Gospel Story Finder

My family and I were watching President Nelson on TV when he said something that caught my attention. He said that there was going to be a worldwide fast!
I wanted to fast, but I had never done it before. Recently the COVID-19 pandemic had started, and we were stuck at home. I knew that I had to do my part. My mom couldn’t fast because she had a baby a few months ago. My little sister and brothers were too young to fast. It would be just me and my dad.
I decided I was only going to skip breakfast because this was my very first time fasting, and I didn’t know how long I would last. On Saturday night I had a good dinner, and then my family said a prayer for my dad and me to start our fast.
The next day we had home church, which is what we had been doing since the pandemic started. I was trying to distract myself from the fact that my sister was eating and that I was really hungry. After church, I played hymns on the piano. Later I looked at the clock, and it was almost lunchtime! I had no idea how fast time had gone. I had completely forgotten that I was fasting!
I decided to say a prayer to break my fast. During the prayer, I felt the Spirit more strongly than I ever had before. I felt that everything was going to be OK. It was a great experience.
Ever since that first fast, I have done every fast that the prophet has asked us to do, and I have felt the Spirit strongly every time.

It was not any easier when the Saints moved west and began to settle in these valleys. As a young man of Primary and Aaronic Priesthood age, I attended church in the grand old St. George Tabernacle, construction for which had begun in 1863. During very lengthy sermons I would amuse myself by gazing about the building, admiring the marvelous pioneer craftsmanship that had built that striking facility. Did you know, by the way, that there are 184 clusters of grapes carved into the ceiling cornice of that building? (Some of those sermons were really long!) But most of all I enjoyed counting the window panes—2,244 of them—because I grew up on the story of Peter Neilson, one of those little-noted and now-forgotten Saints of whom we have been speaking.

In the course of constructing that tabernacle, the local brethren ordered the glass for the windows from New York and had it shipped around the cape to California. But a bill of $800 was due and payable before the panes could be picked up and delivered to St. George. Brother David H. Cannon, later to preside over the St. George Temple being built at the same time, was charged with the responsibility of raising the needed funds. After painstaking effort, the entire community, giving virtually everything they had to these two monumental building projects, had been able to come up with only $200 cash. On sheer faith Brother Cannon committed a team of freighters to prepare to leave for California to get the glass. He continued to pray that the enormous balance of $600 would somehow be forthcoming before their departure.

Living in nearby Washington, Utah, was Peter Neilson, a Danish immigrant who had been saving for years to add on to his modest two-room adobe home. On the eve of the freighters’ departure for California, Peter spent a sleepless night in that tiny little house. He thought of his conversion in far-off Denmark and his subsequent gathering with the Saints in America. After coming west he had settled and struggled to make a living in Sanpete. And then, just as some prosperity seemed imminent there, he answered the call to uproot and go to the Cotton Mission, bolstering the pathetic and sagging efforts of the alkali-soiled, malaria-plagued, flood-bedeviled settlers of Dixie. As he lay in bed that night contemplating his years in the Church, he weighed the sacrifices asked of him against the wonderful blessings he had received. Somewhere in those private hours he made a decision.

Some say it was a dream, others say an impression, still others simply a call to duty. However the direction came, Peter Neilson arose before dawn on the morning the teams were to leave for California. With only a candle and the light of the gospel to aid him, Peter brought out of a secret hiding place $600 in gold coins—half eagles, eagles, and double eagles. His wife, Karen, aroused by the predawn bustling, asked why he was up so early. He said only that he had to walk quickly the seven miles to St. George.

As the first light of morning fell on the beautiful red cliffs of southern Utah, a knock came at David H. Cannon’s door. There stood Peter Neilson, holding a red bandanna which sagged under the weight it carried. “Good morning, David,” said Peter. “I hope I am not too late. You will know what to do with this money.”

With that he turned on his heel and retraced his steps back to Washington, back to a faithful and unquestioning wife, and back to a small two-room adobe house that remained just two rooms for the rest of his life.

As a young man, I thought, “Once I receive an assignment from the Lord, I will not turn to the right or to the left.” I had some good experiences as a result. For instance, one day while I was in business training, I had to go to a Church meeting, but I had a work responsibility related to the mail. Normally this responsibility would take me and the other trainees as much as an extra hour after our regular work hours. But I had to go to Hamburg on the 5:30 p.m. train to get to my Church meeting. I told the others of my dilemma, and they said to me, “Good luck. It is not going to happen.”
I said, “Sure it will, because this is an important meeting.” They shrugged their shoulders and said sarcastically, “Yeah sure—you and your faith. You think just because you are religious that everything is going to work out. That means that we would have to finish the mail by 10 minutes to 5:00. It has never happened.” I said, “Well, whatever happens will happen. But I need to be in Hamburg on time tonight.”
Now, believe it or not, for the first and only time in three years, everything was finished that day at 10 minutes to 5:00, and I made it to the train on time. This impressed my fellow trainees and opened the door for me to have some gospel conversations with them.

In 2010, Andre Sebako was a young man seeking for truth. Though he had never offered a heartfelt prayer before, he decided to try. Shortly afterward he met the missionaries. They gave him a pass-along card with a picture of the Book of Mormon. Andre felt something and asked if the missionaries would sell him the book. They said he could have the book for free if he would come to church.1
Andre attended the then-recently created Mochudi Branch in Botswana, Africa, alone. But the branch was a loving, tight-knit group consisting of about 40 members.2 They welcomed Andre with open arms. He received the missionary lessons and was baptized. It was wonderful!

On Christmas morning we decided to continue our Christmas celebration the way we had started it. We prepared food as if for a picnic, and at about 11:00 A.M., we headed for Opal’s house. Opal is 80 years old and not a member of the Church. She has an inner beauty that makes people want to be close to her. Even though Opal doesn’t speak our language and isn’t from our Spanish culture, our children have accepted her as their grandmother. Ileana could spend hours talking with Opal. And despite his shyness, our son, Kevin, doesn’t hesitate for a minute to hug her. I am grateful for Opal’s love, especially since our children’s grandparents live very far away from our home in Texas.
We wanted to share our Christmas with this lovely widow who lives alone and has no children. Her eyes sparkled when we arrived. She was emotional as we served dinner—it was probably the first Christmas in many years she had spent with anyone.
After we ate, Opal opened some gifts we had brought her. But our visit was more of a gift to us than to Opal. Her joy warmed our hearts.

Grandmother was visiting us, and we were just ready to go out on a fun family outing when a minor disaster struck—we couldn’t find the keys to the car. Children, parents, and Grandmother searched everywhere, but the keys were not to be found, and we thought in dismay that we would probably have to stay home. Then Grandmother excused herself and went into her bedroom. In just a few minutes one of the children suddenly found the keys just barely hidden under a corner of a rug.
As we drove happily to our outing, someone asked Grandmother, “Why did you go into your bedroom instead of looking for the keys?” Grandmother’s answer was absorbed carefully by five young children: “I knew how disappointed everyone would be if we didn’t go on the outing so I went in and prayed that we could find the keys. I knew we would find them after that.”

I am the youngest in my family. There is a five-year age difference between my brother Darrell and me, and we were not very close. You might think that five years is no big deal, but 14-year-old brothers rarely have much in common with nine-year-old sisters.
As we grew up, we might as well have been a hundred years apart for all the attention we gave each other. We didn’t dislike each other; we just never talked or saw much of each other.
During my 13th year, I became friends with some non-LDS girls. One in particular loved to dare me to do things against what I believed.
Then this strange thing happened. Darrell took the first step to bridge the gap between us. He let me know he was worried about how much time I spent with these girls. It made me angry. I felt he didn’t trust me. But it did make me start thinking, and I pulled myself out of a dangerous situation before it was too late.
You’d think we would have become super close, but our moments of closeness were few.
And then he left on his mission to Mexico.
Oh sure, I wrote to him like everyone else, but our letters to each other could have been form letters; there was nothing personal in them. If this wasn’t enough, the family was in a Darrell-mania craze.
“Look, Katy, another letter from Darrell. Would you like to read it?” Mom would ask as she held out the letter as if it were from heaven.
“Uh, no thanks, Mom. Just leave it here. I’ll read it when I’ve got some time,” I’d mumble. Well, if I wouldn’t read it, then she’d proceed to tell me all about it, which irritated me all the more.
Dad was just as bad with the slides Darrell sent. Dad was forever nagging me to come and see them through his viewer. When I’d politely decline because of homework or something, he’d act hurt and say, “I guess you don’t care about your brother’s mission, huh?” Then I’d bristle.
With ward members and other relatives and friends always asking about Darrell, he was the only subject talked about wherever I went. I was sick to death of hearing about Darrell.
One day Mom started to talk with me—about Darrell, of course. But instead of talking about his mission, she recalled different memories of him, some good and some bad.
“You know, even though we had some rough spots, I really miss him,” Mom said. Then she looked at me. “Do you miss him sometimes?”
I meant just to say, “Of course I do,” but I felt strongly that I should say what was true. “Not really. I hardly miss him at all.”
Mom looked shocked, so I spoke quickly. “It’s not that I don’t love him, Mom. It’s just that I really don’t know him. How can you miss someone you hardly even know? Think about it, Mom. What have Darrell and I ever done together to make us close? When was the last time you remember Darrell and me doing something together?”
She didn’t answer because, like me, she couldn’t think of any.
That night I decided to write to Darrell. I started with the usual lines about school when I stopped. I thought to myself, Why not tell him how I really feel? So I did. I poured it all out into that letter, all about how I really didn’t know him, and my feelings about his mission. I also added some things that were going on with me, about my new music lessons and about my goals to become a writer someday.
As I sealed it, I knew it wouldn’t be the most cheerful letter he’d ever receive, but it expressed my true feelings and I knew if I didn’t tell him I’d go crazy.
I was on pins and needles waiting for his answer. I came home one day to find a letter from Darrell waiting for me. I ripped it open and began to read:
“Dear Katy,
“I was very thankful for your letter. On Thursday I woke up homesick—something was very wrong. When my companion and I left to go tracting, we both felt impressed to check the mailbox, but there’s never anything in the mail until after four o’clock. But there was your letter. I love you, and I get the feeling that you want to talk. Fasting, prayer, and many tears have gone into this letter. I hope you will read it carefully. …”
He went on to tell me that I was right. We really didn’t know each other, and so he told me he’d like to be friends.
“… I can understand how tiring it must be to hear about me all of the time, so here in Mexico you have some relief from ‘Darrell-mania.’ I want to hear all about you!”
He was very impressed with my goals and my high school schedule and even offered some advice.
He told me many other things that are dear to my heart but too personal to tell anyone else. But it made me feel warm and good inside. It made me remember my experience during my 13th year and our moment of closeness. I remembered that feeling of closeness, because it was back again only much stronger than before.
I was crying by the time I finished his letter. Darrell truly cared about me, and my letter had helped him. Before, I’d been jealous of him and his mission. I resented all of the talk about him and the looks of pride in my parents’ faces, because it made me feel as if I were loved less, cared about less. I felt anything I could do would never be as important as Darrell’s mission. But Darrell made me feel so important, as if what I did mattered. And he really did want to hear all about me. I was deeply touched and deeply grateful.
From then on my letters to and from him were much more meaningful. He took part in helping me with my problems and in helping me to become a better person and learn to grow up. I love him so very much, and the best part about it is I know that my brother loves me too.

Very recently I had another experience that represents something of a contrast to the episode with the young man. I was visiting a stake conference and, following the Saturday evening session, I was greeted by a woman who asked, “Do you remember me?” The face was vaguely familiar, but I needed help in remembering her. The sister reminded me that she had been one of my students in a high school English class many years ago. I immediately remembered her as I had known her 32 years before. She was one of the student leaders, a good scholar. We reminisced for a time on the experiences we had shared. She was pleased to introduce me to her family. Some of her children were married, and one son was serving as a missionary. There were several grandchildren. This was obviously a solid family, making a significant contribution to the community and the Church.
During our visit this good sister suddenly asked me, “Do you remember the day you asked me to leave your English class?” I was surprised by the question and could not remember such an event. I wondered if she might be confused in her recollection because I could recall nothing but good experiences with her as a student. “No,” she insisted, “there was the one day when I had been talking more than I should have done. When you attempted to correct me, I made some impolite remarks that I shouldn’t have made. You then asked me to leave the room. I was startled. No other teacher had ever disciplined me in that way. I refused to leave, and you assisted me to the hallway outside the classroom, telling me that I could return when I had learned to behave like a lady.
“I was very angry and embarrassed. I thought of the things I could do to get back at you. My father had influence in the community, and he would not tolerate this.
“Later in the day I began to think about what had happened. I realized that you were right and I was wrong. I knew then that teachers and classmates had too often tolerated that kind of behavior from me and that it was not good. I discovered a characteristic in myself that I had never realized before, and I decided that I would change. That’s why I came back and apologized to you for my conduct in the class. It was a turning point in my life in an important way, and I will always be grateful to you.”

When we were transferred in 1989 from the Germany Hamburg Mission to East Germany to preside over the Dresden mission, the time was not convenient for our family. Our children had just adapted to their new school in Hamburg and now had to become acquainted with the socialistic school system in East Germany. One child could not even come with us because she needed to finish school in the West. However, we have learned from this experience that what seemed to be hard for us in the beginning eventually turned into a great blessing for all of us. The Lord had His own way to take care of our challenges.

The Arizona sun was winning the battle with the historic pioneer cabin. Beating constantly against the walls, sun rays had blistered the mud-plastered adobe until its outer covering peeled and tumbled. Tan weeds, also scorched by the heat, clustered at the foundation as if to catch the falling wounded.
Then the reinforcements arrived—Young Adults from Phoenix. They massed around the cabin, dug a hole nearby, filled it with water, and mixed in dirt. A garden hose sprayed the walls of the building and the parched surface sucked the water in. Soon the mud-splattered hands of half a dozen young ladies were smearing fresh new “plaster” on the walls, while friends with hoes evacuated weeds from the base of the structure and from trails nearby.
The restoration of the cabin was only part of a much larger activity, a service project to help the nonprofit living history museum at Pioneer Arizona. The museum, located just outside Phoenix, is actually a small town made up of buildings from the late 1800s that were once used by settlers. The sheriff’s office, bank, wagon maker’s shop, blacksmith shop, church, and other buildings there have been relocated from throughout the state or reconstructed to follow original dimensions and designs. At various times during the year, artisans will actually come and work in the shops as artisans might have in pioneer times.
But for the moment, the museum needed some help. To attract tourists, the site needed to be spruced up. Waves of withered wild grass had invaded, and unless they were hacked down, they might become ignited and engulf the valuable historical buildings in flame.
Steven Pelfrey, the regional Young Adult president, heard of the opportunity to serve, and he didn’t hesitate to volunteer on behalf of his fellow Latter-day Saints. He knew they’d pull through, and they did. Besides, he was looking for an activity to help recent high school graduates who had just come into the Young Adult program to get involved and feel the spirit of Christian service.
Now, on this Saturday morning, he could see them working side by side with the other Young Adults, as, armed with hoes, rakes, and buckets, they swarmed through the town. Kira Burch, 17, from the Tenth Ward, Phoenix Arizona West Stake, wiped her brow as she finished whacking out a stubborn weed. A one-year veteran of Young Adults, Reuben Judd, 18, of the 19th Ward, worked with some new participants hoisting buckets of mud to the top of the adobe cabin to reinforce the roof. Several of the young women, who had come dressed as pioneers, were invited by the museum director to give guided tours to tourists. The older Young Adults, perhaps remembering their own experiences in coming to activities for the first time, seemed to be going out of their way to welcome the newcomers.
“I could tell they weren’t being left out, that they were having fun,” said Kelly Pendleton, 21, of the Ninth Ward. “They were excited to see the kinds of activities Young Adults can do.”
Others agreed. Rena Davis, 17, of the 37th Ward, said, “I’ve looked forward to the activities, and I wasn’t disappointed. Everybody was happy and friendly. They talked to me and said ‘hi’ and made me feel welcome. That’s important. But I have an obligation, too. That is to participate and help make the activities successful.”
Most of the new Young Adults seemed to follow Rena’s advice. They mingled with everyone freely.
“I spent all day learning about people, finding out they have the same reaction to service and to the gospel that I do. They want to serve more and learn more. We’re all striving for the same thing,” Kira said.
Soon trail-marking rocks were aligned in regimented columns, remaining weeds had been gobbled up by marauding shovels, and the whole town reveled in its cleaned-up condition. It was time to celebrate!

While I was president of the mission in Atlanta, Georgia, I went to the study of Dr. Peter Marshall. He was the pastor of the Presbyterian Church there and we spent an hour or two together. When he died he was the chaplain of the United States Senate. You may have read his book, A Man Called Peter, or may have seen the movie depicting his life. Many of the things he stood for he learned from us down in Atlanta. He used to send over to the mission office to get the MIA books and other Church material for his young people because he felt we were stealing them all away from him.

As I sat in his study with him, I asked him what was the attitude of his church with respect to the principle of eternal marriage, and the eternal duration of the marriage covenant. He said, “Well, Mr. Richards, we are not allowed to teach that in our church, but in my mind I have some stubborn objections.” He went on, “When you take the kitten away from the cat, in a few days the cat has forgotten all about the kitten; when you take a calf away from the cow, in a few days the cow has forgotten all about the calf; but when you take the child away from its mother’s bosom, though she live to be a hundred years old, she never forgets the child of her bosom.” He added, “I find it difficult to believe that God created love like that to perish in the grave.” Thank God we know that he didn’t create love like that to perish in the grave. Love is eternal.

Pamela’s father, Thomas Wilson, would go with the missionaries on Sunday evenings to the marketplace in the city centre, where they held street meetings. A crowd would gather as the missionaries preached the restored gospel, and Pamela’s father went along to bear his testimony. When Pamela was a little girl, she used to ask if she could accompany him and he’d say, “No, I don’t think that’s the best place for you to come.” He knew that the crowds were not always friendly. Sometimes people yelled to distract the missionaries and threw rotten fruit at them.
Just before Pamela turned eight, her father agreed that she could go with him one Sunday. While she was there, she saw the hostility toward the missionaries and toward her father. She relates that her father was standing on a box, so as to be seen, bearing his testimony. She was standing behind him, holding on to his coattails. She heard him bear his witness of Jesus Christ. To see her father stand in those circumstances and declare his testimony made a great impression on her life; it anchored her to faith in the Savior.

Paola Fava has been a member of the Church for 10 years. Her home is in Genoa, a beautiful port city on the northwestern shore of Italy that is famous for being the birthplace of Christopher Columbus and of a traditional Italian food called pesto. Her husband passed away in 2009. She has a little dog, Bak, and she stays busy serving in the Church and doing family history. Here is her conversion story.
A number of years ago, I knew a girl who worked at the London branch of the same company I worked for. She was brilliant in her job and delightful as a friend. I didn’t know she was a Mormon. For many years we kept in touch by letter, and every time she said that she had a lot of work to do for her church, I never understood what sort of work it might be. Then one day she wrote that she was doing “baptisms for the dead,” and this made me curious.
Some years passed, and I went to see her in England. One day during my visit, we sat on the grass and she asked me if we could talk a little bit about God. “How strange,” I thought, but I told her yes. She said to me, “Did you know that a boy in America found plates of gold that told the story of ancient Americans to whom Jesus Christ appeared?” She told me that the boy was also given the message to restore on the earth the ancient Church of Jesus Christ, and he did this despite many difficulties.
This message struck me profoundly. I felt it was indeed true, and that night at her house, I found a copy of the Book of Mormon on the nightstand. But I didn’t want to involve myself with a different church at that time, even though I didn’t feel spiritually well.
One day in another letter she told me that her husband had become a member of her church and things had never been better. “OK, I really must get to know this church!” I said to myself. I called the mission office and arranged to meet with the sister missionaries.
After I received the lessons, I entered the waters of baptism. I shed many tears and felt immense joy, and I experienced innumerable blessings, which continue to this day. My conversion was the fruit of the patience and perseverance of a special friend. She had conviction that her message would deeply impress my heart. I experienced a great change in my life, and I am finally happy in the faith, truly knowing who I am, where I come from, and especially where I want to go.

The Prophet Joseph had to learn many of these valuable lessons, as we will likewise have to do. David Whitmer, a close associate of the Prophet and one of the Three Witnesses for the Book of Mormon, related an enlightening experience which occurred while the prophet was translating the gold plates. These are Brother Whitmer’s words:

“He [Joseph] was a religious and straightforward man. He had to be; for he was illiterate and could do nothing himself. He had to trust in God. He could not translate unless he was humble and possessed the right feelings towards everyone. To illustrate so you can see: One morning when he was getting ready to continue the translation, something went wrong about the house and he was put out about it. Something that Emma, his wife, had done. Oliver and I went upstairs and Joseph came up soon after to continue the translation but he could not do anything. He could not translate a single syllable. He went downstairs, out into the orchard, and made supplication to the Lord; was gone about an hour—came back to the house, and asked Emma’s forgiveness and then came upstairs where we were and then the translation went on all right. He could do nothing save he was humble and faithful.” (Brigham H. Roberts, A Comprehensive History of the Church, vol. 1, p. 131.)

The place was solemn and forgotten as only an old graveyard can be. It was a grotesque, weedy pause between railroad tracks and decaying buildings, a shabby plot where crumbling cherubs tilted above sagging gray monuments. Grass grew high there, and the chiseled epitaphs had disappeared under a slow tide of moss. It was a good place to ignore.
That’s why it didn’t make much sense one morning when a squad of bright-faced young men and women showed up at the rusting gates with hoes and shovels and clippers and mowers, and went to work. Heads appeared in the windows of the surrounding buildings, and the questions flew. Who are they? What are they doing here? What’s in it for them? And the answers didn’t make much sense either. The young people sweating among the tombstones weren’t even from the neighborhood; no one had asked them to come, and they weren’t getting anything out of it. For all anyone knew, they might have been so many ghosts come back to spruce up their own exclusive little subdivision.
And when they left, with the weeds out, the grass mowed, and the monuments standing straight, everyone knew that the neighborhood had become a nicer place to live, but no one knew who the mysterious band of “ghosts” were, and it’s not likely they ever will.
And that suits the young men and women of the Richardson Ward in Dallas, Texas, just fine. They’ve discovered that being doers of the word instead of just hearers isn’t merely a scripture—it’s a beautiful, happy principle of life. It means doing the yard work of widows in the area, helping to maintain the chapel, working on community projects, and even cleaning up an abandoned graveyard—just because they need doing.
Whether cleaning up a graveyard, staging a dance festival, or spreading the truth, they have discovered where happiness is at. It’s at home—wherever you are—if you’re living the gospel.

Speaking under the influence of the Holy Ghost and within the limits of his or her responsibility, a person may be inspired to predict what will come to pass in the future. The one who holds the office of the prophet, seer, and revelator prophesies for the Church, as when Joseph Smith prophesied concerning the Civil War (see D&C 87) and foretold that the Saints would become a mighty people in the Rocky Mountains. Prophecy is part of the calling of a patriarch. Each of us is also privileged occasionally to receive prophetic revelation illuminating future events in our lives, like a Church calling we are to receive. To cite another example, after our fifth child was born, my wife and I did not have any more children. After more than 10 years we concluded that our family would not be any larger, which grieved us. Then one day, while my wife was in the temple, the Spirit whispered to her that she would have another child. That prophetic revelation was fulfilled about a year and a half later with the birth of our sixth child, for whom we had waited 13 years.

It is interesting what memories stay with us year after year. While I was watching a TV documentary on World War II, suddenly into my mind came an old green footlocker.

After the battle was over on the island to which our Marine division was assigned, we were able to obtain a tent for our Church services. We made benches, a pulpit, and a sacrament table out of any piece of lumber we could find. Under the sacrament table we placed [a] special green footlocker. The contents included a wooden plate, a wooden sacrament tray, a card containing the sacrament prayers, and several boxes of small paper cups.

As we gathered each week on the Lord’s day, opened our footlocker, and used the contents to prepare, bless, and pass the sacrament, it was a spiritual and uplifting experience that renewed our faith and gave us hope for the days ahead.

Rhoda (center) was invited to attend the Ghana Takoradi Mpintsin Stake gathering place with her neighbor who is a member of the Church. When he invited her, she couldn’t believe that she could attend without being a Church member. After some encouragement, she began participating in the beauty class, and now she has become a successful entrepreneur. Her growing clientele includes 10 regular customers for manicures or pedicures.
Rhoda explains, “I have gained confidence and learned how to talk to people. Before coming to the young adult gathering place, I was quiet and kept to myself. But I learned in this business, it is important to be outgoing and talkative.” She is now teaching the beauty class at the gathering place and has become self-reliant. She says, “I can make my own decisions. I don’t have to ask my mom for money anymore. I am very grateful to the Lord for the opportunity the gathering place has provided me!”

In another stake, in a Sunday morning Primary meeting of that stake conference, I met two beautiful daughters of a faithful young Latter-day Saint physician and his devoted wife. The older child was in a wheelchair, and the younger child moved with great effort. Both of these children suffer from a degenerative disease of genetic origin thought to be progressive and incurable. According to medical wisdom, their time in this life is extremely limited. Their eyes were beautiful and clear—full of faith and love of their Savior, whose presence had been made real in their lives by loving parents and grandparents and devoted Church teachers.
To fulfill a deep desire for more children, their devoted parents have adopted two other beautiful daughters from another country. Instead of cursing God as Job was encouraged by his associates to do in the face of other faith-testing burdens, this couple has reached out to these two beautiful additional daughters, who now feel the blessing of being reared in a household of faith with love from parents whose hearts and lives demonstrate the pure love of Christ.

Many years ago while my children were very young, the nighttime bottles and the daytime diapers seemed as endless as the frozen ground outside our military apartment. When I feel sorry for myself, it helps me to do something for someone else. That winter my need was great, so I needed a grand solution. I decided to make a sport coat for my husband. Having no experience in tailoring, I began by finding the best pattern and materials on the market. With great enthusiasm I took out the pattern guide. My heart nearly failed me. There were pages of instructions—138 steps, as I remember. It was beyond my ability. The next few days I took that pattern everywhere I went. I decided to work on no more than two steps per day so I wouldn’t get discouraged. When two steps were completed, I would read the directions for the next day’s task. Occasionally I got overanxious and had to unpick, but fortunately mistakes in good materials don’t remain if they are carefully removed. A few months later I had created a masterpiece. The pattern had made the miracle possible. Patterns had become very important to me.