Gospel Story Finder

Zachary found the shiny star the Sunday before Christmas. He asked Mommy, “Where does it go?”
“I think I know,” she said. “You see if you can find where it belongs.”
Zachary looked at the Christmas tree, but the star at the top was still there. “Do you know where this star goes?” he asked Daddy.
“I think I know,” Daddy said. “You see if you can find where it belongs.”
Zachary looked at Mommy’s ears, then said to himself, “It’s too big to be one of Mommy’s earrings.”
He asked his big brother, Keith, “Do you know where this star goes?”
“I think I know,” Keith told him. “You see if you can find where it belongs.”
“OK,” Zachary said. He closed his eyes tightly and thought. But he couldn’t think where the star belonged. He went to play with the nativity scene while he waited for family home evening to start. As he tried to stand the angel on top of the stable, he had an idea.
When family home evening started, Daddy asked, “Who has something to share with us?”
“I do,” said Zachary. He put the star on top of the stable in the nativity scene. “Here is where the star goes—above Baby Jesus.”

Like another prophet, Joseph served “notwithstanding [his] weakness” (2 Nephi 33:11). “Out of [Joseph’s] weakness he [was] made strong” (2 Nephi 3:13). At one point, when he was translating the fourth chapter of 1 Nephi, Emma was acting as his scribe. Joseph reportedly encountered the words about the wall around Jerusalem (see 1 Nephi 4:5). He apparently paused and asked Emma if, in fact, there was a wall around Jerusalem. She replied in the affirmative. Joseph hadn’t known (see The History of the Reorganized Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, 1896, reprint [Independence, Missouri: Board of Publication, 1967], 4:447). According to Emma, when she and Joseph were interrupted during his translating, Joseph would later resume on the very sentence from which he had left off (see Saints Herald, 1 October 1879, pp. 289–90; see also Parley P. Pratt, Autobiography of Parley P. Pratt [Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Co., 1938], p. 62).

“I don’t want to take piano lessons anymore,” I told my mother. I had been taking lessons for several years and was tired of all the practicing. I was ready to quit. I wasn’t very good anyway. Because I suffer from moderate hearing loss and wear hearing aids, I have never considered myself a person with musical talent. It always took a lot of practice to learn the tune of a song.
My mother didn’t say much but simply told me that I should keep taking lessons until I could play the hymns. After much complaining on my part and much encouragement from my parents, I decided not to quit.
Fast forward several years and thousands of miles to a chapel in the mountains of central Guatemala. As a missionary, I was attending a district conference. I had arrived early and found a piano there, so I sat down and started playing hymns. Most of the wards and branches had small electric keyboards that were hard to play, so I was very excited to play a real piano. I ended up being asked to accompany the congregation for the conference.
What changed my attitude between my younger years and my time as a missionary? I felt the power of the Spirit through music.
While serving a mission, I had many opportunities to use the musical skills that I had learned. I relished the many opportunities to sing and play the piano and played nearly every week in sacrament meeting. I will always remember listening to those faithful Guatemalan members singing the hymns. I taught members new hymns that they weren’t familiar with. I taught some basic piano lessons. My companions and I would sing to the people we were teaching. Even if we sang off-key, the Spirit was always there to touch the hearts of the people.
I’ve learned that it doesn’t matter what your talents are; you can still learn to develop musical abilities. I’ll never be a world-class pianist, and many of the members in Guatemala will never be in the Tabernacle Choir. But it didn’t matter. We could still enjoy feeling the Spirit through music. I’m so grateful that my parents encouraged me to keep taking piano lessons, and I’m grateful that I kept practicing.

Have you ever had an experience where you wanted to hide your face in shame?
I was six years old. My first day of school had finally arrived. I wore one of the cute school dresses that Mom had made for me, the ones with the plaid skirts. I was excitedly waiting for the school bus to arrive. Being the oldest child in my family, I didn’t have older siblings to tell me how it worked. Dad, Mom, and my younger siblings waited with me as the school bus pulled into our gravel drive. Dad began to film with the big movie camera, the kind that held a spool of film that wound its way onto a second spool. The door to the bus opened. I smiled at the camera and then took that big, first step onto the bus. Just then, I thought I heard one of my parents tell me to turn around again. That made sense to me. I thought, “This is an important day for me. They want another smile from me.” I turned to face my family one more time; but as I did, the bus driver impatiently said, “Come on. Get on the bus.” Immediately my heart dropped. My face burned, and I lowered my head with shame. I was supposed to have done this right, but I had gotten it wrong in front of my family, the bus driver, and all of the students who were already on the bus. That feeling of shame was agonizing. Perhaps it was then that I made up my mind to do whatever it took to avoid ever feeling that way again. Perhaps it was then that I made up my mind to do things perfectly from then on. After all, aren’t we commanded to be perfect?

Usually, we sit in two or three rows for our Young Women lesson, and our teacher stands in the front. But one Sunday our teacher had us move our chairs around a circular table. For some reason sitting in a circle made it feel like we could talk to one another instead of only speaking to the teacher. We all felt like we were actually sisters, not just students. In fact, before the lesson even began, one young woman said, “I feel like we’re family right now.”
That Sunday, the lesson was on the Atonement. Our teacher started by passing out copies of a general conference talk. She asked us to circle words that describe the Savior. We called out the words we were circling so others could circle them. After that, our teacher spoke briefly about the Atonement and then turned to me and asked if I had anything to say. I don’t remember what I said, but afterward all the young women started talking to one another. We had a conversation! We were talking about our Savior and His sacrifice as a group of friends.
After a while, the conversation slowed down and we just sat in silence, enjoying the Spirit.
This lesson was remarkable. Because I participated, I felt the Spirit strongly and the lesson became a part of me. I had a testimony of the Atonement before, but this lesson reminded me that the Savior is real and that the Atonement and the gospel are about love. I now have a stronger love for my peers—Church members and those who are not members—and I want to share the gospel with everyone so they can know the blessings of the Atonement. Doing something about a lesson—whether it’s commenting in class or writing in your journal—changes you.

Another little miracle occurred two months earlier, when Evonne received a strong impression that they needed to insure their property. This troubled David, as none of the 15 providers he had contacted would insure them. He prayed, “Heavenly Father, if we are meant to insure the house, please help me find an insurer.” The very next company he called agreed to insure the property for a portion of its value.

“I’d like to bear my testimony and give thanks to my Heavenly Father for my many blessings.”
The voice came from the back corner of the chapel. To the regular ward members it was a familiar voice and one that was often heard at testimony meetings.
A visitor, turning to see who was speaking, saw a boy bent over a folding chair, supporting his gaunt body on his arms while his legs hung limp behind him. How could this obvious cripple be thankful for his many blessings? What blessings?
When he was four years old, a series of tests disclosed that Stephen Farrance had a type of muscle disease, which, if it progressed as it had been doing, would kill him by the time he was 12.
“The impact and finality of the doctor’s verdict didn’t really register with us,” recalled his mother. “Stephen could do so many things. We just encouraged him to be independent. He had his regular chores to do just like his brother and sister. Then later, when the tendons pulled his feet up and he had to walk on his toes, we withdrew some of his responsibilities but gave him others. He went to a regular school and made a niche for himself.
“I remember one teacher telling me that she called Stephen and a new boy up to her desk at the same time. When Stephen arrived, he braced his feet and placed a hand on her desk. The newcomer said, ‘Are you okay?’, and Stephen said, ‘My feet don’t like to stop walking, and it takes me a minute or two to convince them. But, thanks, I’m fine now.’”
Stephen had difficulty sitting. By the time he was 12, he knelt on his chair during class and got callouses on his knees. But he didn’t believe in missing anything that he could take part in. He figured out ways to be part of what the other kids did. The following year his class decided to learn square dancing, and the teacher apparently told Stephen that he could go to the library and read while the others danced.
“But I’d rather take part,” Stephen told her.
“Just how do you propose to do that?” asked his teacher, startled, because by now he walked hanging on to the wall and couldn’t balance himself.
“Well, I’ve thought about it and I’ve decided I could handle the record player, change the record, and watch how the steps are done. That’ll give you more time to be with the other kids on the floor,” he said. So he got to change the records and watch.
“ I have many blessings for which I am thankful …”
Like being basketball scorer in high school, managing one of the girls’ teams, working on the school newspaper, and being elected to various student council offices. When he ran for treasurer, he said in his campaign speech, “You have only to take one look at me to be sure I won’t run off with the funds.” He was elected.
He didn’t limit his time to school activities. His family had joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints when Stephen was eight, so he took an active part in Church programs. He went to Primary, was active in Cub Scouts, and moved on into Scouting. He advanced in the priesthood offices and served the sacrament until one day he tripped. That night he wrote in his journal: “Passing sacrament and tripped, nothing spilled, but maybe I’d better not risk it again. I think it’s too hard on the watchers.” So he switched to reminding the other deacons when it was their turn. As a teacher he helped prepare the sacrament in the little side room and was also secretary of the quorum.
Stephen got up at 5:30 A.M. five days a week for four years to go to seminary. He achieved two years’ perfect attendance and one year with one day absent. The other year he went to a drama festival with the winning play and couldn’t find an early morning seminary, so he missed four days.
“I’d like to thank Heavenly Father for my many blessings …”
While Stephen was making friends and doing new things, the disease was also progressing. His head bent back because his neck muscles couldn’t give him the support he needed. As he would inch his way along the corridors of the school, holding on to the walls, he would have to stop every few feet and rest, then look ahead to see what was in his way.
People made comments. Even some adults would come up and say, “How come you look like that?” or “What’s the matter with you?” Sometimes in a restaurant people would think he was just a bad-mannered kid and tell him to sit up properly or not take up so much room.
Did it bother him?
“No, not really. If they knew it wasn’t intentional, they wouldn’t feel like that,” said Stephen.
His older brother, James, started carrying him over his shoulder. They would make a game of it, and people never knew how serious it really was. Stephen would start home from school, and after half a block James would come along, scoop him up, and run on. Stephen would holler, and often the pair would beat the other kids to the house.
There were times in shopping centers when James would carry Stephen and be told by the security men that that type of thing wasn’t allowed. After awhile Stephen became friends with most of the security men, and they would find carts that he could drape himself over.
“Stephen became friends with people because he took time to notice them. I remember one day at the shopping center he said to me, ‘Hey, Mom, let’s go over there, I want to speak to that guy.’ He went over, and he congratulated the man on his promotion and asked what his new duties entailed. The man explained, and they chatted away. Later, I asked Stephen how he knew the man had had a promotion. ‘If you look at the sleeves of their uniforms, you’ll see they have some gold braid on the cuffs. That guy only had one stripe on last week, and this week he has two, so I figured it must mean a promotion.’”
Stephen’s awareness of people as human beings with triumphs and problems was well known. A fellow student sums up this quality: “Even through junior high you could always go to Steve with your troubles. He was always more interested in other people’s problems than his own.”
Another friend says, “He was always happy and unimportant to himself. He thought it was more important to help other people, which he did every day. He was only important to himself as far as he needed to be to return to Heavenly Father. What a beautiful, fantastic person. He had the attitude, ‘I’m not going to let me get me down.’”
“I’m thankful, Heavenly Father …”
He followed his sister and brother in drama. While they were actors, Stephen became a director, a sound man, and a dabbler in lighting. He did this at high school and with the roadshows.
No one thought of him as a cripple. At home it was understood there were certain things he couldn’t do. As his sister explained to one of her friends, “Stephen can’t run, I can’t draw, and James can’t sing.” Living with Stephen taught the other Farrances compassion, not just for him but for all people.
Stephen sailed through school getting straight A’s until the last couple of years of high school when the toll of just living and moving took a great portion of his energy. He ended with a B average. He was voted Citizen of the Year by the student body and received service awards every year of high school. His last year he won the Soroptimist Youth Citizenship Award and a school bursary. He also ran an hour-long morning radio broadcast at school.
He spoke at church on a regular basis and held various church positions. Ward members loved him and gave him strength, while drawing courage from watching him. He served as secretary in the Aaronic Priesthood MIA and was vice-president of his institute class.
He was a staunch supporter of the missionary program and invited the elders home as often as possible. Stephen was thrilled the day his brother, James, received his mission call. He enjoyed the preparations and being able to travel to Salt Lake City to take James to the Missionary Home there. Stephen firmly believed he would serve a mission too, and he studied diligently to prepare himself for it. His patriarchal blessing stated that he would go on a mission. He didn’t expect to do such a great thing as tracting, but he was sure there was a place for him.
Each day found him a little weaker. His body grew more and more distorted until he was bent almost double and spent his time, awake and asleep, draped over a chair. He didn’t complain; he accepted things the way they were.
Writing and directing the New Westminster Ward roadshow was his last big venture. The Vancouver British Columbia Stake produced the combined roadshows from all the wards. When the judges came back with their verdict, Stephen’s roadshow had won “Best All-Round Entertainment.”
As the applause died down, the stake MC approached the microphone. “Stephen Farrance, writer and assistant director of the winning roadshow, died this morning. We’ve kept this sad news until now we didn’t want to influence the judges. We’d like to congratulate the cast and crew for going on tonight, with special mention to Stephen’s family, who did such a fine job. We dedicate the roadshows to Stephen.”
“How could his family be here tonight?” someone asked, and the reply was, “After living with Stephen, what else could they do?”
“I’d like to bear my testimony and thank Heavenly Father for my many blessings … thank him for the sure knowledge that I will receive a perfect body in the resurrection, for my knowledge that God lives, that Jesus is the Christ, and that Joseph Smith was a prophet. I’m thankful for my membership in this church …”
Stephen had the blessing of a keen mind, a lively sense of humor, and the ability to see problems for what they were. He put all these things together and accomplished a full life, all 18 years of it. But he was not superhuman, neither a paragon of virtue nor a saint, but a warm, loving, normal human being with ups and downs, likes and dislikes.
About the time when many young LDS men are entering the Missionary Home in Salt Lake City at the start of their two-year missions, Stephen Farrance completed his mission here on earth. Did Heavenly Father send him out from the realm of pure love to give us an example to follow? Are we not all, to some extent, crippled in mind, if not in body, and in need of each other’s strength? Was this his mission?
In a letter to Stephen’s brother, James, their former stake president wrote: “Stephen had such a great desire to follow you into the mission field. Now he has received his call. He is eminently prepared to preach the gospel and will yet fulfill a great mission. But on his mission he will not have the heavy burden of his affliction. His spirit now stands straight and tall, and he can walk forth to preach the gospel with power and conviction, even as you are doing. Be of good cheer, Elder. Your brother is about his Father’s work, even as you are.”
A memorial service was held for Stephen at the Vancouver stake center in British Columbia. Instead of sending flowers, friends contributed to a fund in his name set up at his former high school. Each year a graduating student who has “shown outstanding contributions in the area of helping other young people—one who has gone above and beyond the call of duty in the spirit of a true humanitarian”—will receive $100 bursary and the “Super Steve Humanitarian Award.”
The Vancouver British Columbia Stake has inaugurated a “Stephen Farrance Memorial Sportsmanship Award” to be presented to the seminary team that shows the most concern for each other, attention to rules, sincere effort, and good sportsmanship during the annual scripture chase.
At the memorial services, members and nonmembers gathered to remember Stephen. A School friend spoke on Stephen’s contributions to the school and to his fellow students. He spoke of his many talents, his desire to serve, and his example to the student body. His priests adviser talked about Stephen’s Church accomplishments, his enthusiasm for any outing, even if he knew he couldn’t participate, and his concern for the priesthood brethren. And the bishop spoke about Stephen’s spiritual achievements. He reminded those gathered of the great, strong testimony he had, and how he had made use of every opportunity to bear it. He talked of Stephen’s desire to serve the Lord in any capacity he could. For the first time members and nonmembers, brought together through love of Stephen, became aware of many sides of Stephen’s remarkable character.
Stephen lived 18 years. He achieved much, and he was a great example to many of us. Although he lived with a crippled body and suffered much pain, he died in the manner that the Savior has promised to the faithful: “Those that die in me shall not taste of death, for it shall be sweet unto them.”

A 16-year-old Laurel sat in a Sunday School class listening to a teacher. It was Easter time, and the teacher had prepared a lesson on the Atonement. Speaking about the suffering the Savior had endured, he talked about what it meant to bleed at every pore, to be scourged, and to suffer on the cross. The young woman had never thought about the Atonement in such detail. There came into her mind a mental image. More than 25 years later, she spoke emotionally about the experience: “On that day the Holy Ghost testified to me that Jesus is the Christ.”

One day I was sitting in the kitchen, thinking about all of the areas in my life in which I wanted to improve: family history research, regular exercise, time with my children, home organization—the list was long. The more I thought, the longer the list seemed to get. Where should I start? I wondered.
I decided to group the list into categories: (1) prayer, scripture study, and journal-keeping; (2) homemaking, laundry, and meal-planning; (3) personal fitness; (4) family activities and time with my children; and (5) books of remembrance, personal histories, and family history research.
Feeling overwhelmed, I asked my husband, Dan, who was standing at the sink, for his opinion. I handed the list to him and asked if he would number the categories in order, starting with the most important.
He didn’t have to look at the list for long before he handed it back, with a big smile on his face. He had numbered the categories, but he had started with number two. At the bottom of the page he had written, “#1. Be nice to Dan.”
We laughed and hugged, and the sun broke out. That number one I could do! I was no longer worried about accomplishing so many things at once. That list became a lifelong reminder, tucked into my book of remembrance, to help me remember his premium priority in my life.

In conclusion, I would like to leave you with an illustration that I hope will summarize what I have attempted to share with you today. It was 17 years ago this month that I graduated from Brigham Young University with a doctorate in counseling psychology. I value the many things I learned in my philosophical and clinical training, and I’m grateful for the experiences I had with fellow students, faculty, staff, and others, but the one academic experience I treasure the most occurred during the very last hour of my graduate school experience.

In my particular discipline we were required to conduct original research in an area of our choice, formally write up the study in a doctoral dissertation, and then defend our work before an examination committee. The results of this exam determined whether we would pass or fail. I looked forward to defending my dissertation. I had worked hard and had been greatly blessed by studying my particular topic. I had also received tremendous help from the professors on my committee and felt confidant that I could adequately defend my work.

The first 15 minutes of the examination went quite smoothly. The questions were straightforward, and I felt I answered them well. I began to feel the excitement of having achieved a goal I had been working toward for several years. The next set of questions were more difficult, as we began to discuss some of the debatable parts of my work. I still felt fairly confident in my answers. Even though I realized that I would probably need to make some revisions, I felt I would pass. I wasn’t prepared for what happened next. One of the professors on the examination committee voiced his feelings that he wasn’t happy with the overall scope of my study. He didn’t know if he could give me a passing vote. After several more attempts to defend my work, I realized that this professor would not be convinced—and what he was saying appeared to be influencing the others. I began to lose hope.

At that critical moment, another member of my committee, Professor Richard N. Williams, asked the examination committee if he could make a few comments. For the next several minutes Professor Williams defended my work and he defended me. The spirit in the room changed dramatically. Differences were reconciled, a vote was taken, and I passed the examination and graduated—fulfilling the dream of a lifetime.

I hope each of you at some time in your life can have someone stand up for you, plead your cause, and rescue you as Professor Williams did. This experience helped me understand in a very meaningful way what is meant in scripture when the Savior is referred to as our “advocate with the Father” (D&C 110:4; JST, 1 John 2:1).

While lining up to return to class, a classmate found a CTR ring on the ground. He asked if anyone wanted it. I knew what CTR stood for and wanted to keep the ring. I wore it for the rest of the day. At home, I told my mom what happened. I thought she’d be excited for me. I was surprised when she said I should return it to the lost and found. She said it wasn’t my ring and someone might be looking for it. I didn’t want to give up the ring. Later that night, I said a prayer asking Heavenly Father to help me make the right decision. The next day at school I put the ring in the lost and found. I felt really good inside.

I plead that we will not procrastinate and that we will heed our Lord’s commandment to live the law of the tithe. I know of two missionaries who visited a very poor family. The family’s home was made of pressboard and sticks, with a dirt floor and no electricity or beds. Each evening the father, a farm laborer, spent his entire day’s wages on groceries for dinner. Departing from their humble home, the senior companion thought to himself, “The law of tithing will surely be a stumbling block to this family. Perhaps we shouldn’t bring it up for a while.” A few moments later, the junior companion, who had grown up in similar circumstances in his own country, voiced his own thoughts aloud: “I know the principle of tithing isn’t taught for four more discussions, but can we please teach it the next time we visit? They need to know about tithing now because they need the help and the blessing of the Lord so much.”
This missionary understood that “there is a law, irrevocably decreed in heaven before the foundations of this world, upon which all blessings are predicated—And when we obtain any blessing from God, it is by obedience to that law upon which it is predicated.” The Lord wants to bless this family and anxiously awaits their obedience so He can.

“Perhaps my first lesson about truly good Saints without guile was learned when I was a young missionary. I moved into an area with an elder I didn’t know. I had heard other missionaries talk about how he had never received any leadership assignments and how he struggled with the Korean language despite having been in the country a long time. But as I got to know this elder, I found he was one of the most obedient and faithful missionaries I had known. He studied when it was time to study; he worked when it was time to work. He left the apartment on time and returned on time. He was diligent in studying Korean even though the language was especially difficult for him.
“When I realized the comments I had heard were untrue, I felt like this missionary was being misjudged as unsuccessful. I wanted to tell the whole mission what I had discovered about this elder. I shared with my mission president my desire to correct this misunderstanding. His response was, ‘Heavenly Father knows this young man is a successful missionary, and so do I.’ He added, ‘And now you know too, so who else really matters?’ This wise mission president taught me what was important in service, and it wasn’t praise, position, power, honor, or authority. This was a great lesson for a young missionary who was too focused on titles.”
Elder Michael T. Ringwood of the Seventy

Sixteen-year-old Jenny Bales gathered her three charges and placed them around the park table to eat their lunch. Her stomach was sending hurry signals to her hands to open her own bag. Lunches were usually quiet, and after a hard morning it gave her time to think. The deep pain was still resting just past her empty stomach. She would try to understand it a little more today.
She pulled an apple from her sack and looked across the table only to see Scotty Redman staring at her, frustration wrinkling his face into a frown.
Angrily, he slapped his square-fingered hand on the park table and cried, “Make it stop, Miss Baoes! Make da win stop! I don like it. My bag bow away.”
Jenny listened to a boy a year older than her wail like a small child. She felt a small knot replace the hunger pains in her stomach. In the last two months she had worked with Down’s Syndrome children. They each had a unique personality. With Scotty, when his world tilted too far, you had to shift it back, or he cried, sulked, threw things, or sat stubbornly against the wall. In the classroom, you found the missing crayon or helped him find a project. But stopping the wind was impossible. Scotty didn’t know this, and explaining it to him wouldn’t help.
“The win bow my bag away. Make it stop right now!”
That wind won’t blow your bag away, she thought. Just sit on it. But Jenny knew that wouldn’t work either. When Scotty ate his lunch, the bag had to be on the table to the left of his food. Order. Things like they were supposed to be. That’s what he needed. She had wanted time today to think about her own pain, but she knew Scotty would not stop unless she did something.
“Make da win stop,” he said. This time fire sparked in his eyes.
“Boy, you’re stubborn,” she whispered to herself. She felt the muscles in her left shoulder tighten in defense. One of Uncle Jed’s sayings sifted into her mind: “Stubborn is just determination headed the wrong way.”
That reminded her of Uncle Jed. Last spring he had suggested she find a summer job where she could look out at people and not into herself so much. “It’d be good to surround yourself with some joy,” he had said.
“I’d like that,” Jenny had said as they walked along the sidewalk in front of her house. She thought it might be fun working at the water slide. At least there she could see people, families, having fun.
“There are some openings for summer youth counselors at Parkhaven,” Uncle Jed said.
“Parkhaven? That’s for retarded children isn’t it?” That didn’t sound very joyful to her.
Uncle Jed stopped walking. He turned to face her and then smiled. With his characteristic softness he said, “Do you remember the New Testament story about the pool at Bethesda and the handicapped folks who waited for someone to move the water so they could be healed?”
“Yes.”
“Do you remember who they waited for?”
“An angel, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. Some people have to wait for angels to help them while they are in their imperfect bodies. Actually, we’re all defective one way or the other. But because of the Savior and what he did in the Resurrection, we’ll eventually be wrapped with glory. Can you imagine how glad those children at Parkhaven are going to be when that happens? Now, though, while they wait for the time their bodies will become perfect, the children at Parkhaven have need of angels to soothe their spirits while they cope with bodies that don’t work as well as yours and mine.”
Jenny had felt uneasy about working with handicapped children. She was handicapped too, she thought—emotionally. She wanted someone to take care of her, not the other way around. But in the past she had trusted Uncle Jed’s gift of seeing things clearly when others couldn’t, so she took the job.
The first few days she felt nervous around the children. She fell into sympathy, nearly immobilized by what she imagined was their pain. She began to see, though, mighty spirits peeking through their disabilities. And she saw they persisted. She also learned that they didn’t need someone to feel sorry for them. They needed someone who saw them as valuable and capable. They needed help, like the rest of us. The only difference was sometimes they had trouble getting others to understand what kind of help or how to give it. But then again, Jenny had begun to think, maybe that wasn’t so different from the rest of us.
The demands of the job caused her to collapse on her bed at the end of each day. But she felt a new strength breaking through her own pain.
She looked across the table again. Scotty’s tongue darted down to his chin, across his lips and disappeared into his frown. His hands stayed wrapped around the top of the lunch bag. In the classroom things had order, she thought, but here the wind blew.
He slapped his chunky palms on the table again. “Make da win stop—now,” he yelled. His face turned beet red.
She hadn’t seen Scotty this disturbed before. She felt a little frightened and wondered what would happen if she couldn’t distract him or change his mind. But worse than the fear of what he might do, his stubbornness and anger grated still tender wounds. It felt too much like when Mom and Dad had separated. Six eternal months ago. Impasse. No solution. They had been stubborn. They still were.
When she let herself, she could still hear the echoes of the fights, the name calling, the doors slamming. As terrible as those were, they were better than the deafening silences that followed. Her world had tilted, and her order slid out of control.
She often wondered if Dad’s business failure was the real cause of the trouble. All she knew for sure was that it seemed to start when the money wasn’t there any more. No new clothes. Bill collectors on the phone and at the door. For a month after the separation she sulked, mad at the world, mad at her parents, and mad at Heavenly Father. Stubborn was the reason the family was apart now. Mom and Dad both demanding that something change, when it couldn’t. Stubborn—like Scotty, only worse. They knew better. They went to church, they used to pray, and the family used to work. Scotty was stubborn. They chose it. The anger was back. If she wasn’t careful, it would come pouring out, out of control like it sometimes did. It would land on Scotty and that wasn’t fair.
It was plain though that Scotty wasn’t going to eat lunch unless she made the wind stop. Maybe if she said a prayer. The divorce had taught her about prayer. When her parents first separated, she almost blamed Heavenly Father for the pain she was feeling. At night she muffled her sobs with a tear-soaked pillow until she fell asleep. In the morning she was never sure if it was anger, or loss, or confusion that greeted her first. Finally, though, when it was all more than she could bear, she had learned to ask for help, and the Savior’s healing hand would touch her heart for a moment while he retrieved from some lost corner of darkness, her peace—the peace that kept slipping away, but not so fast anymore.
So, she said a silent prayer. Then she told Scotty about the new pink dress she bought last Saturday—and waited for the wind to stop. His pudgy square fingers continued their grip on the top of the lunch bag. She finished her story and looked up to see the branches moving back and forth in the gusting wind. “I didn’t think that was the kind of prayer you’d answer, Heavenly Father, but what am I supposed to do?” she muttered under her breath. Then she remembered.
Jenny stood up and walked around to Scotty’s side of the table. His eyes drew a bead on her, every step she took. She sat down next to him then reached an arm around him. “Scotty, I’ve tried to make the wind stop, and I can’t. But I can be here.” He looked back into her eyes like he really wanted to understand. “I’ll sit right by your side while the wind blows. I promise. And if it blows your sack away, I can bring it back. Together we’ll keep things in order.”
Scotty’s tongue flicked again down to his chin. His hands loosened their grip on the sack. He opened it, pulled out a peanut butter sandwich, three carrot sticks, and a chocolate chip cookie. Then he set the bag to the left of his food. The wind blew and the bag flew away three times while he ate. But every time Jenny was there and brought it back to him. And every time he put it right back where it was supposed to be.

Illustration by Roger Motzkus
I smiled and waved goodbye as the group of youth left the Independence Visitors’ Center in Missouri, USA. Henry, the young man who had given me a referral card, smiled back as he went through the revolving doors with his friends. The referral card said: “Jessica, my older sister, hasn’t been coming to church.” I imagined that Jessica was my age since Henry reminded me of one of my teenage brothers.
Whoa. I felt connected to them and wanted to help. Referrals are always important to missionaries, but this felt especially important to me.
The next couple of days, I prayed for Jessica and Henry while my companion and I went out, taught investigators, and gave lessons at the visitors’ center. When Henry got home from youth conference, I was finally able to call him. Henry was sad that Jessica had not been going to church and had made wrong decisions. Henry had given me the referral card because he wanted his sister to feel the Spirit like he had at the visitors’ center.
Henry handed the phone to his mom. Her voice sparkled as she talked about Jessica’s hobbies, her new job, her close relationship with Henry, and her respect for others. But her mom’s voice dropped as she told me that Jessica’s questions and frustrations about the Church led her to quit listening to gospel discussions.
Once I hung up the phone, I felt overwhelmed by emotion. I was deeply touched by how much Henry and his mom loved Jessica. I felt sympathy for Jessica as I imagined her struggling with difficult questions. As I thought of the good things Jessica’s family had told me about her, I felt love for her.
If her family and I felt this much love for Jessica, then how does Jesus Christ feel about her? I teared up as I contemplated Jesus Christ’s everlasting love for each of us. He loves each of us more than we can comprehend. He loves us with a full understanding of our weaknesses, our strengths, our struggles, and our desires. More than anything else, He wants us to follow Him so we will be happy.
I dialed the number. The phone rang, and I was nervous. I had contacted referrals before, but I wanted this one to go especially well.
“Hello?”
My heart jumped into my throat. “Hi Jessica. This is Sister Moulton from the Independence Visitors’ Center.”
Jessica was polite but quick to end the conversation. “I’m sorry. The Church just isn’t my thing. I love my family, but I am not ready to do anything with the Church.”
And then she hung up.
I set the phone down and sat unmoving. I was stunned. I had imagined asking her questions about herself and sharing my testimony. I wanted her to feel the Spirit and accept an invitation to do something, anything, to feel the love Christ has for her. Now I didn’t know what to do.
I had felt so strongly about calling her. Why hadn’t the phone call gone differently? Had I failed? Why hadn’t anything changed?
I called Henry and his mom and told them what happened. I felt bad that I didn’t have much to report, but they were grateful I had tried. Henry was even hopeful that Jessica would eventually come back.
Over the next few days, I thought about the phone call and my questions. Then it came to me. I hadn’t failed. I had tried. And something had changed! I understood better the love that Jesus Christ has for each of us. He loves us so much that He performed the Atonement for everyone, whether we accept it or not. And that love is always there.
I thought about the love I felt instead of my disappointment, and then I didn’t feel discouraged. I felt a new desire that others learn the gospel so that they could feel the love that Christ has for them. I can’t make others accept Christ’s love or the gospel, but I can give them an opportunity. I can reach out even though the results may not be like I expect.
The author lives in Utah, USA.

Alex Haley, author of Roots, tells the story about a man named John Newton, born in London, England, July 24, 1725, to an authoritarian father and a loving, pious, shy mother -- to John's relief, his father was a sailor who was home only a few weeks between long voyages.

When John was seven years old, his mother died. This was a devastating loss to him, and he became rebellious, stubborn, and disrespectful. At age 11, he became an apprentice sailor on his father's ship. While there, he strayed even further from his mother's teachings.

Looking back on these days, John said of himself, "I believe for some years I never was an hour in any company without attempting to corrupt them." His wayward and sinful life continued as he became a slave trader, indulging his sexual appetite at will with the slaves.

In 1748, after years as a "militant atheist" Newton was on a ship named the Greyhound, and seeking something to do, he came across a book named The Imitation of Christ which, among other things, warned of God's judgment of sinners. After reading it, he flung the book aside. But early the next morning a terrible storm nearly capsized his ship. After pumping water for hours and beginning to lose hope, Newton surprised himself by crying out, "If this will not do, the Lord have mercy upon us."

After this experience, Newton began a turn to God and goodness. He became a powerful preacher in Liverpool, England; his growing flock captivated by stories of his life, the sea, and the goodness of God in forgiving sinners who repented and turned to Him.

When Newton was over 80-years of age, he joined with William Wilberforce, a young member of parliament, in an attempt to abolish the slave trade on British ships. With Newton's firsthand experience with the slave trade and the position and energy of Wilberforce, these two were able to accomplish this commendable feat.

Newton soon thereafter died and was buried in the churchyard where he preached.

He wrote the following inscription of himself to mark his place of burial. "John Newton, clerk, once an infidel and libertine, a servant of slaves in Africa, was by the rich mercy of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ preserved, restored, pardoned, and appointed to preach the faith he long labored to destroy."

Henry, now 16, returned with his mother and younger sister, Mary Jane, 4, to Nauvoo. An older sister, Maria, stayed behind to work for the Bettses.
Henry, weak himself from the summer sickness, returned to St. Louis for his sister. He earned his passage downriver and back on riverboats. On the trip down he was an assistant fireman, carrying firewood and loading and unloading freight.
On the boat trip back to Nauvoo, Henry was third cook and “had the cabin dishes to wash, they being brought down to me by the cabin boys.” He liked the job because he could eat the leftover food, which was better than he usually ate. Some plates of food came to him “untouched,” so instead of dumping the food overboard as ordered, he let other cabin boys eat it.
Henry, big for his age, joined the Nauvoo Legion. He “enrolled in a Captain Black’s Company” when unfriendly neighbors began harrassing the Mormons in and around Nauvoo. Officers gave this teenager “something of a gun” and he “sometimes was scouting all night and took delight therein, even at times when the mob was expected every hour.”
Early in 1846, when Henry was 17, the Saints had to leave Nauvoo. For the wagon trek across Iowa, Jonathan C. Wright hired Henry to be a chore boy and drive an ox team. Henry liked this job, except for Brother Wright’s restriction that Henry walk his horses but never run or race them.
While Henry was camped with the Wrights at Council Bluffs, Iowa, a United States army recruiter arrived. “I had told my comrades that he would not get a man,” Henry said. But President Brigham Young called a meeting in a brush-covered bowery and asked that 500 men enlist for the Mexican War. Henry felt impressed to answer the call, so he joined the army. Mr. Wright, upset at losing his hired hand, “was wrathy and said that I could not go.” But Henry went. He was not yet 18 as required by the government, “but as I had nearly got my growth in height I passed without difficulty.” Besides, nobody asked him his age.
The next summer, when he was 18, he entered the Great Salt Lake Valley just behind the 1847 pioneers. Wanting to rejoin his family, he returned east with Brigham Young’s company late that same year to the Winter Quarters area.
Henry and his family came west three years later, in 1850, and became Utah pioneers. He married and lived at Union Fort, Fillmore, and Fairview, Utah. During his adult years he was a farmer, teacher, and shoemaker.

As I lay in bed next to my wife, Meghan (name has been changed), my thoughts ran wild. Was this the end of our marriage? She’d just told me that she was leaving the Church. It suddenly felt like we were miles apart, not just inches.
This couldn’t be happening.
We’d both grown up active in the Church; both of us had served missions. We’d been married in the temple. We had done everything that you’re “supposed to do,” and now she was telling me that she didn’t believe anymore.
I was panicked. It felt like a big wall of ice was beginning to form between us. I wondered what this would mean for us and our family.
But since that day several years ago, not only has that ice between us thawed, but our marriage has actually thrived and blossomed into something I didn’t know was possible. I’ve learned a lot about myself and my relationships with God, my Savior, and Meghan. And I have more love, faith, and hope than I ever thought possible.
For those who might feel like they’re in a similar seemingly hopeless situation, I want to share three lessons that have gotten me to this place of peace.
Finding out your spouse no longer wants to be a part of the Church can be hard. It can feel like the end of your marriage or life as you know it. I know that’s how I felt. But now that time has passed, I have started to see this situation in a different light.
One of the key facets of the gospel of Jesus Christ is connection. We go to the temple in part to be connected to our past and future families. We kneel in prayer to connect with God. We partake of the sacrament to deepen our connection to our Savior and our covenants. And when your spouse comes to you with questions or concerns about the gospel or the Church, it gives you the opportunity to strengthen your trust and connection with each other, because they obviously love you enough to tell you about whatever is weighing on them.
Instead of seeing differing beliefs as a marriage-ending problem, realize that your spouse is sharing with you feelings that are difficult not only for you but also for them. Responding with love and respect can help take what is clearly a hard situation and allow us to bring about more good than if we were to react negatively or harshly.
If your spouse is struggling with the Church, it can bring a new beginning that allows you to examine and deepen your own beliefs, faith, and connections. You can also take time to ask your spouse what they do believe and establish more understanding between you. Take time to listen to them from a place of love.
President Spencer W. Kimball (1895–1985) once said that one of the most important words in the dictionary is remember.1 And it might be one of the most important words in marriage too. Use this circumstance as a way to reconnect—to remember why you married your spouse and what the covenants you have made mean to you. You will be reminded of the joys and experiences you’ve shared together and what sparked your connection in the first place.
As you look back on what you’ve been through, you’ll be reminded that you have a deep connection with each other that can help you get through challenges in the future, including finding your new normal as a mixed-faith couple.
When it comes to any struggles or disagreements in our marriage—whether about Church-related topics or not—Meghan and I try to evaluate our relationship using three questions:
1. What’s working?
2. What’s not working?
3. What do we want to do or think differently?
Starting with what’s working is key—it reminds our brains that our relationship and marriage is working. It establishes common ground and helps us see what we already have and what we are doing well.
When we’ve tried to talk about issues without first acknowledging what is working, our minds tend to dwell on the issues instead of finding solutions.
For example, when we first started having discussions about faith, one of Meghan’s concerns was around our children having priesthood interviews without one of us present.
We started by asking, “What’s working?” and we agreed that we both love our children and care about them. We both want what is best for them. We want them to progress and to grow. And we reestablished the fact that we are on the same team.
Then we focused on “What’s not working?” For instance, Meghan didn’t feel comfortable with some of the questions our teenage children would be asked in bishop interviews without us there.
That brought us to question 3: “What do we want to do or think differently?” Meghan and I sat down and discussed a plan. We agreed that one of us would be present with our children if they had interviews with members of the bishopric. We spoke to our bishop about this, and he was supportive. He reminded us that he had all of our growth and welfare in mind.
When we strive to be patient and humble as we work out our differences, our minds are open to understanding, compromising, and helpful discussions.
There are also great examples of this idea in the scriptures, for example in Ether 2:24–25. The Lord first reviews what will work—everything He has done and will do to make the barges cross the sea safely. And then he asks the brother of Jared, “What will ye that I should prepare for you that ye may have light?”
The Lord uses this pattern of leading us, asking us to find solutions to our struggles. That is one way He teaches us to grow and become more like Him.
I’m a videographer and producer by profession. A project early in my career required me to use a technique called “forced perspective,” which means placing an object close to the lens to distort its size. If you hold a pebble up to your eye, it appears the size of a boulder. But if you hold it at arm’s length, you see that it’s not as big as you once thought.
We sometimes do this with our problems in life.
We can focus so much on our own perspective regarding an issue that it consumes every other good thing in our life. But we can change our perspective and see hardships or challenges, like a spouse leaving the Church, as an opportunity for growth and notice the other goodness around us.
God teaches this in Isaiah 55:8–9. He explains that His perspective is different than ours. When we recognize that we don’t know the end from the beginning, it helps us realize that our journey here on earth may be different than we expected or planned for ourselves. But in His omniscience, God certainly knew all that we would go through in mortality.
We knew before we came to earth that we would face challenges, but God has affirmed that all things can work together for our good if we follow Him and keep His commandments.
Changing my perspective of this situation is what helped me focus on my own journey with Christ. And that is a personal journey we each get to embark on.
When Meghan and I first started down this path of differing beliefs, I thought this challenge would be something I would just have to tolerate. I remember one evening after a particularly tumultuous argument, I was lying in bed with tears in my eyes.
Meghan didn’t want to speak to me, and I felt devastated for both of us.
But as I prayed for help and turned to the Savior, I thought about how much I loved her. I felt a rush of love and gratitude and said, “Meghan, I want to be married to you. I love you and I choose you, but if you want to leave, I understand. I would be heartbroken, but I would understand.”
In that moment, I felt the love of God for Meghan, for me, for my family, and for all of God’s children. We all have different journeys in life, and we can learn to work together even when we believe differently.
Through my choice to follow the Savior and through the mutual respect and love between Meghan and me, this circumstance has helped me become a better husband and father. I’ve learned to become more compassionate and a better listener. And ultimately, I have become a better member of the Church of Jesus Christ as I continue to look for ways to draw close to Him and to apply His healing balm in my life. I actively seek out the Holy Ghost each day, and I have learned to look at our differences of faith as an opportunity for me to deepen my faith and to help me become who I am meant to be.
Things aren’t always completely easy, but the further along we go together, the more endearing this journey becomes. I often think of the words of Elder Jeffrey R. Holland of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles: “Remember that God is on your side. He is not an angry, vicious God trying to trip you. He is for you—not against you. He is your Father. He is anxious to do everything possible to bless you. He hears your prayers and desires to make your life all that it can be.”2
I won’t ever stop praying for my family or looking for the goodness and the blessings of our circumstances. I’m grateful every day for a loving wife who, although she believes differently than I do, honors and respects both of our journeys. I don’t know if Meghan and I will ever share a testimony of the gospel of Jesus Christ again, but my faith in Him motivates me to keep my marriage thriving, follow His commandments, and put my trust in Him. And what I hold on to most is the knowledge that Heavenly Father has promised that “all things shall work together for your good” (Doctrine and Covenants 90:24).

Mikaela S., 18, Philippines
When I was deciding whether or not to go on a mission, I went to those whom I trusted. I talked to my parents, bishop, friends, siblings, and seminary teachers and asked for their advice. I also studied my patriarchal blessing, looking for things that could relate to missionary work.
Just as we should when seeking an answer to any prayer, I made a decision first, and then I took that decision to the Lord. I selected a day, asked my family to fast for me, and went to the temple to ask for confirmation of my decision. I received an overwhelming feeling that I had made the right decision.

Bitsy poked her head through the hole in the side of the old shed and sniffed. It smelled like spring, yet snow was falling. Giant snowflakes dissolved as they hit the ground. She knew by the smell and feel of the air that it would snow all night. At the same time she could hear the melting snow dripping from the roof.
Her four kittens mewed and squirmed. They were getting hungry, but Bitsy was too worried about the water seeping into the shed to be concerned about their empty tummies. The kittens were too small to follow her out into the snow to find a safer home.
Pulling her head back inside the shed, Bitsy pushed her kittens with her nose into the highest corner of the nest she had made in some old hay. Then she darted out into the stormy night. She ran up the hill to the farmhouse. The girl would help her.
Bitsy jumped onto the kitchen windowsill. She batted against the window again and again with her paw, yowling loudly. When she heard the girl’s footsteps, she meowed happily and jumped down.
“Bitsy, you hush!” the girl whispered angrily as she opened the door. Relenting, she stooped and patted the cat’s silky head. “Dad thinks I spoil you,” the girl added in a kindlier voice. “He says you can’t come in the house because only spoiled, fancy cats are house cats—and a barn cat like you belongs outside.” She patted Bitsy once more, then closed the door.
Bitsy crept back down the hill. The girl wouldn’t help her. She would have to find a way to save her kittens herself.
The kittens were crying loudly when Bitsy crawled back inside the old shed. Now the water was covering most of the floor! One of her babies had fallen into it already. She had to act now!
Bitsy carefully picked up the wet, shivering kitten. She went back out into the snowstorm and headed for the barn. They would be warm and safe there. But when Bitsy reached the barn, she found the door securely latched.
The mother cat struggled on past the barn and the woodpile to the old chicken coop. She remembered a hole in one end large enough for a cat to enter.
When Bitsy reached the chicken coop, she saw a new, pine-scented board nailed over the hole.
The small mother was nearly covered with snow. She was wet clear to her belly from wading through the cold slush. So many snowflakes were on her eyebrows that it was hard for her to see. The kitten hanging from her jaws was a sorry, wet, furry lump. His mewing was but a tiny sound now.
Bitsy retraced her footprints past the woodpile and the barn. She started back up the hill to the farmhouse. Gently she set the soaked kitten on the back doorstep, then raced back down the hill to the shed. She made three more trips up and down the slush-covered hill, carrying her crying babies to the farmhouse. Then she jumped to the windowsill and clawed the window again and again.
When the girl opened the door, Bitsy stood over her babies, yowling pitifully.
The girl couldn’t believe her eyes. “Why did you bring your kittens out in this storm, Bitsy? You should be ashamed!”
She quickly reached for her jacket and a flashlight hanging on the wall inside. Then she found an old towel and pulled on her boots. Closing the door, the girl knelt down on the porch and filled the towel with the wet, crying kittens. “I guess Dad was right—I have spoiled you. But you can’t come into the house. You have to learn.” Bitsy watched as the girl gathered the towel by its corners and started down the hill with the kittens. Bitsy yowled furiously and tangled herself around the girl’s feet.
“Bitsy, look out! You’ll trip me!” The girl stopped and glared at her, then continued down the hill.
Desperately the mother cat ran ahead to the hole under the shed. She hissed and arched her back, lashing her tail back and forth in warning.
The girl wasn’t afraid of the cat. She brushed the cat aside and opened the door. Stepping inside she heard the water splash against her boots. The girl quickly shined the flashlight around the room.
“Oh, Bitsy!” she cried. “You aren’t spoiled—you needed my help.”
Back outside she shifted the towel full of kittens and the flashlight to one hand, and then closed the door. Stooping down the girl picked up Bitsy and hugged her. “Next time I’ll listen to you.”
Bitsy purred softly as the girl carried them all back to the warm, dry farmhouse.