Gospel Story Finder

A father or a bishop or a senior home teaching companion who shows that he trusts a young priesthood holder can change his life. My father was once asked by a member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles to write a short paper on science and religion. My father was a famous scientist and a faithful priesthood holder. But I can still remember the moment he handed me the paper he had written and said, “Here, before I send this to the Twelve, I want you to read it. You will know if it is right.” He was 32 years older than me and immeasurably more wise and intelligent.

I still am strengthened by that trust from a great father and priesthood man. I knew that his trust was not in me but that God could and would tell me what was true. You seasoned companions can bless a young priesthood holder in preparation whenever you can show him that kind of trust. It will help him trust the gentle feeling of inspiration for himself when it comes as he someday places his hands to seal the blessing to heal a child the doctors say will die. That trust has helped me more than once.

But the man himself—what was he like? The following incident will provide some insights. As a young Apostle, Elder Taylor went to speak to a number of Saints near Columbus, Ohio. Shortly before the hour arrived, some of the Saints reported to him that most of the townspeople were planning to gather at the open-air site. They expected that Elder Taylor would be tarred feathered—and advised him not to go. After a moment’s reflection, he replied that he would go, and that if his friends chose not to go with him, he would go alone.

When he arrived, he began by informing those gathered that he had recently come from Canada—a land under monarchal rule: “Gentlemen, I now stand among men whose fathers fought for and obtained one of the greatest blessings ever conferred upon the human family—the right to think, to speak, to write; the right to say who shall govern them, and the right to worship God according to the dictates of their own consciences. … I see around me the sons of those noble sires, who, rather than bow to the behests of a tyrant, pledged their lives, fortunes and sacred honors to burst those fetters. …

“But, by the by, I have been informed that you purpose to tar and feather me, for my religious opinions. Is this the boon you have inherited from your fathers? Is this the blessing they purchased with their dearest hearts’ blood—this your liberty? If so, you now have a victim, and we will have an offering to the goddess of liberty.”

At that point, he tore open his vest and said: “Gentlemen, come on with your tar and feathers, your victim is ready; and ye shades of the venerable patriots, gaze upon the deeds of your degenerate sons! Come on, gentlemen! Come on, I say, I am ready!”

No one moved or spoke. Elder Taylor stood there, drawn to his full majestic six-foot height—calm, yet defiant. No one came.

After a pause he continued to preach for three hours! At the conclusion, leaders of the community approached him, expressing displeasure at any hostile intentions of their fellow citizens. (See Roberts, pages 53–55.)

A few weeks ago my husband and I attended a temple session. As we entered, we were greeted by a temple worker, a dear friend from our ward. That greeting began a remarkable experience for us. We were met and served, more than any time I remember, by many people we knew: friends from previous wards, friends from the community, men and women we had served with in various callings. The last person I encountered was a young woman I didn’t recognize. She was lovely, and when she began to speak, I immediately remembered: Robin, one of the young women in my Laurel class when I was first a Young Women president. As we visited and exchanged memories and life updates, she told me how much that time had meant to her. I felt the same way.
I left the temple feeling moved by so much kindness, aware how important friends have been to me throughout my life. The Lord has touched my spirit time and again, and more often than not, His touch has reached me through the hand of a friend.

The world ends on a dark Christmas Eve, walking in the rain. The world ends halfway across a wet street, with a car skidding suddenly around the corner in a drunken left turn.
Blazing headlights.
Then the impact …
I wish I’d told her how I loved her …
Dark.
I can’t move.
I can’t feel the wet or the cold. Just a floating feeling.
Is this what it’s like to die?
I didn’t tell her how I loved her …
I can barely hear the starchy voice somewhere above me, but the words pound into my brain like dull spikes hammered in by a sledge.
“His heart just won’t respond. That’s it. He won’t make it.”
The world jolts to a stop.
And ends.
For me …
I never told her …
Three minutes left—the time it takes for the brain to die after the heart stops beating.
Three minutes of dark life.
Three minutes’ worth of thinking left in my brain.
And then the end …
The end!
And I hadn’t even started to live!
Everything I’ve ever done was just a getting ready to live. A preparation.
But not the living.
Why didn’t I live?
I’m dying, and I’ve never lived …
Three minutes.
I’ve done things I wish I hadn’t. But the things I didn’t do …
And now it’s all over with.
All but three minutes.
Why didn’t I tell her how I loved her?
Why didn’t I do a lot of things? Things I wanted to do much more than any of the things I ever got around to doing …
Things that should have been easy.
Like saying, “I’m sorry; I shouldn’t have done that.”
Or, “It takes courage for a man to stand up for what he believes in the way you do. I admire you for that, and I want you to know it.”
I could have spent more time with the people who meant the most to me. I wonder if any of them ever knew how much I loved them?
How could I expect them to?
I never let them know …
I could have.
I could have said, “I think you’re one of the best people I’ve ever known. I don’t want anything special from you … I just want to be your friend …”
Why didn’t I?
Maybe I didn’t feel worthy of them. Maybe I thought I had to go out and do something great before I had the right to be their friend.
Maybe I was a fool …
I wish I’d told her how I loved her …
I could have.
I could have talked to her before she went away. Maybe I could have stopped her.
I could have told her I loved her. I wonder if she knew?
I could have said, “I love you. I always have, and I always will …”
I wonder what she would have done, if I’d told her?
I could have written to her after she went away. Maybe she would have answered.
But I wasn’t sure …
I wish I’d tried.
When I was afraid to talk to her, I wish I’d talked to her anyway. When I was afraid to write to her, I wish I’d gone ahead and written.
I never had the time to write letters. I always had something else I had to get done first.
I wonder how long it would have taken me to get everything done that I thought I had to get done before I wrote my letters?
And I wonder how much time I saved by not writing the letters?
And I wonder what I did with all that time?
How many minutes’ worth of time would I have had to pay to write one letter to her?
And what did I end up paying for not writing it?
A lifetime?
I could have spared her thirty minutes sometime out of my success schedule. Or even twenty. Ten minutes would have been enough to let her know I still remembered her …
If I could just have one minute right now, with a pen in my hand!
A single minute!
One minute, out of my last three …
Sixty seconds would be long enough to say something; long enough to tell her how I love her …
FOOL!
I could have told her how I loved her!
Why didn’t I tell her?
Fear?
Shame?
Fear, maybe. But never shame. I was never ashamed of her, and I was never ashamed of my love for her.
And as long as I could remember I loved her, I was never ashamed of myself …
Fear?
Yes.
Maybe …
Yes, I think I was afraid …
Of what?
Something vague.
The vague fears were always the worst. I never knew what it was I was trying to fight.
Why didn’t I tell her?
Maybe she would have laughed at my love for her. I could never have taken the grief of that.
No, she was a gentle girl. She would never have done such a thing, even if she hadn’t loved me.
But she had friends who would have …
Some of her friends could be cruel, in the refined manner in which only aristocratic ladies could be cruel. Maybe she would have told them, and maybe they would have been cruel.
And maybe I was a fool …
She was the only girl I ever loved unconditionally. Maybe I loved her so much I was afraid to take the chance of telling her, for fear she’d have to tell me she didn’t love me in return.
Maybe I wanted to spare us both having to go through the finishing scene of a friendship.
As long as friendship hadn’t ended, there was some hope of love to come …
So I grasped blindly for her friendship as it existed, or at least as I thought it existed, not daring to do anything that might have destroyed it.
But a friendship doesn’t have to end suddenly. It can crawl to an end so slowly that you’re never sure just where the end of it was. You can’t pick out a point in time and say, “This was the last hour of our friendship.” All you know is that one day you look for it when you need it, and it just isn’t there anymore.
Maybe that’s what happened to her half of our friendship.
But not mine.
I’m at the last three minutes of my half …
No. I’ll still love her. That’s one thing death doesn’t have the power to change.
I wish I’d told her how I loved her …
I wonder if I’m in my last minute yet? I wish I could be sure …
My last minute!
What can you do with a minute?
What can’t you do with a minute?
There’s nothing in the world you can do that you can’t do a little of in a minute. …
* * *
The last minute must be running out.
The game is finished.
And it wasn’t a two-mile game …
The heart is dead. All used up. Like a candle sputtering out when the last drop of wax is burned away.
Still …
This heart carried me over a lot of miles …
It was a two-mile heart. The heart of the two-mile game …
Can it really be dead?
How can it be dead?
I don’t believe …
I don’t believe it can be dead!
Come on, you two-mile heart! You CAN‘T be dead!
I have things I haven’t finished yet. I have things I haven’t even begun …
Beat! You can!
Beat! You will!
BEAT! I feel it coming …
BEAT! Almost …
THERE!
It beat!
I FELT it beat!
Exhausted …
Relax …
The first two are the hardest …
Now …
Beat! Almost …
Again, with more will …
BEAT!
Nothing …
Was the first time only my imagination?
For her sake …
BEAT!
AGAIN!
I felt it beat again!
AGAIN! …
Again! …
Again …
Again …
The second mile …
The mile of meditation …
Relaxation …
And very soon I’ll tell her how I love her …
“Nurse …”
“Yes; how are you feeling now?” “Much better, thanks, Would you let me have a pen and paper, please? I’d like to write a Christmas letter.”
* * *
The first mile is finished. The second is yet to run.
The second mile …
A soft, golden path, winding through green grass and tall trees, and leading—
Somewhere …
To her?
We’ll see where it leads. It’s a two-mile game, and it isn’t finished yet.
And now …
Now I’ll tell her how I love her …

A true story from Germany.
“Nobody understands me!” Gabriela shouted as she slammed her bedroom door. Today had been a hard day. Someone at school had made fun of her. And when Gabriela came home, she was grumpy and got in trouble with Mutti (Mom).
Gabriela flopped onto her bed and started to cry. Tears ran down her cheeks, and her chest felt tight with anger. She didn’t like feeling this way.
She remembered learning in Primary that she could pray to Heavenly Father whenever she needed help. She wanted to say a prayer to help her feel better, but she was too upset to focus. She closed her eyes and took some deep breaths. What could she do to calm down?
After a few seconds, a thought came to her mind.
Think of things you are grateful for.
She opened her eyes and looked around her room. There was a picture on the wall of Mutti and Vati (Dad). Gabriela loved her family, even when she was frustrated with them.
“I’m grateful for my parents,” she said.
Then she thought about her cousins Gwendolyn, Lydia, and Thomas. They always shared their toys with her and made her laugh. She loved playing with them.
“I’m grateful for my cousins,” Gabriela said.
Then she looked out her window.
The sun was setting, and the sky was filled with beautiful colors—orange, red, yellow, and pink.
“I’m grateful for sunsets,” Gabriela said.
And then she thought of more things. She was grateful for the lunch she ate at school today. She was grateful for her friends. She was grateful for the apartment she lived in.
It was fun thinking of things to be grateful for! Gabriela had never realized how many good things were in her life.
She knew that the Holy Ghost had given her the idea to think of her blessings. Her heart was peaceful now. She felt ready to pray.
“Dear Heavenly Father,” she said. “I’m sorry that I was angry at Mutti. Thank Thee for helping me feel calm and happy again. Thank Thee for sending the Holy Ghost to remind me of my blessings. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
She walked out of her room. Mutti and Vati were in the kitchen making dinner. She gave Mutti a hug.
“I’m sorry for getting mad at you,” Gabriela said.
“That’s OK,” Mutti said. “Thank you for apologizing.”
They sat around the dinner table and blessed the food. Then Gabriela had an idea!
“Let’s go around the table and each say something we’re grateful for,” she said.
Vati smiled. “That’s a good idea!”
“I’m grateful for soap,” Mutti said.
Vati thought for a second.
“Pizza,” he said. They all giggled.
Then it was Gabriela’s turn. She already knew what she wanted to say.
“I’m grateful for prayer.”
Illustrations by Simini Blocker

Story 2: “Putting My Marriage Before My Pride”

Let me quote from the experience of a young wife:

Like any couple, my husband and I have had disagreements during our marriage. But one incident stands out in my mind. I no longer recall the reason for our disagreement, but we ended up not speaking at all, and I remember feeling that it was all my husband’s fault. I felt I had done absolutely nothing for which I needed to apologize.

As the day went by, I waited for my husband to say he was sorry. Surely he could see how wrong he was. It must be obvious how much he had hurt my feelings. I felt I had to stand up for myself; it was the principle that mattered.

As the day was drawing to a close, I started to realize that I was waiting in vain, so I went to the Lord in prayer. I prayed that my husband would realize what he had done and how it was hurting our marriage. I prayed that he would be inspired to apologize so we could end our disagreement.

As I was praying, I felt a strong impression that I should go to my husband and apologize. I was a bit shocked by this impression and immediately pointed out in my prayer that I had done nothing wrong and therefore should not have to say I was sorry. A thought came strongly to my mind: “Do you want to be right, or do you want to be married?”

As I considered this question, I realized that I could hold onto my pride and not give in until he apologized, but how long would that take? Days? I was miserable while we weren’t speaking to each other. I understood that while this incident itself wouldn’t be the end of our marriage, if I were always unyielding, that might cause serious damage over the years. I decided it was more important to have a happy, loving marriage than to keep my pride intact over something that would later seem trivial.

I went to my husband and apologized for upsetting him. He also apologized, and soon we were happy and united again in love.

Since that time there have been occasions when I have needed to ask myself that question again: “Do you want to be right, or do you want to be married?” How grateful I am for the great lesson I learned the first time I faced that question. It has always helped me realign my perspective and put my husband and my marriage before my own pride.5

It is not easy to give up our personal priorities and desires. Many years ago a new missionary in England was frustrated and discouraged. He wrote home saying he felt he was wasting his time. His wise father replied, “Forget yourself and go to work.” Young Elder Gordon B. Hinckley went to his knees and covenanted with the Lord that he would try to forget himself and lose himself in the Lord’s service. Years later, as a mature servant of the Lord, Elder Hinckley would say, “He who lives only unto himself withers and dies, while he who forgets himself in the service of others grows and blossoms in this life and in eternity.”

President Tanner: That’s right. It’s not the bones inside the sepulcher, but the whiting on the outside that is the problem. And I can give you a kind of embarrassing story on myself to show the problem. As a student, I once wanted to impress you that I was a spiritual person. And I was actually feeling spiritual, having just come from an inspiring Devotional. So I starting whistling a hymn, hoping you would notice. As they say in Portuguese: Que vergonha! How embarrassing even now to recall.

Fortunately, however, I caught myself in the act. I quickly realized that to truly BE holy, you can’t be trying to impress others that you are. You simply have to be good and not try to make others think you are good.

Guilt forced me onto the jayvee basketball team. The fact that I was an embarrassingly tall ninth grader factored little into my decision. The coach, who said my height made me a shoo-in, and my mother, who repeated something I’d heard in Sunday School about developing my talents, combined to make me feel I had no choice.
Actually, I could think of a lot of good reasons to become a star athlete. I wasn’t the fame and glory that made me hesitate; it was something much more basic—my legs.
Playing basketball would mean exposing my skinny, white legs with their bulbous knees to the entire world. My knobby knees, my skinny thighs, my fleshless calves would lose their protective veil of pants. The shiny white skin, long hidden from the sun, would be burnt by hundreds of eyes, including the eyes of the prettiest girl in the tenth grade—Debbie McCulley.
I had spent many hours trying to convince myself my legs did not look that bad. After all, a tall, skinny kid would look funny with short, fat legs. I repeated the arguments over and over, but tryouts came and I still hoped I wouldn’t make the team.
But, because I was the second tallest kid at the tryouts, making the team was surprisingly easy. And, best of all, we were allowed to wear sweatpants, so all that stuck out beneath the ankles of my sweats were my feet.
The sweats kept everyone from laughing at my legs. The sweats and the fact that they were busy laughing at my clumsiness. I spent most of the time discovering how slippery and hard a wood floor could be.
But as the opening game approached, my basketball skills were improving. I bounced the ball on the floor instead of my feet; I made lay-ups instead of fall-downs; and I rarely missed the backboard when I shot the ball. Still, there was no real danger I would be a starter. I wasn’t that good. However, I might get subbed into a game, if it wasn’t too close or if several people got injured. So exposing my legs was still a threat.
The day of our first game came too quickly. As the hours before the game passed, my tension mounted. In the locker room I noticed my legs looked whiter than usual, and I blindfolded them with the team sweatpants before going out to the court for warm-up drills.
I had hoped to sprain an ankle during warm-ups, just a minor sprain that would heal in time for the stake dance on Saturday night. My legs, as a whole, liked the idea, but the ankles wanted no part of it. After all, they had socks to hide behind. Besides, getting injured while warming up is not without its own level of embarrassment.
But the drills went well and even provided a level of encouragement. I managed to avoid missing any lay-ups and, since I only took close shots, I was able to at least hit the backboard. I also had the presence of mind to formulate a plan for avoiding substitution into the game, my strategy of “inconspicuous bench warming.” I would do nothing extreme. I would root louder than my quietest teammate and quieter than the loudest. I would be neater than the sloppiest and sloppier than the neatest. I even applied this strategy to the bench itself, deciding not to sit right next to the coach and not at the far end either. With some judicious maneuvering after a silent pregame prayer (during which I asked for the obvious), I managed to plant myself near the middle of the bench, but not exactly in the middle.
We lost the game, but I felt satisfied—the coach did not even talk to me.
Then the first home game approached. The coach told us the other team looked even weaker than us, and if the starters could run up a quick lead, everyone might get into the game. I managed a weak smile and tried to appear anxious to play, but not too anxious, as I felt my heart sink to my knobby knees.
The next morning started early. I couldn’t concentrate in seminary or school. I spent the day looking at each of my classmates, picturing them laughing at the sight of my outlandish legs. Soon I would be in a gymnasium full of people—including Debbie McCulley—and they all would fall from the bleachers laughing at me.
Eventually it was time for the game, and luck seemed to be with me as the score stayed close during the first half. With no big lead, the coach would want to keep the starters in, so I started to feel much better and resumed a moderate amount of cheering. With less than a minute to go in the first half, my position on the bench looked mighty secure.
Then, as if in slow motion, our center, Josh Pasquali, went down grabbing his ankle—maybe I was too smug and this was my punishment. The coach helped Josh off the court. Suddenly I was the tallest player on our team.
“Get that warm-up suit off, Kendall,” the coach barked. “You’re in for Pasquali.”
My mind raced to think of a way out of this nightmare.
“Kendall, hurry it up!”
I clenched my teeth, closed my eyes, and took off my sweatpants. I listened carefully for the peals of insane laughter I knew would follow, but all I heard were some scattered cheers and applause. I opened my eyes, laid down my pants, and checked into the game. Could the stands be filled with blind people or could they just be here to watch a basketball game and not my knees?
I made my basketball debut lining up to rebound a foul shot. My teammate missed, but I got the rebound and quickly put my first two points on the scoreboard. Some more cheering came from the stands.
The final minute of the first half went by much quicker than I had expected. Soon I was back in the safety of the locker room, pulling on my sweatpants. On the training table sat our injured center, with the nurse looking at his ankle. She poked and twisted the injured joint for a moment. I felt sorry for Josh as I watched his grimacing face. As I gazed at him, his big feet caught my eye.
“I may have knobby knees,” I thought to myself, “but at least I don’t have to walk around with swim fins for feet.”
I pretended to listen to the coach’s pep talk, but my mind flashed to Debbie McCulley cheering for my basket. True, I did not actually see her do this, but it was her job as a cheerleader to cheer. And besides, I was almost certain I could hear her voice yelling just a little bit louder for me than she did for the other players. Maybe if I could get a few more points, she might not laugh at me if I asked her to dance at the stake dance.
By the time the second half was ready to start I was almost anxious to strip off my sweats and play ball. I had taken my warm-up seriously, even practicing to rebound the shots my teammates missed. I saw sports herodom within my grasp. Then I saw Josh Pasquali come back out on the floor, take a few shots, test his ankle, and check in for the second half.
For the rest of the game, I sat next to the coach and tried to deafen him with my enthusiasm. With a close score the entire game, I did not get back in to play. After the final buzzer sounded I started for the locker room. Looking over my shoulder, I saw Debbie and two other cheerleaders behind me.
“Nice shot, Matt,” Debbie said as she slid past. She had noticed me, and I didn’t even do much that was noticeable.
“Thanks,” I blurted out. “Um. I can dance, too.”
“Great,” she said, heading through the door. “Save me a dance this Saturday.”
“Okay,” I said, and bounded joyously up the stairs to our locker room.
I sat down next to Josh in the locker room, thinking about the dance. I took off my sneakers and tossed them on the floor. They landed beside Josh’s pair. My joy of anticipation for the dance turned instantly to dread as I noticed my sneakers lying beside Josh’s. Good grief! They were the same size! How could I ever go to a dance with such big feet?

As styles changed, more women were choosing to wear swimsuits that Rose Marie felt were immodest. Everyone thought she should start designing suits in the latest styles. But Rose Marie took a stand.
“I don’t like that style of swimsuit, and I don’t want to design for a company that makes them,” she said. Her business partners wouldn’t listen. Finally, Rose Marie decided to leave the company she had started. It was a hard choice. But she knew that standing up for what was right was more important than doing what was popular.

Alexandr Masenkov, 17, of the Nevsky Branch, St. Petersburg Russia District, was nervous the first time he blessed the sacrament. “I prepared for it all week,” he remembers. “As I blessed the sacrament that first time, the Spirit touched my heart. Once my father and I were assigned to take the sacrament to a man who was blind and paralyzed. It was the first time I had blessed the sacrament outside of the meetinghouse. I felt I had a responsibility to be a servant and a witness of Jesus Christ and to do what He would do if He were there.”

Near my home in the north woods of upper Michigan, there once stood an old turn-of-the-century home. For years it had been abandoned, its black, weather-beaten frame cracking with age and crawling with snaky tendrils of ancient vines that wrapped and coiled themselves across the windows and around the doors. Various out-buildings were scattered here and there, but they were barely distinguishable beneath the creeping tangle of brush and brier. The house towered three stories high and cast a forbidding shadow on the bleached and withered ground. This shadow had spread throughout the community and entered the fearful heart of every child around.
When I entered the ninth grade, however, I decided it was time to get over being frightened of the old place. I wondered if perhaps I couldn’t use it for a party. Now, being the only Latter-day Saint in my high school, I had heard and tolerated some pretty cruel things. I figured I could stand up to jokes and criticism for not smoking and drinking, but what I couldn’t take was hearing over and over again about how Mormons just didn’t know how to really have fun at parties. Because of that, my bishop (who was also my dad and a biology professor at the nearby university) came up with an idea to prove my friends wrong. On Halloween night he would temporarily move into the local neighborhood haunted house. But by then—thanks to the efforts of my dad, brother, and missionaries—it would be transformed into a terrifying realm of horror and fright. According to plan I invited about 20 of my closest nonmember friends. Since all of them lived in town, about six miles away, I assumed none of them had ever heard of the old Sutinen home. I assumed correctly.
At 7:00 the party began at my house; and after about an hour of games, pizza, and root beer, I suggested we visit a poor old man named Toivo. I explained he lived alone but always had treats ready for any trick-or-treater who dared venture down the lonely, overgrown trail that led to his home. My suggestion was enthusiastically received until they saw Mr. Sutinen’s home. Even I, who knew my dad waited within, felt a shiver of fear creep along my spine, like a spider on a web of nerves. We approached cautiously toward where the house loomed up, outlined starkly against the moonlit sky. To add to the eerie effect, a single light flickered from behind the drawn curtains. Ghostly wisps of fog clawed at our legs, and branches whipped wickedly against our faces. We were considering bravely marching on, when shrill laughter split the tomblike quiet. Some of the group turned, running wildly for home, while the rest huddled near and bombarded me with questions. “Are you sure this is the right house?” “How long have you known this man?” “Are you positive he’s harmless?” and finally, “If this is a joke, you’re gonna be sorry!”
Reassuring them that everything was fine, I boldly knocked upon the blistered door. Like something out of a horror movie, the door slowly creaked open, and I gazed into the red-rimmed eyes of a madman. With a start I realized this white-haired maniac was my father!
“Trick-or-treat,” my friends whispered as Toivo Sutinen ushered us into his parlor. This room was dimly lit by two flickering candles perched on large polished skulls. Nice touch, Dad, I thought as I gazed at the skulls, the cobwebs, and the coffin set back in a corner.
“Wall now, ain’t dis a surprise. Ten purdy gerls cum ta visit ol’ me,” muttered Mr. Sutinen in a slurred drawl. “Ah was jist gunna eat ma supper. Join me, hey?”
Carol, the Good Samaritan of our group, slapped “old” Toivo on the shoulder and heartily agreed. The rest warily glanced around. And Mary, still hovering near the door, asked the question on everyone’s mind. “Uh, Mr. Sutinen, what were you planning to eat?”
“Why, ma favorite,” happily responded Mr. Sutinen, “barbecued bat wings!”
Too late we noticed the dozens of murky specimen bottles crowding the counters and shelves of the kitchen.
“Unless, of course,” finished Mr. Sutinen, whacking something near him, “you want ta wait until Mabel here thaws out.”
Looking up, we saw a row of frozen cats hanging stiffly from the rafters!
This, of course, made sense when one remembered my dad was a professor of biology and used such things in his labs. But to my friends it was a ghastly spectacle and required a hasty exit by the nearest door—which was locked! Mary promptly began to cry, and several others looked like they wanted to. I begged my friends to stay and humor this crazy old man a little while longer, and they agreed.
“Wall, ah kin see yer not hungry,” cheerfully said the old man, picking up one of the candle skulls. “Why don’t ah take you on a tour of ma home?”
Happily accepting any excuse to leave the kitchen and its occupants, we followed Toivo Sutinen up the rickety, wooden steps and into a narrow hall.
“First room on the left here was ma dear Mildred’s” explained Toivo opening the door wide and allowing us to enter.
Except for a dusty end table on which lay a bloodstained knife, everything in this room was covered with enormous sheets. Avoiding eye contact with the knife, we halfheartedly listened to Mr. Sutinen reminisce about his dear departed wife. Uncomfortably we began to realize he was talking about Mildred as if she were still alive.
“Yep, ma heart was near broke, couldn’t stand it no more. So went out late one night and brought ma Mildred back home.”
With a flourish, Mr. Sutinen pulled back the bed sheet. And there, in all her skeletal beauty, lay the former “Mrs. Sutinen”!
That was too much; my dad had gone too far! Screaming frantically we ran from the bedroom and down the stairs. We must have triggered something because as we ran ghosts in Victorian dress swooped past, bats squeaked, and howls echoed through the empty corridors. The door was now wide open, but as we bounded down the steep steps, something huge and hairy jumped out from behind a nearby tree.
I don’t remember much after that except a lot of screaming and running. Within minutes we were safely back in the security of my home, breathlessly reliving each terrifying moment. My mother insisted I tell my friends the truth, but it took some doing to convince them crazy Toivo was not only my father but the “minister” of my church.
Later, when my dad, brother, and the missionaries returned, everyone wanted to ask them questions. I’m not sure that much gospel doctrine got discussed that night, but all in all the experience had a positive effect on my friends. Two of them later joined the Church and four others seriously considered it. The greatest result, however, was that from then on there wasn’t a single Church activity that wasn’t attended by as many nonmembers as members.
A couple of years ago, the old house burned to the ground. I’ll never forget that day. Standing with a crowd of interested bystanders and frustrated firemen, I remember thinking that no one would be sorry to see this place go. It had stood too long, frightening children, and reminding others of ghosts, goblins, and things that go bump in the night. With a crash the house collapsed, showering sparks and ashes on everyone. For a brief moment I felt a twinge of regret. And then it was all over. The firemen doused the glowing coals with buckets of water, and the crowd broke up.
As I wandered back down the path that led to my home, I thought once more of that terrifying, yet zany, Halloween party. It was ironic, but comforting to know, that a place of such indescribable horror had served as a site where good opinions of the Church had been formed and, I hoped, would be nurtured for many years to come.

Atsuko Yamashita, Young Women president in the Maebaru Ward, Fukuoka stake, is impressed with the strength of the youth. In 1999, the youth of her branch asked for the opportunity to visit the Tokyo temple to do baptisms for the dead. Their three-day visit in Tokyo included opportunities to sightsee and have fun, but the young people kept as their first priority performing temple ordinances each evening and experiencing some of the training at the Missionary Training Center.

Just about every day, you can find Stella and her family visiting the landlady in their apartment building. They aren’t related to her, but Stella and her brother call her “Grandma Cecilia.”
Stella says, “She is 83 years old, and she doesn’t have any children of her own.” Stella and her family noticed she needed help and decided to “adopt” her.
Stella always lends a helping hand by sweeping and mopping Grandma Cecilia’s floor. Having a clean home is an important way to stay healthy. So Stella is doing something that really helps Grandma Cecilia. “Jesus Christ served others,” says Stella, “so that inspired me to serve her. I know that Jesus Christ and His Father are happy when I serve.”
Stella followed Jesus by helping her neighbor. Turn the page to read a story about how Jesus helped others.

Each morning, these volunteers gathered to receive marching orders.
“The crew captain would give us the number for somebody who had asked for help,” says Nels S., 14, from Georgia, USA. “Then we would call and schedule a time to show up.”
Groups soon drove off to find their work sites. But the sight that greeted them was shocking.
“We started driving and after about 30 minutes we started seeing huge piles on the sides of the road,” says Hannah H., 14, from Alabama, USA.
“It was all of their personal stuff,” says Alana C., 15, from Alabama. “That was really sad. They were throwing it all out because it had gotten destroyed.”
“I was scared at first,” says Andrew H., 13, of Alabama, “because I saw all of this and thought it was going to take forever to clean up. But then I was happy because I realized this stuff wouldn’t stay sitting inside the house collecting mold. It would be easier for them to start new and get their lives back.”
And that was just what the Helping Hands hoped to do—help people start to get their lives back. So they set to work.
Teams tore out drywall, ripped out floors and ceilings, broke down walls, pulled out soggy insulation, removed furniture, and helped homeowners sort through their belongings. Then they gathered what was ruined and piled it by the road for sanitation services to haul away.
“Everyone did a small job,” says Meghan K., 12, from Georgia, “but it all ended up equaling a big work effort.”
Hallie R., 17, from Georgia, agrees. “It may not seem like you’re making a huge difference, but every little bit counts. When so many people come together and help, you can make a big difference.”
The Helping Hands weren’t alone in their work. Neighbors, other church groups, and larger organizations also joined the flood of service.
“There were rescue teams from other areas in Louisiana,” explains Anna J., 13, from Alabama. “I don’t think we would have been able to even get close to where we got with one house without those rescue teams and a few of the neighbors.”
“It was cool to see different churches working together under God’s name and to see God’s children working together even if they are from different churches and places,” Landon R., 14, from Georgia says.
Homeowners pitched in when they could too. Many of them worked side by side with the Helping Hands and others.
“You would think that they would all be absorbed in their own pain, and you wouldn’t blame them for that,” says Nels. “But most of them were positive and looking for ways to help their neighbors. They weren’t caught up in their emotions; they were just working to rebuild their lives.”
Working with one homeowner was especially memorable for Hallie. “He had been in an accident years ago, so he wore a back brace, and yet he was still helping with us,” she says. “It was an amazing experience.”
And “amazing” was just one way to describe it. Many youth also explained why the opportunity was memorable for them.
“The people we helped had gone through some rough times,” says Derek T., 13, from Alabama. “I felt warm inside doing service for other people.”
“Talking with the people, you couldn’t even tell that their houses were just destroyed. They were so thankful and smiling and positive,” says Gavin R., 14, from Alabama. “When you’re serving these people, the love you feel for them is definitely memorable.”
“You can see these things on the news, but you never really know what people are going through until you go out and help,” says Luke G., 13, of Georgia.
Many volunteers also felt that the hard work and service helped them gain new understanding.
“I realized that everyone has problems, and sometimes people need help because they can’t help themselves,” says Lindsay K., 14, from Georgia. “It was hard. It was really hard. But I am grateful that I am in a good situation so I can help others.” Madison C., 13, from Alabama says, “Service helps you understand that bad things happen to people and that they can get over it, so you know you can get over hard things too.”
“It was a great way to prepare for a mission,” says Jared R., 15, from Alabama. “You were tired, you woke up early, and it was hot. But you went in there and got it done. Once you got into the swing of things, everybody was talking and having a good time.”
Gloria G., 16, from Georgia, says, “I realized that there might be big problems in the world, but God will always be there. He’ll always find a way to help you even though you might think that you lost everything and there’s no hope. He’s not going to abandon you.
“I’ve been having issues with my testimony, but what He did for these people showed me that He really does care, He really is there, and He’s going to make sure we’re OK.”
“I learned that I should give my all and not give up when I’m tired or bored,” says Landon. “I think in some ways the man we helped blessed my life more than I blessed his. I know God gave me this opportunity to serve because He loves me and He knew I needed it.”
“I was able to serve as the hands of Christ,” says Julia C., 15, from Georgia. “It was humbling, and I was grateful that I was blessed to go. I loved the experience.”

Here is an example from our own experience. When our twins were born, they were children numbers six and seven.
We had hired a contractor to add bedrooms to our house. The plan was for the bedrooms to be done before the twins were born. Well, the twins arrived on time in September, but the new bedrooms weren't finished until the following February. We lived in the middle of a construction project with two brand new babies. We put the two baby girls in a tiny bedroom just big enough for two cribs and a place on the floor for Sue and me to sit while we fed the babies in the middle of every night.
In that experience and many others, Sue and I learned that when parents bring to the Lord the sacrifice of a broken heart and a contrite spirit, He blesses them.
When they act with faith in Christ to sacrifice for their children, the Lord blesses parents with strength and spiritual gifts, including His pure and perfect love.
Because they sacrifice in faith, parents can teach, guide, and nurture their children with Christ-like love.
The children are not only sealed to their parents forever, but those sacred bonds of love grow and strengthen because the Savior sanctifies the sacrifice of faithful parents.

In anticipation of the hurricanes, the Church had moved food, bottled water, generators, chain saws, and other equipment to safe sites near the coast. As soon as the storms passed, supplies and equipment were quickly moved to locations like the storehouse for use and distribution. Stakes and wards in surrounding areas organized thousands of LDS volunteers into work groups that came each weekend from September to November to put tarps on roofs, cut up trees lying across roads, and pull up water-soaked carpets.

Ben Bradley, 13, was on one of these crews. He and his father, sister, and brother drove seven hours each way from Albany, Georgia, to Gulfport, Mississippi, making the trip several times. “We wanted to help,” Ben says. “I learned that all it takes is a willingness to pitch in, and Mormons are good at that.” Often crews would complete a work order at a member’s house and then perform similar tasks in other houses or yards in the neighborhood. The Church was widely recognized for its ability to help its own members and its willingness to help others, too.

We were miserable performers as children. We could do all kinds of things together while playing, but for one of us to try to sing a solo before the others was like asking ice cream to stay hard on the kitchen stove. In the beginning, we would laugh and make cute remarks about one another’s performance. But our parents persisted. We sang together. We prayed together. We listened quietly while Mother read Bible and Book of Mormon stories. Father told us stories out of his memory. I still remember one of those stories. I found it recently while going through a book he had published some years ago. Listen to it:

“An older boy and his young companion were walking along a road which led through a field. They saw an old coat and a badly worn pair of men’s shoes by the roadside, and in the distance they saw the owner working in the field.

“The younger boy suggested that they hide the shoes, conceal themselves, and watch the perplexity on the owner’s face when he returned.

“The older boy … thought that would not be so good. He said the owner must be a very poor man. So, after talking the matter over, at his suggestion, they concluded to try another experiment. Instead of hiding the shoes, they would put a silver dollar in each one and … see what the owner did when he discovered the money. So they did that.

“Pretty soon the man returned from the field, put on his coat, slipped one foot into a shoe, felt something hard, took it out and found a silver dollar. Wonder and surprise [shone] upon his face. He looked at the dollar again and again, turned around and could see nobody, then proceeded to put on the other shoe; when to his great surprise he found another dollar. His feelings overcame him. … He knelt down and offered aloud a prayer of thanksgiving, in which he spoke of his wife being sick and helpless and his children without bread. … He fervently thanked the Lord for this bounty from unknown hands and evoked the blessing of heaven upon those who gave him this needed help.

“The boys remained [hidden] until he had gone.” They had been touched by his prayer and felt something warm within their hearts. As they left to walk down the road, one said to the other, “Don’t you have a good feeling?” (Bryant S. Hinckley, Not by Bread Alone [Salt Lake City: Bookcraft, 1955], p. 95).

“I’m glad I’m not a pioneer,” Amelia said. “Aren’t you, Nanny?”

Nanny thought for a moment. “I know I wasn’t born in the olden days, and I wasn’t born in another country. Nor did I go on a long walk like some other pioneers. But I’m still a pioneer.”

Amelia was amazed. “A pioneer? Why are you a pioneer?”

“Because when the missionaries taught me the gospel, I decided to join the Church, just like the early Church pioneers did,” Nanny explained. “Some of my family and friends were angry that I chose to obey Heavenly Father. Like other pioneers, I had to leave my home and go somewhere else to live.”

“Were you sad?” Amelia asked.

“Yes, I felt very sad,” Nanny said. “But I’m glad I was a pioneer, because Poppy and our children—including your mum—are all members of Jesus Christ’s true Church. And I’m also happy, Amelia, because you too are learning about Heavenly Father and Jesus and the right way to live.”

On the day she finally realized she would never walk again, Diane made the decision to return to school to work for her degree. She was lying on her bed with all her scrapbooks filled with souvenirs and photos of her performances. Tears dripped down her face and splashed on the scrapbook pages. “I just realized right then that things weren’t going to get any better. As I lay there crying I thought, ‘I can either give up or get on with my life’ and that’s when I decided to go back to school and get my degree.”