pulled me away from my Savior. It is what brought me to the Savior, and it is a part of me that needs to be honored and embraced.
Since that day I have tried to repent of my sins and live the restored gospel. I served a mission and married my wife in the temple. We strive to raise our children in the Savior’s gospel and the blessing of our lineage. The struggle that had weighed upon my soul was replaced with peace and understanding. I had learned that the Book of Mormon was true. The passages I circled and reread were familiar teachings I had been taught before.
This sacred record is not just a history of ancient peoples; it is a spiritual book whose truths cannot be found in any other record of history, science, or academia but only through the power of the Holy Ghost. It is this same power that brings us to the Savior, who helps us with our silent conflicts, internal struggles, and hard questions. In time, through sincere prayer and learning, we can walk away whole with a true understanding of who we are. This is because of the Savior’s invitation to follow Him.
I had confused assimilation with conversion. I had falsely believed that in order to be a faithful Latter-day Saint, I had to shed one part of my identity and embrace a new one, but the reality is that what needs shedding is that which separates us from God. The heart does not need to be purified of its heritage, only of sin and conflict. This purification reawakens us to our true identities as sons or daughters of God.
These blessings are meant for all. The only requirements are repentance, making and keeping covenants, and diligently seeking after Him. Like Nephi of old, you do not need to know the meaning of all things (see 1 Nephi 11:17). Just knowing that God loves His children is a good start, and then eventually “by the power of the Holy Ghost ye may know the truth of all things” (Moroni 10:5)—even the turning of our hearts to the knowledge of our fathers.

In August, cheers were heard as youth and adults celebrated the dedication of the Kyiv Ukraine Temple. Youth and adults participated in the grand cultural celebration. Participants came from several countries and represented diverse cultures. Some practiced for months to get ready for the celebration, which included a choir, orchestra, and dances.
The youth enjoyed performing dances and wearing traditional costumes from their country. They were also delighted to be able to perform for President Thomas S. Monson.
“The best part was when I saw the prophet,” said Michael Minasyan, 14, from Armenia. “I was right in front of him, and he waved to us. I felt the spirit that I was waiting for.”

Illustration by Julia Yellow
It was a calm day at my job as a volunteer firefighter, so I decided to read the Book of Mormon. When one of my co-workers saw me reading, he asked if I knew how we could put on the armor of God in modern times. As we were talking, the alarm sounded. There was a fire in a nearby store.
We quickly put on our firefighting gear and went straight there. The flames were huge, and as we approached the store, something exploded in our direction. The flames engulfed us. The explosion disoriented my co-worker and me for a few seconds. But thanks to our equipment and protective clothing, we suffered no injury.
When we returned to the station after fighting the fire, I asked my co-worker if he remembered his question about the armor of God. He said he did, and I explained that the armor of God is like our protective firefighting gear. We must always wear it so we can withstand the powerful attacks of the adversary. If we keep the commandments, we will be blessed with the protective power of the armor of God, and the Holy Ghost will be our guide.
Fernando de la Rosa Marrón, Mexico

One who received and welcomed the gift of peace was Joseph Millett, an early missionary to the Maritime Provinces of Canada, who learned while there and in his later experiences in life of the need to rely on heavenly help. An experience which he recalled in his journal is a beautiful illustration of simple yet profound faith:
“One of my children came in and said that Brother Newton Hall’s folks was out of bread, had none that day.
“I divided our flour in a sack to send up to Brother Hall. Just then Brother Hall came.
“Says I, ‘Brother Hall, are you out of flour?’
“‘Brother Millett, we have none.’
“‘Well, Brother Hall, there is some in that sack. I have divided and was going to send it to you. Your children told mine that you was out.’
“Brother Hall began to cry. He said he had tried others, but could not get any. He went to the cedars and prayed to the Lord, and the Lord told him to go to Joseph Millett.
“‘Well Brother Hall, you needn’t bring this back. If the Lord sent you for it you don’t owe me for it.’
“You can’t tell me how good it made me feel to know that the Lord knew there was such a person as Joseph Millett.”
Prayer brought the gift of peace to Newton Hall and to Joseph Millett.

As their family grew and matured in the gospel, they taught their two sons about the importance of going to the temple. (Their youngest son is currently serving a mission.) The Powells were thrilled that when their oldest son, Barat, got engaged, temple marriage was immediately part of the plan. Ishla, his fiancée, was a new member of the Church. “From the first day I met with the missionaries, I knew the gospel was true, and I loved it,” she says. She grew close to the current branch president’s family, the Isaacs, who had been introduced to the Church by the Powells.
At the time of her baptism, Barat had four months remaining on his mission. “The Isaacs kept saying he would be the right match for me, but I wanted to postpone marriage and serve a mission myself,” Ishla says. Even though the branch and mission presidents approved her missionary application, Ishla explains, “Suddenly and unexpectedly my mind was completely changed. I wanted to pray for marriage.”
When he returned from his mission, Barat was surprised when several people told him that Ishla would be right for him. A short time later they met briefly at the wedding of President Isaac’s daughter but never talked much. Indian society is quite formal about men and women getting acquainted, and both Barat and Ishla wanted to behave appropriately.
Three weeks later Ishla was praying and wondering what to do, and so was Barat. “The Lord showed me through so many ways that Barat was the right one,” Ishla says. “But I was very reserved. I prayed, ‘Lord, if this is the way, then show me how I can speak to him.’”
Barat says, “I had talked to several people about her, and they all had nothing but good to say. Suddenly I thought, ‘I need to talk to her right now,’ but I didn’t know how. I called President Isaac’s sister and asked if she thought it was all right to call.”
Ishla continues, “As I was praying, the branch president’s sister telephoned and said, ‘Barat wants to talk to you. Can I give him your number?’” Half an hour later they were talking. Barat says, “It was as if we had known each other for years.”
Ishla had learned about temple marriage at institute and knew she wouldn’t settle for anything less. Barat felt the same way. But they would have to save money to travel to the temple, and it meant many friends and family members, including Barat’s mother and father, wouldn’t have enough money to travel with them.
“It’s a long way to go, and traveling is very expensive, but we all agreed they should go,” Sathiadhas recalls. “We told them we would celebrate with them at the legal ceremony before they left, and we asked them to take lots of pictures after they were sealed. Then we would celebrate again when they returned.
“We are teaching the younger generation the importance of the temple,” Sathiadhas explains. “We encourage all people to go to the temple, and we wanted our children to go there too.” He says he is particularly pleased with the way Barat and Ishla respected their parents, the customs of their people, and their own agency.
“In India people refer to ‘arranged marriages’ and ‘love marriages,’” Barat says. “We feel we have both.” In fact, Barat and Ishla prefer to call their marriage a “guided marriage.” “We were brought together by our families and friends but also by the Spirit,” he says. “We hope the Spirit will always guide our marriage.”

September 9—Today wasn’t the best. I didn’t have anyone to sit by at lunch. I missed an easy question on the geography quiz. Also our team lost at kickball. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever have any friends at this school.
I wish we hadn’t moved here. I don’t have anyone to talk to. That’s why I’m starting a journal. People in books always seem to have journals. I’ve heard stories from pioneers’ journals. I don’t know if I’ll ever do anything amazing, but it’s nice to talk to someone. Hope I can keep this up! Gotta go. Mom’s calling me for dinner.
P.S. I do feel a little better now.
I closed my journal and went to set the table.
The next day was just as bad. When I came home, I felt like I might explode. Instead I went to my room, opened my journal, and started writing. I dumped all those feelings out. I felt better this time too. After that, I wrote every few days. I wrote about everything. It was like I was writing my own book!
October 21—Guess what? I made a friend! Her name is Claire, and she’s new too. We both like board games, and we don’t like geography. I think I’m going to invite her over for family game night on Friday.
I love my journal. I like writing when I feel mad or worried because it makes me feel better. I also like writing about the good things that happen because then I can remember them.
Guess what else? I have a book report due next week. Wish me luck!
Little by little things started getting better. I still got picked last for kickball, but I had a few friends, and I joined the math team. I wrote about all of it. Soon I wasn’t writing just to complain, I was writing to a good friend—me!
And before I knew it, sixth grade was over. When I came home from the class party, I had quite a few signatures in my yearbook—all from new friends I had made. I pulled out my journal, plopped down on my bed, and wrote my last entry as a sixth grader.
June 15—Today was the last day of sixth grade. Next year I’ll be in seventh grade! I’m nervous about that, but I know I can write when I get scared or when I feel like everything is going wrong. I just went back and read my first entry again. It was so sad that I almost laughed! I’m glad I have it. It shows how much I’ve grown up this year! I’m glad I’m not so angry or sad anymore.
When we moved here, I felt like I would never be happy again. But now when I read my journal, I can see how much Heavenly Father has blessed me. He helped me make new friends and learn hard things. I wonder what’s going to happen next year!

One day while upset with his younger brother, our nine-year-old loudly complained of his brother’s faults. This had happened many times before, and it had troubled me, but this day I felt inspired to try a more positive approach to solving the problem. I sent my son to his room and told him not to come out until he had written down ten nice things about his younger brother. When he emerged with the list, his attitude had changed. Looking for the positive had crowded out his negative thoughts and feelings.
We have since used this form of discipline frequently and have found it an effective way to maintain an atmosphere of love in our home. And learning early in life to look for a person’s good qualities will make our children happier and better prepared to get along with others in the future.

The jungle heat was stifling. My pack and rifle were almost heavier than I could bear. Being a greenhorn in Vietnam, I appreciated my buddy Moose watching out for me and pointing out booby traps along the trail, but his long strides were hard to keep up with. Finally, Sarge called a halt, and I collapsed in the middle of the trail. As we caught our breath, the men started talking about the showers, clean beds, and real food waiting for us at base camp just a few hours away.
“Four niner, four niner, this is Zulu 23. Come in, four niner,” the radio crackled. We all recognized Zulu 23, the code name of the chopper overhead, which we called “the man upstairs.” The helicopter pilot advised us to get off the trail and head into the swamp, a detour that would take three or four days. Visions of beds and food vanished.
I couldn’t believe it when my buddies grimly pulled their things together, preparing to plunge into the swamp. Angrily I started yelling at them. “Hey, you guys, don’t listen to him. What does he know about the jungle? He never even gets his feet wet. The swamp will eat you alive if the Vietcong soldiers don’t get you first. Let’s stick to the trail.”
Suddenly Moose loomed over me, and I was painfully reminded of why the guys called him Moose. He picked me up by the front of my shirt with one hand. With the first finger of his other hand he punctuated his words against my chest. “Jones, when the man upstairs talks, you listen!” He dropped me roughly, and I followed meekly into the swamp.
Three days later we finally dragged into camp. That’s when we learned that a company of enemy soldiers had set up an ambush on our trail. Because of his vantage point, “the man upstairs” could see what was happening and had saved our lives.

When the bottle quilt was completed, Lynda began working on a quilt featuring family stories. Other quilts have followed, including a memory quilt for each of her children. The tradition began when Lynda’s oldest child, Janelle, was seven years old. Lynda and Janelle collected Janelle’s best childhood drawings, special notes, and even a math problem and transferred them to blocks of white fabric. Lynda then assembled the blocks and quilted them on her kitchen table. By the time Janelle was baptized, her childhood was preserved in a quilt. Six other quilts, each unique and reflective of the child who helped create it, have followed. Lynda and her youngest daughter, Jesse, are now assembling the artwork for the eighth quilt.

On October 3, 1918, Joseph sat in his room, reflecting on the Atonement of Jesus Christ and the redemption of the world. He opened his New Testament to 1 Peter and read about the Savior preaching to the spirits in the spirit world. “For this cause was the gospel preached also to them that are dead,” he read, “that they might be judged according to men in the flesh, but live according to God in the spirit.”
As he pondered the scriptures, the prophet felt the Spirit descend upon him, opening his eyes of understanding. He saw multitudes of the dead in the spirit world. Righteous women and men who had died before the Savior’s mortal ministry were joyfully waiting for His advent there to declare their liberation from the bands of death.
The Savior appeared to the multitude, and the righteous spirits rejoiced in their redemption. They knelt before Him, acknowledging Him as their Savior and Deliverer from death and the chains of hell. Their countenances shone as light from the presence of the Lord radiated around them. They sang praises to His name.3
As Joseph marveled at the vision, he again reflected on the words of Peter. The host of disobedient spirits was far greater than the host of righteous spirits. How could the Savior, during His brief visit to the spirit world, possibly preach His gospel to all of them?4
Joseph’s eyes were then opened again, and he understood that the Savior did not go in person to the disobedient spirits. Rather, he organized the righteous spirits, appointing messengers and commissioning them to carry the gospel message to the spirits in darkness. In this way, all people who died in transgression or without a knowledge of the truth could learn about faith in God, repentance, vicarious baptism for the remission of sin, the gift of the Holy Ghost, and all other essential principles of the gospel.
Gazing upon the vast congregation of righteous spirits, Joseph saw Adam and his sons Abel and Seth. He beheld Eve standing with her faithful daughters who had worshipped God throughout the ages. Noah, Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, and Moses were also there, along with Isaiah, Ezekiel, Daniel, and other prophets from the Old Testament and Book of Mormon. So too was the prophet Malachi, who prophesied that Elijah would come to plant the promises made to the fathers in the hearts of the children, preparing the way for temple work and the redemption of the dead in the latter days.5
Joseph F. Smith also saw Joseph Smith, Brigham Young, John Taylor, Wilford Woodruff, and others who had laid the foundation of the Restoration. Among them was his martyred father, Hyrum Smith, whose face he had not seen in seventy-four years. They were some of the noble and great spirits who had been chosen before mortality to come forth in the latter days and labor for the salvation of all God’s children.
The prophet then perceived that the faithful elders of this dispensation would continue their labor in the next life by preaching the gospel to the spirits who were in darkness and under the bondage of sin.
“The dead who repent will be redeemed, through obedience to the ordinances of the house of God,” he observed, “and after they have paid the penalty of their transgressions, and are washed clean, shall receive a reward according to their works, for they are heirs of salvation.”6
When the vision closed, Joseph pondered all that he had seen. The next morning, he surprised the Saints by attending the first session of the October general conference despite his poor health. Determined to speak to the congregation, he stood unsteadily at the pulpit, his large frame shaking from the effort. “For more than seventy years I have been a worker in this cause with your fathers and progenitors,” he said, “and my heart is just as firmly set with you today as it ever has been.”7
Lacking the strength to speak of his vision without being overcome by emotion, he merely alluded to it. “I have not lived alone these five months,” he told the congregation. “I have dwelt in the spirit of prayer, of supplication, of faith, and of determination, and I have had my communication with the Spirit of the Lord continuously.”
“It is a happy meeting this morning for me,” he said. “God Almighty bless you.”8

Other traditions I grew up with that have continued in my own family today are family prayer and scripture study. Although we were not members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints when I was a boy, my parents had strong Christian roots and taught us good values.
Our regular prayer and scripture study prepared us for when the missionaries knocked on our door. I was 20 years old at the time. We immediately recognized the truths the missionaries were teaching as we learned about modern prophets, the Book of Mormon, and the Restoration of the gospel. As I read the Book of Mormon, from the very first verse I knew it was true. Our entire family was soon baptized.

I knew Shannon couldn’t help being talented and intelligent. It wasn’t her fault that she always came home with straight A’s and that she had a natural talent for music and art. It also wasn’t her fault that her hair flowed softly over her shoulders and that she had the long willowy body of a model. But none of these things helped me any.
It was the summer before I was to enter high school. Everytime I looked in the mirror there was another freckle until they were all over everywhere, even on my toes. I was plump and dumpy, and I had hair that would only go the way it wasn’t supposed to go. I marveled that our parents’ genes could play such a dirty trick. How could one child turn out so lovely, enchanting, and full of grace, and the other turn out to be a homely little 16-year-old nobody.
That summer things were at an all-time, record-breaking low for me because I was to enter Jackson High School in September. I wasn’t looking forward to it. I begged my parents to let me transfer to another school, but they could see no sense in it. It made perfect sense to me. Shannon had been junior prom queen and secretary of her class and had sung the lead in the big musical just the year before. How could I follow in those footsteps? I also got nauseated at the thought of hearing those words again—the words I had heard all through Everest Elementary and Weston Junior High: “Is Shannon your sister?” (with the accent on the your). “Why she’s so beautiful … so talented …” (so everything you’re not). I knew I would hear those words dozens of times. They would bring tears of anger to my eyes. Yet how could they help being amazed? It wasn’t anyone’s fault.
Even though I knew no one was to blame, certainly not Shannon, I took my unhappiness out on her. There are subtle ways to persecute a sister. I knew them all. When she was trying to take a nap, I turned up my radio. When she tried a new recipe, I refused to eat it because it looked “funny.” I slipped into the shower just as she was getting ready to take one. I borrowed her shoes without asking. And I hurt her in thousands of more painful psychological ways.
But, Shannon never complained. It was always “Good morning, Janet.” Her cheerfulness made it worse, and I tried to think of more ways to make her angry. Nothing I did, however, seemed to stir her quiet grace. I guess the worst way I hurt Shannon was when I tuned her out of my life. I stopped telling her things, stopped sharing secrets, and stopped listening. When she came into my room just to talk, I would cut her off with “I’m busy right now.” She would walk out of my room sadly, and pretty soon she quit coming in. Our communication deteriorated to one- and two-word sentences. That summer we stopped being close because I wanted it that way.
Then it happened. It was just two weeks before school would start, and I had a date with Robert Bates. It was only the second date I had had all summer, and Robert was a pretty super guy. I had no idea why he had lowered himself to asking me out unless it was because we had had some fun times during roadshow rehearsals. I was excited and nervous, but I knew we’d have a good time because we got along pretty well. We doubled with Jill Quigley and John Turnbine and the date turned out to be even more fun than I had anticipated. In fact, I hadn’t had so much fun all summer.
Afterwards we stopped at my house for ice cream, and then we all sang around the piano. Jill could play the piano almost as well as Shannon.
“All I can play is the bass viol,” I proclaimed. No one believed me, so I went upstairs to get it. I had taken up the bass viol because I knew Shannon would never try to play one. She wasn’t the bass viol type.
The wall between our bedrooms is thin, and I was puzzled to hear Shannon in her room because I knew that she had had a date with Jack Smithson. I liked Jack because he was nice to me, and I set great store in a man who can be nice to his date’s little sister. The next thing I heard puzzled me even more. It was the sound of subdued sniffling. Shannon rarely cried. What did she have to cry about? My first reaction was curiosity, but I forced myself not to speak. I didn’t want to get involved.
Picking up my bass, I started toward the stairs. Getting it down the stairs was always the most difficult part. I had gone only a few awkward steps when I heard another sniffle. I wanted to just pretend I hadn’t heard: I could just go down the stairs and no one would know I had heard Shannon crying. Well, except me. I leaned my bass against the wall, walked back to Shannon’s door and knocked.
“You okay?” I didn’t get an answer and my duty was done, so I turned back toward the stairs, but there was another sob.
“I know you’re in there. Now, what on earth is the matter?” My voice was icy.
“Nothing. Just leave me alone,” she squeaked. “Just please, please, leave me alone.”
“Well, I’ll be back.”
I showed the group my bass viol and played for them. I think Robert was impressed even though I made a couple of bad mistakes. It was getting late, however, and everyone was tired, so they left—but I knew Robert would call me again.
When I went back upstairs, Shannon was sitting by her dressing table brushing her hair, pretending that nothing was wrong. I must say she didn’t look beautiful. Her skin was blotched and her aristocratic nose was swollen and red.
“What is it? Can I help you?”
“What?”
“Can I help?” I was as surprised as she was that I had said it. I guess it was because she looked so pitiful sitting there trying to pretend nothing was wrong. The shock of my concern set her off again, and she began sobbing like smooth, collected Shannon had never sobbed since we were small. It affected me so much that I put my hand on her shoulder and patted it.
“Come on. Come on. Things aren’t that bad, are they? Does it have something to do with Jack? You can tell me if you want to. I mean I’d like to hear if you feel like telling me.”
“You would?” I was ashamed at her amazement.
“Yes, I would.”
“Are you sure you don’t mind? Oh, Janet, I’m so miserable.”
“Come on; tell me about it.”
She sobbed again, gulped, and got control of herself.
“I’ve wanted so much to tell you about Jack. He’s all I’ve been able to think about for weeks. I can’t explain what it is about him. He’s different from the other boys I’ve dated. He’s so good-looking and intelligent and a good athlete, but it doesn’t seem to affect him. None of that has gone to his head. He’s always courteous and kind to people, even little children. Now I’ll never see him again.”
“What happened?”
“Oh, it was just awful. I couldn’t think of anything to say. I was nervous and jittery, and my stomach was all twisted inside. I was a bore. Finally I asked him to take me home early. I knew he was having a lousy time.”
“Oh, come now, Shannon. It’s all your imagination. Things couldn’t have been that bad.”
“They were. They were.” She began crying again. Then suddenly she blurted out some words that took me entirely by surprise.
“And it’s your fault.”
“My fault?” I couldn’t imagine what she meant. “What do you mean my fault?”
“I guess I might as well tell you what ruined the date. Just as we were going out the door, you had to come in and do one of your cute little routines. You always do that when I go out with someone—come in and show off your personality. Then, on the way out to the car, Jack said, ‘Wow, your little sister is sure a little firecracker. What a personality!’ After that the whole date was ruined. I couldn’t think of anything to say. I was like a dead battery. If I could have been like you, he would have liked me. You can always think of funny, witty things to say, and you always remember jokes and sayings. I get sick of people saying, ‘Is Janet your sister? Why she’s so bubbly and so full of energy!’ What they’re really saying is that I’m a bore.”
I was so stunned that I just sat there on her bed in a stupor. “Is she your sister?” I had almost hated her for those words. Then I began laughing, but I was crying at the same time.