Gospel Story Finder

About this time, President Joseph F. Smith and his counselors in the First Presidency suggested to members of the Church that they hold a family home evening once each week. Accordingly, my father would gather us around a little table after supper to read the Book of Mormon. We read it from cover to cover that year. Because Mother had taught me to read, I was privileged to take my turn in reading aloud. What excitement I experienced as we approached the Third book of Nephi and the coming of the Savior! With feelings of sadness we continued through the books of Mormon, Ether, and Moroni. These feelings were strongly reinforced by my father.

Father told me the story of Grandfather Durham, who had been inspired to compose a melody called “The Nephite Lamentation.” Thomas Durham had been promised in a patriarchal blessing that he would hear music as it was sung in the heavens. My father related how one night my grandfather had a dream. In it he saw twenty-four men by a stream. They looked very sad. Their leader arose and addressed them. Then he heard a melody played on what sounded like a trumpet. The impression came to him that it was a dream concerning Moroni and the last twenty-four Nephites. He awoke. In the late hours of the night he went to his little organ and played the tune he had heard and wrote it down. Later, a choir in the Parowan Ward in southern Utah sang the tune to the words of “O My Father.” It was published in modified form in the old Primary songbook as arranged by Henry E. Giles.

Hearing this music and reading the Book of Mormon in these early years with my parents made a forceful impression upon my mind as to the reality and truth of the Book of Mormon.

I hope that each of you will watch and listen carefully to what your parents say and do. I pray they will teach you well. I also hope that the music you hear in your home will be uplifting and inspiring, because we believe that “if there is anything virtuous, lovely, or of good report or praiseworthy, we seek after these things.” (A of F 1:13.) The place to begin with good things is at home with your family.

Finally, let us all remember the commandment: “Honour thy father and thy mother: that thy days may be long upon the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee.” (Ex. 20:12.)

Kiyoko hurried as fast as she could. The wind was strong today and the feel of a storm was everywhere. But she didn’t think about the storm. Winds like this meant spring and spring meant the kite contest and the contest meant Otosan (Father) and Kenji would be busy building a kite. And this year Kiyoko was determined to be part of the kite making and kite flying. Then she ran into the house.
“What is the hurry?” Okaason (Mother) asked.
“There is a wind today!” Kiyoko called back.
“And you are making it all yourself.” Okaasan laughed. “Slow down or you will start a typhoon!”
Kiyoko went into her bedroom and opened her book. Homework must be done, everything done, so there would be no excuse for her not to help. After dinner she helped Okaasan with the dishes, then she went to the table where Kenji and Otosan had started working.
“Don’t bother us!” Kenji said half-seriously. “We are busy.”
“I came to help,” Kiyoko said, undaunted.
“Girls do not help with the kites. This is for otosans and sons,” Kenji laughed. “Go arrange your flowers.”
Kiyoko felt a sting inside her throat. “I can help! I even have a good idea for a fine kite.”
Kenji laughed even harder. “Girls do not build kites!”
“Why not?” his sister asked.
“Because only the boys and their otosans make kites,” Kenji insisted.
“It is no rule,” Kiyoko said as nicely as she could.
“Kiyoko is right and so are you,” Otosan said to Kenji. “For many years it has been the otosan and his son who made and flew kites, but it is no rule.”
Kenji started to protest, but Otosan gave him a quick look that Kenji knew meant, “It is enough!”
He said no more, but Kiyoko could tell that her brother was upset.
Father and Kiyoko worked all evening, drawing plans and deciding which materials and colors would make the best kite for the contest. And while they worked they laughed and talked, but Kenji only listened and watched. Then, even before they were finished he left and went to his room.
“What is wrong with Kenji?” Okaasan asked. “He is not sick is he? He did not act well tonight.”
“He does not think a girl should help with the kite,” Kiyoko said. “But he will see. I can build and fly a kite as well as any boy.”
The next week was filled with work on the kite, but every time Kiyoko and Otosan started working, Kenji would find an excuse not to help.
Soon the kite was finished and Kenji had not helped on it at all. It was a beautiful catfish kite with a huge mouth and scary teeth and big eyes painted on its sides. Kiyoko was sure it was the most beautiful kite in the whole world, but Kenji said that it was just ordinary and that it probably wouldn’t even fly.
“You will see!” Kiyoko almost shouted. “It will win the prize for the best design and for the most beautiful and the highest-flying kite in the contest.”
Kenji only laughed and Kiyoko felt hurt. She hadn’t meant to make her brother so resentful. She had only wanted to help, not to take over, but Kenji would have nothing to do with the project.
It’s not my fault, Kiyoko decided as Kenji left the room. He could have helped make the kite. But her thoughts made no difference. Inside she was not happy. She knew how important the annual kite making was to Kenji.
The next day a gentle wind came so Kiyoko and Otosan took the kite out for its first flight. The park was crowded with boys and otosans and kites.
“Where is Kenji?” Makoto asked as they passed him.
“I don’t know,” Kiyoko answered.
“He said he would rather work in the garden,” Otosan added.
“But he hates to work in the garden!” Makoto exclaimed in surprise.
“I only know what he said,” Otosan replied.
Makoto laughed. “Hiroshi, did you hear?” he shouted. “Kenji has been replaced by his sister! A girl flying a kite!” Many boys laughed and even a few otosans.
Kiyoko’s face grew hot as the anger rose inside of her. “This is my kite. There is no rule that says a girl cannot enter the contest!” she defended.
“No rule, but poor Kenji!” Makoto laughed again.
“Poor Kenji,” Hiroshi repeated.
The boys walked on, leaving Otosan and Kiyoko alone.
“What do they mean, ‘Poor Kenji’?” Kiyoko asked.
“You do not know?” Otosan asked, looking at her closely.
“No,” Kiyoko answered. Otosan shook his head but made no reply.
Kiyoko was more determined now than ever that their kite would be the best. “I will be the first girl to win the kite contest. I’ll show them,” she declared.
“There are more important things than just showing others,” Otosan said quietly.
Kiyoko was startled. “What?”
“For many, many years otosans and sons have built kites and flown them in the contest. I did so with my otosan and he with his.”
“But I thought you said it was all right and you let me help!” Kiyoko exclaimed.
“It was not for me to say yes or no. As you say, ‘it is no rule.’ If flying in the kite contest is that important to you, then you should do it. It is your decision, not mine. But tell me, Kiyoko, what is more important to you—the contest or your brother’s happiness?”
Kiyoko was sad. “I guess you did not want me to help you either.”
“No, that is not so. I have enjoyed your help, but just as you and Okaasan look forward each year to the flower-arranging contest, Kenji and I look forward to the kite contest.”
Kiyoko felt a little heartsick. She had never considered that part of it. I would feel terrible if Kenji tried to help with the flowers. And it would not be because he was a boy, but because that’s a special time for me and Okaasan to be together.
“I think I understand now,” Kiyoko said softly.
“There are many things we do together as a family,” Otosan said, “but there are also times when not everyone of us is included.”
Kiyoko had only wanted to fly her kite, but she had hurt Kenji. What should I do now? she wondered. It was a hard decision, but finally she knew what she must do.
“I have some homework,” she said. “I’d better go do it.”
“You can stay if you really want to, Kiyoko,” Otosan said.
“I thank you, but I must go.” Quickly she ran home, making lots of noise as she walked through the garden.
Kenji looked up and laughed. “You couldn’t get it up? See, a girl cannot fly a kite.”
For a moment Kiyoko was hurt by his words, but now she understood why he spoke as he did.
“It is up,” she said.
“Then why are you here?”
“I’m tired of kites,” Kiyoko said, trying to sound convincing. Then she turned and ran into the house so Kenji would not see her tears.
Kiyoko watched out the window as her brother ran to join Otosan. “It is a good kite.” she said. “Kenji and Otosan will win many prizes. I know now that it does not matter if a boy or a girl flies it. Otosan and I will do other things together—now it is their time.”

The Lord told Joseph Smith that it was time to build a temple in Kirtland, Ohio, USA. It would be a special place where the Lord would visit His people and make promises with them.
The Saints started to build the temple. It cost a lot of money and took a lot of work. But they were excited to receive the Lord’s blessings.
As the Saints worked on the temple, they began to run out of money. They prayed to God for help.
A woman named Caroline Tippets and her family had saved a lot of money. They let the Church borrow money to help build the temple.
The Saints worked hard. Some drove wagons full of stones. Others made clothes and food for the workers.
Children collected pieces of broken glass to grind up and put on the walls of the temple so they sparkled in the sunlight.
Soon the temple was finished! The Saints were excited to go into the house of the Lord to receive the blessings He had promised them.
Read and watch Doctrine and Covenants Stories in the Gospel Library under Scriptures and Scripture Stories.

2:06 p.m. The missionaries jump on another bus, this time to El Casco, the historic quarter of Toledo, Spain. They stop by an investigator’s business to invite him to an activity that night.
“You can get lost in here really quick if you aren’t paying attention,” Elder Ward says of the maze of narrow streets lined with buildings that seem to lean over those walking below.

7:45 p.m. Two buses later the elders make it to the activity they had planned with the sister missionaries who work in the same city, Sister Kathleen Bonifay and Sister Brittany Hofman.
The people they were expecting to come didn’t. “That’s the way it goes sometimes,” Elder Ward says. But after a little footwork, the missionaries are able to gather a handful of other investigators living nearby. After a hymn and a video, you can feel the influence of the Holy Ghost as the missionaries bear testimony of the Book of Mormon as another witness of Jesus Christ. The activity is a success.
“The Lord takes care of you when you put forth your best planning and best effort,” says Sister Bonifay.

I recognized the beauty of music and the total satisfaction that comes from sharing it with others. When I played in church, I felt an inner fulfillment come to me as a performer and to my friends as an audience. I experienced satisfaction each time people would thank me for touching their hearts with my music.
Just as I was realizing my musical potential, I was asked to teach the three-year-olds in church. I discovered how much happiness comes when a small hand takes mine and two big blue eyes look up to me and say, “Thanks, Michelle, for being my special friend.” Serving the Lord through working with his little children helped me understand the real meaning of the scripture, “Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of God” (Luke 18:16).

There was a time before we were married when my wife, Kristi, was struggling to feel Heavenly Father’s love and to understand His plan for her. As she prayed for guidance, an impression came that she should attend institute, so she enrolled in a New Testament class. The way her institute teacher taught from the scriptures, even the way he held them, showed how much he loved the word of God. As she attended, the Holy Ghost whispered to her that there was something in the scriptures that she needed. Her teacher’s love for the scriptures and the promptings of the Holy Ghost gave her a desire to begin a serious study of the word of God—which became a lifelong journey of deep conversion and consecrated service.

Mom wasn’t surprised at all, and she told me a story: “When you were a tiny baby and round all over, your daddy brought you this blanket. He held you and the blanket in one arm and said, ‘Blanket, blanket,’ lots of times. You said, ‘Ginky.’ Dad smiled and said, ‘Blanket.’ Both of you were talking about the same thing.”
I had to laugh at that.
“Pretty soon,” Mom went on, “we all got used to calling your blanket Ginky, the way you did. ‘Here’s Ginky,’ your daddy or I would say, or ‘Won’t you let us wash Ginky just once, real quick?’ But you never wanted Ginky to be washed.”
“I didn’t want Ginky swooshing around in all that soap,” I told her.
Now Ginky smells kind of stuffy and dusty from being in the drawer so long. Ginky used to be soft. I remember stroking my cheek with Ginky and wrapping it around my arm (the one with the good-tasting thumb) before I went to sleep.
At first Ginky had a satin edging that I could curl around my fingers. I could make a scratchy noise on it, too, with my fingernail. But the satin is almost all worn off now.
Lots of babies have blankets. But there isn’t another Ginky.
You know, I took Ginky to bed with me last night—just for remembering. I didn’t really need to. I tried wrapping Ginky around my arm. I tried scratching the worn-out satin. I even tried sucking my thumb.
But my thumb just doesn’t taste good anymore. After a while, I got all tangled up in Ginky. I wanted to go to sleep, so I folded Ginky carefully beside me. “Good night,” I said.
This morning Ginky was still there, looking kind of raggedy on my pillow. I packed Ginky away in my special box. Mom says that when I’m a big person, we’ll open my box and look at all the things I saved as I was growing up.
My picture album and my doll without any hair and a drawing I made of a fire engine were in my box already. I think Ginky belongs there with those other things.

Katsumi Nakahara of the Iwamizawa Branch has been a member for a little more than a year. He met the missionaries when they were proselyting on the street. “I did not think it was strange,” he says. “But they were foreigners. So I thought I would go and visit the church. I received a brief lesson. But during that lesson I felt the Holy Ghost. Since then it has been a process of following the Spirit from one step to the next.”

Happily, my wise parents put great heroes in my path as a boy. My dad took me to Yankee Stadium only once to observe my baseball hero play, but every Sunday he let me observe a priesthood man who became a hero. That hero shaped my life. My father was the branch president of the little branch which met in our home. By the way, if you came down to the first floor on Sunday morning, you were in church. Our branch never had more than 30 people in attendance.
There was a young man who drove his mother to our house for meetings, but he never came into the house. He was not a member. It was my father who succeeded by going out to him where he parked the car and inviting him into our home. He was baptized and became my first and only Aaronic Priesthood leader. He became my priesthood hero. I still remember the wooden statue he gave me as a reward after we had completed a project to cut firewood for a widow. I have tried to be like him whenever I give justified praise to a servant of God.

All of us may be tempted to let our personal desires overcome the guidance of the Holy Ghost. The Prophet Joseph Smith pleaded with Heavenly Father for permission to lend the first 116 pages of the Book of Mormon to Martin Harris. Joseph thought it was a good idea. At first the Holy Ghost did not give him confirming feelings. Eventually, the Lord allowed Joseph to lend the pages anyway. Martin Harris lost them. For a season, the Lord withdrew the Prophet’s gift to translate, and Joseph learned a painful but valuable lesson that shaped the remainder of his service.

Later in the book he presents a “condensed novel,” A Mormon Romance—Reginald Gloverson, in four chapters and eight pages. Reginald Gloverson, who has twenty wives, delivers a farewell speech to his family as he departs on a trip across the plains. In the speech he assures them that he will dream of his wives, of “you, Emily, with your mild blue eyes; and you, Henrietta, with your splendid black hair; and you, Nelly, with your hair so brightly, beautifully golden,” and on and on, concluding, less confidently, with Susan, “with your—with your—that is to say, Susan, with your—and the other thirteen of you, each so good and beautiful.” Of course, the wives answer in chorus. Reginald dies and the wives argue about who was his favorite and about which place each will have in the funeral procession. A decent two years later another elder comes to the home and, speaking to all collectively, proposes marriage to the twenty widows, who he will add to his present twenty-five wives. Ward becomes confused with the problem of tenses at the end and concludes that “writing Mormon romances is confusing to the intellect.”

Driving to the Los Angeles Airport with a busy radio executive, I learned that he and his wife, though born in the Church, had never participated. Their social life of parties and weekends for fun and escape dominated their lives.
After eight years of marriage and three children, they were becoming concerned about their lives but did nothing about it.
Different sets of home teachers came and went. A new home teacher—a true shepherd—came into their lives, and after a time this new home teacher committed this man to go to Church once. Brother Adamson said he would not give up smoking and drinking. He had made a firm resolve not to live the Word of Wisdom, and if he was not welcome in Church because of it, that was fine. The home teacher said, “You are welcome, and I will pick you up.”
The first Sunday Brother Adamson attended Church he waited for someone to move away from him because of the strong tobacco odor, but that didn’t happen. “They will ask me to pray or work in the Church,” he thought. That didn’t happen either.
The home teacher did not phone on Sunday mornings to give him a chance to make an excuse and back out but drove to his home and would say, “Are you ready?” This home teacher picked him up every Sunday for over a year.
The Adamsons began reading A Marvelous Work and a Wonder and found that the Church consisted of much more than just the Word of Wisdom, which he had heard so much about all his life (and because he didn’t live the Word of Wisdom, felt the Church had nothing to offer him).
This couple soon learned it is a Church of love, not a Church of fear. They learned of the mission of the Savior and of our Heavenly Father and of repentance. They became so proud of the Church they had been born into that the Word of Wisdom no longer was an important issue. He didn’t go through the pangs of quitting. It just happened. There were so many other principles of the gospel that now were so important in their lives.
He said, “I found myself working on our new chapel and then one day quietly telling the bishop, ‘I’m ready, now. You can call on me to pray.’”

One of my children turned the television to a popular children’s program, and a scene soon came on that really disturbed me.
“Yuck,” my 11-year-old said. “That was sick!”
“Yes, it was,” I agreed. I thought about calling the television station and letting them know how we felt. If I said something, would it really make a difference? I wondered. So many popular shows include material that is inappropriate for children—for anyone really. But this scene seemed particularly inappropriate.
I called the local station and received the telephone number of its national affiliate. After being redirected several times, I finally reached someone who played a part in the program’s production. I explained how offended I was and what my child’s reaction had been. I said, “If others haven’t called, it may be that they feel as I do—that it doesn’t do any good.”
“To tell you the truth,” the man said, “I argued with the writers on that segment, but they insisted we put it in to test the viewers’ responses. I was sure a lot of people would feel as you do, but few people call or write. Tell your friends and neighbors to let us know!”
After I hung up, the thirteenth article of faith came to my mind: “If there is anything virtuous, lovely, or of good report or praiseworthy, we seek after these things.” [A of F 1:13] I realized I could make a difference by becoming more alert and letting my feelings be known not only about entertainment but about my local environment as well.

Although President Benson loved horses and would always admire a good horse more than a good car, he was excited when his father purchased the family’s first automobile. “It was a 1915 Dodge. It was of solid, substantial construction, but the suspension wasn’t very good in those days and it bounced along like a hay wagon. There were very few cars in the community. Uncle John Dunkley was the first one to get a car. The children would all gather around after Sunday School, to see him turn the hand crank to get it started. There were no paved roads anywhere in our part of the country.

“Occasionally Father would let us drive to a distant town for a basketball game, dance, or other entertainment. One Saturday we drove to Logan. There is a slight hill to the south of Logan, and I drove our car to the limit this particular Saturday and got the speed up to about eighty-two kilometers per hour. When I reported this to Father and to the people back in the Whitney Ward, they were shocked to think I had dared to drive at that terrific speed and seemed to question whether the car would actually go that fast or not. I finally had to get evidence from some of the other boys who were with me to confirm my claim, which was the highest record of speed known in the community at that time.”

Isabelle’s father was a physician in the French armed forces, which gave him opportunities to serve in foreign lands. Consequently, several of Isabelle’s childhood years were spent in Djibouti, New Caledonia and Algeria. The Church was not established in some of those countries. Worship and gospel living were thus family centered with no supporting Church organization. Family prayer and family scripture study were regular practices in the home, as were weekly sacrament meetings.

In the late 1970s the Mauclairs moved back to metropolitan France, first to Auch (pronounced Osh) near Toulouse. In 1978, they moved to the Versailles ward, where the Mauclair and Giraud-Carrier families became good friends, and a young Christophe met an even younger Isabelle. That childhood friendship grew into dating, courtship, engagement, and marriage. After some time in the same ward and stake, the families moved apart, but Christophe’s and Isabelle’s developing romance continued to grow as they courted by regular letters, occasional phone calls and quarterly in-person connections.

In July 1986 Christophe commenced full-time missionary service in the Canada Montreal Mission. While he was in Canada, Isabelle’s father was her district president in Cholet, France. Her father called her as a district missionary, fulfilling a promise in her patriarchal blessing. She arranged her work schedule to work three days a week and all evenings with the full-time missionaries. During her service, she became a key part of bringing about 20 new converts into the Church.

Just weeks after Christophe returned from the Canada Montreal Mission, the two, who had met as children 10 years before, became husband and wife on July 16, 1988 in Cholet, France. Three days later, at the Bern Switzerland Temple, they became a forever union. Christophe was 22 and Isabelle was 21.

Shortly after their marriage, Christophe was drafted into the French military. He served in the air force for one year. After his military service, Christophe transferred two years of college credit to Brigham Young University in Provo, Utah. There he earned a bachelor’s degree, a master’s degree, and a PhD in computer science.

After earning his PhD, the family moved to Bristol, England, where Christophe worked as a computer science professor for six years. He left academia for a time to accept a manager position at ELCA Informatique in Lausanne, Switzerland. In Switzerland, they were just two hours from family for the first time in nearly 13 years. They loved living in Switzerland.

BYU had regularly asked Dr. Giraud-Carrier if he would consider accepting a professorship at the Provo campus. The answer was always no. When the Giraud-Carriers traveled to Utah in 2004, the Computer Science department chair asked them again, “What would make you stay in Utah?” Both Christophe and Isabelle had a strong impression that they should accept a professorship at BYU. They said yes and moved resolutely forward with the direction the Lord was revealing to them.

The Giraud-Carriers have eight children, four sons and four daughters. Four of the children were born after they left Provo. Today, six of their children are married. And they are grandparents to 18 beautiful grandchildren.

Throughout their lives, they have accepted and magnified each of their Church callings. Elder Giraud-Carrier has served as a bishop, ward and stake Young Men president, stake mission president, high councilor, stake president, and mission president. Sister Giraud-Carrier has been the president of her ward Primary, Young Women, and Relief Society, and served as Primary teacher, district missionary, mission leader, and an exceptional ministering sister. Of her, Elder Patrick Kearon has said: “If I had to cross the plains, I would want to be in her wagon.”

Peace McBride, an apprentice seamstress, and her mistress, Mrs. Root, have heard the Prophet Joseph Smith preach, studied the Book of Mormon, and been baptized into the Church. Now Peace has received Sister Root’s permission and the necessary money to visit her family in a distant county to share her joy in the gospel with them.
On the eve of a brand new decade, December 31, 1839, Peace was bundled in a warm cloak and sitting on top of a coach. Only something as important as the gospel could make Peace take such a journey. Sister Root had tried for days to find someone who was traveling toward the town of Chester Springs, but there were few travelers this time of year. Even so, not a seat was left inside the coach, and no one had been willing to give up his seat to the young girl. I won’t think of the cold, Peace decided. I’ll think of how warm I was after my baptism, of Sister Root’s warm parlor, of anything but the cold.
Cheerfully she hugged a paper-wrapped parcel to her chest. It was Sister Root’s copy of the Book of Mormon. She had given it to Peace as the excited girl had boarded the stage. “I shouldn’t let you be doing this,” Sister Root had fretted. “But since you’re going, here, take the book. It won’t do you much good to just talk about it—your folks need a chance to read it.”
Feeling cold creep around her toes as the coach got farther and farther from Philadelphia, Peace wriggled them and thought about the past few weeks. There had been such a change in her employer! Peace could remember when sour words and slaps were served up regularly to her. Sister Root’s whole manner had changed from the time that she first listened to the Prophet.
Glancing around, Peace noticed that the slush in the road had frozen. She stomped her feet and moved her arms to keep warm. Finally she saw the inn up ahead. It was a two-day trip home, and whenever she made it, she always stayed there.
After a warm meal, Peace felt better and hurried to her room. She knew that the coach would leave shortly after dawn, and she needed all the sleep that she could get. Wrapping herself in the quilts, she drifted peacefully to sleep.
Several hours later she awoke as cold again gripped her. The cozy little room that she had enjoyed in the summer was far from any heat source. Seeing frost forming around the window and on the panes, Peace knew that it was frightfully cold. Reaching for her cloak, she hastily put it on over her nightclothes. Back under the covers, she shivered until she was warm enough to fall asleep again.
The frost was so thick on the panes when Peace awoke a second time that light from the feeble sunrise hardly penetrated the room. She dressed under the covers, then hurried to the gathering room. The other travelers were already huddled around the fire, so she had to stand behind them, where she could barely feel its warmth.
A warm breakfast and cheerful words from the inn-keeper helped. Bracing herself, Peace again took her seat on top of the coach. This time she wore all the clothes that she had brought with her. Yet, before noon, her throat was scratchy. By evening, she was really sick. As the coach approached Chester Springs, she was so ill that she hardly knew what was happening around her.
A kind farmer going her way agreed to take Peace to her family’s farm. It was only two miles outside of town, but to Peace the trip took forever. Each time the wagon hit a rut, her head seemed to explode with pain.
Hearing her mother’s voice was almost like being in heaven. Peace tried to rise from where she lay in the back of the farmer’s wagon, but she sank back weakly.
“Peace!” her mother cried. “Whatever are you doing here?” She bustled around and fussed as the farmer and Mr. McBride carried the girl into the house.
It was bliss for Peace to lie in a soft, warm bed in the safety of her home. Her mother helped undress her and started to take the paper-wrapped parcel from her.
“No!” Peace mumbled. “I need to keep this with me. It’s why I came here, and it’s very important.”
“Important or not,” her mother said firmly, “it’s going on the dresser. It will be there when you get better.”
It was a week before Peace felt well enough to even sit up. She had developed a fever and a deep cough and was able to do little but lie there and try to get well.
“You’re awake!” her mother said cheerfully one morning as she came into Peace’s room. “After breakfast and a wash, you’ll feel much better, I’m sure.”
Peace smiled at her mother. It was so good to be home. Looking over at the dresser, she noticed that the parcel was gone. “Where did my book go?”
“I have it, but not for long.”
Peace looked up in surprise at the angry tone of her mother’s voice.
“How did you come by such a book,” her mother asked.
“Sister Root gave it to me.”
“I should never have let you go off on your own.”
“But, Mother, you know I had to. It was an opportunity for the whole family for me to train with such a great dressmaker.”
“She promised to watch over you!”
Peace smiled at her mother and hoped to get her in a better mood. “She watched over me very well. Do you know anything about the Book of Mormon?”
“Reverend Thompson said that the book is of the devil. He told me to burn it!”
Peace sat up in bed. “You didn’t, did you?” she cried.
“Not yet.” Her mother’s face softened. “It seemed to mean so much to you. And you came so far to bring it to us. I’ll admit that I was a little curious about it, because you value it, so I read a little of it.”
“Did it sound like the devil wrote it?” Peace asked softly.
“Well, no,” her mother admitted and smiled back at Peace. “I read a beautiful story about the Savior visiting a strange people in a land that I never heard of.”
“Bountiful?”
“Yes, that’s it. I have to say that it was a beautiful tale!”
“Oh, Mother,” Peace said fervently, “it’s more than a tale. It’s true—every word of it! If you read about it and pray about it, you’ll know that too.”
“Reverend Thompson said that no God-loving person would get involved with this book. He’s a good man, and he’s been our minister since you were a baby.”
Peace didn’t know what to say. Reverend Thompson was a good man. He’d been more than kind to her over the years. “Have the Mormon elders been in this area?”
“Yes, they have,” her mother answered. “Why?”
“Did many people listen and join the Church?”
“Yes. In fact, the number of people in our church has dwindled. And Reverend Thompson is very unhappy about it.”
“There, Mother. That’s your answer. Reverend Thompson is afraid that he’ll lose his congregation.”
Now it was her mother’s turn to look thoughtful. “You may be right. …”
“Mother, will you and Father read the whole book—and pray sincerely about it? Then if you have any questions, we can ask the elders to come visit.”
“I’m still not sure.”
“Please? It means so much to me.”
Peace’s mother loved her oldest daughter very much. She had been parted from her for a long time, and she felt that it wouldn’t hurt to do as Peace asked.
“All right. I will read it, and I’ll ask your father if he will too. I can’t promise more than that.”
“I know,” Peace said understandingly. “Sister Root didn’t want to believe, either. She wouldn’t let me be baptized until she knew more about the Church.”
“Rightly so,” her mother agreed. “I guess that maybe she was caring for you well.”
With just a few days left till she had to go back, Peace spent all the time that she could with her two brothers and three little sisters. She talked to them about the big city and the things that she had seen. “Not long ago I went into a big church near Mistress Root’s shop. There was a man speaking there,” she told them. “His name is Joseph Smith. He’s a very great man, and he’s a prophet.”
“Like Moses?” Jimmy asked in wonder.
“Yes, like Moses. When he talked, I felt that he had great power. We all felt it, and it changed my life.” She told them all that had happened to her. She told them, too, about the Savior and His visit to the New World. They listened eagerly as she told them stories from the Book of Mormon.
Because it was winter, the McBrides spent most of their time indoors. Peace read the Book of Mormon to her father as he mended harnesses and to her mother while she knitted. They listened intently to what Peace read, and her brothers and sisters did too.
Peace attended sacrament meeting at the small branch. Afterward she invited the elders to visit her family. When they came, her father asked many questions. He didn’t say much but nodded his head as the elders answered him.
The time soon came when Peace had to leave. Her heart was heavy because her parents still had not committed themselves to joining the Church.
Her father took her in their wagon to the inn and placed her bag inside the boot of the coach. Peace had a seat inside this time. She also had a warm quilt that her mother made for her to wrap up in.
“Good-bye, Peace,” her father told her, giving her a big hug. “I know what you want from your mother and me. I’m proud of you for believing your religion enough to suffer hardship to try to bring it to us. We’re not ready yet. Don’t give up on us, though. Just give us time.”
Peace left with a warm feeling. She knew that no matter what happened, she had done what she could to teach her family. Now she would give time and the Holy Ghost a chance to finish the work.

Now may I speak from my heart of what an honorable full-time mission has meant to me personally. I grew up in a home with very good parents, but my father was not a member and my mother was less active. After my mission, that changed. They became strong members and served devotedly in the temple—he a sealer, she an ordinance worker. But as a young man, like many of you today, I had no way to judge personally the importance of a mission. I fell in love with an exceptional young woman. At a critical point in our courtship, she made it very clear that she would only be married in the temple to a returned missionary. Duly motivated, I served a mission in Uruguay.

It was not easy. The Lord gave me many challenges that became stepping-stones to personal growth. There I gained my testimony that God the Father and His Beloved Son, Jesus Christ, did in fact visit Joseph Smith to begin a restoration of truth, priesthood authority, and the true Church on earth. I gained a witness that Joseph Smith is a singular prophet. I learned essential doctrines. I discovered what it meant to be led by the Spirit. Many a night I got up as my companion slept to pour my heart out to the Lord for guidance and direction. I pled for the ability to express effectively in Spanish my testimony and the truth I was learning to a people I had come to love. Those prayers were abundantly answered. At the same time, my future eternal companion, Jeanene, was being molded to become an exceptional wife and mother by her own mission.

Most important, all that I now hold dear in life began to mature in the mission field. Had I not been encouraged to be a missionary, I would not have the eternal companion or precious family I dearly love. I am confident that I would not have had the exceptional professional opportunities that stretched my every capacity. I am certain that I would not have received the sacred callings with opportunities to serve for which I will be eternally grateful. My life has been richly blessed beyond measure because I served a mission.

At one time in my life, I thought that I didn’t need visiting teachers myself. I had a strong testimony of the gospel, and I had no major problems. But one year I was alone on Christmas Eve. My husband was busy shopping, and all my children were married and living out of the country, except for one daughter, who couldn’t come. The house was so empty without the hugs of my little grandchildren. I’m not used to feeling sorry for myself, but that night I sat down in the dark in my living room and let the tears run down my cheeks. Just at that moment the doorbell rang. My visiting teachers! My dear sisters had come to bring me a greeting of Christmas joy. It was as if the Lord himself had reminded me that I was not alone.
By the time they left, my mood had completely changed. I turned on the lights, put on my best dress, decorated the table, and prepared a special supper. When my husband came in, we celebrated Christmas together and gave thanks that we were both alive and healthy.

I’m home now, at our dinner table, after working my four-hour shift in the bookstore. Mom has just warmed up a plate of food for me.
“I think we’ll have fun in that class,” she says, scrubbing off a pot in the kitchen sink. “I can’t believe we ended up together. Of course, if you think it’s too awkward to have me in the same class, I could transfer.”
“Oh, no, Mom. I don’t mind at all,” I tell her, hiding the fact that for one more semester my social life probably will be roughly on par with a turnip. “But why family relations? It’s not like you don’t have any experience. Remember us? Your five children?”
Mom stands up straight and sets aside her dish rag. “Well, I’m taking three classes. Geology, because every time I’ve looked out this window in the last 27 years, I’ve seen mountains. I want to know more about those mountains. The humanities class is to help me better appreciate the beauty around me.” She picks up the rag and begins some intense scrubbing on a casserole dish. “And the family relations class—that’s to help me know if I could have done a few things better.”
I know what she is talking about—my younger sister, Jan. A little more than two years ago, when I was on my mission in Peru, Jan left home just before graduating from high school. We don’t really know where she is. A phone call, a postcard, maybe a letter at Christmas, first from Chicago, then somewhere in Florida, then a half-dozen other locations. She just tells us that she is fine, working, and maybe will come back someday. We’ve all lost sleep over her.
I finish my meal and give her a hand with the rest of the dishes before heading to my room to work through some calculations for my building materials class. I hope for the millionth time that Jan is okay somewhere.
I’ve decided not to break things off with the blonde-haired girl from California, at least not yet. In fact, once again I think our relationship is progressing nicely. She did sort of look around in class the other day. I took that as a sure sign she was checking to see if I was there.
Anyway, the big break came when the instructor, Dr. Holgate, took roll out loud. I very casually pretended not to be paying attention, but I was all ears, hanging on each “Here!” as the names were called out.
“Carianne Meacham?”
“Here!”
That’s it! She has a name. I scribble furiously in my notebook. Carianne. A wonderful name. It fits someone used to surfing off Malibu, working on her tan, and playing volleyball on the beach, all important qualities in a prospective wife.
My mother is nudging me. “The teacher’s calling your name!” she whispers hoarsely.
“Here!” I blurt out, standing up. The whole class laughs.
Tonight I am again trying to concentrate on homework. But there’s a huge distraction sitting on the end of my desk.
It is the university phone book.
Inside it, I know, Carianne Meacham’s name will be listed, where she lives, her hometown, her major, and her phone number.
Try this scenario:
“Hello, Carianne. I’m David Williams, the guy you said hello to in family relations class two weeks ago, the ruggedly handsome one who sits next to his mother.” Well, maybe I could get just a few basics about her from one quick peek at the phone book.
I open it and search through the M’s. Voila! Meacham, Carianne L. Sophomore. Nursing major. Lives off campus. But what’s this? She’s from Seattle, Washington, land of perpetual drizzle.
I can adjust. I like rain. I like little green plants growing behind my ears and between my toes. I like rust, honest.
I wonder if Carianne knows what sacrifices I’m making for her.
Family relations class, a debate is raging. Dr. Holgate raised the question. “Is there ever a time when parents are justified in asking their children to leave home?” The arguments churn on. The class consensus seems to be that, yes, there are rare occasions when a child should not be allowed in the home, such as if his or her behavior is damaging the entire family or setting a bad example for younger siblings. Dr. Holgate is at the front of the class, looking slightly entertained. Class is almost over.
“Any other thought?” she asks.
“Yes!” my mom says.
“Go ahead.”
“When you have children, they are yours forever, not just in good times or okay times, but always. You have to love them always, show them that you care always, and be there for them always,” Mom says, her voice slightly quivering.
It is an amazing turn of events. The class bursts into applause. Up front, Dr. Holgate is beaming. The buzzer sounds and class is over. Several students come up to talk with my mom, the new class star. One of them is Carianne who grasps her arm and says, “Ruth, what you said is true.”
While I’m happy for my mom, it’s a little difficult to accept that Carianne is more impressed with my mother than with me.
Not a good day in Family Relations 101. Dr. Holgate announces we need to pair up with someone else to work jointly on our final project. It will be a report on some aspect of family relations. The choice of topics is up to us. Half of our grade will be on our paper, the other half on a 15-minute class presentation by the two-person teams.
“Okay, pair up,” Dr. Holgate urges. “If you can’t find a teammate, I’ll assign you.”
Carianne Meacham stands up and turns toward me. My heart starts to thump. This is it. I knew I was right. All semester long, she’s secretly wanted to get acquainted. I owe Dr. Holgate for this opportunity, I really do.
Carianne smiles. I smile back. I’m already to ask, “How ya’ doin’?” which is my best get-acquainted line. She is only inches away. I hear her voice.
“Ruth, would you like to work together?” she asks my mother!
“Why yes, I’d be tickled to.”
Cruel fate. Aced out by my mom. Again.
I feel a hand on my shoulder. I look up into the bespectacled face of a man in his late 20s, balding, with a lopsided smile.
“Hey, we’re the only ones left without a partner. Whaddya say? Pete LaFete is my name, and I’ve got some great ideas for this project.”
I can’t find the right words to tell him I didn’t take this class to further my male bonding experience. But I’m so stunned, I nod. Peter LaFete and I are a team.
I am slumping. I am a baseball player who has gone hitless in his last 27 at-bats, a singer who comes down with laryngitis the night of the big concert. I’m struggling with my engineering classes, and Family Relations 101, the class I took for enjoyment is turning into a nightmare. Hey, I’m 22 years old, and I should know more about … about … life.
Yes, life. I should be more on top of it than I am now. I need a triumph. Just a small triumph, a little victory to reinforce that I do have something to look forward to.
I got together with Peter LaFete. We are going to do our research paper on successful dating. Pete is single, six years older than I am, and has just changed his major to family relations although he has 224 credit hours and should have graduated before I left on my mission. I told him since neither of us has much of a track record in dating, we might have a credibility problem.
“No way, pard. I know a lot about dating,” he says confidently.
I have a few theories about why Pete is still single.
Dark, cold, and rainy. Sort of like my life right now. I am in my room, studying. It is almost 11:00 P.M. Mom and I went over each other’s notes in preparation for the final tomorrow in Family Relations 101. Then I came up here to hit the books. Downstairs, everything is quiet. The rain slashes against my window. It’s on nights like these that I most often think of my sister and wonder where she might be.
I hear a commotion on the porch. I get up from my desk, wondering what is going on. There is a loud knock on the door. Mom and Dad are at the bottom of the stairs, fumbling with bathrobes, turning on the entry lights. Dad opens the door a little and peers into the darkness. A figure steps into the light spilling from our home.
It is my sister, soaking wet, looking tired, looking very different than the skinny junior in high school I knew when I left on my mission.
“Can I come in?” she asks, her voice trembling.
“This is your home, Jan,” my dad says softly.
“Mom, Dad, I need to start over.”
“We’ll talk later,” Mom says. My sister throws her arms around Mother, and they both begin to cry.
I think my slump is history.
It is Friday, at the end of the semester. All of the work for family relations and my other classes is done. Mom and Carianne were a brilliant team. Their presentation was terrific.
Pete LaFete and I were less than genius. “I’ve found in my experience,” Peter lectured during our presentation, “that a proper way of saying good night on a fourth or fifth date is to kiss a girl lightly on her forehead. Girls remember it.”
I bet they do, Pete.
Anyway, I’m just getting home and pushing my way through the back door. Something smells great in the kitchen. Mom is at the stove.
“Hello, dear.”
“Hi, Mom. Where’s Jan?”
“In the dining room with your dad. She registered at the community college today. Maybe she’s finally turning the corner. By the way, I invited some company over for dinner tonight. Hope you don’t mind.”
“No big deal, Mom,” I answered, since we often throw an extra plate on the table for guests. I peek into the dining room, and there, with her back toward me, chatting away with my dad and sister, is Carianne Meacham.
My mom smiles serenely.
“I got an A in family relations, remember? And I saw her name in your notebook the other night when we were studying. Now try to say something besides, ‘How ya’ doin’?’ Carianne is an intelligent girl, and I don’t think that will impress her at all.”
And that’s the way I got to know Carianne Meacham.
Sometimes I sit back and like to sort things out. I’ve been thinking about the last months. I think about Mom going back to school at age 53 and showing all of us that learning is something you do all your life. I think about her report card, two A’s and a B. (“Geology wasn’t as intriguing as I was hoping,” Mom explains.) I think about my sister and what my mom had to say about loving always. And I understand better that there are at least two kinds of education. One kind deals with the mind, the other with the heart.

By contrast, we know a family who took a different approach. The parents were inspired by J. C. Penney’s experience where his father told him when he turned eight years old that he was on his own financially. They came up with their own version: as their children graduated from high school, they were on their own financially—for further education (college, graduate school) and for their financial maintenance (truly self-reliant) (see D&C 83:4). Happily, the children reacted wisely. All of them are college graduates, and several also completed graduate school—all on their own. It wasn’t easy, but they did it. They did it with hard work and faith.