Gospel Story Finder

Mother always kept a cow so that her sons would have what she called “some real responsibility.” This included milking the cow every morning and every night, pitching hay down into the stall for the cow to eat, and watering her morning and night at a nearby stream. Unless we did these chores, the cow would be hungry and thirsty.
There were times when I would be a little late getting home, and then I’d wish I didn’t have to take care of that cow.
One evening when I returned home, I found that she had broken down the fence and run away. I looked in all of the usual places, but I could not find her. I looked everywhere imaginable—but no cow.
It started to grow dark, and I was desperate. I knew that my mother would be worried if she knew the cow was lost. We sold milk to some of our neighbors, and I could picture them waiting for me to take them their fresh milk.
How well I recall that evening! I had been taught to pray, and I knew I could ask the Lord for help. There was a little clump of bushes near the canal, and so I took off my cap, got down on my knees, told the Lord my problem, and asked Him to help me find our cow.
After my prayer, I started walking down the canal bank. And only a few yards from where I had prayed, I found our cow. She was almost hidden in the tall willows by the canal because she was about the same color as the willows. I was grateful my prayer had been answered and that our Heavenly Father had guided my footsteps down the canal bank to where she was.
The many nights my mother knelt by my bed to teach me how to pray helped me learn to talk to our Father in heaven. Ever since the night I prayed for help by that clump of bushes, I have continued to pray for His guidance.
And I know the Lord answers our prayers.

I am Hannah. I am 18. And I am a cancer survivor.
I took a walk recently and was reminded of just how infinite our Savior’s love is. Even if I gave Him everything, it would never compare to His love for me.
I passed by people who smiled and waved.
I came to a park, where I swung on the swings.
I sat on a bench and watched a bird gather grass clippings for a nest, a butterfly land at my feet and flutter its wings, the cotton fall from the trees and be caught in the breeze, and a spiderweb glisten in the sunlight.
I listened to the wind rustle the leaves on the trees, the birds sing, the water from the lake wash up on the sand, and a bee buzz its way through the grass.
I felt the sun’s warm rays on my face, arms, and legs. I felt the wind brush against me, cooling my skin and rushing through my hair. Then I thought of what a miracle that was. I have hair. I felt my heart pump and my pulse slow down as I rested.
Then I just thought. I thought of what has happened and what may happen. I pictured myself years from now with the ones I love most laughing and playing in a similar park. I don’t remember everything I thought, but it doesn’t really matter, because in the end the song “My Heavenly Father Loves Me” (Children’s Songbook, 228–29) consumed my thoughts. I repeated it over and over, and I felt one last thing: peaceful, true, eternal, and amazing love.
And that is what it all comes down to—love.

Photograph courtesy of Cari Florence
When I was just 14 weeks pregnant with our third child, doctors informed us that the baby would miscarry due to complications with his lungs. That news was devastating: I felt heartbroken, terrified, and uncertain of the future. That evening, my husband and I went to the temple with heavy hearts and eyes full of tears. We needed answers, guidance, and strength, and we knew that in the serenity of the temple we could draw close to the Lord. We were astonished at the peace we felt in the celestial room. I knew that even if this baby was not supposed to stay on earth, all would be made right.
Later, on my knees I poured out my soul to Heavenly Father. I told Him I understood that our son wasn’t supposed to linger but that I desired some specific blessings, if possible. I also promised that if my desires weren’t granted, I would not lose faith. I asked that this child might stay with me longer—that he might live, even just a short while, until all our family could hold him. The doctors had said that if by some miracle our baby went full term, he would be born purple, but I prayed that he would be born pink so that our other little boys wouldn’t be afraid to hold their brother. I asked the Lord to let us remember our eternal bond after the baby, whom we decided to name Brycen, was gone.
As the weeks went on, doctors professed shock at baby Brycen’s progression but warned of his certain passing after birth. I felt indescribable heartache, knowing that we would lose him, yet I was also ecstatic that he was still growing. Carrying this son who would not live was a continuous burden; I felt pain whenever others asked about our baby’s gender or due date and I had to pretend that everything was normal. We bought a monitor so we could check his heartbeat daily, always anxious to hear that precious sound. My grief was severe. The Savior’s Atonement gained new meaning for me: I finally understood from experience that Jesus Christ not only suffered for my sins but also felt every sadness, every pain. As my Savior, He truly carried the weight with me so I would never be alone.
At 37 weeks I checked into the hospital, knowing I was officially starting the time clock on Brycen’s life. It was both terrifying and beautiful. The doctors reported that he might live anywhere from 10 minutes to several days. Despite my fears, I felt the Lord’s reassurance. Brycen Cade Florence was born on January 27, 2012. I sobbed the moment he was born—pink, so handsome, so perfect.
Our boys rushed into the room to see and hold their brother; we brought a photographer to capture the moment. Brycen lived only 72 minutes, literally just long enough for each of us to hold and love him. It was the only time we were all together as a family on this earth, but it was everything we had dreamed. The boys couldn’t get enough of their brother, kissing him, singing him songs, and begging to hold him. He even remained long enough to receive a blessing from his father, something my husband had hoped and prayed for.
As a family we have a testimony that “the divine plan of happiness enables family relationships to be perpetuated beyond the grave” and that temple ordinances and covenants allow “families to be united eternally” (“The Family: A Proclamation to the World,” Liahona, Nov. 2010, 129). To us, having an eternal family is everything. The most beautiful part of the gospel is that death will never separate us; we will continue our journeys together.
Through this trial, I have come to know that God is in the details. He cares about us individually. While trials and difficulties will come, God can make them easier to bear. I am now more grateful than ever for my temple sealing to my husband and that our children were born in the covenant. Because of God’s beautiful plan for our families, including the Savior’s infinite sacrifice, we can be together again. I often wonder how I would have withstood this difficult trial without knowing that eternal truth. I am beyond grateful for the testimony I have gained because of Brycen’s short life—God has opened my eyes and heart more fully to His blessings.

But prestige held no particular appeal for Ezra Taft Benson. He always considered his true career to be serving in whatever way the Lord needed him, his highest honor the privilege of bearing the priesthood of God. He always remembered with special fondness an early calling as Scoutmaster in the Whitney Ward, where he led his troop to win a valleywide contest for boys’ choruses. From that early experience as Scoutmaster blossomed his abiding commitment to Scouting. Later he served on the national advisory council and the executive board of Boy Scouts of America, and he received the three highest national awards in Scouting—the Silver Beaver, the Silver Antelope, and the Silver Buffalo—as well as world Scouting’s Bronze Wolf.

Returning to Whitney years after serving as Scoutmaster, he tried to locate all twenty-four of “his” Scouts. He found many serving as ward and stake leaders but could not account for two. In his later travels, he found those boys, neither of whom had married in the temple. He reestablished friendships and subsequently had the privilege of performing temple sealings for them and their families.

“Kids,” Mom said as she gathered us around her, “your uncle has to have surgery. He has a tumor. Would you be willing to fast for him?” she asked, her eyes wet with tears.
“Sure, Mom, we’ll fast for him,” I said in unison with my brothers and sisters.
Dad continued, “This surgery is very risky because the tumor is near his brain. We are going to have a family fast on Sunday, the day before his surgery. Do you think you can help?” he added while we all nodded.
I really wanted to do this for my uncle, but I was a bit nervous. It had always been hard for me to fast. I would usually just give up because I was so hungry. I decided this was my chance to do it right.
Sunday came, and I started my fast with a prayer. I asked Heavenly Father to let my uncle get through the surgery. I asked Him to bless the doctors that they would know what was best. I also asked Him to help me through the fast. I really wanted my uncle to be all right, and I wanted to fast right for once.
I went to church thinking about my uncle and hoping the operation would work. I was glad to get home from church. I decided to read the New Era to try and keep the day holy. And before I knew it, it was time to end the fast. I ended it with a prayer.
I noticed that this fast felt different from all the other times I had tried to fast. When I didn’t think about myself, or crave food, the fast went smoothly and felt meaningful.
The next day my uncle had surgery. Again I asked Heavenly Father to bless him. The surgery was successful, and my uncle was fine.
I felt great. I knew my fast had helped him. I thanked Heavenly Father and was filled with joy and love.
Not only did my uncle make it through his surgery, but I had a great feeling. I would no longer think fasting was just going without food. I would always remember the power that helped my uncle and taught me the value of fasting and prayer.

Betsy was six years old. All her life she had been happy in Nauvoo with her father and mother and her big brother Tommy, but lately she was troubled. Almost every day someone would say to her, “We are going west when the grass grows and the water runs.” She did not know exactly what this meant, but she thought it meant that someday soon they were going to leave their big beautiful home in Nauvoo and go away, and she did not want to go away!
She looked at the clock hanging on the wall, watching the pendulum swing back and forth. Would the clock go with them, and the chair with the big round back? In the kitchen Mother was getting supper. Would they take the stove, the table, and all the chairs?
Where would they put all these things? Yesterday she had gone with her father to the blacksmith shop to see the wagon the blacksmith was making for them to take out west. She knew it was not big enough to take everything.
Betsy’s kitten looked up at her and meowed. She stooped down and picked it up and sat down in front of the fire in the fireplace. Out of the window she could see snow settling on the fence posts like big marshmallows. “It’s too cold to go out west now, kitty,” she said. “Maybe we’ll just wait until it gets warmer.”
For an answer the kitten curled up on her lap, stuck its little nose in the crook of her arm, and went to sleep. The clock on the wall seemed to say, “Sleep-Betsy, sleep-Betsy,” and soon Betsy, too, was asleep.
When she awoke, everyone seemed to be talking at once. Tommy reported that he had tied a halter around old Nell’s neck. Mother said that the flour would have to be brought up from the cellar. Father was hurrying in and out of the open door, carrying supplies to the covered wagon.
“Where are we going?” asked Betsy, but no one stopped to answer. She was cold, so she put on her coat and then just stood and watched. She was standing near her father when he said to Tommy, “It’s too bad you can’t take your pet ram, son. If we could have waited until spring, it would have been different. Then there would have been plenty of grass and water, but now the ground is frozen and there won’t be very much of either. We’ll have to give all of the grain we can get to the oxen.”
“But why do we have to go now? Why can’t we wait until spring?” asked Tommy.
“Because it isn’t safe to stay,” replied Father. “Last night one of the brethren was kidnapped and whipped. We don’t know yet whether or not he will even live. Three weeks ago two families were driven from their homes in bitter cold weather and had to watch their houses burn to the ground.
“This morning Brigham Young met with all of the men who hold the priesthood, and we decided it would save a lot of trouble if we started at once. That’s why we’re going now, son.
“Of course, food will be scarce and the cattle will suffer, but President Young asked everyone to raise his hand and promise to share whatever he had with others. ‘When what you have is gone,’ he said, ‘the Lord will bless you and help you get some more.’ As for your ram, Tommy, someone will find him and care for him.”
Betsy saw Tommy put his hand to his throat as if he were trying to rub away a sob. Father saw too, and put his arm around Tommy as he said, “This is a time when even eight-year-old boys must act like men.”
“But I wish there were something I could take that would be my very own,” said Tommy.
Tommy’s father was quiet for a minute, and then he said, “I guess none of us can take anything that belongs just to us. What we have must all belong to each other. But there is something you can take care of for us, and that is the old flag in the top bureau drawer. Your grandfather carried that flag while fighting for liberty in the Revolutionary War. Go get it, son, and take care of it for us. I think we’ll have need of it someday.”
Betsy knew now where they were going. She picked up the kitten, fearful her father would not let her take it with them. She held it so tightly that it started to meow. It dug its claws into her shoulder, but she wouldn’t let go. Mother saw the tears Betsy was trying to hold back and asked, “What is the trouble, dear?”
“I want to take my kitten out west with us,” Betsy replied. “May I?”
Mother looked troubled. She glanced out of the window at the cow, then out of the door at the wagon, and her eyes seemed to go far beyond the wagon itself. “You know, Betsy,” she answered at last, “we are taking a cow. If there were only going to be our family, I’m sure we would have enough milk for your kitten. But there will be many children with us whose parents won’t have a cow, and these children will all need milk. You wouldn’t want a little baby to go hungry just because you had taken your kitten along, would you?”
Betsy’s eyes widened. “I don’t want to go west. I want to stay here with my kitten, my clock, and my bed.” She sat down in the big chair with the round back where her mother had so often held her when she was only a baby. She tried so hard to keep from crying that her throat ached and her jaws hurt.
Finally she looked up and saw that her mother’s eyes were filled with tears. Suddenly she knew Mother wasn’t happy about leaving their home to go west, either. Betsy was sorry she had acted like a baby. She was six years old now, and that was old enough to act like a woman!
Quickly Betsy got up from the chair, straightened her shoulders, and said, “I want to help, Mother. What can I do to get ready to go out west?”
Her mother smiled, gave her a quick hug, and answered, “You can put all these bars of soap into a box. It will be a long time before we can make soap again.”
At last they were ready to go. Father and Mother sat in the wagon seat; Betsy and Tommy sat in the back on top of the feather mattress, which had been thrown over all the supplies that had been piled into the bottom of the wagon. Old Nell was tied to the back axle and seemed to accept it as her part to walk along at the pace the oxen set.
Tommy and Betsy looked back on their old home. The sheep were still in the pasture. The pet ram was standing still near the gate. Betsy could not see her kitten and hoped it was in the house where it would keep warm. All along the streets they waved to friends and neighbors who were also packing their belongings and who would follow in their tracks before the sun cast its evening glow on the frozen waters of the Mississippi River.

Elisabeth reminded me that I can see only a tiny sliver of what the Lord sees. This thought kept me going after each failed infertility treatment. I could not understand why the Lord kept directing us down paths that seemed like failures because they didn’t end with us having a baby. Now, looking back, I can see how each of those seeming failures was an important stepping-stone on our path to understanding His timing.

After I joined the Church in Germany, I had cried a little for the glass of wine I would miss at parties and also for my dearly loved cup of coffee. But it really didn’t matter, I told myself, because I was not addicted. But four weeks after I banned alcohol and coffee from my life, I woke up with excruciating pains in my legs. I ignored them and went to work. But within two hours, my whole body ached and each movement hurt more and more. I was taken to the doctor. He gave me some pills, ordered 14 days of rest, and said with a laugh, “Drink a nice strong cup of coffee when you get home. That can’t hurt you.”
I suddenly realized that my pains were withdrawal symptoms. My body was reacting to the loss of caffeine. How easy it would have been to follow my doctor’s advice. How difficult it seemed in my weakened condition to listen to the Lord. Fortunately, the Lord strengthened me, and I did not give in to temptation. With His help, I overcame this condition—and continued to obey the Word of Wisdom.

A few years back a youth sacrament meeting speaker invited those who weren’t sure they felt God’s love to pray and ask whether Heavenly Father loves them.
I took that invitation to heart. Unbeknownst to me, my older sister also decided to do it. We each prayed individually that night. Months later we shared our experiences with one another. I told her how some time after praying, I’d allowed my mind to wander, eventually recalling a poem I had read about the Savior’s love. I had been overwhelmed by the Spirit, and I had felt of the joy of both my Heavenly Father’s and Savior’s love for me. Tears of joy had crept to my eyes, and I had again folded my arms, this time in a prayer of gratitude.
My sister, however, recollected to me that she felt as if she hadn’t received an answer like I had—no enlightening moment or warmth from the Spirit. At first she was disappointed. But in time, she came to realize that she didn’t need an answer like mine: she already knew. And that was her answer.
Do not be discouraged if an answer to a prayer is not what you want or are expecting. Everyone is different, and Heavenly Father can answer the question in different ways, but He does answer prayers.
Because I have pondered Heavenly Father’s love, I know that if we “ask God … with a sincere heart, with real intent, having faith in Christ,” that “he will manifest the truth of it unto [us], by the power of the Holy Ghost. And by the power of the Holy Ghost [we] may know the truth of all things” (Moroni 10:4–5).

I want to mention a little incident that happened to me in the temple in Salt Lake City. As I walked down the long hall preparing to go into one of the rooms to perform a marriage for a young couple, a woman followed me out of the room after the ceremony. With great agitation, she asked, “Elder Kimball, do you re member me?” I was abashed. It seemed incredible but I could not make the connection. I was much embarrassed, as I had met thousands of people in my time. I finally said, “I’m sorry, but I cannot remember you.” Instead of disappointment, there was a great joy that came into her face. She was relieved. She said. “Oh, I am so grateful you can’t remember me. With my husband, I spent all night with you one time, while we were trying to change our lives. We had committed sin and we were struggling to get rid of it. You labored all night to help us clear it.” She said, “We have repented and changed our lives totally. I am glad you don’t remember me, because if you, one of the apostles, cannot remember me, maybe the Savior cannot remember my sins.” Her face was relieved. She said, “Thank you. Maybe the Lord will remember them no more.” The scriptures say if our sins are totally repented of, and if we totally change our lives, he will remember them no more. (Amsterdam priesthood session, August 7, 1976, p. 6.)

As a sophomore at BYU in Provo I took a geology class. A large part of this class concerned itself with the scientific explanation of this earth’s history, including the theory of evolution. On the first day of class the teacher went to the blackboard and took us through the Creation as outlined in our ancient and modern scriptures, making a chronological list of events. He spent the whole hour speaking of the Savior and His creations. He bore a powerful testimony about the restored gospel of Jesus Christ, including our modern scriptures, with special emphasis on the Pearl of Great Price.
I am indebted to this great teacher for expanding my vision about the Creation as recorded in the 4th chapter of Abraham. For example, in the 18th verse we read:
“And the Gods watched those things which they had ordered until they obeyed.”
You may wish to read and ponder the whole chapter.
On the second day of class the teacher had covered up the blackboard of the previous day and wrote the chronology of the earth’s history according to science, including all the various periods. He then pulled the board back and displayed the previous day’s teachings beside those of the second day and proceeded to show where there were similarities and differences. He concluded by telling us that we had not signed up for a religion class but for a science class, and science is what we would be taught. However, throughout the semester he never shied away from sharing his testimony.
I am indebted to that teacher for showing me that science and religion are not really at odds. Scientific knowledge is incomplete, and the same could be said about the details of the Lord’s method of creation. Once all the facts are in, there will be no discrepancies. Since receiving that perspective 50 years ago, I have marveled at science and not felt threatened by it.

Before Cliff went overseas the colonel in charge of his unit called him into the office. He said, "Lieutenant Johnson, I see by your record that you are a Mormon. Is that right?" Cliff answered, "Yes sir." The Colonel continued "I had a Mormon boy with me over in North Africa and through Europe, a Captain Glen Cassidy. I wonder whether you knew him." Cliff said, "Yes sir, I knew him well, I went with him through school. He was a mighty fine person." The Colonel responded, "You don't need to tell me about him. He was the best officer I ever had serve under me, period."
Cliff was chosen over thirty other officers to accompany the Colonel based on the decisions made by another person to hold fast to that which is good. Likewise, decisions you make influence not only yourself, but others around you.
Cliff experienced the ugliness of war and was in several battles, including the Battle of the Bulge, the largest land battle of the war that raged from mid December 1944 through the end of January 1945. At the end of the war General John Francis Uncles, a three star general, came to inspect the outfit Cliff was in. Cliff was chosen to show the General and his staff around the camp. Afterward, General Uncles asked Cliff to be his Aide-de-camp, a position where he would assist the general in his responsibilities. Cliff responded, "Sir, I need you to know I am a Mormon, so I don't drink or smoke." The general responded, "I know that, but the job is still yours if you care to have it."
Cliff was promoted to the rank of Captain and was again experiencing change as he went from the battlefront to the general's staff. Can you imagine how the new Captain Johnson must have felt when another officer began to make fun of him because he didn't drink and smoke in the presence of General Dwight D. Eisenhower, a five star general and the Supreme Commander of the Allied Forces in Europe? What happened next would be forever etched into my father's memory. General Eisenhower rebuked the officer who had been ridiculing Cliff. General Eisenhower demanded, "You stop that for Captain Johnson! I smoke, and I wish I didn't! And I don't want you making fun at him."
One of General Uncles' responsibilities was to inspect the military establishments across Europe. Among the officers at one of the establishments was the tack officer who had kicked Cliff out of OCS. By this time Cliff outranked the lieutenant. When the general gave the outfit a showdown inspection, the tack officer looked up to Cliff and respected him. The promises given in the blessing before he entered boot camp were fulfilled. Those who would have as their purpose to destroy his ideals would be rebuked and later would come to respect him.

At school, my chemistry teacher wanted to promote honesty in her class. She told us that we would check our own tests and report our own scores. As I checked my answers, I was tempted to add one single point to my score. I only needed that extra point to pass the test. I sat there for a while, wondering what to do.
While I sat there thinking, I suddenly remembered a quote from President Gordon B. Hinckley (1910–2008) that I had placed on the back of my identification card: “What a destructive thing is a little dishonesty. … The institution may be able to stand the loss of money, but the individual cannot afford the loss of self-respect” (“I Believe,” Ensign, Aug. 1992, 5). Underneath that quote was the phrase: “If the Savior stood beside me, would I do the things I do?”
I felt peaceful and happy when I knew what I was supposed to do. I didn’t change my failing score, but I knew that I had passed a more important test—the honesty test—and I was proud of the choice I made.
Natalie A., Philippines

I recall that not too long ago I became acquainted with a precious young woman named Sharon living in Brisbane, Australia. She had cystic fibrosis and had in the last few years spent nearly as much time in the hospital as she had in her home. She was downcast and desperate, feeling that God had forgotten her and that there was no chance for her. But a priesthood blessing told her to trust in the Lord with all of her heart and lean not to her own understanding and promised that He would guide and direct her. And then came the words that somewhat frightened him who was pronouncing the blessing: “Sharon, there will come in your lifetime medical advances which will correct the problem and alleviate the challenges that you are facing.”
Within thirty days, in Melbourne, Australia, there came a medical announcement of a new drug, experimental in nature, that showed promise in combating cystic fibrosis. Sharon applied for treatment, and it has been successful. Today, she spends very little time in the hospital; the rest of her time is spent preparing for a career.

Some things in life have useful parallels. Losing a mobile phone might help us empathise with someone who loses their laptop but rarely are our experiences exactly the same, and there is always a uniqueness to our emotions, coloured by our attachment to what is lost. When it comes to the death of a spouse, no previous life experience, including the loss of other loved ones, quite prepared me for the overwhelming effects of such an event. But this is my story – a brief overview of how grief affected me and how I tried to manage it. Your experience will differ, but be assured that life soon vanishes away, hence the pressing need to love others and let them know of that love while today lasts.
My beloved wife, Ethel, and I enjoyed 37 years of a wonderfully happy marriage. At least that’s how I saw it. I hope she did too! Even her previous survival of cancer on two occasions and her significantly declining health over three years did not prepare me for what seemed an awful, sudden separation upon her death in 2021.
After her passing, the feelings of grief were intense and devastating. I was very fortunate. I had married an exceptional woman. We had many great shared memories. We had three daughters who lived nearby. I had a supportive Church community. One or two trusted friends were willing listeners, with whom I could share my innermost thoughts – though I felt awkward doing so. Even then, none of these, not even the sum of them, seemed to ease the immeasurable sorrow I felt.
Initially, the grief came in what seemed like never-ending torrents and, as time passed, later became waves (just as painful) that would crash onto me without warning. Bumping into someone, seeing a dress in a shop, hearing a piece of music, watching a grandchild that Ethel had never lived to see – all of these and more would bring on the tears. Nearly four years after Ethel’s departure, the frequency of intense grief has decreased, but the unpredictable onset of weeping for her continues with similar intensity. I wouldn’t have it any other way, though. Love does that to you.
I felt like an incomplete person. Ethel had been my 24/7 support group! Now part of me was missing. As time passed, it only reinforced how settled my past had been. Now I felt disconnected from reality. I was living in some kind of dream, mainly a nightmare, save for the saving, divine light that I felt holding onto me. But even that didn’t erase feelings of not wanting to carry on. A loving bishop visited and said how well I was doing just getting out of bed and getting dressed. That heartened me. Some days I didn’t even manage that.
Some of my confidence was gone. Talking about how I felt was difficult – what if I suddenly burst into tears? I worried about appearing weak. I worried about burdening others with my grief. I sat and worried that I worried too much! My physical existence was severely disrupted too. Going to bed between 1:00 and 2:00 a.m. had become the norm. It seemed that when the rest of my world had gone quiet, I could then fully grieve over my loss. It was my time with Ethel – precious and painful.
I had never received professional counseling before. I had always thought – erroneously – that I should be able to resolve my own problems by myself. But I struggled so much that I took up the offer from a local hospice. The counseling proved helpful, but after five sessions, I felt we had gone as far as we could, and I took a break.
Six months after Ethel died, then at nine months, then at two years, I wrote down my feelings. Keeping a daily journal has been a source of comfort. Between nine and twelve months after Ethel’s passing, I decided to ‘get back out there’ by joining a social group and a travel group. That lasted about a month before I realised my heart wasn’t ready. I felt the impression to attend the temple regularly. Despite the initial pain, this proved a great strength to me.
There was a lot of ‘ice breaking’ – attending the first ward activity alone, the first holiday alone. Despite my best efforts, after eighteen months, I felt I was treading water. A Church friend asked me: "What is your greatest fear?" I answered: "That I will always feel the way I feel now." I have great faith that I will be with Ethel again, but I also knew she would want me to be happy. I had to try to move forward, accepting false starts and setbacks.
I sought more help and contacted a bereavement support group. Six video sessions with a counselor named Emma were transformative. I learned to open up and to be more vulnerable.
The impact of those willing to listen and love me has been significant. The light of human compassion striving to convey the pure love of Christ is a wonderful power.
As time progresses, I still sometimes struggle to understand what I truly feel and want. My relationship with my Heavenly Father and my Saviour has become deeper. The companionship of the Holy Ghost has been a lifeline. Even with this, I sometimes feel lost. But I can learn to wait. I don’t have to make every decision now. Feeling like a ship on the ocean with no visible landmarks doesn’t mean I can’t still sail onward and take bearings as I chart new waters.
At times, there seemed no way out of the pain. Having now experienced some brighter days, I know that there is a way out, a way forward. So, when the clouds engulf me again, I tell myself that there is a way – I just can’t see it yet.
I grieve not only for my own loss but for that of my children. In some ways, that hurts more. I feel helpless that I cannot bring back their mother’s presence. But I can live in a way that honours her. We can laugh and cry together as we cherish the wonderful times we shared.
This has been the most difficult period of my life. I remember that two years after Ethel’s passing, I could say, for the first time, that I felt ‘light and happy.’ That feeling didn’t last a day, but it was evidence of possibilities to come. Sometimes these small mercies carry us through.
No matter what the future holds, I will always love Ethel. I am not looking to ‘move on,’ but I can ‘move forward’ with her still present in my life. Our decision to put our love of God first helped us enter marriage on a firm foundation, and I believe it can help me going forward. I am grateful to the Lord for what I have learned through this unique, challenging journey, and I am grateful for the light of hope I continue to have, both for this life and for a glorious reunion.

Illustration by Steve Kropp
I went with my family to visit my parents’ village for a New Year’s celebration. It had been three years since we had visited last, and we were looking forward to seeing friends and family members again. When we arrived we were happily welcomed.
When New Year’s Eve came, we gathered with others for a traditional ceremony to wish protection, long life, and prosperity to the oldest son of each family. I am the oldest son in my family. I learned that all those taking part would be expected to drink wine as part of the ceremony.
I was very worried. I knew that drinking the wine would be breaking the Word of Wisdom. But I also knew that if I did not drink the wine, I might be punished for being disrespectful—and my family might be punished too. Then I remembered what my mother had taught me: when you find yourself in a situation you cannot control, you should pray to Heavenly Father and ask Him to help you.
I prayed silently, Heavenly Father, let Thy Spirit guide me and help me to do what is right.
When it was my turn to drink the wine, I was nervous, but I spoke loudly and clearly. “My body is a temple. I will not break the Word of Wisdom,” I said.
The village elder was very surprised. He turned to me and said, “You seem very sure of what you are doing. Please, we would like to hear more of your views.”
My family and I were not punished, and our faith was strengthened. I know Heavenly Father helped me have the courage to choose the right.

My family lived in the city, but when I was a teenager, I stayed with my uncle during the summers. He managed a cattle ranch with about four thousand cattle. In Argentina, cowboys are called gauchos. All summer I dressed like a gaucho, rode horses like a gaucho, and worked like a gaucho.
At the ranch, I was given the responsibility to ride all of the horses that were kept for visitors. I remember one horse that was very good for working with cattle but very tough mouthed. That means that he did not respond very well to the bit. It was difficult for a rider to control him. One day, I took him out first thing in the morning. When horses go out to work, they are sometimes a little bit like we are. They don’t go out with a great deal of enthusiasm when it is so early.
I usually switched horses around midday. I had been fighting with this horse all morning, so when it was time for me to go back and switch horses, I thought, If you want to run, I’m really going to make you run! I hit him, and he took off—running at full speed! The only problem was that we were coming up on a gate made of large beams. I pulled on the reins, trying to slow him down. But I had forgotten that when horses are heading for home they are much more excited than when they are heading out. That horse was going home, and nothing was going to stop him! He crashed into the gate—but was unhurt—as I flew onto the ground.
The horse I rode on my uncle’s ranch that day had to follow the right path. The ranch was enormous, around ten thousand acres, and if the horse had not stayed on the path, he could have gotten lost. It was good for that horse to go home, but he also needed to go through several gates—not crash into them!

Sometimes making a difference is as easy as saying one sentence. A couple of years ago, before the beginning of the girls’ basketball season, Sue said, “Let’s say a prayer.” They followed her suggestion before that first game, and it became a habit. “I always said the prayer before every game. Sometimes I would say, ‘Doesn’t someone else want to offer the prayer today?’ And a couple of times someone else would. But most of the time, the team would all be standing around waiting for me, calling, ‘Sue, come and say the prayer.’”

Perhaps my first lesson about truly good Saints without guile was learned when I was a young missionary. I moved into an area with an elder I didn’t know. I had heard other missionaries talk about how he had never received any leadership assignments and how he struggled with the Korean language despite having been in the country a long time. But as I got to know this elder, I found he was one of the most obedient and faithful missionaries I had known. He studied when it was time to study; he worked when it was time to work. He left the apartment on time and returned on time. He was diligent in studying Korean even though the language was especially difficult for him.

When I realized the comments I had heard were untrue, I felt like this missionary was being misjudged as unsuccessful. I wanted to tell the whole mission what I had discovered about this elder. I shared with my mission president my desire to correct this misunderstanding. His response was, “Heavenly Father knows this young man is a successful missionary, and so do I.” He added, “And now you know too, so who else really matters?” This wise mission president taught me what was important in service, and it wasn’t praise, position, power, honor, or authority. This was a great lesson for a young missionary who was too focused on titles.

When I found out that our stake was going to produce a musical show I was filled with the desire to participate. I had been in many plays, but since becoming totally blind three years earlier, I had neglected my love of amateur acting. I was afraid that the directors would never use a blind actress, and I wondered if I would be able to handle the complex stage movements. But my desires overcame my fears, and I auditioned for a part in the show.
The audition went well, but even my very supportive husband warned me not to get too hopeful. To my surprise, I not only got the part I wanted, but one of the directors hadn’t even realized I was blind! Had I let my fears keep me from trying, I would have missed one of the most delightful experiences of my life.