Gospel Story Finder

“Look at this dress!” I screeched at my mother as she walked into my bedroom. “Do you know how many hours of cherry picking and baby-sitting it took to pay for this dress? Now look at it. It looks terrible after just the first washing!”
My mother calmly picked up the dress and looked at the label.
“Dry clean only,” she read as she looked up at me sympathetically.
“Oh,” I sighed slowly. “I didn’t even look at the washing instructions. I wouldn’t have bought it if I had known it wasn’t washable.”
I sat down on the bed despondently.
“It’s just one dress,” my mother said as she put her arm around me.
“But that’s the problem,” I answered. “it’s not just the dress. There are those shoes I got on sale even though I knew they were a little too short. They were such a great buy. I can’t stand to wear them now because of all the blisters I’ve gotten from them. Then there are those beautiful blue velvet pants. I haven’t got anything to wear them with. Even my new blouse is out now. I saw it for a fraction of the price I paid for it at the department store yesterday. I worked all summer long cherry picking, baby-sitting, housecleaning, and selling my crocheted hot pads door to door just to buy a few new clothes to start school with and now I can’t wear any of them.”
“Well, chalk it up to experience. You’ll know better next time,” my mother said cheerfully as she walked out the bedroom door.
That’s what got me started on the road to a budget-minded shopping guide. Even though I still make mistakes buying clothes, I learned a few dos and don’ts the hard way.

At the age of 16, Judy Potter’s hobby, letters to pen pals throughout the world, brought something quite unique to her home in Coventry, England.

“I had pen friends in many faraway places, like Trinidad, Australia, and Hong Kong,” says Judy, “but the country which fascinated me most was America. When the International Friendship Association sent me the name of Tammi Fawcett (now Gilson) from Utah, I was thrilled.”

Judy soon found out Tammi was a Latter-day Saint. “My curiosity was roused,” Judy admits, “and I asked plenty of questions. She always had plenty of answers.”

But the most exciting event for Judy was a gift Tammi sent—a one year’s subscription to the New Era.

“I was absorbed from the first copy,” Judy says. “In fact, I’ve never stopped renewing that subscription. I was having all sorts of problems in my life, and every story, or article, seemed just for me.”

She smiled, adding, “Like adjustment into the adult world after leaving school that year. I felt so small and helpless. The New Era helped me realise each person is unique, with a definite purpose in life.”

One day she was reading about an activity called Mutual. “I immediately wrote asking Tammi what it meant,” Judy continues. “As soon as her reply came, I telephoned the Coventry Chapel to ask more. The custodian invited me down that night. Much to my own surprise (for I was terribly shy then), I agreed to go.”

Judy describes her introduction to the Church with peaceful satisfaction. “It was such a special feeling,” she says, “like fitting exactly. I’d been brought up to believe that the Church of England was a good place to go, but was never encouraged to attend, so my desire for religion always hovered below the surface.”

Judy was so touched by the welcome and love received from Coventry Ward members, young and old alike, that her confidence rose and progress flourished.

After three months of lessons from sister missionaries, she was baptised. One month later, her parents too entered the waters of baptism.

When Judy wrote to Utah, telling Tammi of her new happiness, rejoicing spread from one side of the Atlantic to the other.

It has been more than 50 years, but I vividly remember Christmas morning 1959. With childish anticipation, I hoped desperately for a new bicycle. My older brother and sister and I shared the same bicycle, a 24-inch (61 cm) antique we had each used to learn to ride. It had long been less than stylish, and I had appealed to my parents for a new bicycle. Looking back, I am a little embarrassed that I did not have more sensitivity to the cost of such a present to a family with limited income.
Christmas morning came, and I leaped up the stairs from our basement bedroom. Running into the living room, I looked in vain for a bicycle. My heart dropped as I noticed a small present under my stocking, and I tried to control my disappointment.
As we sat as a family in the living room, my father asked me to get a knife from the adjoining kitchen so we could open a box holding a present for my brother. I walked into the small kitchen and fumbled for the light switch to find my way. As the light illuminated the room, my excitement soared. Right before me stood a beautiful black 26-inch (66 cm) bicycle! For many years I rode that bicycle, took care of it, watched over it, and befriended it—a gift long appreciated and treasured.

“It’s a beautiful sampler. They’re all beautiful.” Megan pointed to Lovina’s. “I think that one’s interesting, but the poem is so sad, and the sampler isn’t finished. Why wasn’t it finished?”
Mrs. Maybaum gently traced the stitching to where it stopped. “This was our daughter’s sampler. She was a good girl—too good to live.”
“I’m sorry.” Megan reached out and squeezed the old lady’s hand.
“It’s all right, dear,” she said. “She died a long time ago. We wish … well … we’re sad that there won’t be any more samplers.”
That evening Megan looked up from her position on the floor to where Grandma was working out on her walking machine. “Grandma, why does Mrs. Maybaum say ‘we’ when she talks to me? She lives alone, doesn’t she?”
Grandma paused in her walking and looked at Megan. “Yes, but I guess that she doesn’t feel alone and still includes her husband in her conversation. Does it bother you?”
“A little,” Megan admitted. “She’s the first really old, old person I’ve known.”
“And what do you think of her?”
“Well, she’s weird, but it’s a nice sort of weird. Do you think she’d mind if I visit her again?”
Grandma smiled. “I’m sure that she’d enjoy another visit.”
Megan sat up and traced the pattern in the rug with her finger. “Have you seen her samplers?”
“Of course. Why do you ask?”
“Then you’ve seen the one that isn’t finished, the one her daughter did.”
“Yes, Lovina died before she could finish it.”
“Did you know her, Grandma?”
“Oh, yes. In fact, we were friends.”
“Why did she die?”
“Lovina died because no one knew how to make her better, Megan. She was always sickly. She couldn’t go out, so I used to visit her once a week. We would make dolls—hollyhock dolls, cornhusk dolls, and paper dolls. Sometimes we had tea parties with honey taffy and lemonade for them. Lovina’s dolls looked alive, and she made the most beautiful clothes for them. She couldn’t wait to make her sampler. On her ninth birthday she got a basket and some little embroidery scissors shaped like a stork.”
“Why did Mrs. Maybaum say that there wouldn’t be any more samplers?”
“Well, she has only a son left. And he has only sons.”
“I wish that I could make her a sampler. But I guess that it wouldn’t be the same.”
“No, it wouldn’t be the same,” Grandma said, “but if you’re serious, I think that it would be very special for her.”
“Could you show me how?”
“Don’t you want her to show you?”
“I wanted to surprise her.”
“Surprises are fun, Megan,” Grandma said, sitting down by Megan and putting her arm around her, “but Mrs. Maybaum’s family weren’t just handing down stitched pictures. The art of making the pictures was the real treasure being passed on. I think that it would mean a lot to Mrs. Maybaum to pass her art on to someone.”
“Is a family treasure the same as a family tradition? That’s what she called it. Do we have any family traditions?”
“Yes, a family tradition really is a treasure—and yes, we have some family treasures.”
“What are they, Grandma?”
Grandma smiled mysteriously. All she said was, “The best treasures have to be discovered, don’t they?”
It was several days before Megan knocked at Mrs. Maybaum’s door again.
“Well, it’s Helen’s granddaughter again. Come in! Come in! We were hoping you’d come see us again.”
When they were settled in the living room, Megan blurted out, “Mrs. Maybaum, would you teach me how to do a sampler? I’m nine now, and I’ll be here five more weeks.”
Mrs. Maybaum leaned back in her chair. “Are you sure? It’s not as easy as it looks. And you’d have to do it right.”
Megan smiled eagerly. “I’m sure. And I promise to do it just like you want.”
When she talked to Grandma later, Megan said, “I’m to design my sampler before I go back. She said that it should be something that’s important to me.”
Megan was very nervous when she showed her design to Mrs. Maybaum the following week. “This is my family,” she explained to the old lady. “Mom’s in her uniform, Dad’s on his oil rig, and my two brothers—they’re visiting my other grandparents right now—are playing ball. In the middle I want it to say, ‘Home is where the heart is,’ because even though we move a lot, we love each other and take care of each other wherever we are. That’s our family tradition. What do you think?”
“We think that it’s exactly right. Now you’re ready to start.”
Mrs. Maybaum showed Megan how to trace her pattern onto the fabric, then put it in the hoop. She showed her how to hold it while she pushed the needle through.
When Megan went home that day, she was carrying a practice scrap of fabric, fabric for her sampler, and a pair of small, stork-shaped scissors in Lovina’s basket. “Mrs. Maybaum insisted that I borrow them, Grandma,” she said.
Megan’s hands were clumsy at first as she tried to make the tiny stitches, and they got tired and crampy. The thread kept knotting up, and many times Megan longed to throw the sampler away. Then she’d look at the stork scissors and the basket and try again.
After a while, the front began to look a little like her drawing. But the back was a mess! There were knots that she couldn’t get out, and big clumps and crisscrosses of thread. Mrs. Maybaum would be very disappointed.
Suddenly Mom was back from her seminar, and it was time for Megan to go home. She hurried over one last time to Mrs. Maybaum’s.
“We were afraid that you wouldn’t have time to come and say good-bye,” the old lady said. “Here’s some honey taffy for you and your mother.” She held out a parcel with a hollyhock doll for a bow. “Now, let us have a last look at your sampler.”
Megan handed her the sampler with the top side up. She thrust Lovina’s basket and scissors along with it, trying to prevent Mrs. Maybaum from turning the sampler over. “Here are Lovina’s things, Mrs. Maybaum. I took good care of them.”
“Megan, we’d like you to have them if you want them. It would please us to know that they were being used and appreciated.”
“I’d love to have them—but I just can’t take them. I don’t deserve them, Mrs. Maybaum. My sampler isn’t right.”
“It looks fine to us. What’s wrong with it?”
When Megan turned the sampler over, the old lady held it up. “It certainly is a mess,” she acknowledged. She got up and took Lovina’s off the wall, pulled the cardboard backing from it, and showed the back of it to Megan.
Megan stared in astonishment. It was every bit as messy as hers!
“Mine’s even worse,” Mrs. Maybaum laughed. “Most of them are. Samplers are for learning—you’ll do better next time.”
Megan got up and gave the old lady a big hug. “Thank you, Mrs. Maybaum. Thank you for everything.”

Rainbow stepped from the shelter of the wigwam just as the soft summer rain stopped. Turning her face to the sun and closing her dark eyes, she took a deep breath. Everything smelled fresh and new after a rain.
“I see Rainbow enjoys the scent of the earth after its bath too.” Rainbow didn’t have to look to see who had spoken to her, for she knew well the voice of her great-grandfather.
“Oh, Great-Grandfather, isn’t it lovely!” she exulted. Her delight in it was even greater now that she was sharing it with the person she loved most.
Great-Grandfather nodded. He patted the ground, inviting Rainbow to sit with him. “That which you are named after is especially beautiful this day,” he said, looking above the tall trees to the colored arch stretching across the sky.
Rainbow loved the many colors of the rainbow, but every time she saw one, she was reminded of her own plainness. She felt her spirits sinking, and the world no longer seemed as lovely as it had a short time ago.
Sensing Rainbow’s mood changing, Great-Grandfather asked, “Why do you grow sad?” When she didn’t answer, they both sat in silence. He would let her decide when the time was right for talking.
This was Rainbow’s thirteenth summer, and her sorrow grew deeper with each one. The daughter of a Sioux chief, she was proud of her heritage, yet …
“Great-Grandfather, Running Antelope is able to run with the swiftness of an antelope, isn’t he?”
Great-Grandfather gave Rainbow his complete attention, “Yes, he is as quick and surefooted as an antelope.”
“My other brother, Red Fox, is skillful and cunning.”
“As the red fox is, so is he.”
While they talked, Rainbow had been watching the multicolored rainbow grow pale and fade away. I wish that I, too, could fade away, she thought. “Great-Grandfather, on the day of my birth, you chose my name. Is that not true?”
“That is true.”
Picking at the fringe on her dress, Rainbow whispered sadly, “But the rainbow is beautiful.”
“Yes, it is beautiful—as are you.”
She was surprised at his answer. No one had ever told her that she was beautiful, and she knew why. She was not beautiful; not even pretty.
“Great-Grandfather, I love you for saying so, but I am plain, and I know it.”
The old man rose on wavering legs. He paused, letting his limbs gain strength. “Stay here; I will return.”
Lost in her misery, Rainbow hardly noticed his absence. It haunted her that she couldn’t live up to her name as her brothers lived up to theirs.
She was shaken out of her thoughts when something was pressed into her hand. Looking up, she found Great-Grandfather had returned. He squatted beside her and said, “As a child, you received joy from this. Do you remember?”
She nodded, gazing at the smooth object she held. The solid glass bar had three sides, each end exactly like the other. It was transparent, but by holding it just right, she could see the seven colors of the rainbow reflected on a boulder or on the side of the wigwam.
“I have had this many years,” Great-Grandfather told her. “When you were a baby and I first held you, I knew you to be as this glass.”
Rainbow looked at him in wonder. “How can that be?”
“The glass, though attractive, is plain. Its beauty is hidden, yet is always there. To me, you are beautiful. I see the colors of the rainbow within you. They radiate your inner beauty with every smile and every tear for others.”
Rainbow threw her arms around him. “I love you, Great-Grandfather!”
“And I love you, beautiful Rainbow.”

After learning of the deaths of the Prophet Joseph and the Patriarch Hyrum, Wilford Woodruff reports his meeting with Brigham Young, who was then the President of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, as follows: “I met Brigham Young in the streets of Boston, he having just returned, opposite to Sister Voce’s house. We reached out our hands, but neither of us was able to speak a word. … After we had done weeping we began to converse. … In the course of the conversation, he [Brigham Young] smote his hand upon his thigh and said, ‘Thank God, the keys of the kingdom are here.’”

When I was seven years old, I really wanted a gaming console. I knew that my parents didn’t really like video games, so I made a deal with my mom. I told her that I would serve a mission if she would buy me the one I wanted when I got back. Smiling, my mom jokingly said, “Son, I will even buy you two games to go with it.”
Now that I’m 17 and seriously preparing to serve a mission, I realize how silly that deal was (though my mom and I still laugh about it). My motivation to serve has changed as my testimony and faith in Jesus Christ have grown. I want to share the joy and blessings that come with living the gospel.
I’ve found that going to seminary, studying my scriptures, praying, and helping with family home evening have helped me to feel more prepared to serve on my mission. I think it is up to us as youth to take the lead in preparing to serve. Maybe that’s on a mission. Maybe it’s attending the temple, participating in ordinances, and serving in the Church. Whatever we do, as long as what we want lines up with what God wants, we will be blessed.
Brigham R., New Zealand

Not long ago, I listened to a man and woman who spoke in my home ward. This man had served in many capacities in the Church, including that of bishop. Their most recent assignment was to fellowship a single mother and her children. He stated that it was the most joyful of all his Church experiences.
This young woman was full of questions. She was filled with fear and anxiety. She did not wish to make a mistake, to say anything that was out of line that might embarrass her or cause others to laugh. Patiently this man and his wife brought the family to church, sat with them, put a shield around them, as it were, against anything that might happen to embarrass them. They spent one evening a week with them at their home, teaching them further concerning the gospel and answering their many questions.
They led that little family along as a shepherd leads his sheep. Eventually, circumstances dictated that they move to another city. “But,” he stated, “we still correspond with that woman. We feel a great appreciation for her. She is now firmly grounded in the Church, and we have no fear concerning her. What a joy it has been to work with her.”

Let me share with you a rather private but joyful example from my own experience.
As a bishop, I worried about any members who were inactive, not attending, not serving. Such was my thought one day as I drove down the street where Ben and Emily Fullmer lived. Aches and pains of advancing years caused them to withdraw from activity to the shelter of their home—isolated, detached, shut out from the mainstream of daily life and association. Ben and Emily had not been in our sacrament meeting for many years. Ben, a former bishop, would sit constantly in his front room reading and memorizing the New Testament.
I was en route from my uptown sales office to our plant on Industrial Road. For some reason I had driven down First West, a street which I never had traveled before to reach the destination of our plant. Then I felt the unmistakable prompting to park my car and visit Ben and Emily, even though I was on my way to a meeting. I did not heed the impression at first but drove on for two more blocks; however, when the impression came again, I returned to their home.
It was a sunny weekday afternoon. I approached the door to their home and knocked. I heard the tiny fox terrier dog bark at my approach. Emily welcomed me in. Upon seeing me, she exclaimed, “All day long I have waited for my phone to ring. It has been silent. I hoped the postman would deliver a letter. He brought only bills. Bishop, how did you know today is my birthday?”
I answered, “God knows, Emily, for He loves you.”
In the quiet of their living room, I said to Ben and Emily, “I really don’t know why I was directed here today, but I was. Our Heavenly Father knows. Let’s kneel in prayer and ask Him why.” This we did, and the answer came. As we arose from our knees, I said to Brother Fullmer, “Ben, would you come to priesthood meeting when we meet with all the priesthood and relate to our Aaronic Priesthood boys the story you once told me when I was a boy, how you and a group of boys were en route to the Jordan River to swim one Sunday, but you felt the Spirit direct you to attend Sunday School. And you did. One of the boys who failed to respond to that Spirit drowned that Sunday. Our boys would like to hear your testimony.”
“I’ll do it,” he responded.
I then said to Sister Fullmer, “Emily, I know you have a beautiful voice. My mother has told me so. Our ward conference is a few weeks away, and our choir will sing. Would you join the choir and attend our ward conference and perhaps sing a solo?”
“What will the number be?” she inquired.
“I don’t know,” I said, “but I’d like you to sing it.”
She sang. He spoke to the Aaronic Priesthood. Hearts were gladdened by the return to activity of Ben and Emily. They rarely missed a sacrament meeting from that day forward. The language of the Spirit had been spoken. It had been heard. It had been understood. Hearts were touched and souls saved. Ben and Emily Fullmer had come home.

In life’s spiritual battles, “we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against … rulers of the darkness … [and] against spiritual wickedness” (Ephesians 6:12). We, too, need to be reminded of what the fight is all about. Elder Neal A. Maxwell (1926–2004), a former member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, expressed this thought in an eloquent, albeit brief, conversation.

In 2004, I visited Elder Maxwell in his hospital room not long before he died. He was so kind to everyone who visited or helped him. Health-care workers went into his room and came out weeping. I said to him, “Elder Maxwell, this is really hard.” He chuckled and said, “Oh, Dale, we are eternal beings living in a mortal world. We are out of our element, like fish out of water. It is only when we have an eternal perspective that any of this will make any sense.”

I roped one of my older brothers into going with me so I wouldn’t have to sit alone. I don’t remember the meeting at all. I just remember thinking, “Everybody must be looking at me and saying, ‘Look, Gretchen is at church. I wonder why.’ ” I was so uncomfortable by the end of the meeting that I planned a quick escape as soon as the closing prayer ended.
That’s when something happened that changed my life forever. Four girls I remembered from Primary ran up and surrounded me. They were so happy to see me at church, and I felt their sincerity. They asked if I would come back later that night to a youth fireside. I agreed and then left for home.
I talked my brother into going with me again. At the fireside, a man stood to speak and said he felt impressed not to give his prepared talk but to share his testimony and then let us do the same. All of a sudden, my whole being felt on fire. I don’t know how long it took me to get up, but I stood and bore my testimony that now I knew why I had been feeling unhappy and lost. It was the gospel that was missing in my life. I knew I needed to make some changes.
Now, almost 30 years later, I am still grateful to those young women who didn’t let me escape the chapel that day. I later met and married a returned missionary in the Idaho Falls Temple. We have four children, three of whom have married in the temple. Our oldest son served a mission, and our last is now planning to go on his. I have served in the Young Women program of the Church. Each time I teach a lesson on service, I share my life-changing experience in hopes that the same will be done for others as was done for me.
I believe my simple prayer was answered on that mountaintop. Heavenly Father does hear and answer our prayers. And my prayer was answered because four girls chose the right. They put their arms around a lost soul and invited her back. There are Gretchens out there who need to be brought back. You never know whose life can and will be changed forever if you will just reach out and be a loving, caring friend.

What’s so unique about this game? It doesn’t seem that different. Looking around, you’d think it was just like any other junior college basketball game, played anywhere in the country on any given night.
The gym is about half full. Cheerleaders bounce and shout before a crowd that dosen’t pay much attention. Oh, the crowd cheers, but only when the player of their choice does something right or wrong. On the floor, two teams of average ability are racing up and down the court, exchanging the lead every now and then.
Is it the fact that football star Trevor Matich, fresh from the Super Bowl, has raced nonstop from Boston to Sacramento to catch this game? All right, maybe that makes it a little out of the ordinary. But there is something else unusual about the game. It’s a miracle that Dever Matich, Trevor’s 19-year-old brother, is playing at all tonight. Just a little over a year ago, Dever Matich was involved in a game accident that left the promising young basketball star blind.
Trevor went a few extra miles because of that game, too. It was near the end of his last season as star football center at BYU. The Cougars had been ranked number one in the nation and were practicing for the Holiday Bowl when he heard about his brother’s accident. Trevor, a returned missionary from Mexico, said adios to Provo, hopped in his car, and headed straight for Sacramento.
What he found when he got there broke his heart. In the first tournament game of Dever’s senior basketball season, Dever got jabbed in both eyes so hard that he fell to the floor in shock. He was lucky he made it to the hospital at all. His blood pressure had plunged so low he was very near death.
The doctors restored his heart rate, but they made no promises about his vision. Both retinas had been badly torn, and Dever’s family was told he would be lucky to ever see again, let alone play basketball.
Trevor was devastated. “Why couldn’t it be me?” he wondered. “I’ve already had my time in the spotlight. But Dever is just beginning. Why couldn’t it be me?”
The family’s home teachers came and gave a blessing to Dever, which offered considerable consolation to all of them—almost more consolation than they felt comfortable offering. They were inspired to say that Dever would recover completely, contrary to what the doctors had said.
The next morning Dever underwent laser surgery. The medical staff was delighted with the success but still gave Dever a good month before he could return to school and twice that amount of time before he could pick up a basketball.
His recovery, however, was incredible. Within a few days, Dever was up and around, being led by Trevor, to attend his team’s tournament championship game. Although Dever couldn’t see, Trevor gave him a play-by-play account, and Dever was more eager than ever to get back on the court.
When Trevor saw that Dever’s recovery was progressing so well, he returned to Provo, the Cougars, and a Holiday Bowl victory. It didn’t surprise him a bit to learn that less than three weeks after the accident, Dever was back in the game, his vision improved from 20/20 to 20/16.
It really does make this junior college basketball game a little out of the ordinary when you realize that if it weren’t for the power of the priesthood, one of the players would be listening from the bleachers. But there’s yet another unique aspect of the event.
That’s the unity that flows between these two brothers, who are about six years and an entire continent apart.
“He’s my best friend,” says Trevor of Dever.
“He’s so much more than just a brother,” says Dever of Trevor.
No matter what the scoreboard says when the final buzzer sounds, you’d have a hard time finding a closer game. Dever and Trevor Matich play the closest game in town.

A friend of mine once told me that after she had served a dinner featuring vegetables, a young guest said, “I thought I didn’t like spinach, but that creamed spinach was delicious!” Like many of us, my friend took seriously President Kimball’s counsel to garden. Now she grows her own vegetables. She prepares and serves them with great culinary skill. Guests leave her table with increased appreciation for good, healthful foods.

I was grateful for that school year to end. The summer was a welcome escape from my old friends who didn’t understand why they saw less and less of me. I knew that the less I saw of them the easier it would be to begin repenting. Some of them didn’t care. Some hated me and my new religion. Some were very hurt and just didn’t understand. But I understood, and I knew that I would always be different.
I caught hold of the gospel and hung on tight. I worked furiously to catch up in knowledge with my friends who had been raised in the Church.
I tried to be perfect because I was convinced that I could never escape my sins. I thought that by knowing all of the answers in church and receiving awards in seminary I could somehow make up for all that I had done. I remember thinking at the time that I could never be free from my haunting past. I accepted that fact and resolved to be perfect in order to compensate.
One of the hardest steps of repentance (at least for me) was to forgive myself. Like the scripture that asks how we can love God whom we have not seen when we hate our brother whom we have seen (see 1 Jn. 4:20), how can we grow closer to Him when we hate and refuse to forgive ourselves?
For four long years I struggled. To everyone around me I seemed spiritual and well versed in the scriptures. Others told me how far I had come and how well I was doing, but only I knew the black that lined my heart. I had forsaken my past sins, and I was sure that God was pleased with my new life. But I felt that he was holding my past over my head, waiting for me to fall again.
Finally, in despair and confusion, I asked for a blessing. Words cannot express the peace that entered my heart as I received this personal revelation: I would receive the comfortings of the Holy Ghost and know that I was in good standing with Heavenly Father.
How could that be? My mind didn’t understand it, but my heart accepted it. So I believed it.

February’s white snow piled powderpuffs on the fence posts and frosted the windows of homes in the Utah village in which I now resided. It had been seven months since I left Liverpool. Perhaps Lucifer had heard my parting words about tithing and decided to mock me. The lack of prospects for work dulled the beauty of the winter day. I was homesick, disappointed, and lonely.
The postman crunched up the sidewalk and slid an envelope through the slot in the door. It was a letter from my mother. She, too, was struggling. My brother stared death in the face every day in the trenches of France; Father’s location on the ocean was unknown, except perhaps to a periscope prowling icy waters. And she wasn’t worrying alone, she said. Neighbors worried, too. Everything was secret and suspense clouded the atmosphere.
My patriarchal blessing appointment was scheduled that afternoon, and I should have been busy preparing myself for it. But even through my fasting and prayer, my concerns about my family floated to the surface of my mind. I wished my family could join me to hear the patriarch’s words! I dropped the letter from my hands as I sobbed, releasing tears I had stored inside since the day I had last seen England.
I dropped to my knees by my bed and uttered the most sincere, heartrending prayer of my 19-year life. I told Heavenly Father I was sorry to be so weak, but that he knew how homesick I was, how disappointed to be out of work, how concerned about my family.
I said that if he could see fit to give me two promises in my patriarchal blessing, then I could be brave enough to endure anything the future held. I pleaded that my family and friends might someday come to this country and that I would someday be married in the temple.
I left the house and walked a block to the patriarch’s home. I spoke to no one and saw no one. But my Father knew of my prayer. That good patriarch came in from working in his fields and invited me to dinner. The food fortified me, and I was able to restrain my tears. We went to a private place, with his granddaughter along to act as scribe.
He described glorious promises, many of them. Then I heard, as it were, my own words, the ones I had spoken to my Father about one hour before: “Your loved ones from whom you have been parted—the Lord will bless and protect them, and many of them will follow you to the fold of the Good Shepherd and bask in the life-giving light of the gospel of their Redeemer. With them you will sing the songs of Zion and have much joy in their society. You shall have the privilege of going to the house of the Lord to receive a worthy helpmate and companion to be with you for time and all eternity.”
The patriarch continued outlining the blessings the Lord planned for me if I lived worthily. While he did, quiet tears trickled down my face. Heaven was in my heart.
When the patriarch had finished, I thanked him, tried to dry my face, and rushed home. I walked into my room, picked up my pen and wrote, “It’s all right now, Mother; Heavenly Father will protect George and Father. And you will come to Zion. Our Heavenly Father has said it. Be brave until we meet again. Much love, Mary.”
Many prayers in my life have been answered just as rapidly as the one concerning my patriarchal blessing, but time has not dimmed that miracle to me. I felt power, exultation, and gratitude; it seemed that my Father in heaven had come down and answered my requests in my own words through the patriarch. The promises all came true after many trials. Through the difficult times, the blessing fortified me. We are finer for the things we learn through the ups and downs of life, but the joy always outweighs the pain. Through my patriarchal blessing, I learned the happiness of compliance with the divine instruction given in Proverbs 3:5–6 [Prov. 3:5–6]:
“Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding.
“In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.”

Timothy John Harris was a bully. Everyone at Pierce School stayed out of his way, including me. I could count on three hands the times he got me into trouble. He didn’t just push everybody around, he tattled. If I so much as rested my head, T. J. would tell the teacher, “Danny’s looking at his neighbor’s paper!”
Well, Timothy John had been here for about three weeks when my chance to get even came. Mr. Roundy, our teacher, had sent us to the school bookfair in groups of six. I happened to be by T. J. when he slipped a book into a folder that cost fifty cents. The book was Cool Cars, and everybody wanted it. I wanted it, too, but I didn’t have $4.95, which is what it cost. When it was time to buy, Timothy John was in line in front of me and was only charged the fifty cents for the folder. They didn’t see the book. I wondered if I should say something right then, but I didn’t.
When we got back to class, I thought I’d tell the teacher. Then I thought, What if T. J. really picks on me after school? I have to admit—he was pretty scary. He had blond hair that stuck out all over his head, and he had dirty hands with scabs on them. Well, scary or not, I had to do something!
Mr. Roundy said that he was going to show us a film about a family starting a farm. When the lights were off, I thought I could tell Mr. Roundy without T. J. noticing. I looked over at T. J. and couldn’t believe my eyes. He was crying! Crying over a film! I hardly felt like telling on him then.
By the time the lights came on, Timothy John looked as hard and mean as ever. I decided to write him a note before I chickened out: “I know you stole that book. Just take it back, and I won’t tell.”
I set it on his desk when I went to sharpen my pencil, and when I came back, I could feel him watching me. I’m in for it now, I thought.
At the start of recess, T. J. came over to me. He had mean green eyes and gave me the creeps. “OK, Danny, I’ll do it,” he said. “You come with me.”
We walked in silence to the book fair. I watched T. J. over the top of a book I picked up. He tipped his folder upside down, and the book slipped neatly back into it’s place on the shelf.
When we went out for the rest of recess, I kept expecting to get clobbered, but he picked on other kids.
I couldn’t play after school that day because my whole family had to go to the dentist. That evening it was my turn to wash the dishes, and when it was time for bed, I couldn’t sleep. It’s impossible to sleep when you live in a trailer and the wind is blowing. It sounds exactly like monsters moaning all around you.
The next day, after eating lunch, I played tetherball with Morse, my best friend. His real name is Cody, but on the roll, his name says, “Morris, Cody,” so we call him Morse Code. He doesn’t mind. Anyway, I was actually winning, when T. J. walked over. I sure didn’t want to play against him, so as soon as I won, I yelled, “I’m going to get a drink!”
I looked back to see T. J. slump down, holding his stomach. I hoped someone else would help him, but nobody did, so I walked him to the nurse’s office. He looked pretty sick.
“Did you eat lunch today?” the nurse asked him, taking his temperature. T. J. shook his head.
“How about breakfast?” He shook his head again.
The nurse got him some juice out of her little fridge, and a paper about the free breakfast program.
“You have a temperature,” the nurse said. “If you’ll give me your phone number, I’ll call your mom to come get you.”
“We don’t have a phone,” T. J. mumbled.
“How can we reach your mother?”
“I don’t have a mom.”
The nurse looked at me. T. J. drank his juice.
“I’ll walk him home,” I said.
“No!” T. J. said sharply. Then, softening, “I’ll get there OK.”
“I think Danny’s right,” the nurse said. “Someone should make sure that you get in the door.”
T. J. and I checked out and walked toward the river without saying much. We call it the river even though it’s dry most of the year. The air smelled like people were starting to burn wood in their fireplaces.
I had some peanuts in my pocket left over from lunch, so I held them out. “Want some?”
We shared my leftovers, and he cracked the shells with his fingers instead of his teeth, just like I do.
When we got to the end of the street, T. J. said, looking toward the river, “I never stole anything before. I’m glad you stopped me.”
I didn’t know what to say. He went on, “I just live a few houses down. You can go back now.”
“No,” I said, “I told the nurse I’d see you in the door.”
“Look,” he said, clenching his teeth, “this is as far as I want you to go.”
“All right,” I said. “See you tomorrow.” I walked off, wondering why he was so touchy.
Then he called after me, “Danny, thanks!”
“It’s OK,” I called back. I felt kind of good.
I watched him from around a fence. He kept walking and walking, way past the houses. I found a closer lookout point and saw him walk clear to the river bottom.
A man in a baseball cap got out of an old car and gave him a hug. T. J. leaned against him, and the man felt his head. Then he put T. J. in the backseat and tucked a blanket around him. They didn’t drive anywhere. I couldn’t figure out what was going on until the man got some things out of a sack and started to build a little fire. Then it hit me: T. J. lived in that car! That’s why he didn’t want me to come with him.
I thought about T. J. a lot that night. His dad must have been out of a job. Suddenly our trailer seemed like a pretty nice place to live.
Morse and I were playing tetherball the next morning before school started, when T. J. came over and just stood looking on. “Hey, T.J.,” I yelled. “Want to play?”
Morse looked at me like I was crazy, but T. J. shrugged his shoulders and walked over.
“No rope swings,” I said, hitting the ball to him. T. J. almost smiled and played hard. He skunked me!
“Come on, Morse,” I said. “You play the winner.”
T. J. beat him too. Soon there were kids lined up, bragging that they could beat T.J.—but not one did.
From then on, kids started hitting T. J. on the back instead of in the stomach. He stopped trying to get kids into trouble, and he wasn’t a bully anymore.
The art teacher said, “Timothy John, you are a fine artist!” T.J., of all people!
The day T. J. won the district art contest, he told us that he was going to move. “My dad got a new job.”
Even though he was a friend now and I would miss him, I was happy for him.
Two months went by before I heard from T. J. again. I smiled when I got his postcard; there was an apartment number on it.
It’s winter now. I kick holes in the ice puddles with my heels on the way to school. Sometimes when I walk home by way of the river bottom, I think about T. J. And peanuts. And friendship.

I felt that joy when I heard about the efforts of a brave group of firefighters who fought to save a burning stake center in Southern California in 2015. As the fire raged, a battalion commander called an LDS friend to ask where the sacred relics and sacrament cups were kept so they could be saved. His friend assured him that there were no sacred relics and that the sacrament cups were actually very, very replaceable. But the commander felt he should do more, so he sent firefighters back into the burning building to pull every painting of Christ off of the walls that they might be preserved. They even placed one in the firetruck in the hope that the firefighters might be watched over. I was truly touched by the commander’s kindness, goodness, and sensitivity to the Light during a dangerous and difficult time.

“Last summer I complained to a non–Latter-day Saint friend that I was exhausted, having no fun, living like an automaton. Nonsympathetically, she countered, ‘What do you think this is? A dress rehearsal? This is your life, Carol. Fix it.’ I expected a pat and a kind word. Instead, I got a splash of reality square in the face. She was, of course, quite right. I wasn’t giving my life value, so I didn’t feel it had value. I went home, reread the parables of the sower and of the talents, and regrouped” (A Singular Life, ed. Carol L. Clark and Blythe Darlyn Thatcher [1987], 35–36).

I would like to explain to you exactly what took place following the unexpected death of President Harold B. Lee on December 26, 1973. I was in Phoenix, Arizona, to spend Christmas with my daughter and her family when a telephone call came to me from Arthur Haycock, secretary to President Lee. He said that President Lee was seriously ill, and he thought that I should plan to return home as soon as possible. A half hour later he called and said: “The Lord has spoken. President Lee has been called home.”

President Romney, who in my absence was directing the affairs of the Church, was at the hospital with President Spencer W. Kimball of the Council of the Twelve. Immediately upon President Lee’s death, President Romney turned to President Kimball and said, “You are in charge.” Not one minute passed between the time President Lee died and the Twelve took over to preside over the Church.

Following President Lee’s funeral, President Kimball called a meeting of the apostles for Sunday, December 30, at 3:00 P.M. in the Salt Lake Temple council room. President Romney and I had taken our respective places of seniority in the Council, so there were fourteen of us present. Following a song, and prayer by President Romney, President Kimball, in deep humility, expressed his feelings to us. He said that he had spent Friday in the temple talking to the Lord and had shed many tears as he prayed for guidance in assuming his new responsibilities and in choosing his counselors.

Dressed in our temple clothing, we held a prayer circle. President Kimball asked me to conduct it and Elder Thomas S. Monson to offer the prayer. Following this, President Kimball explained the purpose of the meeting and called on each member of the Quorum according to length of service as apostles starting with Elder Ezra Taft Benson, to express his feelings as to whether the First Presidency should be organized that day or whether we should carry on as the Council of the Twelve. Each said, “We should organize now,” and many complimentary things were spoken about President Kimball and his work with the Twelve.

Then Elder Ezra Taft Benson proposed the name of Spencer W. Kimball to be the President of the Church. This was endorsed by Elder Mark E. Petersen and unanimously approved.

President Kimball then nominated his counselors: N. Eldon Tanner as first counselor, and Marion G. Romney as second, each of whom expressed a willingness to accept the position and devote his whole time and energy in serving in that capacity. They were unanimously approved. Then Elder Mark E. Petersen, second in seniority in the Twelve, nominated Ezra Taft Benson as President of the Quorum of the Twelve. This was unanimously approved.

At this point all the members present laid their hands upon the head of Spencer W. Kimball, and President Ezra Taft Benson was voice in blessing, ordaining, and setting apart Spencer W. Kimball as the twelfth President of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Then, with President Kimball as voice, N. Eldon Tanner was set apart as first counselor and Marion G. Romney as second counselor in the First Presidency of the Church. In the same way President Kimball pronounced the blessing and setting apart of Ezra Taft Benson as President of the Quorum of the Twelve.

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.