Gospel Story Finder

As a young missionary in the Language Training Mission (the predecessor to the Missionary Training Center) preparing to go to Hamburg, Germany, Carl Bert Cook struggled to learn German. While he tried to grasp basic vocabulary, members of his district quickly moved on to more complex concepts.
Frustrated by his lack of progress, young Elder Cook sought divine help through a priesthood blessing and prayer. After one particularly heartfelt prayer, Elder Cook remembers receiving a specific answer: the Lord hadn’t called him to master the German language but to serve with all of his heart, mind, and strength.
“I immediately thought, ‘I can do that,’” says Elder Cook, recently called as a member of the First Quorum of the Seventy. “‘I can serve with all of my heart, mind, and strength.’ I stood up and felt a sense of relief. All of a sudden, my measuring stick changed from how my companion and district members were doing to how the Lord felt that I was doing.”
Although Elder Cook says that he didn’t necessarily learn the language more quickly after that experience, he no longer felt his previous concerns because he knew that he was doing what the Lord wanted him to do. That lesson, he says, has been important in all of the callings he’s held since, including bishop, counselor in a stake presidency, stake president, president of the New Zealand Auckland Mission, Area Seventy, and now in his current assignment.

One of our elders said that he was not a member of the Church when he began dating an LDS girl. One of his first comments was “What’s a nice girl like you doing by being a member of the Mormon church?” She asked him what he knew about the Church. He answered, “Well, not much.”

She said, “That’s kind of a stupid thing for you to say, then, if you don’t know anything about it.” So, because he liked the girl, he had to study it out. Partly because of her and partly because of what he learned, he joined the Church. Recognize your opportunity.

As I interact with other young single adults, I’ve noticed that sometimes it can be easy to be so focused on our marital status that we don’t pay attention to those around us. For example, when I first started attending a family ward rather than a young adult ward, I believed I deserved extra attention, pity, and looking after because I was single. I have yet to find an instance when having such an attitude ever did me any good.
During the first year in my ward, I was surprised that many of my other ideas turned out to be myths. I learned that married people can be friends with single people and that I could make a difference in people’s lives. Some mothers are overjoyed to have a friend come over for a visit when their husbands are gone for work or Church callings. Parents are often grateful when an adult can provide some individual attention to their children, and most are quite willing to “lend out” their children for movies or other activities.
I also learned that I was not the only person who was single. Other ward members are empty nesters, divorced, or widowed and also struggle to deal with life’s issues on their own. And despite my belief that married people are happier, I met some who dealt with depression, job loss, or disabled or wayward children. Those with such struggles always appreciate a listening ear.
But these realizations and friendships did not happen instantly. They took time and effort as I consistently attended my Church meetings, served in callings, and looked for opportunities to help. When my bishop asked me to teach the six-year-olds, I felt inadequate. However, after my first month, several parents thanked me, saying how much their children enjoyed coming to class. To this day some of my closest friends in the ward are family members of those children.
I try to always be available to help others in my ward, but on occasion I have been the one in need of service. Once when I needed to paint a room in my home before moving, I was in the middle of final exams and also had to leave town for a wedding. When I mentioned these circumstances to a sister in my ward, she told me she would get some other sisters together to paint the room. Their service saved me lots of time and money.
The members of my ward seem not to define me by my marital status because I don’t define myself by it. In conversation I don’t bring up my lack of a spouse; instead, I talk about my job, studies, hobbies, and immediate family. By my focusing on these topics, people often see that there is more to me than what is lacking.
A wise friend once told me that friendship is a two-way road; you can’t give some without receiving some in return. I realize that all my friendships will never provide me with the same experiences that a spouse and children would, but I also know that Heavenly Father loves all His children. No matter our circumstances in life, it is possible to feel loved and accepted.

Jan Bishop from Montclair, New Jersey, was one of the Ambassadors for Friendship sent to Czechoslovakia by the American Council for Nationalities Service in New York last year. There she performed as part of her high school’s Madrigal Choir. But that was not the end of her Czechoslovakian experience. Once the group had returned, all were challenged to write a letter to President Nixon telling him of their experiences there. The letters were first judged by a panel of prominent Americans and then bound and sent to the president. Jan’s letter was chosen as the winner. “I am active in the Mormon Church,” she said in her letter, “and I was curious to learn about Church membership there, hopefully to attend meetings and speak to members in Europe. After writing to the Church Regional Representative for the iron curtain countries, I learned that our church is banned and under police indictment there. Never in my life have I had such a disturbing experience with something so important to me as religion. I was disturbed that any government could assume they have the right to deny a human being those things that are so basic to his nature. I cried for the people that were denied such an important right, but I became very appreciative of America because of this. Freedoms of every kind are mine: speech, press, travel, religion, and many others. Many young Americans are dissenting because America has failed the people. I think they have failed America. There are people in parts of the world who would just like to see other parts of the world and can’t.”
Jan is active in the Church and has served as Junior Sunday School chorister and pianist for the MIA.

The box was in the living room when Billy came home from school. “What’s in the box?” he asked.
“You’ll see,” said Mom, “as soon as Dad comes home from work.”
When Dad came home, he opened the box. Inside was a television set. All of Billy’s older brothers and sisters were happy to see the television, but Billy was more interested in the box. It was as tall as Billy, and so wide he couldn’t touch both ends at the same time. Billy thought the empty box would be a lot more fun than the TV.
“Dad,” said Billy, “can I have the box?”
“Sure,” answered Dad.
The next day Billy hunted all over the house for things to put in his box. He found an empty toothpaste tube in the bathroom, and an empty cereal box in the kitchen. He found a whole box full of old buttons. He found a shoe that didn’t have a mate. And he put them all in his box in the living room.
When his sister Annie came home from school, she said, “What is that box still doing in the living room?”
When his brother Todd came home from school, he said, “Does Mom know you have all that stuff in here?”
When his sister Dora came home from school, she said, “Can’t you play without making a mess?”
And after dinner they all said, “What is all that stuff for, Billy?”
Billy didn’t say anything. He just sat inside his box, putting the cereal box, the toothpaste tube, the buttons, and the shoe right out in front.
Dad smiled. “Why, it’s a store, of course,” he said. “How much are those buttons selling for?”
Billy thought for a minute. “A hundred dollars,” he said.
“Oh,” said Dad. “I’m a little short this month, I can’t afford that. Don’t you have any bargains today?”
“Oh yes!” agreed Billy. “They’re on sale for two cents each.”
“That’s a real bargain,” Dad said. “I’ll take three buttons.”
Then he handed Billy six cents, and Billy handed him three buttons.
“Oh,” said Billy’s brother and sisters admiringly. “What a neat store!”
The next day Billy hunted for things again. This time he found a yardstick, and Mom gave him some string. He tied the ends of the string through the holes in the ends of the yardstick. He pulled back on the string and the yardstick bent a little. Then he let go of the string with a twang.
“SWICK!” he said. “SWISH! ZIP!”
When Annie came home from school, she said, “Is that box still in the living room?”
Billy was hiding down inside the box. When she said that he stood up and held the yardstick out, and twanged the string. “SWICK!” he said. Annie left the room, laughing.
Todd came home and said, “Does Mom know you’ve got the yardstick in your store?”
Billy twanged the string at Todd and said, “ZIP! No she doesn’t, ’cause it isn’t a store!”
Todd left the room, saying, “I thought it was a store.”
When Dora came in she said, “What’s all this twanging and zipping and swicking? Can’t you play without making noise?”
But Billy only twanged the string at her and whispered, “SWICK! ZIP! SWISH! TWANG!”
And after dinner they all asked, “What are you doing, Billy?”
Billy didn’t say anything. He ducked down inside the box where no one could see him. Then he stood up and twanged and zipped them all.
Dad smiled. “Why, that’s a castle, of course!” he declared. “Are you a knight?”
“No,” answered Billy. “I’m the king. And if you come any closer, I’ll get you with my bow and arrow.” And then Billy pulled back on the string with all his might to make a huge twang. But the string didn’t twang at all. Instead, the yardstick broke right in half.
“Ooops,” said Billy, “I’m sorry.”
Billy’s brother and sisters were about to say, “I told you this would happen,” but just in time Mom said, “Well, looks like without a bow you’re not a king anymore, are you?”
Billy looked at the broken bow. “Nope,” he agreed.
“Now it’s just a yardstick,” Dad said.
Billy looked at the two pieces in his hand. “I think it’s two half-yardsticks,” he said.
“Well then,” Dad said, “it looks like that box isn’t a castle anymore. What can it be now?”
Billy thought and thought. Then he got an idea. “It’s a repair shop!”
“Good idea,” said Dad. Billy, Dad and Mom hunted through the house. Mom found glue and tape, and Dad found two straight sticks. Then Billy set the yardstick on top of the box, and he put glue on the broken place and pushed the two pieces together. Dad helped Billy tape on the two straight sticks so the yardstick would dry straight.
“And now,” said Dad, “let’s leave the yardstick in the repair shop overnight.”
That’s what they did. Mom turned on the television set and Billy sat down between Mom and Dad and watched the show with the rest of the family. “I’m sorry I broke the yardstick,” he whispered.
“You didn’t mean to,” Dad said.
“And tomorrow it will be good as new, thanks to your repair shop,” added Mom.
Billy smiled. “I like my box,” he said.
When he went to bed, he thought for a long time about what his box would be the next day.
Maybe a zoo—if I can find a tiger, he decided at last—just before he went to sleep.

Erin Woodward’s sixth great-grandfather walked across the plains. Erin, from Westminster, Colorado, thought of this grandfather and his family as she participated in the trek with her stake.

“Now I feel like the silliest girl in the whole world,” she said. “I mean, I have been so into my materialistic things. Seriously, I have a curling iron in my pocket. I even have makeup and everything. I feel horrible because the real pioneers didn’t live as well as I do. Before this I never really understood how blessed I am.”

A wonderful example of this philosophy was shared by Arthur Gordon many years ago in a national magazine. He wrote:
“When I was around thirteen and my brother ten, Father had promised to take us to the circus. But at lunchtime there was a phone call; some urgent business required his attention downtown. We braced ourselves for disappointment. Then we heard him say [into the phone], ‘No, I won’t be down. It’ll have to wait.’
“When he came back to the table, Mother smiled. ‘The circus keeps coming back, you know.’
“ ‘I know,’ said Father. ‘But childhood doesn’t.’ ”

Let me illustrate. In 1999 a young man named Todd collapsed from a ruptured blood vessel in his brain. Although Todd and his family were members of the Church, their activity had been sporadic, and none had experienced the blessings of the temple. On the last night of Todd’s life, his mother, Betty, sat at his bedside stroking his hand and said, “Todd, if you really do have to go, I promise I’ll see to it that your temple work gets done.” The next morning, Todd was declared brain dead. Surgeons transplanted Todd’s heart into my patient, a remarkable individual named Rod.
A few months after the transplant, Rod learned the identity of his heart donor’s family and began to correspond with them. About two years later, Todd’s mother, Betty, invited Rod to be present when she went to the temple for the first time. Rod and Betty first met in person in the celestial room of the St. George Utah Temple.
Sometime thereafter, Todd’s father—Betty’s husband—died. A couple of years later, Betty invited Rod to vicariously represent her deceased son in receiving his temple ordinances. Rod gratefully did so, and the proxy work culminated in a sealing room in the St. George Utah Temple. Betty was sealed to her deceased husband, kneeling across the altar from her grandson who served as proxy. Then, with tears streaming down her cheeks, she beckoned for Rod to join them at the altar. Rod knelt beside them, acting as proxy for her son, Todd, whose heart was still beating inside Rod’s chest. Rod’s heart donor, Todd, was then sealed to his parents for all eternity. Todd’s mother had kept the promise she made to her dying son years before.
But the story does not end there. Fifteen years after his heart transplant, Rod became engaged to be married and asked me to perform the sealing in the Provo Utah Temple. On the wedding day, I met with Rod and his marvelous bride, Kim, in a room adjacent to the sealing room, where their families and closest friends were waiting. After briefly visiting with Rod and Kim, I asked if they had any questions.
Rod said, “Yes. My donor family is here and would love to meet you.”
I was caught off guard and asked, “You mean they’re here? Right now?”
Rod replied, “Yes.”
I stepped around the corner and called the family out of the sealing room. Betty, her daughter, and her son-in-law joined us. Rod greeted Betty with a hug, thanked her for coming, and then introduced me to her. Rod said, “Betty, this is Elder Renlund. He was the doctor who took care of your son’s heart for so many years.” She crossed the room and embraced me. And for the next several minutes, there were hugs and tears of joy all around.
After we regained our composure, we moved into the sealing room, where Rod and Kim were sealed for time and all eternity. Rod, Kim, Betty, and I can testify that heaven was very close, that there were others with us that day who had previously passed through the veil of mortality.

During my school’s values-education month, our teacher asked us to write an essay titled “Why am I here?” It had to be a 10-paragraph essay on the topic of our purpose in life. As I read the topic on the board, my heart was filled with comfort and happiness. As a member of the Church, I had known my purpose as a daughter of God for many years. But as I looked at my other classmates’ faces, my heart was filled with sadness. Why? Because they started to murmur regarding the difficulty of the topic. They didn’t have the same knowledge I did.
When I turned in my essay, I realized how blessed I am to be a member of the one true Church. From that day on, my desire to serve a mission and share my testimony of the gospel of Jesus Christ was strengthened.
I know that Heavenly Father loves me and wants me to be with Him someday. I also know that it is my purpose to serve others.

A decade ago, while visiting Rwanda, my wife and I struck up a conversation with another passenger at the Kigali airport. He lamented the unfairness of the genocide and poignantly asked, “If there were a God, wouldn’t He have done something about it?” For this man—and for many of us—suffering and brutal unfairness can seem incompatible with the reality of a kind, loving Heavenly Father. Yet He is real, He is kind, and He loves each of His children perfectly. This dichotomy is as old as mankind and cannot be explained in a simple sound bite or on a bumper sticker.

I return to the question posed by our fellow passenger in Kigali when he lamented the unfairness of the Rwandan genocide and asked, “If there were a God, wouldn’t He have done something about it?”

Without minimizing the suffering caused by the genocide, and after acknowledging our inability to comprehend such suffering, we replied that Jesus Christ has done something about infuriating unfairness. We explained many gospel precepts concerning Jesus Christ and the Restoration of His Church.

Afterward, our acquaintance asked, with tears in his eyes, “You mean there is something I can do for my dead parents and uncle?”

We said, “Oh, yes!” We then testified that all that is unfair about life can be made right through the Atonement of Jesus Christ and that by His authority families can be joined together forever.

I grew up in Centerville, Utah, as the oldest of ten; I had four brothers and five sisters. My family had fifty acres of farmland and orchards to care for. We grew plums, peaches, apricots, cherries, and all kinds of vegetables. Every day at 5:30 A.M. my family sold truckloads of produce at the Salt Lake market. Because we did not have refrigerators back then, we harvested the food the day before selling it.
Weekends were always a challenge because we had to find a way to prepare Monday’s produce without working on Sunday. My father’s rule of thumb was “We will do the best we can, but we will always go to our Sunday meetings.” He also said, “The day we miss our Sunday meetings is the day we sell the farm.”
To avoid working on Sunday, we’d harvest late on Saturday, then pack the food in boxes and put wet towels on top so that it wouldn’t dry out. On Sunday we got up very early and did the necessary chores, like milking the cows, so that we could be at church by 9:00 A.M. Because of my parents’ example, it has been easier to teach my children to keep the Sabbath day holy.

In preparing my remarks for today, I could not help remembering a recent experience of mine.
Some months ago, I enjoyed the privilege of presiding at a stake conference alongside Elder Donald J. Keyes, one of our noble Area Seventies. During the course of the Saturday evening session—often one of the highlights of a stake conference—we were required to adjust our program at short notice because of the inclusion of some additional speakers. In view of the fact that a duet, sung by a young couple, was to be moved in the program to follow Elder Keyes’s remarks and precede mine, I accordingly quietly whispered the proposed change in the program to him.
After doing so, it was quickly apparent that he had not fully grasped what I had just said, which required me to repeat my message a second time. Unfortunately, this time, and to my dismay, his lack of understanding was now amplified by a look of incredulity and utter disbelief. Realizing now that I had somehow failed in my attempt to clearly convey the change in our program, I repeated my message in a manner that could not be mistaken: I said, and this time more clearly and slowly than I had done previously, but with some added emphasis, “Don, the duet will be sung between you and me!”
This time my message hit the mark, for now his incredulity and disbelief were replaced by a nervous giggle and a hint of terror.
I then reviewed carefully in my mind what I had just said and at last realized my terrible error: When I had said, “The duet will be sung between us,” he had taken my words literally. In other words, he had understood that the duet would be sung by the two of us!
I am pleased to reassure all of you here today that neither I, nor President Samuelson, have any intention of singing any duet, anywhere, at anytime, to anyone!

Petey didn’t want to be a Sunbeam. I knew because I sat on the row behind the little chairs. At first they were empty. Then, one by one, the new Sunbeam class walked in.
I nudged my friend Ryan. “Hey, there’s your little sister Maggie!”
He shrugged, but I could tell by his smile that he was proud to be a big brother in Primary now.
I knew some other Sunbeams, too. There was Ralph’s little brother Jakey and Caitlyn’s little sister Ashley. The only one I didn’t know very well was the boy with the wild brown hair—Petey. His hair stuck out all over the place like a bird’s nest.
The bishop had introduced Petey’s family to the ward during sacrament meeting just last week. I’d turned around to see if they had a boy I could play with, but the only names he announced were the parents’ names and “Peter Alexander.” Petey didn’t have any brothers or sisters. Maybe if he’d had a brother or sister, he wouldn’t have been so scared.
As soon as the Sunbeams walked to their chairs in front of the whole Primary, Petey started to cry—loud. Sister Evans tried to make him feel better by holding him on her lap and showing him her happy/sad-face puppets, but it didn’t do any good. He sucked in big gulps of air and cried even louder. Finally, Sister Evans carried him out.
Some of the children giggled when they could still hear him bawling in the hallway, but I felt sorry for him. I remembered going to a friend’s birthday party once. There must have been 20 children there who I’d never seen before. It was scary being around a bunch of people I didn’t know, but at least I knew my friend and his parents.
Petey probably didn’t know anybody at Primary. That’s when I got an idea—what if I wrote him a letter? I could draw him some pictures and tell him that I’d be his Primary buddy if he wanted. I was so happy with my idea that I didn’t even mind when Janice kept kicking the back of my chair or when my brother took my favorite spot on the bench during sacrament meeting.
With Mom’s help, I wrote my letter that night. It was fun! I told Petey he’d learn a bunch of neat songs in Primary. And I told him about the Primary talent show that was coming up. Maybe he’d get to hear me sing with my brothers and sisters. Then I drew a picture of Nephi shooting an arrow and my remote-control monster car racing another car. I figured if I liked those things, then maybe he did, too. I signed my name and asked Mom to help me find his address. Then, at the last minute, I cut out one of my school pictures and dropped it in the envelope so he’d recognize me at church. Mom mailed it for me the next day.
I got so busy at school that week I forgot I’d even sent the letter—until Sunday! After we arrived at church, I hurried to the Primary room and waited for him to come in. That’s when my stomach started doing flip-flops. The longer I waited, the more I wondered. Had he gotten my letter? What if sending it had been a really bad idea? What if he didn’t like it? What if he didn’t want a Primary buddy? What if he didn’t want to come back to Primary at all?
Then I saw him! He trudged in behind Sister Evans and slid onto the little chair right in front of me.
“Hi, Petey!” I said, but he must not have heard me because he didn’t turn around or say “hi.”
I could tell he still didn’t want to be a Sunbeam because he sat really close to his teacher and stared down at his lap. “At least he’s not crying,” I thought hopefully.
Then disaster struck!
“Peter, would you please come up front so we can sing you a welcome song?” Sister Peterson asked. She hadn’t been at church last week, so she didn’t know that Petey was shy.
I held my breath.
“Come on up, Peter,” she said with a smile. “Don’t you want to hear our welcome song?”
Petey shook his head, clutching his teacher’s arm even tighter.
All the other children were waiting for Petey to burst out crying. And maybe he would have. His chin was already trembling, and his eyes were wide like a frightened rabbit’s.
That’s when I surprised myself. “I’ll go up with you, Petey,” I heard myself say.
Petey switched from looking at all the children to looking at just me. Did he recognize me from my picture? I guess he did, because a tiny smile crept across his face.
“OK,” he said quietly.
He held my hand really tight as we stood in front of the whole Primary. They sang the welcome song nice and loud like they did every time they welcomed someone new.
“Way to go!” I whispered when I took him back to his seat.
He grinned and waved at me.
And that’s when I knew—Petey was going to like being a Sunbeam after all.

Let me focus now on the role of temples in the international growth of the Church. I am convinced that a major part of the solution to retention and leadership building is temple attendance. When Tani and I were married in 1968, there were only 13 operating temples in the Church, and only the New Zealand, London, and Swiss temples were outside of the United States and Canada. After we were married, we moved first to Indiana for four years of graduate work and then to Penn State for my first university position. We remained there for eight years. There weren’t very many temples close to Indiana and Pennsylvania. I think we may have been in the Manti Temple District during those years. As a result, we did not get to the temple very often. However, shortly after moving to Indiana, the Church announced that a temple would be built in Washington, D.C. We sold concessions at the Kentucky Derby and the Indianapolis 500, put on chicken barbecues, and did any number of other things to reach our assessment.

Finally the temple was dedicated in 1974, and we only had to drive three and a half hours from State College, Pennsylvania, to Washington, D.C., to attend the temple. What a glorious experience that was. It was wonderful for the State College Branch members to travel to the temple and have their families sealed for time and eternity. I am convinced that the testimonies and conviction of the converts and the rest of us increased as we attended the temple regularly. Two of the most spiritual experiences I have had in my life were the direct result of going to the Washington D.C. Temple—once to seek an answer to a question and the other to give me unsolicited direction for the members of the branch when I was serving as branch president. In both cases the inspiration of the Spirit came several days after a trip to the temple as the calm, peaceful feeling of the temple stayed with me. Many times in district council meetings we would discuss the principles of leadership that we learned in the temple as our district president would give us assignments and ask us to return to the next meeting and report on those assignments. We developed closeness as a branch family and as leaders.

In school, if the children had been well-behaved, the teacher might reward them by having a railroad spelling bee after the afternoon activity time. All the children lined up next to the wall. One day little Mary was at the front of the line, so she could spell any word that she wanted to. She correctly spelled cat. Then Charles, who was next in line, had to spell a word beginning with t, the last letter in Mary’s word. He spelled tail. Laura was next, and she had to spell a word beginning with l. She slowly spelled, “l-i-v-e-l-e-e.” Then, because she had misspelled lively, she had to sit down. The game continued as Henry correctly spelled a word beginning with y.
All too soon the railroad spelling bee ended—it was time for the children to go home. But the next day they would return to the one-room schoolhouse to study and play again.

Before dances, dating, and driving occupied my weekends, I often spent Saturday nights babysitting. I remember thinking that I was prepared for any challenge. I had already dealt with overflowing toilets, policemen at the front door, minor illnesses and injuries, and even a leaking ceiling. But I was about to face my biggest babysitting challenge, and it would happen while the kids were sleeping happily and safely down the hall.
Mrs. Porter* left in a hurry, handing me her usual list of instructions and emergency phone numbers with a note at the bottom that read, “I grabbed a movie for you to watch after the kids go to bed. It’s supposed to be good. Thanks again.”
With the exception of an entire bottle of bubbles being spilled on the closet floor, the night went without major upsets. Five rounds of Mother May I later, bedtime came and I had a chance to see what Mrs. Porter had picked out.
I popped the movie into the VCR and read the description on the back of the box. The opening credits started rolling as I noticed the letter R in the bottom corner. With a sigh of exasperation, I pushed eject and put the movie back in the box. I didn’t watch R-rated movies.
But sitting there on top of the TV, the movie seemed to stare at me, calling my name. The minutes seemed like hours as thoughts started to invade my mind, forcing me to question my standards.
No one will know if you watch this, it seemed to say to me. When you’re done, you can just hit rewind. You don’t have to tell anyone. Besides, it’s just a little bad language. It’s not like you don’t hear worse language every day in the hallways of school. How bad could it be? No one will know.
The movie won. My heart started to pound as I opened the box. It’s just a movie, I reassured myself. Just as I reached to put the movie into the machine, I paused. What was I doing?
Then it hit me. Even if no one else in the world ever found out what I had done, I would know, and my Heavenly Father would know. I shut the box with a snap, amazed that I had come so close to doing something I knew in my heart was wrong. The movie lost.
Standing there with the box in my hands, I made a promise to myself to keep my mind clean of things that did not meet Heavenly Father’s standards. I promised to do what was right, even when no one was watching.

The January night was cold and dark. Six-year-old Brigitte huddled next to her nine-year-old sister, Wanda, both of them trying to stay close to the wood-burning stove. Black paper covered the windows so that not even a bit of light would show through to show enemy planes where to bomb. Papa held out a paper, straining to read it by the light of one tiny candle.
“I am to report to Augsburg (Germany) for military training by February first,” he said. “I have been drafted.”
To be without Papa? It was unthinkable! Papa with his funny stories. Papa, who had always kept the family safe. Brigitte looked at the shadowy faces of Mama, Papa, and Wanda. They were sad faces, but without tears.
Papa’s voice was calm. “Over three-fourths of Nuremberg has already been bombed. We ourselves had to find a new home when a bomb tore the hole in our kitchen. Elizabeth, I think that after I am gone, you and the children should try to find a place to stay away from here. It will be safer in the country.”
Mama nodded her head. “My sister Margarete is already looking for a place for us.”
Shuddering, Brigitte remembered the bombs hitting the top floor of their apartment building before they could escape to the shelter. She remembered burning mattresses being flung out of windows. And she remembered being pulled along to the bunkers by her father’s strong hand as they ran through the street in terror, the upper part of it engulfed in flames. That time there had been no warning.
As though reading her mind, Papa said, “Gitte, remember the time Mama covered you with blankets in the shelter to try to block out the noise and screaming? You had been crying. I know that you were very much afraid. Then you heard one of our neighbors say, ‘I want to sit by Mrs. Baier—she has such strong faith, nothing ever happens to her.’ You pushed the blanket off and looked at Oma (Grandmother), who was sitting quietly. Do you remember what you did then?”
“Yes, Papa. I crawled into Oma’s lap, and I stopped crying.” Brigitte smiled. “I always want to be just like Oma.”
“We must all have faith like Oma,” Papa agreed. “Ever since I was baptized when I was fifteen years old, I have never doubted the truthfulness of the gospel. This war will be over soon, but I will never have peace in my heart until I can move us to America and we are sealed in the temple. I have to leave you for a little while now, but we will be together again, and then, somehow, we will get to America.”
Mama smiled. “Yes, George, I’m sure that your dream will come true when you come back to us. You could have gone there after your mission in 1931. I’m glad you stayed here to marry me, instead.”
Papa grinned back at her. “I thought we could go in 1936, after Wanda was born—we even gave her an American name—but by then the government wouldn’t let us out of the country.”
“You were the branch president, however—perhaps you were needed here for a while. I was really frightened, though, when the police came to our home to search for Church books.”
“I was, too, Elizabeth, but no harm came to us.” Papa looked at his two little girls. “I want to give you each a father’s blessing before I leave. And don’t ever doubt that Heavenly Father will take care of you. He won’t ever leave you.”
Brigitte felt comforted after she was given the blessing. Somehow it made her feel like Papa was always close by, even after he had to go away.
Aunt Margarete found a place for them to stay in the country with a kind farmer and his family. Brigitte started school in the nearby village. There was no word from Papa since he had written that he was being transferred. Every day Mama faithfully wrote to him.
“Mama! Mama!” Wanda cried one day as she hurried home. “The Americans have come. The war is over! Surely Papa will be home soon.”
Mama looked up from the stove where she was cooking potato pancakes, wiped her brow with her apron, and sighed. “I hope so, Wanda. I wish we would have some word of him.”
Although the long war was over and there were no more alarms, no more hurrying through the streets to get to the underground shelter when the bombs came, there was no word yet from Papa. Was he alive? Mama still wrote to him. But it had been two years. …
When she came home from the post office with a letter one day, Brigitte and Wanda both ran to her crying, “Is it from Papa?”
“No, I’m afraid not. Oma needs us to come back to Nuremberg. Opa (Grandfather) is very sick. She needs help taking care of him. We must leave right away.”
What about school? Brigitte wanted to ask. But she kept silent. Oma needed them. They walked over an hour, and then two American soldiers gave them a ride in a jeep to Nuremberg. All of the American soldiers treated the people with kindness.
“Oma, let me sweep this floor for you,” Brigitte said, hurrying to take the broom from her grandmother. Opa did not have much longer to live, and Oma looked worn out. Brigitte watched for every chance to help her.
Mama had been called to be Relief Society president. “I don’t know what we’d do without this help from the Saints in America,” she said, opening a big box of food to distribute to people in need.
Brigitte loved the powdered milk that came in some of the boxes. How she loved to put a bit of the white powder on the end of her spoon and lick it off. Mmmm!
Spring came. Opa died in March, and Mama, Wanda, and Brigitte planted a garden where he had always planted one. He had always been so proud of his garden. In the years before he got sick, he had risen at five o’clock each morning and hurried to it, a small part of a shared lot about a twenty minute walk from their apartment.
The garden wasn’t doing very well, though, and Mama was discouraged. “Throw these plants away, Brigitte. They’re so scraggly and the soil is very poor. I don’t think they’re worth bothering with.”
Brigitte looked at the plants with their drooping leaves. They looked dead already. She started to pull them up, then stopped. Opa always worked hard in his garden, she thought. I can’t give up on these plants. I know he wouldn’t. She carefully loosened the dirt around each one and gave them a drink of water. “Please help them to grow, Heavenly Father,” she prayed. Every day she came to the garden and watered it or pulled weeds or both.
One day after she had worked in the garden, she returned home to find her mother sitting and rocking back and forth with tears chasing each other down her cheeks, clutching a letter. “Papa’s alive! This letter is from him. He is a prisoner of war in France and has been clearing the forests there. He didn’t get any of my letters, so he wrote to our friend Peter Loscher in America to see if he could find out if we were all right. Peter sent him our address.” She started to read from Papa’s letter:
“I am so happy to finally know how to reach you and to find that you are safe and well. I am too. My biggest problem is lack of food. Sometimes I have been so hungry that I have had to eat insects. But my faith remains strong. Once when I was clearing a forest, I climbed to the top of a high mountain, where I was able to be alone for a few minutes. I asked the Lord for renewed strength to endure it here. I haven’t forgotten our dream—surely we will be together soon!”
(To be continued)

Kelly Landrum of Nashville, Tennessee, had a problem. She attends a private, nondenominational Christian school and is one of just a handful of Church members in a school that has students from kindergarten to high school. In some of the discussions during her classes and mandatory chapel services held every week, some things were said about the Church that weren’t true.
“I made an appointment with the principal to ask if we could have the missionaries speak at one of our chapel services,” says Kelly.
The principal didn’t allow Kelly to invite the missionaries, but he did ask her several questions about the Church that she was able to answer competently and confidently. The conversation helped both of them understand each other a little better, and Kelly feels that he was really impressed with her testimony, even if he doesn’t agree with her.
“I remembered lots of things I learned in seminary in the past,” she says. “I pay a lot closer attention in seminary now than ever before. You never know when something you learn might come in handy!”

Danilo hurried through the halls of the school. Ahead of him, his dad was emptying a trash bin. Danilo hoped his dad wouldn’t see him. He lowered his head, trying to blend in with the other students. He felt embarrassed that his dad was the school custodian.
“Good morning, son,” his dad said as Danilo passed.
Danilo walked faster, pretending not to hear. But the other boys had already noticed.
“Hey, Danilo,” a boy called out. “There’s your dad, the school sweeper! Maybe he needs your help.”
“Don’t be mean to Danilo,” another boy chimed in. “Mr. Santos can do so much more than sweep. See, he can empty the trash too!”
The boys all laughed.
Danilo couldn’t wait to go to middle school next year. Maybe the teasing would stop then. He glanced over his shoulder. His dad worked with a smile on his face. How could he ignore their mean words?
Danilo ran into the auditorium. The school was having an assembly to announce the teacher of the year. His best friends, Nathaniel and Frances, had saved a seat for him.
“Who do you think the teachers chose?” Nathaniel asked.
“I hope it’s Miss Ocampo,” Frances said.
“She’s really good,” Nathaniel said. “But I like Mr. Torres most. Who do you want to win, Danilo?”
Danilo thought about his teachers. “I like all my teachers. It would be hard to pick just one.”
The principal stood up. The assembly was starting!
“It’s time to announce the teacher of the year,” the principal said. “This year, we have many wonderful teachers. But in the end, our choice was a little different.” He held up the plaque. “Our teacher of the year is Mr. Santos, our school custodian!”
Danilo couldn’t believe it! His dad, the teacher of the year? But he wasn’t even a teacher!
Danilo’s dad walked up to front of the room. Everyone clapped and cheered for him. The principal shook his hand. Then he said, “Some of you probably don’t think that Mr. Santos is a teacher. But he teaches us every day by his example. Each morning, he arrives at school before anyone else. After school, he is often the last to leave. Any job is honorable if you work hard and work cheerfully. This is what Angelo Santos has taught us. That is why Angelo Santos is the teacher of the year.”
Danilo thought of his dad emptying the trash bins. He knew how hard his dad worked. And he didn’t let what others said bother him. Maybe he could help Danilo learn how to do that.
After the assembly ended, Danilo stood up. “You go on without me,” he told his friends.
Danilo walked to the front of the auditorium. People were standing all around his dad, shaking his hand and patting him on the back. Each of them thanked him for his example. Danilo waited at the edge of the crowd until everyone had left.
His dad looked up from his plaque and smiled.
“Who would have thought it was possible?” his father asked. “Me, custodian of the school.”
“I’m so proud of you, Dad.” Danilo rushed forward and hugged his father. His father. The teacher of the year.
This story took place in the Philippines.

It was early morning when Joey and his brother and sister stumbled into the living room for scripture study. His older sister, Candice, collapsed on the sofa with a moan. His baby brother, Keith, curled up in the middle of the floor and pulled his blanket over his face.
“Good morning!” Mother chirped, and Father joined in with a cheery “Rise and shine!”
A groan arose from the sofa; a soft snore from the living room floor.
“Hi,” Joey yawned. He opened his Book of Mormon to Second Nephi, where they had left off the day before. He tried to follow along as Father read something about Lehi, but his eyes kept closing. They opened wide, though, when he heard his own name.
“What?” he asked groggily. “Was Lehi talking about me?” He sat up and tried to look more alert. After all, if he was in the scriptures, he must be pretty important.
His mother smiled. “Not Joey, dear—Joy. ‘Men are, that they might have joy.’ It means that we’re all supposed to be happy.” [2 Ne. 2:25]
Joey frowned thoughtfully. His mother might be right, but he knew deep down inside that this was still his scripture. He was thinking about it later that morning when a new idea popped into his head. His eyes widened. If this is my scripture, maybe it’s my job to do something about it—to help people have joy.
The next morning he put his plan into action. “Candice is that she might have joy,” he whispered softly to himself as he gave his sister a big smile during scripture study.
“What’s your problem?” she growled, scooting away. “Nobody should be that happy this early in the morning.”
This set Joey’s plan back a bit, but he was determined to succeed. He smiled at Candice all during breakfast and gave her a good-bye hug as she left for school. She looked puzzled at him and said to a friend that she was glad to be going to school to get away from her funny little brother. But he thought he saw a smile on her face as she hurried out the door.
Half an hour later, he went to school himself. He smiled at Mother as he left. (Moms are that they might have joy, after all.)
At school, he smiled at his teacher and his friends. “What do you think you are, a jack-o’-lantern?” his best friend, Tony, asked.
“I’m just happy today, I guess,” Joey replied, grinning.
He smiled at the lunchroom ladies, the playground monitors, and the crosswalk guards. They all smiled back at him and then at the next person they met as well.
By lunchtime, his jaw ached from smiling so much. He had never realized how much work it was to follow the scriptures. Still, he stuck to his plan. He smiled when he opened his lunch and realized that he had a tuna fish sandwich. He didn’t like tuna fish.
He smiled during music, even though he didn’t get to use one of the tambourines. He smiled especially hard when Tracy Gilbreath pushed in front of him at the drinking fountain. She stared at him in amazement, then stepped to the back of the line, looking guilty.
By the end of school, Joey was exhausted. It was a relief to go home.
Mom is that she might have joy, he thought as he helped set the table for dinner.
Dad is that he might have joy, Joey thought as he carried his father’s briefcase into the house for him.
Baby brother is that he might have joy—and strained peas, Joey thought as he spooned green glop into Keith’s mouth at dinner.
That night Joey lay in bed, thinking about his day. Mom is that she might have joy. Dad is that he might have joy. Candice is that she might have joy. Keith is that he might have joy. Teachers, librarians, friends, crossing guards, and everyone in the whole world—all are that they might have joy. It was a big idea, and he thought about it a long time.
Joey was tired after a hard day of smiling. But, remembering all the smiles he had received in return, he couldn’t keep a new smile from growing on his face. He yawned and snuggled into bed.
He had one last thought before falling asleep: Joey is that he might have joy.