Gospel Story Finder

My senior year in high school came, and my life and the lives of my friends and family were again changing. I had less than a year left in our blue house. Chuck talked about joining the military after graduation, while Ricky hoped to play professional baseball.
Paula had married the year before, to a guy who reminded me of the tall missionary from Massachusetts a decade earlier. In November, she and her husband came from school to our home for Thanksgiving. Paula handed my mother a jar of peanut butter with pink and blue ribbons tied around it. Mother looked sharply at her, and Paula nodded. Then Mom burst into tears. It seemed that my mother had craved peanut butter when she was expecting me. Paula’s present was her way of announcing that a new arrival would be born to the family in the spring.

When I was nine years old, I became an altar boy. Altar boys in the Catholic Church help the priest during the Sunday worship service, called Mass. My brothers and many of my friends served with me—a great honor for us. We lit candles at the altar, carefully unfolded the priest’s robes, and placed the scriptures next to the altar. During the service we helped pass the bread for Communion, similar to the sacrament.
To become altar boys, we memorized words of the Mass in Latin. We also participated in weekly religion classes. Each summer my friends and brothers and sisters and I attended Bible school about 20 miles (32 km) from our home. My parents were busy on our wheat farm during the summer. They could have used our help during those weeks, but they felt it was important that we have this opportunity to learn about God and be with good friends. The faith of the priests and nuns who were our teachers impressed me. I decided then that I would do what God wanted me to do.

Two years later the Widtsoe family left Oslo, Norway, with twenty other Norwegian Saints to begin the long journey to America. Eleven-year-old John kept a diary of their trip over the North Sea, their smoky journey across the midlands of England, their three days of sight-seeing in Liverpool, their voyage over the Atlantic Ocean, and the long railroad ride from New York to Logan, Utah, where they settled. There John found many and varied jobs to help support the family. His mother did dressmaking and any other kind of work she could find to provide for current expenses and to save toward the education of her sons.

Mary anxiously shifted back and forth in her seat as she listened to the other children in her Primary class take turns reading from the scriptures. She hoped her turn would never come.
Mary had a learning disability called dyslexia. When she looked at letters on a page, they seemed to run around and switch places. When she read out loud, her words were slow and sometimes out of order. Often she read words that weren’t there at all.
The closer Mary’s turn came, the more scared she was. When it was finally her turn, Mary couldn’t stand it anymore.
“I have to go to the bathroom,” she said suddenly as she jumped up from her chair, sending her scriptures tumbling to the floor. Mary ran down the hallway to the bathroom. She was glad it was empty. She stood in the corner and began to cry.
A few minutes later, she heard Sister Smith call her name as she came into the bathroom. “Mary, what’s wrong?”
Mary didn’t know what to say. She was so embarrassed. None of the other children had this problem. “I can’t read!” she cried as she tucked her head into her folded arms.
“You can’t read?” Sister Smith asked, puzzled. “I’ve seen you give talks in Primary. I know you can read.”
Mary shook her head. “I memorize my talks. I practice them over and over so I don’t have to try to read them in front of people. When I read out loud, I make lots of mistakes. I don’t want the other kids to laugh at me.”
“Oh, Mary, I’m sorry. I won’t call on you to read out loud until I know you’re ready,” Sister Smith said. “And I don’t believe anyone in our class will laugh at you. They are your friends.”
“Kids at school laugh at me,” Mary whispered.
Sister Smith wiped Mary’s tears away. “Come back to class. You’ll see,” she said.
They walked back to the classroom together. Mary’s friend Betsy sat in the chair next to Mary’s, smoothing the ruffled pages of Mary’s scriptures. Mary sat down, and Betsy handed her scriptures back to her.
“Who would like to read next?” Sister Smith asked.
“It’s Mary’s turn,” a boy in the class said.
Mary hesitated, but she looked around at her classmates and saw their kind faces. Sister Smith nodded and smiled too. Mary was nervous, but she found her place and began to read.
Her words came slowly. She made some mistakes, but when she got stuck, Betsy quietly whispered the right word in Mary’s ear. Mary did not read as well as the other kids in her class, but no one laughed or made fun of her. Then it was someone else’s turn, and the lesson went on.
As they walked to the Primary room after class, Sister Smith whispered to Mary that she was proud of her. Mary was glad she didn’t have to try to hide her trouble reading anymore. “I’ll just keep practicing,” she thought. And she smiled, knowing she had good friends at church to support her along the way.

Elder Cornish told about a time he was very tired and discouraged while learning to be a doctor. He started crying and wondered if he could ever be a good doctor. Just then, one of the senior doctors asked how he was doing. Elder Cornish told him how he was feeling. The doctor said that he was proud of him and believed he would be an excellent doctor one day. The doctor believed in him even when Elder Cornish didn’t believe in himself. Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ always believe in us and don’t want us to give up!

Brother Kelly reached into the box of questions our seminary class had written anonymously. “Can I know now who I’ll marry?” he read.
I tried to look bored as he answered my question.
“No,” he said. “At your age, you cannot know who you’ll marry.” Then he kindly explained that we might already be acquainted with our future spouse, but now wasn’t the time to find out. He encouraged us to develop friendships, not exclusive romantic relationships.
I’d read the same counsel in For the Strength of Youth: “Good friendships can and should be developed at every age. … When you begin dating, go in groups or on double dates. Avoid going on frequent dates with the same person” ([2001], 24–25). I wanted to obey. But I also wanted something more.
I wished I could feel the sense of belonging I thought having a boyfriend would provide, and I wanted my attraction to one of my guy friends to have a purpose. It was hard to care about him and have nowhere for those feelings to go.
I knew my secret question was a little unrealistic, but other serious questions remained: Would I ever find someone who loved me? What was the point of having these emotions now? And what was I supposed to do with them?
Besides being drawn to one of my guy friends, I also believed being his girlfriend would prove I was lovable. I should have taken to heart the evidence Heavenly Father had given me that He loved me and that I had nothing to fear.
My patriarchal blessing promised I would find someone to marry at “the appropriate time.” Later I found out that my dad had used the same words when I was a baby and he had asked Heavenly Father to bless me with a husband “at the appropriate time.”
Though Heavenly Father didn’t answer my prayers about whom I might marry, He assured me I would marry, and He even told me when: at the right time. I didn’t need a boyfriend to help me feel secure nearly as much as I needed to remember God’s promises and His love for me.
It was hard to always remember the eternal perspective because my worries threatened to crowd out other thoughts. Would the guy I liked ask me out? Should I ask him? Sometimes I wondered why Heavenly Father hadn’t created His children so that attraction wouldn’t be an issue until after high school!
Now I understand that my feelings had some divine purposes. Feeling attraction motivated me to form friendships. Whether I was socializing in groups or going on dates, getting to know guys taught me to communicate better and treat men respectfully. I learned what traits were uplifting and what kind of person I should marry someday.
Admiring guys also helped me remember to prepare for the temple. Even though high school isn’t the time to build serious romantic relationships, thinking about love at a young age is normal. Our spirits long to be with someone because marriage is a part of Heavenly Father’s plan. As I reflected on my feelings and imagined what an eternal relationship might be like, I was even more determined to qualify for temple blessings.
Strong feelings can be hard to cope with. All my instincts told me I’d be happier channeling my energy toward the guy I liked—thinking about him, talking to him, spending time with him. But whenever I made the effort to ponder the eternal picture, my stress melted away and I was happier. I knew I could find real peace by putting Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ first in my thoughts and actions. This meant studying the scriptures, attending church, finding ways to serve, working on Personal Progress, and following the instructions in my patriarchal blessing.
Nurturing my spirit made it easier to enjoy friendship and dating according to the standards outlined in For the Strength of Youth. Resisting the urge to pursue exclusive relationships wasn’t easy, but it blessed me. I gained spiritual strength by proving to myself I could make hard decisions, even when part of me felt like doing something else.
Although I was disappointed by Brother Kelly’s answer, he spoke the truth. Had I spent high school dating only one person, I would have missed out on meeting people who helped prepare me to recognize my husband when I met him years later. No wonder I couldn’t know the answer to my secret question. Some of my classmates married old friends, but I didn’t. At age 16, I was nine years away from meeting my future spouse!
What could dating only one person in high school have accomplished? Possibly fun times, but also distraction from pursuing other goals, a lack of peace for ignoring Church teachings, and heartbreak when the relationship ended.
In the years following high school, I dated a few men seriously until the Holy Ghost confirmed that “the appropriate time” and person had come into my life. I’m grateful I waited for the best time to pursue exclusive relationships and received all I’d hoped for: a sense of belonging in a marriage that could last for eternity, and a confirmation that Heavenly Father was happy with my decision.

Red Squirrel had started on her strange mission at dawn. Spring had come and tiny leaves were unfurling like tattered banners, but the air was misty and cold.
The river carried her canoe along swiftly. Now she only used the paddle to steer her fragile craft away from boulders, but it would take two days of hard paddling to return against the strong current. She watched carefully for logs or other hazards ahead. If the canoe overturned, she could not long survive in the icy water, fed by melting snow high in faraway mountains.
Can I find the lonely grave site again? She wondered. Will the wooden cross still be standing to mark it? The Indian girl sighed deeply and rested the paddle across her lap, pondering whether her quest would bring happiness or more sorrow to the white man and woman waiting at her village.
Running Elk, a scout for the army, had brought the couple to see Chief Standing Bear. Their son and his friend had started west almost two years ago. Except for a letter from Kansas, where the two young men had joined a wagon train, they had never heard from them again. The father felt that both of them must have died on their journey, but the mother had stubbornly refused to abandon hope.
A recent letter from a physician in Oregon had renewed the couple’s hope and their fears. The doctor was treating a young man who suffered from amnesia and had no memory of his past. However, the patient carried some papers containing two names. One was a letter addressed to their son, Benjamin Allen. The other was to his friend, Zeb White.
Dr. Barkow’s description of his patient did not help. Both young men were tall and had blue eyes and dark curly hair. Members of the wagon train had disbanded and settled over a wide area before the patient had been brought to the doctor. From the meager information he had gathered, one of a pair of young men on the train had drowned in a flash flood. A carpenter among the group had carved the victim’s name on a wooden cross the party had placed on the grave. If they could find the lonely grave, the couple would know if the doctor’s patient were their son or his friend.
The tribe had gathered and listened as Running Elk translated the white man’s story. The location of the grave was said to be near Tracy’s Ford on the Oregon Trail and downriver from their village. Had one of Chief Standing Bear’s people seen the cross?
Red Squirrel was very shy. She did not want to step forward, although she had seen the grave last fall while gathering nuts. No one else moved. She looked at the sad faces of the youth’s parents and could not remain silent. Hesitantly, eyes downcast, she stepped out of the group of women and children.
“I have seen the place,” she told her chief. “The marker still stood last fall, at one end of a grave covered with a pile of stones. I can find it again.”
The gray-haired couple was filled with dismay when Chief Standing Bear said that the slim young girl would go alone at dawn and return in a few days. They had expected to go along, possibly with a few braves to guide them. The chief sensed their disappointment, but he was tactful enough not to tell them that white people were too clumsy for their bark canoes, especially in the flooding spring current. He considered the girl capable of going alone. True, she could not read, but she was a basket and rug weaver, who carried many beautiful designs in her head. She would remember and be able to draw the lines carved on the grave marker that only the distraught parents could read. The chief arose and entered his tepee, ending the talk.
Now that she was close to her destination, Red Squirrel watched the boulders strewn along the riverbank. When she saw a round one split down the middle like a ripe melon, she expertly used her paddle for a rudder, and the canoe whipped through the cleft rock into still water. It would soon be dark, so the Indian girl used bent twigs and pine boughs to erect a wickiup for shelter. Then she built a cooking fire. She would search out the grave tomorrow.
Early the next morning Red Squirrel’s heart hammered with dread as she approached the mound of stones and stared at the tilted cross. She wished the carved letters could speak to her so she would know if she would carry good news or bad news back to the village. The heavy responsibility overwhelmed Red Squirrel. She did not want to bring more sorrow to the elderly couple. Carefully she went over the letters again and again, making certain she remembered all the strange lines.
A glint of gold at the base of the cross caught her eye. It was a locket with a broken chain. This would be another clue as to which man was buried here, but she worried about taking something from a grave! Reluctantly, she removed her beautiful turquoise necklace and hung it on the cross. Her father had spent many hours polishing and drilling the stones, and she was very proud of it. Leaving it was a great sacrifice, but it made her feel better about taking away the gold one.
When the boys shouted that Red Squirrel had returned, the people gathered near the river to greet her. She was drenched and trembling from cold and fatigue. However, she had fought a fierce two-day battle against the strong waters and won. Red Squirrel’s mother wrapped a blanket around her daughter and tried to lead her away to change into dry clothing, but she refused. Her news—good or bad—must be delivered first. Mrs. Allen almost wept when she looked at the exhausted girl.
Red Squirrel picked up a stick. Then she walked away from the group and smoothed out a place in the soft dirt. Mrs. Allen, her face ashen with mixed hope and dread, started to follow. Gently, her husband drew her back. This girl, who could neither read nor write, was an important key to the knowledge of their son’s fate. Their watching her draw the unfamiliar lines might make her nervous.
When she had finished the drawing, Red Squirrel stood, waiting. She forgot how cold and miserable she was as the troubled parents approached. Her eyes misted at the way they clung together for support. She pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders and turned away, not wanting to watch them.
Red Squirrel jerked as if she had been struck when the mother suddenly cried out and began to weep. She turned and then whispered a prayer of gratitude when she saw that the woman’s tears were of joy and relief!
“Zeb White! It’s poor Zeb who lies there, not our Ben,” the father murmured. His voice broke from the emotion and strain.
“This necklace had hung on the marker, until the chain broke,” Red Squirrel said. “I left mine in exchange.”
The woman took the necklace and pressed a catch and the locket sprang open to reveal tiny pictures of a man and woman. “Zeb’s parents,” the woman whispered. “Oh, how my heart goes out to them. We’ll send them the locket.”
“Yes,” Mr. Allen agreed softly, wiping his eyes. “Now we’re going to Oregon and get our son and take him home!”
Mrs. Allen went to see Red Squirrel before she and her husband left the village with Running Elk the next morning. She knew that the girl would not accept payment for her help. A gold lapel watch, a gift from her husband on their thirtieth wedding anniversary, was the most treasured piece of jewelry she owned. It opened like the locket, and opposite the watch face was Ben’s baby picture and a curled whisp of his hair.
The mother felt no regret as she pressed the watch into the hand of Red Squirrel’s mother to give to her daughter. The gift Red Squirrel had given them was beyond value.
Their son still lived!

Emo’onahe (eh-moh-oh-nah) decided to share her talent of hoop dancing, which is part of her Native American culture. “One of my friends who went to FSY before me told me that they had this talent show and that I should perform,” she says.

“I was a little bit nervous, so I tried not to focus on the crowd.” But it was kind of hard not to! “I could hear everyone going crazy,” she says. “They were so loud I could barely hear the music, so I was barely able to keep on beat!”

Emo’onahe has worked hard to get good at hoop dancing. She says, “There was definitely a learning curve.” But the more she practiced, the more she learned about herself.

Hoop dancing is a form of personal storytelling. “You start off with one hoop representing your beginning, and then you continue adding hoops to show more things about your life. In my performance, you could see a butterfly, an eagle, and a cowboy,” Emo’onahe says. “When I’m telling my story, I feel like I’m telling the story of those I’ve learned from and experiences I’ve had.”

Emo’onahe is from the Cheyenne and Arapahoe tribes of Oklahoma, and is also Fort Peck Sioux and Assiniboine. She says, “I used to feel so different from everyone else,” and sometimes “that made me uncomfortable.” But hoop dancing embraces individuality. Each dancer creates their own choreography, and “that’s what makes it so unique and personal to you,” she says.

Emo’onahe feels closer to God as she prays, reads the scriptures, and strives to follow Jesus Christ. She also feels closer to God as she strives to improve in her talents. “When I pick up my hoops and dance, I can feel joy.” She recommends: “Find the things you love and find good people who will help you so you can use your talents to strengthen yourself and others. Serving others can help you strengthen your testimony of Jesus Christ as well.”

About twelve years ago I had a call early in the morning from a beloved friend who is a physician. He asked me to come to the hospital to administer with him to his infant son, just born and fighting for his life. We reached our hands into the incubator and laid them on this tiny boy and prayed, and then sat and waited with Larry’s mother while he took a turn for the better. We were there when the pediatrician came to announce that he was going to make it. He came through that difficult ordeal with a fine mind and a strong, indomitable spirit. Only a pair of legs that are not quite as strong as they one day will be remain to remind Larry how blessed he is to be alive.

Recently this little boy’s big brother returned from having served an honorable mission for the Lord abroad. A perceptive uncle, observing the reunion at the airport, wrote a letter to Larry that I had the privilege of reading. I asked if I might have permission to quote it and have been given that permission. I would like you to know about a Latter-day Saint boy just ordained a deacon who tries to practice what we preach.

“Dear Larry,” the letter said. “Yesterday I got a lump in my throat without even swallowing a frog; and I got a tear in my eye without even inhaling a hippy’s breath! More than that, I got a picture tattooed on my memory that I’ll never forget.

“It’s only right that I thank you for the lump, the tears, and the picture, for a handsome boy named Larry Ellsworth gave me all three of them … and he didn’t even know it or ask me for a receipt.

“It started when he stood waiting for his brother to return from serving our Heavenly Father as a missionary for two years in a far-off land named Chile. You could see that the two years had been longer for this boy than for anyone else. He was so intense, so pale, so absorbed with just watching and waiting.

“Then to see his face light up when he saw his brother again! It was like a flashlight in a dark room.

“Someone whispered that this wonderful boy had been saving his nickels, dimes, and quarters for two years to buy his big brother a basketball … a more than $30 ‘best there is’ basketball because he loved him! He wouldn’t let anyone else contribute. It was his idea and his gift … the best way, out of money he could have spent for himself but chose not to because he loved someone else so much!

“Then I watched this fine boy stand, without saying a word, at the side of his brother, happy just to look way up at his face, hold on to his leg, and see him home again.

“I have a special love and admiration for both of those boys: the giant who went far away all alone to do what was right and the little brother who waited and planned and remembered.

“Larry, you’re a fine boy. I’m sure that you’ll be a great man … for you have a big heart and a tender conscience. Some can run faster, jump higher, walk farther, play longer just because they had an easier time getting born into this world. That’s no credit to them. But you have more than most to be thankful for, because Heavenly Father sent one of his favorite sons to live in your body … and it’s who lives in a house that makes all the difference. Thanks, Larry, for the lesson an old dumb uncle learned yesterday just by watching. Love, Uncle Dick.”

A delightful sister, Ruth Knudson, took me on a tour through the National Gallery of Art. When her husband passed away, she decided that she would make good use of her time alone. She studied art history. It was so fascinating to her that she wanted to tell others about it, so she began conducting tours through the various galleries. Then she took a group abroad to study art. People began coming to her home and requesting private lessons or group instruction, whichever she would give. Now her life is rich and full as she continues to seek more learning about art in order to be filled enough to constantly teach others.

It is so easy to drift inadvertently into something less than this kind of attitude. I recall a manuscript on Reasons for Observing the Word of Wisdom, produced by one of our BYU professors. He wanted us to print it. So we took the manuscript to one of the Brethren, President Spencer Kimball, who pronounced it one of the finest treatments of the subject that he had ever read. Convincing economic, health, and other reasons for following the Word of Wisdom were clearly set forth. “But,” he said, “you left out the most important reason.”

“What is that?” the author asked.

“Because God asked us to,” he replied.

Now, I wondered why I hadn’t thought of this reason. I had to confess that, as a professor, I just wasn’t in the habit of using this approach. It seemed like a reason you talked about only in church. Was it because the approach was too sacred or was I afraid the learned would not understand? I began to feel like the salt that had lost its savor. I read the eighty-ninth section of the Doctrine and Covenants over again. Sure enough, it said, “the word of wisdom, showing forth the order and will of God.” And here and there God said, “I warn you,” or “it is pleasing unto me if you don’t do this,” or “I ordain this grain for you,” and finally, “I give unto you the promise that the destroying angel shall pass by you.” Then I began to see it as wise counsel from the heart of a loving God, the God of all health and happiness.

Dear Mom, Dad, Matt, Lucy, and Tyler,
I can’t tell you how neat it was to see the Christmas card photo. It looked great, even if I wasn’t part of it. Maybe I’m the reason they never seemed to turn out very well!
We’d had a rough day. It was dark, windy, and cold, and we didn’t have much luck with the work. We had so many doors slammed in our faces that my companion and I joked about needing plastic surgery to straighten out our noses. Anyway, we picked up our mail at the post after lunch, and I jammed your letter into my overcoat pocket.
It was on the bus that I opened the letter. When I saw you standing in front of the tree in our yard, I started to giggle. A woman sitting across the aisle said something about how I must be reading a nice letter. I showed her the card, and she was impressed by the photo. One thing led to another, and we’re going by her home to drop off a Book of Mormon tomorrow. Who knows if anything ever comes of it, but it wouldn’t have happened if a certain photo of a good-looking family hadn’t appeared in the mail.

“Boy, I’ll bet you’re glad that your sister’s getting married tomorrow!” With all the fussing over Christine’s temple wedding and reception, and finding himself in everyone’s way most of the time, Jason had to agree with his friend Randy. He was glad that the wedding was tomorrow! As he tossed the baseball idly back to Randy, he said, “Well, at least I won’t have to stand in line anymore to use the bathroom. She’s always in there taking a bath or doing something to her face.”
“Yeah, sisters can make life miserable,” Randy agreed. “Even mine, and she’s only two years old!”
The boys called it quits on the game of catch and found a seat on the back porch steps.
“Remember that game we played in the mud last summer?” Jason asked. “Lucky for me, I got home before my folks saw me. But who do you think I found in the bathroom? Christine! It smelled like a perfume factory in there! Phew!”
Randy frowned. “I bet she told on you, too, didn’t she?”
“Well, … no.”
“You’re kidding!”
“I guess she didn’t,” Jason said with a shrug. “At least Mom and Dad never said a word when—”
Before Jason could finish, two of Christine’s girlfriends, her bridesmaids for the reception, came out the back door, down the steps, and drove away in their car.
“Don’t girls ever stop giggling?” Randy complained. “I guess you’ve heard a lot of that in your house.”
“Yeah.” Jason sighed. “Sometimes when Christine had friends over, I’d go to my room just to get some peace and quiet. All they ever did was eat pizza and talk about boys! Yuck!” Jason kicked a stone off the step below, then added thoughtfully,
“But she always saved me some pizza.”
“Who?”
“My sister.”
“Oh.”
The two friends silently watched a robin working on a worm in the grass.
“Hey! Just think!” Randy shouted. “Now you’ll have a new sitter when your folks go out.”
“So?”
“Well, didn’t you always tell me that your sister gave you a hard time when she stayed with you, making you go to bed at the same time, even when it wasn’t a school night?”
Jason remembered the many times that Christine had watched him. “Yeah. Nine o’clock, even on weekends!” Then he remembered something else. “Nine o’clock without fail except for that night last year when we had the bad storm and the lights went out.”
Randy elbowed his friend. “She made you go to bed earlier, right?”
“Well, … no,” Jason admitted. He smiled a little. “Christine got out our sleeping bags and flashlights, made some sandwiches, and turned on her portable radio. We camped out in the living room.”
“Huh?”
“Yeah! It was neat!”
“Neat, huh?” Randy teased. “OK. I guess you forgot the Halloween when she made the costume that made you a laughingstock!”
Jason stopped smiling. That was a Halloween that he’d never forget! Christine had volunteered to make him a costume in her home economics class at school. Jason was supposed to be a plain old pirate. But Christine outdid herself and added so much ribbon and lace and so many sequins that Jason ended up looking more like a gypsy than a pirate.
“Ha! You really looked funny!” Randy laughed, wagging a finger at Jason.
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Jason admitted, his face getting hot and red. He didn’t like remembering that terrible night! “If it hadn’t been for that lousy costume, those big guys from Willow Street would have left me alone and not taken my whole bag of candy.”
But Jason also remembered how Christine had gotten angry—not at him, but at the bullies who’d stolen his candy. “Let’s go!” she had ordered, grabbing Jason by the arm, then spending two more hours in their rainy neighborhood with him, watching and waiting as Jason refilled his treat bag.
“Boy, she’s some sister,” Randy said in a tone of disgust.
“Yeah, she sure is,” Jason agreed quietly. He got up, adding, “And tomorrow’s the wedding. This is my last chance to really tell her what I think of her.”
Jason marched straight to Christine’s bedroom, took a deep breath, and knocked.
“Come on in,” Christine called. She was setting her hair, stretching and pulling strands of it over prickly tubes. “Hi, Jase!” she said cheerfully. “What’s up?”
The room was filled with clouds of Christine’s perfume. Jason almost forgot what he wanted to say as he stared at the billowing, white gown that hung on her closet door.
Christine looked at him in the mirror. “Is something wrong?” she asked, putting down her brush and turning to her little brother.
“I—I—” he stammered, blushing. “I just wanted to tell you something,” Jason managed to say very quickly. Standing as tall as possible, he took a deep breath and let it out: “Christine, I love you, and I’m gonna miss you!”

That was it. I received my papers; it was all on. It was around Christmas 1996 when I thought I’d better let the family know what was happening. I decided I’d tell everyone over Sunday dinner. As we were sitting at the table my sister said she had something to tell everyone: she’d been thinking of changing careers from a hairdresser to a beauty therapist, thus needing to give up her job and go to college. Everyone was happy about her decision. Then it was my turn. I told them I also had something to say. I told them that I was planning to go on a mission. A look of disbelief and surprise appeared on every face. I told them, “No one is more surprised than me.” Then between Christmas and New Years, a quiet holiday period, I managed to get all my medical and dental appointments arranged. Within three days my papers were ready. When I was 17, I’d taken out a small insurance policy that I thought would be useful, when it matured, to go towards a deposit for a house. I cashed it in early. (I lost nothing; every penny I had paid was returned to me; there was no financial penalty for early exit.) I was sent a cheque that paid for my whole mission. Isn’t it funny how things work out? Another small unplanned blessing. I then posted my papers.
Over the next few months, I started shopping for my mission attire. Coming from Scotland, I’m no stranger to cold weather so I was going to be well prepared. But every time I went to buy something like a winter coat, big woolly jumpers, hat, scarves, or gloves, I’d get the answer, “No!” I’d leave it a couple of days then go elsewhere. Again, the answer would be “No! Don’t buy that.” I couldn’t believe I was being prompted to buy certain clothes.
The promptings were very specific. I’d pick up clothes and I’d hold the hanger and wait for a yes or a no. I obediently bought according to those promptings. When I look back, I can’t believe how much the Holy Ghost kept prompting me and specifically telling me things each day—I was not asking for such clarity. I’ve never experienced this level of prompting ever since. That was how it was supposed to be—minute detail.
One morning I went downstairs and there on the carpet was the big fat white envelope. My heart leapt. I quickly grabbed it and immediately locked myself in the bathroom. I have a big family, and someone could have been lurking; I wanted to open it on my own.
I stared at the envelope, scared to open it. I kept thinking that it held the next 18 months of my life, my future. I was very anxious. I eventually opened it and scoured through the first few lines. I just wanted to know where I was going—it was the Greece Athens Mission. I’d never heard of this mission. I’d never heard of anyone even going to this mission. I would later find out that I was the first Scottish sister to go there. How cool! I would learn to speak Greek. l would serve my mission during one of the hottest summers they’d had, and another summer the following year. Greece was indeed a different, unusual place. The gospel was still in its infancy there; it had only been dedicated 25 years previously by Elder Gordon B. Hinckley (1910-2008).
I served my mission from May 1997 to November 1998. It was one of the best experiences of my life! I can’t believe that I hadn’t wanted to go. I could quite easily have missed out on this crucial experience. It was meant to be. I would never have chosen that path but it’s what Heavenly Father knew was right for me. Greece will always be a special place with special memories for me. Whenever I go back to visit, I get ‘goose bumps’ and butterflies in my stomach. When I left my mission, I left a part of my heart there, and there it will stay. It brought me so much happiness. It shaped my future. It put me on the right path, in the right direction. It was priceless. I loved it. I’d do it all over again in a heartbeat. It changed me for the better. My favourite word is fantastic, and Greece was fantastic!

The eighteen-hundred-mile trip from Ohio to Idaho would have been OK if only my little sister Michelle hadn’t been poking me all the way. Every so often, Mom would look back at us and say, “Now, Michelle, please don’t bother your big brother. We want everyone in a good mood when we get to Grandma’s house.”
But I was so excited about going to Grandma’s that I really didn’t care much what Michelle did to me. You see, Grandma’s farm has lots of hills and, best of all, lots of snow. I could hardly wait to put on a pair of skis and try the slopes. Even the heavy snow falling on the road now only added to my excitement. I could tell, however, that my dad was more worried than excited about it. He had turned off a ball game just to listen to the weather report.
Suddenly the car skidded wildly across the road. Dad pumped the brakes, but the car was out of control. We spun around and around until the car slowly stopped. It was unreal—we ended up turned completely around. Dad let out a sigh and quickly looked back at Michelle and me. “Are you two OK? I’m glad that you had your seat belts on.”
After we had all assured him that we weren’t hurt, and Dad had turned the car around, Michelle began crying. “I’m scared. I don’t like this weather.”
To tell the truth, I kind of wanted to cry too. I had a sick, awful feeling deep inside.
Mom lifted Michelle into the front seat and buckled my frightened sister in beside her. It was silent except for Michelle’s soft crying. “I think we’d better spend the night in the next town,” Mom said quietly.
“But if we do that,” I argued, “we won’t get to Grandma’s for Christmas. We’re so close that we could be there in another couple of hours.”
“I’m sorry, Jon,” Dad said, “but the roads are really bad. I’d rather get to Grandma’s a day late than not get there at all.”
“But, Dad,” I protested. Then before I knew what I was saying, the words slipped out of my mouth: “We could pray about it.” I knew that I’d said the wrong thing, because Dad doesn’t go to church. It’s Mom who always takes Michelle and me to church. Dad stays home and watches ball games. As we had prepared for this trip, Mom had asked Dad to join us in prayer for a safe journey to Idaho, but he had shook his head and left the room to finish packing the car.
“It’s OK if you say a prayer in your heart, Jon,” my mother said. Dad only grunted a reply. Swallowing my disappointment, I closed my eyes and thanked Heavenly Father for our safety and my blessings, especially for the chance to go to Grandma’s. Then I prayed that we would be able to have a great Christmas—one of the best ever.
As we pulled into a small town several miles down the road, the wind had really picked up and was blowing the snow furiously. A highway patrolman was stopping everyone and telling them that the road was closed. Whether I liked it or not, we were not going to make it to Grandma’s that Christmas Eve.
The only motel that had a vacancy was a small, rundown place at the edge of town. Michelle didn’t seem to care. The second the car stopped in front of our unit, she was out the door. The wind pulled at her small body, thrusting her away from the motel and the car. “Dad! Help!” she cried. Dad hurried after her and helped her into the motel. And even though I’m big for my eleven years, the wind made it almost impossible for me to walk.
What a gloomy, yucky place to spend Christmas Eve, I thought as I looked around. It was a dreadful contrast to Grandma’s roomy house with its cheery fireplace blazing with a yule log. Dad sat on the edge of the bed and turned on the TV. It didn’t work. It was going to be a long night.
We had to eat cold sandwiches and cookies for supper. The town had completely closed down. Not more than sixty miles away lay Grandma’s house, yet we couldn’t get there. This looked like it was going to be the worst Christmas ever, instead of the best. I began to wonder if maybe Dad was right. Maybe Heavenly Father really didn’t listen to prayers.
To pass the time, I told Michelle every story I could remember, played every game I could think of, and made up a few after that. At least one person in our family can be happy, I thought. As for Dad, he just sat and stared out the window, watching the wind-whipped snow. Mom stood quietly beside him, rubbing his shoulders. Even though they didn’t say anything, I knew that Dad was upset about something besides the weather.
Suddenly Dad turned to Michelle and me. I could see tears on his face. “Kids,” he said, “I think I learned something very important tonight out on that road. Remember when our car went spinning out of control?”
We nodded.
“Well,” he continued, “on one side of that road was a drop of several hundred feet. If our car had come any closer, we would have fallen down that mountain and been killed. I see now that I’ve been neglecting the most important things in my life—my wife and you two children. I didn’t realize how much you mean to me and—“ He paused for a few moments. “Well, I want you to know that I realized tonight that the Lord did answer your mother’s plea for protection on our trip.”
And with those words, he gathered the three of us in his arms, and we all cried together. Then Dad kneeled down with us on the floor of that motel room and offered a prayer of thanks to Heavenly Father.
And I realized that my prayer had been answered too. This was going to be the best Christmas ever!

My father was loving but exacting. He noted that while I worked hard, my work was often not carefully done. I was a stranger to excellence. One summer day I determined to please Dad by putting in a number of needed fence posts, firmly implanted and fully aligned. I worked hard all that day and then expectantly scanned the lane down which my father would walk home. When he arrived, I watched anxiously as he carefully inspected the fence posts, even checking them with a level bar before pronouncing them to be fully satisfactory. Then came his praise. My sweat of the brow had earned Dad’s commendation, which, in turn, melted my heart.

One day, I had to travel by bus to another city to follow up with a client. Because my finances were tight, I hoped that my client would agree to pay me an advance.
On the way to catch the bus, I decided to go see some quorum members and encourage them to visit their families. Some had forgotten but committed to do so. Others committed to finish their visits that very week.
I was so excited by their commitments that I decided to visit and encourage other quorum members. Before I knew it, it was past noon. So, instead of leaving town, I decided to go to my office to review the client’s case.
To my surprise, when I arrived at my office, my client was standing outside with another person. I explained to my client that I was about to review his case and would have a report for him the next day. He said he had come to introduce me to a new client. After his friend and I had talked, we agreed on a fee for me to help him solve his legal matter. Then, suddenly, my client offered to pay me an advance.
For me, that was a miracle. Heavenly Father knew I was trying to be faithful to Him. He also knew my needs. He has blessed me in many ways over the years, but this time His blessing came financially. He fulfilled His word in the scriptures to those who serve Him: “Seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you” (Matthew 6:33).

This story happened in the USA.
You broke my truck!
Well, you started it!
Grant broke my truck!
Joey stole my football!
It sounds like you’re both having a problem sharing. Do you want me to solve the problem, or do you want to solve it yourselves?
Joey, wait. Remember what happened last time Dad solved our problem? We couldn’t do anything fun for a whole week.
Fine. We can try to solve it.
Great. I want you to politely talk things over and come up with some ideas for how you can get along better.
I’m sorry I took your football. I just wanted to look at it. I should have asked you first.
I shouldn’t have gotten angry. I’m really sorry I broke your truck. I know it’s your favorite.
Were you able to solve your problem?
I think so.
I’m going to ask for permission before taking things.
And I’m going to buy Joey a new truck. I’m going to be nicer too.
I’m proud of you both for being peacemakers.

Why do we need the Book of Mormon when we already have the Holy Bible? I’ve thought about this question a lot. As a teenager I was curious about the Book of Mormon, but I didn’t have the motivation to read it. For one thing, nobody encouraged me to read it at home because I was the only member of the Church in my family, except for my grandfather who had passed away.
One Sunday at a testimony meeting, many members testified about the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon, which I had recently begun to doubt. They challenged those who hadn’t read it to gain their own testimony that the Book of Mormon is true, that Joseph Smith was a prophet of God, and that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is the kingdom of God on the earth.
I pondered if my testimony of the Church and of Joseph Smith was strong enough to withstand the temptations and enticements of Satan. I realized that it wasn’t. My testimony was weak because I had depended only on the testimonies of Church leaders and members. I promised myself that starting that day, I would seek my own testimony.
I decided to read the Book of Mormon. In the introduction I read, “We invite all men everywhere to read the Book of Mormon, to ponder in their hearts the message it contains, and then to ask God, the Eternal Father, in the name of Christ if the book is true. Those who pursue this course and ask in faith will gain a testimony of its truth and divinity by the power of the Holy Ghost. (See Moroni 10:3–5.)” I knew I was personally being invited to read the Book of Mormon. As I continued reading, I felt the warmth of the Holy Ghost testifying of the book’s divinity and truthfulness.
I found that the Book of Mormon does testify of Christ, and I was ashamed for doubting its truthfulness. At school I had learned how judges of the law carefully study a case’s evidence before passing judgment. I had done the opposite with the Book of Mormon: I had judged it before I read it.
I finished reading with a humble heart and courage to defend what I believe. Also, I’m happy because I have a companion as I read the Book of Mormon again. My grandmother was baptized shortly before I finished reading the Book of Mormon the first time.
I have a firm testimony that Jesus Christ is my Savior, that Joseph Smith was a prophet of God, and that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is the true and living Church of God here on the earth.

I remember vividly, even today, a scene I witnessed nearly 20 years ago in the foyer of the church where I was the bishop. In those days we had a large group of young adults in the ward. This was before our resident stakes had single-adult wards. It was a Sunday before sacrament meeting. A dozen or so of our young adults were gathered in the foyer visiting about an outing they had scheduled for the following week. Their enthusiasm for the event was evident from the animated way they were talking about their plans. Everyone was deeply involved in the discussion. Then a young woman, about the age of those in the group, came rather timidly into the foyer. Although a member of the ward, she was not a regular attender—in fact, she rarely came. She was not blessed with gifts and graces that made her fit easily anywhere. Most of the time she seemed hostile and unpleasant. Although she was known to the group, she had no friends. She lived a lifestyle that was different and, in many respects, contrary to the commandments. And everyone knew it—or thought they knew it. Then it happened. One of the young men, who was a natural and charismatic leader, saw her come in. He excused himself from the group, walked over to the young lady, put an arm around her, and exclaimed how glad he was to see her. Would she sit with him in the meeting, and would she go with the group on their exciting excursion that week? She replied yes, and yes. A new friendship was begun. It would have been easy—even natural—for him to ignore her or to offer only a polite nod or hello. But he did what all of us should do. He extended himself to her in an offering of friendship.