Gospel Story Finder

The following day at Far West Church leaders met to hear four demands from General Samuel Lucas: Mormon property was to be confiscated to pay for damages, Church leaders were to surrender for trial and punishment, the balance of the Saints were to be disarmed, and they were to leave the state under militia protection. Joseph Smith, Sidney Rigdon, Lyman Wight, Parley P. Pratt, George W. Robinson, Hyrum Smith, and Amasa Lyman were taken prisoner while the militia plundered Far West. A court-martial quickly sentenced the prisoners to be shot the following morning, and General Lucas ordered General Alexander Doniphan to carry out the order. Doniphan, who had served as an attorney for the Saints previously, responded with a memo: “It is cold-blooded murder. I will not obey your order. My brigade shall march for Liberty tomorrow morning, at 8 o’clock, and if you execute these men, I will hold you responsible before an earthly tribunal, so help me God.” Doniphan’s fearless response prevented the execution. (CHC 1:482.)

My late father, Claude Roy, passed away in 2015, not long after being baptized. By then, my mother, siblings, and I had been members of the Church for some time, but for decades my father remained adamantly unwilling to join.
Over time, he said, “my heart hardened, and I became irritated by visits from my children and grandchildren and wanted to isolate myself from my family. Tensions grew in my house, and my relationship with my wife became strained.”
Around this time, he began to retrace his Canadian aboriginal ancestors, who were descendants of the Mi’kmaq and Huron-Wendat nations. After reaching out to the Mi’kmaq community near where he grew up, he was invited to a powwow, a Native American ceremony.
During the evening of the powwow, the high chief opened his arms and asked the children to come to him so he could bless them. The discourse that followed on the importance of family and descendants struck my father like thunder.
In that moment, he said, “I saw my family holding out their arms to me while I turned my back on them. I was filled with an overwhelming, indescribable sadness as though my heart was breaking in pieces. I knew in that moment that the Lord had used the words of my ancestors’ tribe to soften my heart. I knew I had to turn to my Heavenly Father and repair the damage I had caused my family.”
Dad began to make peace with our family, asking forgiveness from each family member. With the example of his wife and children, he began to pray and read the Book of Mormon. Having read many histories about the American continent, he felt drawn to the Book of Mormon. Its veracity was confirmed to him immediately.
“Surrounded by my family, I was baptized a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints,” he said. “That was the most beautiful day of my life! I testify of the power of a loving example. For 36 years, my wife kept her faith and was a Christlike example to me, though my heart had hardened. Then, one weekend changed everything for me.”

A few months later, Martin came to Harmony. He said he felt called by the Lord to travel as far as New York City to consult experts in ancient languages. He hoped they could translate the characters.12
Joseph copied several more characters from the plates, wrote down his translation, and handed the paper to Martin. He and Emma then watched as their friend headed east to consult with distinguished scholars.13
Facsimile of characters from the Book of Mormon plates.
When Martin arrived in New York City, he went to see Charles Anthon, a professor of Latin and Greek at Columbia College. Professor Anthon was a young man—about 15 years younger than Martin—and was best known for publishing a popular encyclopedia on Greek and Roman culture. He had also begun collecting stories about American Indians.14
Anthon was a rigid scholar who resented interruptions, but he welcomed Martin and studied the characters and translation Joseph had provided.15 Although the professor did not know Egyptian, he had read some studies on the language and knew what it looked like. Looking at the characters, he saw some similarities with Egyptian and told Martin the translation was correct.
Martin showed him more characters, and Anthon examined them. He said they contained characters from many ancient languages and gave Martin a certificate verifying their authenticity. He also recommended that he show the characters to another scholar named Samuel Mitchill, who used to teach at Columbia.16
“He is very learned in these ancient languages,” Anthon said, “and I have no doubt he will be able to give you some satisfaction.”17
Martin placed the certificate in his pocket, but just as he was leaving, Anthon called him back. He wanted to know how Joseph found the gold plates.
“An angel of God,” Martin said, “revealed it unto him.” He testified that the translation of the plates would change the world and save it from destruction. And now that he had proof of their authenticity, he intended to sell his farm and donate money to get the translation published.
“Let me see that certificate,” Anthon said.
Martin reached into his pocket and gave it to him. Anthon tore it to pieces and said there was no such thing as ministering angels. If Joseph wanted the plates translated, he could bring them to Columbia and let a scholar translate them.
Martin explained that part of the plates were sealed and that Joseph was not allowed to show them to anyone.
“I cannot read a sealed book,” said Anthon. He warned Martin that Joseph was probably cheating him. “Beware of rogues,” he said.18
Martin left Professor Anthon and called on Samuel Mitchill. He received Martin politely, listened to his story, and looked at the characters and translation. He could not make sense of them, but he said they reminded him of Egyptian hieroglyphics and were the writings of an extinct nation.19
Martin left the city a short time later and returned to Harmony, more convinced than ever that Joseph had ancient gold plates and the power to translate them. He told Joseph about his interviews with the professors and reasoned that if some of the most educated men in America could not translate the book, Joseph had to do it.
“I cannot,” Joseph said, overwhelmed by the task, “for I am not learned.” But he knew the Lord had prepared the interpreters so he could translate the plates.20
Martin agreed. He planned to go back to Palmyra, set his business in order, and return as soon as possible to serve as Joseph’s scribe.21

Nathan and his mother were driving home from the store when something scary happened. They had been waiting at a red light, and when it turned green, they started into the intersection. Nathan looked past his mother and saw a car speeding toward them from the left. There was nothing they could do. The other car crashed into them with the sound of crunching metal and shattering glass.
Suddenly everything was quiet. He looked at his mother and saw that her arm was hurt. “Don’t worry, Nathan,” she said, “I’m OK. Are you all right?”
“I think so.”
They watched as the man from the other car angrily walked around the car and opened Nathan’s door. “Lady, you ran that red light! Look what you’ve done to my car! I’m going to sue you.” Just then a police car arrived, and the man went to talk to the policeman.
Some people who had been watching came over and helped Nathan and his mother out of the car. Nathan’s mother looked around at the group. “Did any of you see what happened?”
One lady stepped forward and said, “I saw you waiting at the red light. You didn’t go until it had turned green. That was when he hit you.”
Other people said that they had seen the accident, and Mother asked, “Would you testify in court about what you saw?” When several of them said that they would, she asked them to write their names and addresses and phone numbers down and give them to the policeman.
Two other police cars and an ambulance had pulled up, and one of the officers started talking to Mother. He noticed her hurt arm and had her and Nathan taken to the hospital.
Later that evening, as Nathan nestled into his comfortable bed, his parents came in to kiss him good night. Mother’s arm was in a white cast and was supported by a sling around her neck. Father swept Nathan up into his arms and said, “I’m so thankful to Heavenly Father that neither of you was seriously injured.”
Nathan gave Father a hug. “I’m scared, Dad. That man said the accident was our fault.”
Mother reached out and took Nathan’s hand. “Don’t be afraid. There were several witnesses who will testify, or bear testimony, that we waited for the light to turn green. The judge will decide who was at fault.”
Nathan’s parents knelt in prayer with him, then tucked him in bed again, and he soon drifted off to sleep.
A few weeks later they drove to the courthouse for the trial. Nathan was nervous. How would the judge know the truth when he hadn’t seen the accident? As they walked into the courtroom, Nathan recognized the man who had hit them. The first policeman and some of the witnesses were already seated.
The judge asked the policeman to come to the witness stand. The policeman showed a big board with a diagram of two streets crossing each other. First he used drawings to show how the cars had collided. Next he showed the judge some photographs that had been taken of the accident.
After he had gone back to his seat, the judge asked the man who had hit them to come to the stand and tell about the accident. The man said, “I was driving along Thirty-fourth Street, the light was green, and suddenly her car drove right in front of my car. There was nothing I could do. I tried to stop, but there wasn’t time.”
The judge told him that he could sit down. Then the judge asked Mother to come to the stand. After she explained what had happened, he said, “We have conflicting stories here. Are there any witnesses to this accident?”
The policeman gave the judge a list of people’s names, and he called each of them to the stand to give their testimony. Every one of them said that the man had been going very fast and had gone through a red light and hit Mother’s car.
The judge looked through some papers, then made his decision. He looked first at the man. “You are guilty of speeding and running a red light. You are the cause of this accident. You will have to pay the woman’s medical fees and the cost of having her car fixed. You will also have to pay a fine of seven hundred dollars in court costs.
Nathan was relieved. The judge knew the truth because of the witnesses’ testimonies.
The next Sunday morning, at testimony meeting, Nathan realized how important testimonies are. Each person who stood up told how he or she knew that Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ live.
Nathan had a warm feeling about his testimony. He wanted to bear it often so that others would know the truth of the gospel, just as the judge had known the truth about the accident.

I was raised in a wonderful but less-active family. I wasn’t accustomed to hearing testimonies borne of the truthfulness of the gospel within my home. So even though I grew up in Salt Lake City, Utah, in a predominantly Latter-day Saint environment, I didn’t grow up in a typical Latter-day Saint family. We didn’t hold family home evening or gather for family prayer. Many of the Church practices that my friends were used to were a little foreign to me.
By virtue of this home environment, I was probably one of the least likely to stand and bear my testimony in front of a large seminary gathering. I was also a rather shy 15-year-old, so I was quite surprised when I found myself standing at a microphone in front of 300 seminary students. But I was comfortable because of what I felt deep inside. Even today, I still remember the overwhelming prompting by the Spirit to stand and bear my testimony in that seminary meeting.
I don’t remember the exact words I spoke, but I will never forget the burning in my heart, the sure witness I received that the Church is true. I remember well the feeling of the Spirit of the Holy Ghost that descended upon me as I bore witness to the truthfulness of this Church.
Before that day I believed the Church was true. I liked the Church. I thought it was good, and I participated in it. But at that defining moment in my life, I knew the Church was true. I couldn’t deny it, and no one could take that testimony away from me.
Since that day in seminary, I have shared my testimony thousands of times. I remember some of these other occasions, but none have been quite so dramatic for me or have been so influential in shaping my future as that first instance when I was a teenager. One of the reasons this event made such a lasting impression on me is because I was about the same age as the Prophet Joseph Smith when he saw Heavenly Father and His Son, Jesus Christ, and learned that he would be instrumental in restoring the true Church to the earth.
The experience of bearing my testimony and gaining a sure witness was a turning point in my life in many ways. When instruction comes from the Lord to you, it is the greatest thing you will ever learn. Because of this testimony, I wanted to serve, to become a better student, and to develop better social and personal skills. My desire to learn more about the scriptures was greatly increased. I had more purpose in life. I knew that as I kept myself worthy, I would be permitted to preach the gospel.
I also realized that God knew who I was. That was one of the really important things that surprised me and changed me. I was His son! Once you know who you are, you want to be better. There comes a power in that knowledge—a power you can get only through the inspiration of our Heavenly Father.
As I look back on this experience, I believe that Heavenly Father wanted to give me an opportunity to develop some attributes and skills so He could work with me a little easier. I think He also wanted to get me thinking about serving a mission, which was not something that was encouraged in my home. As a young teen, I hadn’t thought much about a mission. But through my testimony experience, I knew for the first time that I wanted to serve a mission. Many other experiences reinforced that desire, but that was the first instance that I knew I wanted to go. I knew my Father in Heaven wanted me to serve a full-time mission to share what I now knew with His children.

Here I am, the Freckled Wonder, starting another year at Madsen High. I say “another year” to distinguish myself from the younger set, who look incredibly lost and frightened. Was I that bad last year? As usual, anyone new who met me today said, “Hey, I’ll bet everybody calls you Freckles!” If anyone ever says, “Hey, I’ll bet everyone calls you Gorgeous,” I’ll be his slave forever.
The particular anyone I referred to earlier—the one who made the strikingly original remark about the freckles—is Dave Johnson, class president. If he hadn’t made that remark about the freckles, I think I would be interested in him. He’s handsome even with glasses, which he wears part-time. Reminds me of Richard O’Neal, my childhood (last year’s) hero.
Ever hear of Miss Frodjam’s Freckle Ointment, guaranteed to “lighten or totally remove unsightly freckles and facial blemishes forever”? Neither had I, until this afternoon in the library. Shelly handed me a moldy-looking book from a top shelf somewhere—Miss Gordon’s Modern Book of Beauty, Charm, and Etiquette. Needless to say, the book was actually written shortly after the Stone Age. I browsed through it awhile, not really studying anything in great detail, when suddenly, surrounded by recipes for homemade cold cream (where on earth would a person buy rose water?) and hand lotion (worse yet, wool fat?), there was the recipe for Miss Frodjam’s Freckle Ointment.
“What a riot!” Shelly said to me as she wrinkled her smooth, unfreckled nose. “A girl would really have to be desperate to try a weird concoction like that!”
“How would Shelly know?” I thought as I carefully memorized the ingredients and amounts, trying meanwhile to look mildly amused. Shelly would laugh for a week if she knew that I went straight home and mixed one tablespoon of lemon juice, two tablespoons of vinegar, and one-half cup of flour “or enough to make a smooth, moist paste.”
Well, I was just stirring up my smooth, moist paste—and incidentally, the kitchen was beginning to smell like a pickle factory—when I heard voices and realized it was too late to hide. Voice Number One, of course, was Kevin, winner of the year’s Most-Obnoxious-Big-Brother Award.
“Gee,” he said, sniffing the aroma, “I’m glad you fixed me something good to snack on, Keri. I’m just dying (here he rolled his eyes desperately) of hunger.”
Voice Number Two then made his appearance in the kitchen. If I could have died on the spot, I would have.
“Oh, hi Dave,” I croaked feebly.
He grinned his handsome Richard O’Neal grin and asked, “Been taking cooking lessons? Smells like a real treat.”
What could I say? Why on earth did dear old Kevin pick this day, of all days of the year, to suddenly become great friends with Dave Johnson? They don’t have a thing in common other than their student government positions, debate team, and, of course, basketball. Dave is the school’s star center and Kevin is the star benchwarmer. I now noticed a basketball under Dave’s right arm. So that was what brought them together.
“Planning to really knock the team over dead this year, Kevin?” I asked, hoping to change the subject. Kevin blushed slightly and couldn’t think of a good comeback.
“I hate to ask, but what is it?” said Dave, pointing to my dish of smooth, moist paste.
“I have a rare disease and it calls for a special diet.” I was trying to be funny.
Kevin’s next act deserves the award for Putdown of the Year.
“Miss Frodjam’s Freckle Ointment,” he read solemnly and eloquently from the notebook on the counter. I had completely forgotten about that notebook. I wanted to sink into nonexistence. He went on to read the ingredients with great flourish, adding a few choice remarks like, “A touch of bat liver improves the quality of the ointment considerably!” and “Incidentally, if this doesn’t land the man of your dreams, Madame Butterball’s Diet Salve certainly will!”
I probably would have laughed if I hadn’t been so close to crying. I’ll bet Dave thinks I’m really out to lunch. What could I do? I whisked my smooth, moist paste to the opposite end of the kitchen, returned with the cookie jar, and disappeared to my room. It wasn’t too long before they were totally engrossed in devouring Mom’s home-baked chocolate chip cookies. From my room I could hear them chuckling. See if I loyally cheer for good old Kevin when he makes his one basket for the year.
I am not only desperate about those freckles, I’m determined. I have launched forth on Miss Frodjam’s program for freckle removal. I think it may work better than my past attempts with cover cosmetics, sun lamps, and zinc oxide.
Last night, in spite of the extreme humiliation of being discovered, I stubbornly smeared the paste all over my freckled face and then held very still while it dried to a stiff crust. The book said to leave it on four to six hours, so I went to bed looking and feeling like an Egyptian mummy. All night I had awful dreams about being encased in cement from head to toe.
But this morning when I woke up and rushed right in to wash the stuff off, my freckles—believe it or not—actually did look one-tenth of a shade lighter. I think.
I saw Dave Johnson in the hall today, but he didn’t say anything. Well, he said hi or something. But then what could he say after being a participant in the most embarrassing moment of my life? I suppose it is beneath his dignity anyway to speak to the star benchwarmer’s freckle-faced kid sister. I don’t care.
I guess tonight I’ll try Miss Frodjam’s miracle wonder paste again. It’s not that much fun, but if the treatment works, it will be worth it.
One solid week and seven applications of Miss Frodjam’s Freckle Ointment. The results are far from striking, to say the least. I am about ready to give up. People are beginning to sniff and look baffled when I walk by. However, my freckles are now two-tenths of a shade lighter. I think.
But the crowning blow to my ego came tonight. I was in the kitchen mixing up my smooth, moist paste when Kevin and Dave strolled in, complete with Dave’s basketball again. They were grinning I might add. This week Dave has hardly noticed me, although I’ve seen him at least a hundred times at school. This fact made the moment of our meeting especially poignant.
“Here she is—Miss Freckles,” announced Kevin. “Having great success, I suppose, with your bat liver ointment?”
I ignored him—or rather glared at him—and turned to Dave to offer him the cookie jar.
“Hi, Keri.” That was all Dave said. That was it. His entire speech—two words. He could have at least laughed, or made some remark. But he just popped a cookie into his mouth, turned to Kevin, and started talking about basketball.
I feel like a real failure. Miss Frodjam’s Freckle Ointment is not even good for a laugh.
That Dave Johnson. After school I saw him in the hall. He was going one way and I was going the other. I didn’t know whether to speak or not, so I didn’t. I kind of smiled feebly.
“Hi, Keri.” Dave Johnson, winner of the Warmest-Greeting-of-the-Year Award.
“Hi.” I thought that was a safe reply, in keeping with his warmth and enthusiasm. I was about to walk on, but he asked the weirdest question.
“Well, aren’t you going to thank me?”
“I hate to ask, but what for?”
“Last night. I could have given you a bad time, but I didn’t.”
That was a new way of looking at it. “Uh, thanks!” I answered. “Chivalry is not dead.”
“You’d be surprised,” he said. “I have some insight into the problems of being a kid sister.”
“Is that right? How did you come by this marvelous insight?” I asked.
“I’m a kid brother.”
“Which isn’t quite the same thing, you know.”
“I see your point. Which brings me to another subject,” he said, putting on his glasses. After clearing his throat very solemnly and intellectually, he proceeded. “Miss Carter, I am doing a detailed study on a little-known topic—freckles. The thesis of my study is that sunlight, far from fading freckles, actually brings out their color even more brilliantly. Now—would you be willing to be guinea pig in an experiment with direct sunlight at the football game Saturday afternoon?”
“Wait a minute!” I was really riled. “I thought you had marvelous insight?” What does he think I am, the Freckled Wonder of the World? I thought furiously. I was about to come out with a real putdown when I looked up at his face.
He didn’t look sarcastic or even funny. He looked a little awkward.
“Well, I was kidding about the insight. I was kidding about the freckle study, too. But the football game—I was serious about that. Would you like to come with me?”
Well, dear diary, I won’t go on to describe how I suddenly rose about six inches off the floor. I won’t mention what a fool I must have sounded like, trying to stammer out some sort of proper acceptance speech. I will mention that he smiled and looked almost relieved, and I just couldn’t believe that the great Dave Johnson might actually have moments of self-doubt too.
I definitely plan to discontinue use of Miss Frodjam’s Freckle Ointment. It may have worked on Miss Frodjam. And my freckles are two-tenths of a shade lighter. I think. But after all, if I am going to be part of a detailed study on a little-known topic, far be it from me to try to influence the findings of the direct sunlight thesis.

I always remembered his words, especially when I faced a challenge. For example, one time my mother gave me money to go to a store to buy some fruit. For some reason the cashier gave me back more money than I gave her to pay for the fruit. I started walking home, and when I opened my hand, I saw that I had more money than I had started with.
Satan tried to convince me that I could keep the money for myself. I thought, “I have some money to do whatever I want, and then I will give back the correct change to my mother.” But then I thought, “No, that’s not what the bishop told me. To be a missionary, I have to be honest.” I felt the Spirit at that time and went back to the store to give back the money. I felt good in my heart. I thought, “I was honest, I obeyed the commandments, and I am preparing for my mission. I will be a missionary, and I need to be honest.”

When 23-year-old Spencer Moroni Teuiau received his mission call, he couldn’t stop smiling. After four years of delays waiting for dental procedures to be completed, this young man from the island of Raiatea received his call on his birthday. He remembers reading aloud phrases from the letter: “minister of the restored gospel,” “advocate and effective messenger of the truth,” “ambassador of the Savior,” and thinking, “Wow! With all my weaknesses I’m going to have to trust in the Lord.”
But that is something he is used to doing. Moroni grew up in the Church. He is the third of six children to serve a full-time mission, and he recalls “dreaming about serving a mission ever since I was a little boy.” He remembers memorizing missionary scriptures during his four years of seminary and listening to returned missionaries talk about their missions. But he also remembers dental examinations, adjustments, and years of wearing an apparatus. “There were times when I almost gave up,” he says. However, with the encouragement of his family and his own perseverance, he kept hope alive. Today he is faithfully serving in the Tahiti Papeete Mission.

Several years ago, I was basically an atheist.
I had been born Catholic, but from my teenage years until I was 25, I felt as though there was a spiritual gap inside of me. I tried attending different churches, but none of them could quite fill the gap. I decided after a while that it would be easier to give up believing in God than it would be to keep trying to find the right church.
I first learned about the Book of Mormon and Joseph Smith from a TV program about people who buy and sell antiques and other valuable collectible items. Someone in the episode I was watching had brought a very old copy of the Book of Mormon to sell.
As an expert explained what gave the book value, she told a little bit about the history of the Church and the book. The expert told the host, “This is by far the most valuable book you’ve ever had me appraise.”
I was impressed by the book and the story, so I decided to learn more.
I did some research, and the more I learned about Joseph Smith, the more I respected him and related to him.
I too had been searching for truth and didn’t know where to find it.
I too had attended countless churches in search of the right one and hadn’t found it.
As I was scrolling Facebook later, an ad popped up for a page called “Come unto Christ.” I didn’t think much of it. However, something drew me in, and I soon found myself putting my phone number into the site.
A few months later, I received a phone call from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
I didn’t answer.
After a quick Google search, I decided to call the number back. The missionaries who answered explained that they’d gotten my information from the Come unto Christ website, and suddenly everything was clear. I’d unknowingly signed up for information from the very Church that I had been learning about.
I started meeting with missionaries and learning more. The spiritual hole inside of me started to be filled. Around the time I was deciding to get baptized, some Christian friends invited me to one of their church campouts.
During the final sermon on the last day of camp, I prayed for God to confirm to me that the Book of Mormon was true. At that exact moment, a student who was studying to be a pastor pulled out the Book of Mormon and said, “Why don’t we read from this book? This book is all about Jesus Christ and is in line with the Bible.” The crowd went silent. I am convinced that this was an answer to my prayer.
After hearing from that student, I felt the Spirit confirm to me that this book is another testament of Jesus Christ. I was baptized soon after.
Since joining the Church, the spiritual hole inside of me has been filled, and my testimony of the Prophet Joseph Smith and the Book of Mormon has only continued to grow.
Heavenly Father has helped me know, through prayer and His Spirit, that this is Jesus Christ’s Church. Honestly, I wish I could’ve known about the Church when I was younger. I love this Church. It truly is the Church of Jesus Christ on the earth today.

By noon, the Columbia Ward was headed back from Nashville. But instead of going straight home, they took a detour to Lawrenceburg. The youth there wanted to return the favor of being invited to the hayride, so they had invited Columbia to a late afternoon picnic. While everyone was gathering at the chapel, the Lawrenceburg youth shared some of their thoughts about being a Latter-day Saint in Tennessee.

Paula McGuire, 15, talked about the closeness she feels in her ward and between the two wards.

“I love to be with the youth of the Church,” she said. “Other kids at school see us and think we’re strange to be so close. But in the Church you do seem closer. We really are like brothers and sisters.”

Regina Luker, 16, the Laurel president, told about her efforts to tell an atheist friend about the gospel. “It’s hard to get her to believe in the Lord,” she said. “But I obey the commandments, and I try to be a good example. We need to show we can be trusted.”

And Paul McDow spoke again, this time about teaching a lesson about the Church in his history class at school, about reading the scriptures, about saving money for a mission, and about living in the hills of Tennessee.

“I love it,” he said. “I couldn’t live anywhere else. The only thing that would make it better would be if there were more Church members.”

The youth from Lawrenceburg took the youth from Columbia on a quick tour of their town, then over to Davy Crockett State Park, where they ate fruit, sandwiches, and cookies. There was a short program, featuring Paul dressed up like a frog, “Davy Croak-it”; and by the time the sun set, the two groups went their separate ways, promising to get together again soon.

I would like now to relate one last personal experience in faith that demonstrates these six suggestions.

On July 29, 1977, Sister Cook and I had just finished visiting the Bolivia Santa Cruz Mission and were stalled in the Cochabamba, Bolivia, airport for some five hours. I recall that we were very tired, having had few hours of sleep the night before. We were both delighted to have a few hours rest in the airport. As I was drifting off to sleep, I had a very strong feeling that I should awaken and write down some ideas. The desire to sleep was strong, but the promptings of the Spirit were more powerful. I did write; in fact, I wrote for nearly three hours, solving some organizational problems I had struggled with for a number of years previously. I felt a great outpouring of the Spirit on that day and excitedly wrote down each inspired thought. The experience took most of the time of the delay.

We were then off to La Paz, Bolivia. We were graciously met by President and Sister Chase Allred at the airport and driven in their van to the mission office. We locked the car and left our luggage and briefcase in the van.

Upon entering the office, the president was confronted with the difficult case of a woman whose husband was dying. While President Allred and I assisted with her needs, Sisters Cook and Allred left for the mission home.

When the president and I returned to the van, I realized immediately that all of our goods were gone but assumed that Sister Cook had taken them with her to the mission home. While we were driving toward the home, I discovered that the right front window-wing had been damaged and began to fear that our goods had been stolen.

Arriving at the mission home, we found that our luggage had indeed been stolen. The loss of a substantial amount of money and all our clothing created an immediate but only temporary problem. More disheartening was the fact that my scriptures were in my briefcase along with the inspired ideas I had just received in Cochabamba. The overwhelming sensation of discouragement, anger, and inability to do anything about the situation was overpowering.

My wife and I prayed alone. We prayed with those present. We tried to enjoy our dinner but could not. Who could know of the great loss I personally felt? The scriptures had been given to me as a young man by my parents, a sacred inscription placed in one of them by my mother and in the other by my since-deceased father. I had spent literally thousands of hours marking and cross-referencing (and loving every moment of it) in the only tangible earthly possessions I had ever considered of much value. I had on many occasions instructed my wife that if there were ever a fire in the home, she should first remove the children and then, if there were time, save my scriptures and not worry about anything else.

The president and I had much to discuss as we were to be together only that evening. However, I felt a strong impression that we must do all in our power to recover the scriptures. After supper, all present knelt in prayer once again. We determined to search the immediate area near the mission office and in a nearby field, hoping that the thief or thieves had taken the salable items and discarded the English books.

In the prayer we pleaded that the scriptures would be returned, that the persons who had taken them would be led to know of their unrighteous act and repent, and that the return of the books would be the means of bringing someone into the true church.

Eight to ten of us then loaded into the van with flashlights and warm clothing and drove up to the mission office in the central city. We scoured vacant lots across the street and adjacent streets and alleys; we talked with guards and anyone else we could find and exhausted all possibilities. No one had seen or heard anything. Finally we returned home, dejected, able only to pray individually and wait. President Allred and I worked late into the night to finish our business, and the next day Sister Cook and I flew back to Quito, Ecuador, where we lived.

During the next few weeks, the missionaries searched the lots again. They looked in hedges and garbage cans, searched a nearby park, placed a sign on a wall where the books were stolen, requesting their return, and kept a watchful eye to see if the books might show up in an unexpected place nearby. In sheer desperation, trying to do all in their power, the missionaries decided to place an ad in two daily newspapers, offering a reward and giving explicit information concerning the books.

In Quito, Ecuador, I began a personal spiritual struggle that was a very difficult one for me. After nearly three weeks, I had not studied in the scriptures at all. I had tried on numerous occasions, but every time I read a verse I recalled only a few of the many cross-references I had made over 20 years. I was disheartened, depressed, and had no desire whatsoever to read. I prayed many times expressing to the Father that I had never tried to use my scriptures for any purpose other than glorifying his name and trying to teach others the truths that he had taught me. I pleaded with him to do whatever had to be done in order to have them returned. My wife and little children prayed incessantly for the same blessing. Even after two or three weeks they continued praying every day, “Heavenly Father, please bring back daddy’s scriptures.”

After about three weeks, I felt a strong spiritual impression, “Elder Cook, how long will you go on without reading and studying?” It seemed to me to be a test or a trial and to have something to do with the “cost” of the blessing I desired. The words burned, and I determined that I must be humble and submissive enough to start all over again.

With my wife’s permission to use her scriptures, I began reading in Genesis in the Old Testament, marking and cross-referencing once again.

On August 18, a friend, Brother Ebbie Davis, arrived in Ecuador from Bolivia and laid my scriptures on my desk along with a manila folder that contained the papers that I had written in Cochabamba and some recently prepared mission budgets that were also stolen. He indicated that they were the only things recovered, that he had been given those items by the mission president in La Paz as he boarded the plane, and that he did not know how the books were found, but that I would be told when I arrived there in the next few days to tour the mission.

The joy I experienced in that moment and later that day is indescribable. To realize that my Heavenly Father could, in some miraculous way, lift those books out of the hands of thieves in a city like La Paz and return them intact, not one page removed, torn, or soiled, is still beyond me. How the faith of our family and many Bolivian missionaries was rewarded! That day I promised my Father that I would make better use of my scriptures and my time as instruments in his hands for teaching the gospel.

On Sunday, August 21, I flew to Guayaquil, Ecuador, and on to La Paz, Bolivia, arriving on August 22. Upon arrival I was given the following account:

A lady had been in one of La Paz’s hundreds of marketplaces. She saw a drunk man waving a black book around. She had the strongest spiritual impression that something holy was being desecrated. She approached the man and asked him what it was. He did not know but showed her the book. She asked if he had anything else. He pulled out another black book. She asked if there were more. He removed a folder full of papers that he said he was going to burn. She then expressed the desire to purchase those things from him, to which he agreed, for the price of 50 pesos or about $2.5, U.S. currency.

After the purchase had been made, she felt totally taken back by what she had done. She realized the books and papers were in English—she didn’t speak, read, or understand English—and she had no desire to have any English books. It would have been like one of us paying nearly 10 percent of our monthly income to buy some books in a language we could not read. She immediately began a search for the church that was named in the front of the books. After approaching a number of other churches, she finally arrived at the mission office in La Paz, directed by the hand of the Lord. She had never heard of the reward nor of the ad in the newspaper, which was to appear that very day. She did not ask for any money, not even to reclaim the 50 pesos that she had paid for the books and papers. The elders received the books with rejoicing and paid her the reward anyway.

She told the missionaries that she was associated with a Pentecostal sect, but she listened very intently as they unfolded the gospel to her. She recalled reading something about Joseph Smith from a pamphlet she had picked up in the street two or three years earlier. After their first discussion with her, they reported, “She is a golden contact.” After the second discussion, she committed to baptism. Two weeks later, September 11, 1977, on a Sunday afternoon in La Paz, Bolivia, Sister Maria Cloefe Cardenas Terrazas and her son, Marco Fernando Miranda Cardenas, age 12, were baptized into the true church of Jesus Christ by Elder Douglas Reeder.

Who could describe my deep, discouraging, depressing, disheartening, overpowering feelings of helplessness when the scriptures were lost? Who could describe my great feeling of joy and rejoicing when we saw the power of heaven revealed in this miraculous way? Our Heavenly Father does hear and answer the prayers of his sons and daughters if they exercise faith in the Lord Jesus Christ. The Lord said:

“For verily I say unto you, That whosoever shall say unto this mountain, Be thou removed, and be thou cast into the sea; and shall not doubt in his heart, but shall believe that those things which he saith shall come to pass; he shall have whatsoever he saith.

“Therefore I say unto you, What things soever ye desire, when ye pray, believe that ye receive them, and ye shall have them.” (Mark 11:23–24.)

My grandmother, Mildred Riggs, was a great influence in my life. When I was a young boy, my grandfather died, and Grandma Riggs moved into our home. She lived with us during most of the time I was growing up. She went on a mission, and when the time came for me to go, not many people from my hometown were serving missions. But I thought, “If Grandma Riggs can go on a mission, then I can go on a mission, too.” She was a wonderful example to me. She exercised, read the scriptures, and prayed regularly.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted a brother—someone to play with and talk to, someone to share hiding places and cookies with. I can’t count the number of times I asked Heavenly Father if He would please, please send a little brother to our house. So when I found that my mother was going to have a baby, I was overjoyed. I knew it was going to be a brother. I just knew it. And I was right!
Daniel Benjamin was born kicking and screaming on February 14. For a while we called him our special valentine, then just Benny. I got to hold him when he was only three days old, and I was so proud that I nearly popped the buttons right off my shirt! Lots of days, I rocked him in the rocking chair after school. Sometimes I told him about things at school, but most of the time I sang to him. Mom said I was a lot of help, and Dad said I was a great brother.
When the snow melted and the tulips came up, I was allowed to take him outside and push him in his stroller. I was given a new baseball mitt for my birthday, and I let Benny try it on, but he just chewed on it. “When you get big enough, I’m going to teach you to be the best shortstop ever,” I told him. Every day I showed him new things and waited for him to get old enough to play with me. But he never did.
He did get bigger and stronger. He learned to roll over and sit up and finally to walk. But something was wrong. Sometimes he sat on the floor for hours, staring into space and rocking back and forth. I tried to teach him to play with blocks and to roll a ball, but he just pushed the ball away. The blocks he lined up on the windowsill over and over again, always exactly the same way. If I tried to move them, he screamed and kicked. When I talked to him, he looked right through me as if I weren’t there. Mom and Dad tried over and over to get him to say “Mama” or “Daddy”—anything at all—but he just popped his thumb into his mouth and looked away. Once in a while he let Mom or Dad hug him, but whenever I put my arms around him, he pushed me away. That made me feel really sad.
By the time Benny was two years old, Mom and Dad had taken him to nearly every doctor around, but nobody seemed to know what was wrong. Finally they took him to a big hospital far away to see a special kind of doctor. He said that Benny was severely autistic. That meant that he might never be able to talk, or play with me, or be in Cub Scouts, or do any of the things that regular brothers do.
The more I thought about it, the worse I felt. There was a big, empty place somewhere inside me, and an aching that wouldn’t go away. I guess Mom could tell I was hurting, because one day when I was sitting on the couch, she came over and sat beside me. “Want to talk?” she asked quietly.
For a minute I just kept looking out the window; then I swallowed hard and looked up. “Mom, does Heavenly Father really love us?”
“Of course He does,” she answered, putting her arm around me.
“Well, sometimes … sometimes I wonder. Why did Heavenly Father let Benny be autistic? Doesn’t He love Benny?”
“Yes, David,” Mom said, pulling me closer. “Benny is very special to Heavenly Father, just as you are. But I know how sad and confused you must feel, because sometimes I feel that way too. But sad times happen to everyone. They’re part of living. And learning. They can teach us things we never knew before—things about ourselves and about what’s really important in life. Even though they’re painful, these times can help us grow.”
“But Benny’s the only brother I have,” I said, blinking to keep the tears from falling.
“Wait here a minute.” Mom stood up and left the room. When she came back, she had something in her hand. “I want to tell you about another Brother, a Brother who loves you and cares about you and who will help you and be a Friend to you all your life.”
“Another brother?”
She held out a small picture of the Savior. “Our Elder Brother, Jesus Christ, knows how sad we sometimes feel. Sad things happened to Him too. But He has given us a reason to have hope and to live our lives with joy.”
I didn’t see how I could ever feel really happy again, but I kept listening.
“We have a great opportunity to follow the Savior’s example by loving Benny and helping him in a kind and patient way. Sometimes it will be hard, and we’ll get discouraged. But if we keep trying, we’ll grow to love Benny more and more. And we’ll become more like Jesus.”
“I already love Benny a lot,” I told Mom, “so I guess I’m already a little like Jesus.”
Mom nodded and gave me an extra squeeze. Then she told me something I’ll never forget. “Because Jesus loved us so much, He made it possible for us to be resurrected. Do you know what that means?”
“I think I do. It means that when we die, we won’t have our bodies for a while, but then we’ll have them again.”
Mom nodded. “And in the resurrection there will be no crippled bodies or minds. Can you imagine what that means?”
For a long moment I didn’t answer. I was thinking of things I had never imagined before, and a warm feeling was growing inside of me, crowding out the empty, aching place. I looked at Mom. “It means that someday Benny will know me! He’ll talk to me and be my friend and hug me back.”
“Yes,” Mom answered. “And he will love you for all you’ve done for him.”
For a few minutes Mom and I sat there, thinking our own thoughts. Then I went to Benny’s room. He was sitting on the floor in a pool of sunshine, rocking silently back and forth. I knelt beside him, and for a while I just looked at him. His soft hair glistened in the sunlight, but his eyes were empty and far away.
“I love you, Benny,” I said softly. “And Jesus loves you too. We’ll always be your friends, because that’s what brothers are for.” I put my arms around Benny’s shoulders, and for just the smallest moment he stopped rocking and let me hold him.

I have learned this truth through a personal experience that, though seemingly insignificant, left a lasting impression on me. At the age of 22, while serving in the French Air Force in Paris, I was thrilled to learn that Elder Neal A. Maxwell, an Apostle of the Lord, would be speaking at a conference on the Champs-Élysées. However, just before the event, I received orders to drive a senior officer to the airport at the exact time the conference was set to take place.

I was disappointed. But determined to attend, I dropped the officer off and rushed to the conference. After finding a parking spot, I sprinted down the Champs-Élysées to the meeting place and arrived breathless with only five minutes left before the meeting ended. Just as I entered, I heard Elder Maxwell say, “I will now give you an apostolic blessing.” In that instant, I had a beautiful, unforgettable spiritual experience. I was overcome by the Spirit, and the words of the blessing seemed to penetrate every fiber of my soul as though they were meant just for me.

What I experienced that day was a small yet powerful manifestation of a comforting aspect of God’s plan for His children: When circumstances beyond our control prevent us from fulfilling the righteous desires of our hearts, the Lord will compensate in ways that allow us to receive His promised blessings.

Making the varsity basketball team in junior high school was probably the most exciting athletic achievement of my life. Just being part of the team and working out with the other players was a thrill.
I still remember what happened one day during a practice session. One of our teammates missed a pass. Then, a few minutes later, he made another error. This time he swore, and our coach heard him.
Now, Coach Fishburn was the most outstanding man I had ever met. He was bright, and he knew basketball and young men. After the practice, the coach called us together to talk about our practice. And he brought up the subject of profanity. “A good athlete never needs to swear,” he said. “Swearing only cheapens the athlete and makes him look weak. Men of greatness have no need for foul language—it only makes them look small in the eyes of other people.”
Although my basketball career was brief, Coach Fishburn’s words have always stayed with me. “Men [and women] of greatness have no need of foul language.”

Seven-year-old Adam wanted to be a superhero. He’d seen superheroes on TV, and he’d read a lot of superhero adventures. He thought that he was qualified for the job. He knew exactly how to stop the bad guys and prevent wrongdoings.
One morning when Adam woke up, he decided that his time to be a superhero had come. He was going to save the day.
“Hurry up,” Mother called. “Breakfast is ready.”
Adam jumped out of bed, dressed in an instant, then ran into the kitchen.
“That was fast,” Mother noticed. “You must have big plans for the day.”
“Sort of,” he replied. He didn’t want to say too much. Every seven-year-old knows that superheroes don’t brag.
Adam gulped down his breakfast, thinking of the possible adventures ahead.
Mother’s voice broke into his thoughts. “Oh, my,” she sighed. “I almost forgot that I promised to pick a basket of raspberries for Mrs. Evans this morning. Adam, could you clear and wash these breakfast dishes so I can get started?”
At first, Adam was a little annoyed. After all, he had more important things to do. He had to save the day. Oh, well, he thought. It’s still early, and the day hasn’t needed saving yet. Besides, if Mrs. Evans was going to make jam with the raspberries, maybe she’d save a jar for him. He liked Mrs. Evans, and Mrs. Evans knew that he liked raspberry jam.
After the dishes were done, Adam practically flew out the front door. He stopped at the end of the driveway and surveyed the neighborhood with his eagle-like vision. It seemed pretty quiet, but every superhero knows well that quiet can be deceiving.
Suddenly the quiet was broken! His little brother, Aaron, was yelling from the front porch. “Adam, Mom wants you to tie my shoes.” Aaron was four and was just learning to tie his shoes.
Adam trudged up the stairs to the front porch and began to tie his younger brother’s shoes. Then a super idea came to him: If I teach Aaron how to tie his own shoes, I won’t have to do it anymore, and I’ll have more time to save the day! He sat patiently with his brother. It was frustrating at first, but pretty soon Aaron’s fingers did just what they were supposed to do. Now Aaron could tie his own shoes. Helping Aaron tie his shoes had taken longer than Adam had expected. He hoped that he hadn’t been needed for an emergency. He decided to take a walk around the neighborhood, keeping his eyes and ears open for any signs of trouble.
Except for two dogs chasing a cat up a tree, he didn’t see anything. He chased the dogs away and coaxed the cat out of the tree. It wasn’t his idea of a superhero’s job, even if the cat seemed happy. Discouraged, he went home.
“Hi,” Mother said. “I was just coming to find you. We need to go to the grocery store and buy a few things for dinner. Go jump in the car.”
Adam brightened a little. Maybe he could save the day at the store. Eager to get there, he helped Aaron and their younger sister, Jenna, put on their seat belts before he buckled his own. Once inside the store, he scanned the aisles in search of anything amiss.
Adam pushed the cart while Mother loaded it with groceries. With Jenna sitting in it, it was getting harder and harder to push. By the time they got to the checkout stand, he was very tired, but he was sure that all the pushing had made his muscles stronger. A superhero needed to be really strong. But he was disappointed that he hadn’t been needed to save the day.
Once they were home, he helped carry in the groceries and put them away. And while Mother fixed dinner, he set the table. After dinner, he decided he might as well clear the table, too.
The day was almost over. In just a couple more hours it would be time for bed, and he hadn’t saved the day yet. He decided to go out on the porch and take one last look around the neighborhood.
Just as he was going out the door, he heard Jenna crying. She was ready for bed and wanted to hear a story. Adam could hear Mother in the other room, helping Aaron get ready for bed. Adam was a good reader, and he figured that reading one story wouldn’t take too long. He settled Jenna in her bed and read her favorite story to her—then another and another. By the time she fell asleep, it was almost time for Adam to get ready for bed. I haven’t done one thing to save the day, he thought. Not one sinister plan has been stopped. No one has needed rescuing. I haven’t saved the day at all.
As he lay in bed, thinking about his wasted day, Mother came to find him. “Adam, you got ready for bed awfully early. Are you feeling all right?”
“Yeah—I guess I’m just tired.” Mother smiled. “I bet you are—you really saved the day for me today. Thank you.”
“What?” Adam sat upright in his bed. “What did you say?”
“I said that you saved the day for me today. I never could have finished all the things that needed to be done if it weren’t for your help.” And with a quick kiss on his forehead, Mother was gone.
“I saved the day!” Adam whispered excitedly. “I really did it!”
That night Adam the superhero fell asleep thinking of ways he could save the day tomorrow.

As stated in the beginning that with children we so often see the negative before the positive, a little boy was almost squelched in his attempt to express his feelings because an adult didn’t understand. A special friend of mine, Dr. Thomas Myers, shared this tender experience:
A small boy accompanied his father and grandparents into his medical office. The old man was leaning on the boy’s two upstretched hands as he moved. The child encouraged him with: “Come on, Grandpa, you can make it! … Only a little farther, Grandpa. … The doctor will make your leg better.” A sweet grandmother walked behind.
After the visit, the three exited the same way. The little boy was given a helium balloon on his way out. He helped his grandfather to the car, then ran back in and, pulling himself up to the counter, asked the receptionist, “Please, may I have another balloon?”
His grandmother, still standing there, scolded him, “Of course you can’t. I warned you not to let that balloon go!” She apologized to the receptionist. “He did this last week—went right outside and let his balloon go. I really did warn him this time.”
The little boy was trying to tell her something. She bent down to listen. Then, with tears showing on her thin, wrinkled face, the grandmother asked, “Could he please have another balloon? You see, his little sister died a few months ago, and he wanted her to have a balloon to play with, too!”

Allie peered over the ship’s bow out across the endless blue ocean.
“Are we there yet?” her brother, Morris, asked. He was only five, and he seemed to think their three-week journey would never end.
“Not quite!” Allie said. She was seven, and she thought this was a great adventure. “Father told me it’s over 3,000 miles from Utah to the Sandwich Islands.” The Sandwich Islands was another name for Hawaii, the island kingdom that would soon be Allie’s new home.
Morris went back to sit with their mother, who was watching them from the deck. Allie looked back at the sea. Only a few weeks ago, she and her family had been living in Utah, just waiting for winter to end. But everything had changed when Father was called to serve a mission.
Allie turned from the sea and sat with Mother and Morris. “Tell me a story,” she said.
“Hmm, a story,” Mother said. “Once upon a time, there was a young girl named Alice Armeda Snow Young, but her family called her Allie.”
Allie grinned. She loved hearing stories about herself and her family!
“Her grandfather on her father’s side was Brigham Young. He helped lead the Saints to the West after the Prophet Joseph Smith was killed.” Allie nodded. Grandpa Young was a brave man with a powerful testimony.
“Her grandfather on her mother’s side was Lorenzo Snow, an Apostle. After Grandpa Snow joined the Church, he served several missions in the United States before crossing the ocean to preach the gospel in England.”
“Where he even gave a Book of Mormon to Queen Victoria!” Allie added. She loved hearing Grandpa Snow’s stories.
Allie leaned her head against Mother. Both of her grandfathers were special to her.
“And now you get to carry on their legacy of faith,” Mother said. “Many families have to stay behind while husbands and fathers go on missions—”
“But we get to go with Father on his mission to Hawaii!” Allie said.
Father had served a mission in Hawaii as a young man. Allie loved hearing his stories about the faraway land ruled by a king. Now they would all live near the mission house on the island of Oahu while Father traveled the islands to preach and strengthen the Saints.
As the ship moved through the dark sea, Allie kept her eyes fixed on the horizon. She imagined her new home with its white beaches, emerald trees, and crystal skies. She couldn’t wait to see what adventures this mission would hold!
To be continued …

Old Lady Kroll—we called her that because she was so mean.
“Maybe there’s a reason for the way she acts that we don’t know about, Mimi,” Mother said as we walked home from the grocery store, balancing our bags of groceries. We—Mother, my six-year-old sister, Carrie, and I—lived in an apartment at the back of Old Lady Kroll’s house. The only nice thing about the house was the yard full of oak trees. I enjoyed the green leaves in the spring and summer when the sun shone through the leaves. And in the fall, they were all red and gold and sort of pink, and they made the dark old house look almost pretty.
“She might have a real good reason for being so mean—like maybe she’s a witch or something!” Carrie said, her big eyes looking out under straight, blond bangs. Carrie could be pretty silly sometimes, and I hoped she’d have a little more sense in a couple of years, when she was my age.
“Carrie,” Mother said, “of course Mrs. Kroll’s not a witch. But she might be very unhappy living alone in that big house.”
Mom always found an excuse for everybody.
It was no wonder Old Lady Kroll lived alone—she hated everybody. Especially us. If we sat on her front steps, watching the squirrels, she’d open her creaky front door and yell, “Go on, now! You don’t belong there!” And she’d slam the door with a big whoosh. Even the squirrels were scared to death of her.
Carrie and I usually met Mom at the bus stop when she came home from work. We wished she didn’t have to go to work every day. But she said that she was lucky to have a job at all. Lots of people were out of work because of the Depression. Some people had lost everything when the banks ran out of money. We were pretty lucky, I guess, because we didn’t have any money to lose.
Our apartment had only one bedroom. We all slept together in one big bed. We were never afraid, Carrie and I, even when there was a storm. Mother told us stories about the squirrel mothers and their babies, all cozy and warm inside their nests in the hollows of the trees. And except for Old Lady Kroll yelling at us, we had a pretty nice life. Just like the squirrels.
After we put our groceries away that day, I put our paper dolls in the window seat under the bay window, and then Carrie and I set the table. The sky had turned dark purple, and the wind was plastering rain against the windowpanes. I hoped Mom would tell us our favorite story about the mice that lived in the hayloft of an old barn.
That night there was a terrible storm. Carrie and I tried not to think about it as we listened to the story about the mice. But lightning must have struck something, because there was an awful crash that sounded as if the whole world had split right down the middle.
The next morning on the way to school, Carrie and I saw what had happened. A huge limb had broken off one of the giant old oaks and was lying across Old Lady Kroll’s front porch steps.
“Carrie!” I yelled as she ran on ahead of me. “Get back here and help me move this limb!”
“Why?” she yelled back. Carrie wouldn’t do anything without first asking why.
“So somebody won’t break a leg or something, that’s why!”
Carrie dropped her books on the sidewalk and came back. “You mean somebody like Old Lady Kroll?”
“Carrie, for once don’t talk. Just take that end of the limb and lift, OK?”
When we met Mother at the bus stop that afternoon, she wasn’t smiling like she always did, and it seemed as if she wasn’t listening to us. Later, while she was making scrambled eggs for supper, she told us that she wasn’t going to have to go to work every day for a while. She was smiling, but she didn’t look happy. “I’ll only be going to work three days a week for a while. But it’ll be nice for us all to be home together, won’t it?”
Carrie and I nodded. We couldn’t say yes because our mouths were full of warm eggs.
We had oatmeal for supper the next couple of nights. We all liked oatmeal, but it seemed strange to have it for dinner twice in a row.
One night Mother said, “Tonight we’re going to play a game. Let’s pretend that we’re like the mice in the hayloft—that we’re very poor and don’t have anything to eat. Won’t that be fun?”
I wasn’t too sure, but I looked at Carrie, and she was smiling and nodding. So I did too.
The next morning we toasted the last three pieces of bread. By suppertime we didn’t want to play the game again, but we didn’t tell Mother. She didn’t look like she wanted to play it, either.
After it got dark, Mother just sat and stared out the window. Carrie and I played paper dolls on the floor. Once in a while we heard Mother sigh. Just as we started to get ready for bed, there was a loud knock at the door. We all jumped.
It was Old Lady Kroll. Carrie and I looked at each other. We were both thinking the same thing: What had we done to make her mad this time?
“Here,” she said, thrusting a big tan bowl at Mother. It was covered with a checkered napkin, and little swirls of steam puffed out around the edges. “I thought that you and the children might like this,” she said gruffly. “I had it left over from my supper. I guess I made too much. I didn’t want to throw it out—I don’t believe in waste!” And she turned and walked down the hallway, leaving Mother holding the steaming bowl and crying.
I never thought I’d like sauerkraut and spareribs, but it tasted better than anything else I’d ever eaten. And the mashed potatoes it nested in had butter running down the sides in warm little yellow rivers.
Later Mother told us that all the money and food were gone. Payday wasn’t until the next day, and she had been praying that we’d have something to eat before we went to bed. We all agreed that Heavenly Father picked a pretty good dinner. But what Carrie and I couldn’t figure out was why He picked Old Lady—I mean Mrs. Kroll—to bring it to us.
After that, we waved to her when we passed. One morning on our way to school, we saw her sweeping her front steps. Carrie and I yelled, “Good morning, Mrs. Kroll!”
She didn’t answer, and she didn’t smile. But she nodded to us.
And then she waved.

Primary also played a big part in helping me develop a testimony of the gospel. Many of my teachers encouraged me and helped me understand what I needed to do to gain a testimony. It was a gradual process. I finally realized I could not live off Mother’s or Dad’s testimony forever. I took the advice my Primary teachers had given me and read the Book of Mormon, prayed about it, and found out for myself it is true.