Gospel Story Finder

When DeNeece came home from college this summer, we shared a free, unpressured week, our strengths and talents working together. I played the piano while we sang duets, we created unusual gifts for our family, and we walked and talked again. We spent many nights until dawn sitting on her thick shag rug sharing memorable experiences of the past years. We also talked about qualities such as being thoughtful, fellowshipping, and understanding others. Then we prayed together that our love for each other might grow continually. We talked about serving the Lord, but each in her own individual way. Finally, we were able to begin unifying our growing snowballs to create one strong snowman.

Nestled on the southern edge of New Jersey are several small towns. Many of the families here earn their living from the sea. The Cape May Lighthouse guides the fishing boats and ferries around the dangerous rocks and shoals. Just as the lighthouse leads boats to safety, Chandler and Michael Altieri trust the gospel light to guide them past spiritual rocks and shoals.

Sister Christine Altieri joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints when she was ten years old. Although she did not marry a Church member, her husband, John, supported her in her beliefs. One by one their children were born: Corie (15), Lauren (13), Brittany (12), Michael (10), Chandler (7), Ty (5), Abigail (2), and Drew (11 months). Their family shared a lot of happiness and love. But one thing was missing: Dad had never joined the Church. He attended regularly and participated as fully as he could without being a member. But his family wanted him to become a member so that they could be sealed together as an eternal family.
Michael was going on eight. His dad had never had the opportunity to give a name and a priesthood blessing to or baptize any of his children. A few months before his birthday, Michael decided that, “All I want for my birthday is for Dad to baptize me.” Michael, his mother, brother, and sisters fasted and prayed harder than ever that their father would decide to join the Church and be able to baptize Michael.
Weeks passed, then months. “We kept praying and praying and praying,” Michael recalled. The week before he turned eight, his mother said, “It didn’t work. We need to talk to the branch president about your baptism and who will perform it.”
“But Mom, we’re praying, we’re praying.”
The next Sunday Brother Altieri volunteered to talk to the branch president about Michael getting baptized and to take care of all the details.
In sacrament meeting, the family was stunned with joy when the branch president announced an upcoming baptism—not Michael’s, but his father’s! The family’s prayers had been answered! Brother Altieri was baptized that week, and the following week, Michael’s dream was realized when his father baptized him. Michael said, “I had really wanted him to baptize me, and it finally happened. It felt really good.”
Chandler had also prayed that her dad would be baptized. She is now looking forward to her own baptism. “I want to be baptized so that the Holy Ghost will be with me.” She is preparing to be baptized by listening to President Gordon B. Hinckley and following his counsel. “I try to choose the right and to be kind to others.”
The Altieri family was later sealed together in the Washington D.C. Temple. “When we were sealed, Mom and Dad had to go somewhere for about three hours,” Michael remembered. “We stayed in this nursery place. We picked out white clothes and put them on. A temple lady showed us a movie that explained what being sealed was all about. At first she put in the wrong film. It was in Spanish. I thought maybe we needed to learn to speak Spanish. But then she put in the film in English. After the film, we went into the sealing room. Some other people were there, even the stake president. Then we were sealed, and I was so happy!”
Chandler still has the white ribbon she wore in her hair that day in the temple. “We were sealed so that we can be together for all eternity.”
Besides seeing his family sealed together, Michael has another hope—of becoming a champion wrestler. He’s been undefeated for three years in his weight and age division in the South New Jersey Wrestling Association. But sometimes he has to make tough choices between two things he loves—wrestling and the Church.
A few years ago, a very important tournament was coming up. Michael’s parents thought that the tournament was on a Saturday, and he signed up to go. When they found out it was on a Sunday, his father asked him if he still wanted to be in the tournament. Although he knew that his team was counting on him to score some team points for it, he said, “Well then, I can’t go.” He explained, “It’s hard not to go to Sunday tournaments, but I don’t, because it’s against a commandment. And I’ve had a lot of blessings.” Since making that decision the first time, not competing on Sundays has been easier. And his decision has showed others that he lives what he believes.
Chandler also lives what she believes. Not long ago her family was fostering a dog they called Puppy. Puppy had been mistreated the first nine months of his life, then was taken away from the people who mistreated him. But he was now skittish and frightened of people. Before he could be adopted, he had to learn to trust people and to get along with children. Teaching him that was what the Altieri family volunteered to do.
One day, he got loose and ran away. “We looked and looked for him,” Sister Altieri said, “but we couldn’t find him. Some of us got in the car to go looking for him. As I was driving, Chandler said a prayer, asking Heavenly Father to help us find Puppy. We had driven miles, and I thought that we’d never see the dog again. We turned down a road that ran along railroad tracks. Beside the tracks were thick woods. And by the railroad track, we could just see this head sticking up—it was Puppy! I’ll never forget it.”
Mom said how amazed she was that they found Puppy. “But we said a prayer, Mom,” was Chandler’s simple reply. She knows that Heavenly Father answers her prayers. Eventually Puppy learned to trust people and to play with children, and he was adopted by a good family.
Michael tries to be like Jesus by staying out of bad situations. “Sometimes my friends go back into the woods, but I don’t go. They do things back in there that I don’t want to do, like shooting off firecrackers (which is illegal), starting fires, and smoking.” One fire that was started in the woods came right up to the back of the Altieri property before it could be put out. “I tell my friends, ‘Let’s not go.’ Sometimes they listen to me, and sometimes they don’t. But I won’t go.”
Both Michael and Chandler strive to follow the gospel light as they make their way through life’s sea of choices. And by their examples they try to help others find the way, too.

For Mindy, a young mother of twin toddlers, the simple efforts of her ministering sister made a huge difference in her sacrament meeting experience every week.
“Because of my husband’s work schedule, I take our twin daughters to church by myself every week,” Mindy explains. “It’s really overwhelming to try to make it through all of sacrament meeting with two busy toddlers, but my ministering sister has taken it upon herself to help me.
“She sits with us and helps me take care of my girls every week. Just having her next to me means so much and really eases my anxiety in their moments of tantrums or fussiness. I don’t think she’ll ever know how much her actions have impacted me at this time in my life. She saw my need as a young, anxiety-filled mother, and she helps make church a peaceful and happy place for all of us.”

At the same time, we must stand against those who speak contemptuously of sacred things, because the certain effect of that offense is to offend the Spirit and so create contention and confusion. President Spencer W. Kimball showed the way to stand without being contentious as he lay on a hospital gurney and asked an attendant who, in a moment of frustration, took the name of the Lord in vain: “‘Please! Please! That is my Lord whose names you revile.’ There was a deathly silence, then a subdued voice whispered: ‘I am sorry’” (The Teachings of Spencer W. Kimball, ed. Edward L. Kimball [1982], 198). An inspired, loving rebuke can be an invitation to unity. Failure to give it when moved upon by the Holy Ghost will lead to discord.

I love everything about Christmas: the lights, carols, time with family—everything we do to celebrate the birth of Jesus. Oh, and I especially love getting presents. I start making my Christmas wish list in September.
One year my list was about as long as my arm. And I kept thinking of things to add to it. I was excited to show it to my dad. “Well, David, I see what you want to get for Christmas,” he said as he looked it over. “But what are you going to give?”
“I’m making gifts for you and Mom at school. On Friday Mom is taking me shopping for Shannon’s and Jon’s gifts. So I’ve got it all planned out.”
“Hmmm,” was all Dad said. For some reason he didn’t like my answer. I didn’t like the sound of “hmmm.”
The next family home evening, my parents discussed the idea of giving and getting and the true meaning of Christmas. I could see my wish list getting shorter by the minute. They asked us if we had any ideas to help us remember to be more giving. Shannon waved her hand excitedly. My older brother, Jon, and I groaned. With Shannon, ideas usually involved doing things for other people, like weeding our neighbors’ gardens.
“Let’s choose some people who are lonely or in need and anonymously leave presents on their doorsteps,” Shannon said with excitement.
“Not a bad idea,” Jon said. “It would be top secret.”
“This might actually be fun,” I thought.
We all agreed that it would be a great plan. We chose two families. One was the Swenson family in our ward. Since Brother Swenson had gone back to school, they never seemed to have enough money. They had lots of kids too, who would love getting Christmas surprises. The other family was Mr. and Mrs. Perez, an older couple who lived down the street. They always seemed a little lonely.
We all went shopping for the gifts. We agreed to buy them using some of the money we would have used for our own presents. That was fine with me. I was having way too much fun choosing toys for the younger Swenson boys. Somehow my stuff wasn’t that important anymore.
We decided to give one gift a night to each family starting 12 days before Christmas. When the first night came, I dressed in black from head to toe, and Jon drove me over to the Swensons’ house. I quietly put the first gift on the porch, rang the doorbell, and ran away as fast as I could. I jumped behind a fence just as one of the kids opened the door. I could hear their surprised voices as they discovered the present. I felt like I would explode with excitement and joy. My life as a Secret Giver had begun.
Things only got better—and harder. We had to go at different times every night and sometimes even in the morning because the Swenson kids started looking out the window to try to catch us. And every time I crept up to the Perez’s doorstep, I imagined Mrs. Perez waiting there, ready to fling the door open, give me a hug, and tell me how wonderful I was. I definitely had to avoid that. Keeping a secret was half the fun.
Well, that year was only the beginning. The Christmas after that, we chose a family whose daughter had been in the hospital 11 times that year and another family whose mom had cancer. Wow—I didn’t realize that some people had it so tough.
Now that Christmas is here again, we’ve decided to help three families. The hardest part is choosing them. There seem to be so many people who could use a little Christmas cheer.
As for my own list? Each year it has gotten a little shorter. I’m so busy making my Secret Giver plans that I don’t have much time to think about myself. There are gifts to choose and strategies to plan.
One thing is certain—it’s great doing things for others. Nothing beats the feeling I get when I see the surprise and excitement on the faces of the people we help. Giving has become one of my favorite things about Christmas.

On a bright September day our youngest daughter, Erica, was in a serious car accident. She was flown to the hospital, and after hours of emergency surgery, we received the terrible news: our beautiful, vivacious, 17-year-old daughter had died.
The next few months were agony for us. We endured her birthday and Thanksgiving and braced ourselves for our first Christmas without her. People warned us that the holidays would be difficult, but no amount of warning could have prepared us.
Besides feeling overwhelming sorrow and despair, I was jealous of other families who were together and happily celebrating. I bitterly wondered, “Why us? Why weren’t we granted a miracle like the ones others speak about?”
At Christmas we celebrate the beginning of the Savior’s life on earth, but for me, His birth will now always be wrapped up with His suffering, death, and Resurrection—the Atonement. Because the Savior broke the bands of death, I know that Erica’s death will not be final. That is the miracle to be thankful for—the greatest miracle of all time.

It was a normal Friday. I was at work, driving a forklift as usual, when I suddenly lost control. There was hardly any noise when I crashed into the wall, but I felt a sudden, intense pain in my foot.
I looked down and realized my foot had been crushed between the wall and the forklift.
I started screaming for help, and I don’t remember much after that besides the sound of the ambulance siren and the anxiety of what was ahead.
At the hospital, I remember thinking there were too many nurses in the room. I was also terrified because I’m from Colombia and speak Spanish, and the nurses in the Utah hospital were speaking very quickly in English. I was having a hard time understanding them. Every second felt like an eternity. Yet I knew deep down that I was going to lose my foot, even before it was evaluated.
While waiting for a trauma surgeon, I thought about my nephew. He loved soccer, and I wanted to keep my foot to be able to play with him. And that was only one of many things I needed my foot for! After two surgeons evaluated my injury, they determined that the best way to reduce further complications was to amputate my foot. I knew it was the right decision, but I was devastated.
The next morning after surgery, life didn’t feel real. I had too many questions and too few answers. Yes, I was lucky to be alive, and the accident could have been much worse, but I also felt lost. My foot was gone, and I didn’t know what my life was going to be like from then on.
I spent 20 days in the hospital. My family and friends comforted and supported me through it, and I also started physical therapy and began the path to recovery and healing. I surprisingly had enough courage to accomplish a lot on that road to recovery in those 20 days, including starting to learn to walk with a prosthetic.
What I didn’t have the courage to do, though, was to pray. I felt like I couldn’t face God. I thought I was angry at Him, but in reality I was just ashamed of myself. In my mind, this whole “accident” seemed to be a punishment, partly because I had stopped going to church and I hadn’t been following His commandments, but mostly because I’ve experienced same-sex attraction for as long as I can remember. I mistakenly thought He was disappointed in and ashamed of me.
I was wounded both physically and spiritually.
When I was released from the hospital, my mental health suffered. Even though I had my family and friends around me, I still felt alone. I knew I needed Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ in order to heal, but I struggled to make myself pray.
Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I reached my breaking point and was willing to kneel down and pray for the first time in so long. I sobbed as I poured my heart out to Heavenly Father. I asked Him questions and told Him my concerns until I was out of breath.
Gradually, a feeling of peace filled me. And these words came to my heart and mind: “All these things will be for your good to refine your character. It was just an accident.”
Seriously?
Was this really just an accident? Not a punishment? That answer made no sense to me. But after a few days of pondering, I knew it was true. I also knew that Heavenly Father loved me. He had been calling me back to His flock for so long, and I was finally ready to return. I decided to go back to church and began an incredible, spiritually healing process with my loving bishop, who helped me fully invite the peace the Savior offers into my life.
Coming back to the Church was not easy. For so long, I had so much shame about myself. But the more I came to understand my divine identity, the less ashamed I felt. I know now that my feelings toward women don’t make me a sinner, and my amputation doesn’t limit my worth. These qualities do give me a different perspective and play a role in my spiritual growth. I also know that my perspective can bless others in the gospel. Through the Savior’s grace, I have been able to confidently accept that I am a child of God. I am loved completely. And Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ were, are, and will always be ready to bless me as I turn to Them. Always.
Losing my foot and being gay have both brought some unexpected difficulties to my life. Sometimes I don’t even want to get out of bed knowing that I have to use my prosthetic foot. Striving to keep all of Heavenly Father’s commandments can be difficult at times too. Although it’s not the choice of everyone who experiences same-sex attraction, my personal choice is to aim for an eternal companion. I sometimes have discouraging thoughts that no man will ever be interested in marrying me because of my circumstances, but I trust Heavenly Father to work out those details and bless me if I keep my covenants with Him.
The uncertainty of my future can be discouraging at times. I know that these thoughts of inadequacy and doubt come from Satan. By turning to Christ, I find so much peace and joy, and the strength I need to overcome these thoughts.
I now rely on God to direct my life. In this process, I’m also learning how to connect with both women and men in deeper, more meaningful ways within the bounds the Lord has set. He has helped me increase my trust that someday He will make it possible for me to find a man whom I can love and be sealed to. But whatever happens, I have learned to value who I am and to accept my life and trust in the blessings He has in store for me.
Throughout my life, I’ve learned that everyone faces difficult, unfair, and sometimes painful experiences that they don’t fully understand. We will all be wounded in some way. But now I also know that our individual experiences can bring us closer to the Savior and help us understand His limitless power in our lives.
Elder Neil L. Andersen of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles taught: “At a time of enormous suffering, the Lord told the Prophet Joseph, ‘All these things shall give thee experience, and shall be for thy good.’ How can painful wounds be for our good? In the crucible of earthly trials, patiently move forward, and the Savior’s healing power will bring you light, understanding, peace, and hope.”1
For me, being an amputee and being attracted to women started out as painful experiences. But they have helped me come unto Christ, and He has brought me peace. I now understand that neither of these experiences makes me less of a person. Neither keeps me from obtaining all the blessings of the plan of salvation. And neither will prevent me from finding the true happiness that comes from following Jesus Christ and keeping His commandments the best that I can.
I really don’t know what will happen in my future or what other challenges I will have to face until I return to the presence of my Heavenly Father. But I do know this: Any challenge we face or wound we have—whether mental, emotional, physical, or spiritual—can be healed as we turn to the Savior. He can help us find hope and strength in our struggles on earth. And He has promised that on the day of Resurrection, our bodies, minds, and hearts will be healed completely (see Alma 42; 11:42–44).
I needed to heal from my feelings of shame and inadequacy regarding my same-sex attraction and also from the physical and mental repercussions of my amputation. And I have experienced Christ’s healing power and continue to daily as I choose Him. He has helped me love myself and find fulfillment in living His gospel. If you choose to follow Him and put your life in God’s hands, you will recognize refinement in yourself, guidance in all things, love, and true peace (see Alma 42:13).

I had been going to church for four years and waited until my adoption was final before being baptized. I had fasted many times to know if Jesus Christ is our Savior and if Heavenly Father does answer our prayers.
Before my baptism date was set, I had a strong desire to know if being baptized was the right thing to do. I went to my Young Women leader and asked her how to go about getting an answer to my prayers. She told me to read Doctrine and Covenants 9:7–9 [D&C 9:7–9]. These verses explain that you should study your question in your mind, choose a course of action, and then go to Heavenly Father with your decision in prayer. This scripture says that if it is right, you will have a burning in your bosom. But if it is wrong you will have a stupor of thought.
After I read these scriptures, I knew that I had more to do if I wanted my prayers answered. I had to “search, ponder, and pray.” I also found it very helpful to fast.
I now can tell you that I do know that Jesus Christ is our Savior. Our prayers can be answered if we are diligent and faithful. I also know that choosing to be baptized was the right thing for me to do.

In pioneer times, Loretta Ellsworth Hansen and Hans Hansen, Jr., accompanied her brother, Frank, and his fiancée on their trip along the Honeymoon Trail. This is the experience she recorded:
“One morning, way out in the desert, the boys were greasing the rear wagon, we girls, at the other washing dishes, found ourselves completely surrounded by large prairie wolves. We lost no time climbing into our wagon and the boys killed wolves as long as their ammunition lasted. It was a sight to see about fifty large wolves lined up like soldiers. At the sound of the gun they would jump back a few paces still facing us, then they would step forward again. The howling of the wounded, and the firing of the guns finally frightened them away” (Roberta Clayton, ed., Pioneer Women of Arizona, Mesa, Arizona, 1969, p. 209).

Samuel especially found it difficult to understand the condition and all that it entailed. Looking back, he says, “I wished that there had been a book I could have read that let me know everything was going to be okay! As a type-1 diabetic, my life was very different and explaining that to my friends was like talking to an alien. They just didn’t understand.”
Instead of feeling sorry for himself, Sam felt inspired to help others in a similar situation. He explains, “It was hard after I was diagnosed, but I felt that I wanted to help others to have hope as they experienced the same feelings that I had at that time. It was then that I first thought of writing a children’s book about an alien called Zegg. I wanted to give hope to children who were newly diagnosed. One of my favourite authors is Dr. Seuss, so I tried to write it in his style.”
Samuel then had to work hard to make his book a reality, which happened early in 2021. He has already gifted 50 copies of the book to the hospital that helped him and plans to donate books to other health trusts for children who are beginning their own type-1 journey.
Sam, who is now 13, will always require insulin, and still experiences highs and lows, but his life is full of adventure, joy, and hope.
He has been raising funds in lots of imaginative ways to get copies of his book printed. Anyone can help by donating money for copies of the book (see https://samuel-grant.co.uk). He eventually hopes to gift the book to NHS trusts across the whole of the UK, so they can distribute copies to as many diagnosed Type-1 children as possible. Samuel adds, “Every year, an average of 5,000 children’s lives are changed forever by a Type-1 diagnosis. I hope that this book will help teach and educate people about the disease—being aware of it and understanding it, may help families live and cope with it better. This is one way I have been able to kind of minister to other people during hard and dark times.”

One of those Scouts, Sid Payne, found something fascinating before he even got here. He and his cousin were in the car on the way here when Sid’s dad, Ed, handed the boys several sheets of paper and said, “Read this.”
What they read was so interesting that when they reached the campsite, they stayed in the car to finish the last two pages instead of jumping out of the car and into the fun. They had discovered a little-known group of real western heroes.
At first, Sid didn’t want to read that journal account on the way here. “I thought it was going to be some long, boring thing. But after a few pages, I liked it a lot.” What Sid learned from his reading was that his great-great-great grandfather, Abraham Hunsaker, had marched through this same wild desert nearly 150 years ago. “I never knew he was in the Mormon Battalion. I was really impressed with what he did.”

Daddy has taken me—only me—camping today! Baby Justin is at home with Mama. And Claire and Michael are home, too—they have each gone with Daddy before. I have waited and waited, and finally it’s my turn.
Daddy and I clear a space for the tent. We fling sticks into the trees, and Daddy digs up a rock with his fingers. “It was waiting to poke into my back when I lie down,” he says.
We put up the tent. It’s a two-man tent that’s just right for Daddy and me. “You could almost put it up yourself,” Daddy says.
We walk down to the river. Daddy straps on my life jacket, nice and snug. When I climb into the front of the canoe, it wobbles. I’m a little scared, but Daddy holds it still while I sit down. “I’m here,” he says. “I won’t let it tip over.” He pushes the canoe away from the shore, and we slip into the silent river. I lift my oar and flip a few drops of water back at Daddy. He flips some at me.
A breeze sends yellow leaves flying. They float down, down, down, to land lightly—golden boats on the shimmering green silk river.
We eat sandwiches on a little island where frogs sing. Daddy teaches me to skip stones on the quiet water. Hop, hop, plop.
Back at our campsite, dusk is falling. We gather wood—tiny twigs, medium-size sticks, and thick logs. Daddy starts the fire.
I watch the flames lick the sticks. Sparks crackle and fly into the black sky to meet the stars. The stars wink and blink. I blink. I think my eyes are sizzling. I move a little farther from the fire.
We eat our campfire supper, then toss our plates and cups into the flames. The cups shrivel. The plates blacken, then flare up.
We roast marshmallows and make icky, sticky, gooey, messy, yummy s’mores. My fingers stick together, so I lick them clean.
I lean against Daddy. He tells me stories of when he was little with his father. The stories are funny at first. Then quieter.
We watch the fire.
“I like to be alone with you sometimes,” I say. “When we’re at home, everyone wants to talk to you at the same time.”
Daddy nods. “I hear you even in a crowd, but sometimes we need to be in quiet places to talk and listen, to know each other even better.”
I snuggle closer.
Daddy continues, “Just like with Heavenly Father. He hears us in crowds, but I still like to pray to Him in quiet places. To talk, to listen, and to know Him better.”
“Me, too,” I say.

A third fundamental in this exciting challenge of reclaiming the inactive is that of timing. The scripture rightly says:
“To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:
“A time to be born, … a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted.” (Eccl. 3:1–2.)
My stake missionary friend had another convincing experience that taught him never to regard people as unchanging or unchangeable. They are neither stones nor stars. They are in constant motion.
A doctor rebuffed my friend in his attempts to serve as a home teacher. This doctor was a Church member in name only. His door seemed to be permanently and tightly closed to representatives of the Church. Then one evening my friend was visiting the hospital and was surprised and saddened to find in one bed the intractable doctor. He humbly and courageously asked, “Wouldn’t you like us to give you a blessing?”
“That, above all things right now, would help me most,” affirmed the doctor, weak and dispirited. And that, said my friend, was what it took to reactivate this heretofore inactive brother. It seems that for everyone there is a time—if only the Spirit of God sensitizes our hearts to the action we should take!

Recently, my brother, Isaac, and I were riding our school bus. Our bus driver often listened to bad music. One day, there was a really bad song on, so Isaac and I said to the bus driver, “Please turn off the music. We don’t like that sort of music.” He would not listen to us. We asked him to turn off the bad music many times. The other kids on the bus said they didn’t like that kind of music either. We went home and told our mom about it. She talked to the principal, and the principal told the bus driver to not play that music. Now we don’t have to listen to bad music on the bus.

I’m happy to be a Latter-day Saint here in the Philippines. I like to tell my friends that. My religion has taught me many things that my friends do not know, and one of those things is honesty. Honesty is one simple way to teach my friends to respect me and my religion. An experience that happened recently proved that.
I’d gone to school without eating any breakfast, and during class my stomach kept making this funny sound, telling me I was hungry. So during class recess, I hurried to a nearby street barbecue stall. I took two sticks of the barbecued meat, ate them, then went back to class.
When our teacher asked us to copy something into our notebooks, I reached into my pocket for a pencil and found that my money for the barbecue snacks was still in my pocket! Without hesitation, I ran from the classroom back to the store and paid for my snack. The vendor was so happy he gave me another barbecue stick free.
I went back o the classroom smiling but found a very angry teacher there. I’d forgotten to ask permission to leave, and she wanted to know what I’d been doing.
I told her everything, and to my surprise she put her arm on my shoulder and, facing the class, she said, “Class, I want you to be honest like Julius.”
Then she asked me why I returned the money when I easily could have kept it. I answered, “Because I am a deacon, and my bishop won’t let me pass the sacrament if I’m not worthy.” She didn’t quite understand what I was talking about and asked again why I hadn’t kept the money.
I answered, “Because we believe in being honest.”
“Why? What’s your religion?” she wanted to know.
Without hesitation I said, “I’m a Mormon.”
“Oh,” she responded. “That’s why you were honest.”
My teacher made me feel like a giant that day. I’m glad I followed the thirteenth article of faith, which starts, “We believe in being honest, true. …” Honesty really is the best policy.

“Here we are,” Dad said softly as he turned off the car.
“Do I have to go in?” Lucy asked.
“No,” Mom said. “Not if you don’t want to. But this might be the last time you get to see Great-grandma Irma. She is very sick.”
Lucy thought about what Mother had said for a few minutes. She couldn’t imagine not seeing her great-grandmother, whom she called Grandma Irma, again. She had always liked to come here and visit. When Lucy was smaller, Grandma Irma read her the story of Pocahontas saving John Smith’s life. Lucy remembered how it felt to sit on Grandma Irma’s lap, all warm, soft, and safe.
Lucy swallowed hard. “I’ll come in,” she said.
“Good for you!” Mom told her.
Granny, Grandma Irma’s daughter and Lucy’s grandma, met them at the front door. She looked like she had been crying, and in her hand was a brush.
“Come in,” she said. “Mama isn’t doing very well today. She hasn’t had her hair combed for a while, and she says I can’t do it because I pull too hard and it makes her head hurt.”
The house smelled like the nursing home Lucy’s Primary class had visited at Christmastime.
Grandma Irma was sitting in the easy chair by the bookcase, just as she always did, but she looked different. She was smaller, thinner, and very pale. Lucy wasn’t sure what to do. Usually she skipped up to Grandma Irma’s chair for a hug and a kiss. But this time she went and sat down on the flowered couch.
“Hello, Grandma,” Lucy’s mom said, taking Grandma Irma’s hand.
Grandma looked up at her, frowned, and asked, “Who are you?”
“I’m Jane,” Lucy’s mom said.
“I knew that,” Grandma Irma said. Then she pulled her hand away and looked down at her lap.
Granny and Lucy’s mom started talking quietly in the corner of the room. Lucy’s dad sat down beside Lucy on the couch. They didn’t talk. Lucy kept glancing up at Grandma Irma. Her throat felt thick, like she was going to cry, and she wished there was something she could do to help.
Grandma’s hair was free of the long braids she usually wore wrapped around her head like a crown. Her white hair floated around her wrinkled face. Lucy thought she looked lost.
When Lucy had visited her in the past, she had watched Grandma Irma comb her hair. Lucy loved to watch her unbraid it and comb it until it hung down to her waist. Next, Grandma parted it down the middle and sectioned each half into three parts. As she braided, she flipped a piece of her hair over her shoulder with each twist. Then she wrapped her braids around her head, one in front and one behind, and fixed them there with funny, U-shaped silver hairpins. Over the braids went a hairnet as fine as cobwebs.
While she watched, Lucy liked to tell her about school and what she was doing with her friends. Grandma always told her that someday she was going to cut all her hair off so that there would be less of it to take care of, but Lucy knew that she’d never do it. On clear days, the sunshine came in through the window and touched the black-and-white picture of Grandpa Eddy that sat on the dresser. He had died a long time ago.
Slowly Lucy got up from the couch. The house was so quiet that she felt like she had to tiptoe and whisper. She crept up to Grandma Irma’s chair and put her hand on Grandma’s soft arm.
“Can I comb your hair for you?” she asked.
Grandma Irma turned her head and looked into Lucy’s face. She didn’t say anything.
“Grandma,” Lucy’s mom said, “This is Lucy. Do you remember?”
“Lucy?” Grandma Irma looked surprised. Lucy remembered that a long time ago Grandma Irma had had a baby girl named Lucy, who had died. “My Lucy?”
“No,” Lucy’s mom said softly, “she’s my Lucy.”
“Can I comb your hair, Grandma?” Lucy asked again.
“Yes,” Grandma Irma said. Granny handed the brush to Lucy. She took it and lifted a long bunch of Grandma’s hair and carefully started brushing. Her hair smelled like apricots and hair conditioner. It was hard to brush, with lots of knots, so she had to do it slowly.
After a few minutes, Grandma lifted her bony hand and put it on Lucy’s to stop her from brushing. “I’ll tell you a secret,” she said, sounding just like she used to. “If you hold my hair above where you are brushing, it won’t pull so much.”
“OK, I’ll try it.”
Grandma sighed. “That’s better.”
Lucy brushed and brushed. Grandma’s hair got softer and softer. Lucy thought about the day she had come to Grandma Irma’s house to visit and they had decided to drive over to the post office and get the mail. When they arrived home, Grandma discovered that she had locked the keys in the house. So they pushed out the screen in the bedroom window, and Grandma hoisted Lucy up. Lucy had climbed in the window, trotted through the house, and unlocked the door. When they found the keys on the kitchen table, they laughed until their tummies ached.
When Grandma’s hair was all combed out, Lucy parted it in the middle and then divided each section into three. She was glad that she had practiced braiding on her friends at school. But Grandma Irma’s hair was lots longer, so it was harder to braid. While she worked, she hummed a song that Grandma Irma used to hum while she watered all her plants.
“‘She Wore a Yellow Ribbon,’” Grandma Irma said.
“What?” Lucy asked.
“That’s the song you are humming,” Granny told Lucy. “Mama used to sing it really loud when she went out to milk the cow when she was a young lady. Then my daddy, who lived next door, would hear her and come and milk the cow for her.”
“‘She Wore a Yellow Ribbon,’” Grandma Irma said again, and smiled.
Lucy finished one long white braid and secured it with an elastic. Then she moved to the other side of Grandma’s chair and started on the other side.
“It’s time we left,” Dad said. “Are you almost finished there, honey?”
She nodded, concentrating on getting the braid smooth and even. When she was done, she put the brush on the armrest of the chair.
“I love you, Grandma,” she whispered.
“I know,” Grandma said, turning her head slowly to look at her.
Lucy watched while her mom and dad hugged Grandma good-bye. Mom was crying.
Lucy moved around to the front of Grandma’s chair and leaned over to hug her. Grandma lifted both her trembling hands and cupped Lucy’s face. Lucy tipped her chin down and Grandma kissed her on the forehead. Only Grandma Irma gave forehead kisses.
“Bye, Grandma,” Lucy said.
By the door, Granny put her hand on Lucy’s shoulder and said, “Thanks so much. You really helped out, more than you know.”
Lucy looked back at Grandma Irma. She was still slumped in her chair. She still looked tired and thin, but now her hair was hanging smoothly in two braids on either side of her face. As she watched, Grandma slid her fingers down one braid. For some reason, Lucy suddenly felt better. She smiled, hugged Granny, and skipped out into the sunshine.

Several months later, with my mother’s story crowded into the recesses of my mind by school and work, I received an assignment in one of my classes at Brigham Young University to find 8 to 10 primary documents containing the name of one of my ancestors.
My genealogical training to that point consisted of singing the Primary song “Family History—I Am Doing It,” but grades weren’t negotiable in my mind, so I began at the only place I could think to start—Orla’s family. I looked her up on a pedigree chart and traced her line back until I found her grandfather, Joseph Argyle Jr.
One afternoon, I made the trek across the BYU campus to the library and into the family history library. I explained to a worker who Joseph Argyle was and the little information I knew about him.
For the next two hours, that worker guided me through a treasure hunt, which took us all over the library. We searched records of Mormon passengers on emigrant vessels, discovering that Joseph and his family crossed the Atlantic on a ship. Later that year, he traveled to Salt Lake Valley with the Ellsworth handcart company, which we found in a record book of handcart companies. We looked through the Endowment House records (found where he received his temple ordinances), the Utah death index (he lived to 84), and old Church membership records (there he was).
In an online database of Utah newspaper archives, I found a front-page obituary for my great-great-great grandfather. Published in the Davis County Clipper in February 1927, every sentence contained an interesting fact, such as Joseph’s contribution to the building of the Salt Lake Temple.
“He has the credit of having hauled the largest stone put in that building which weighed 13,000 pounds,” the article read.
I began to get a glimpse of the impact we can have on future generations when I discovered he had 88 descendants at the time of his death, a number which increased exponentially in the past 79 years.
Every time I found another document with my ancestors’ names on it, I felt a little tingle of excitement run through my body. It was like a mystery novel, putting all the pieces together, little by little beginning to understand who this man was. I became so immersed in learning about my ancestor, I didn’t leave until late in the afternoon, almost missing work!
I completed the assignment and received an A, but even more importantly, I created a tangible connection with one of my relatives. Joseph Argyle left his home, sailed across the ocean, traveled to Utah and helped build the temple, all because he believed in the gospel of Jesus Christ, a legacy which I inherited and which gives me the strength to fight my own battles in the 21st century.

When the phone rang Sunday morning, Missy answered it.
“My father’s taking us to the water slide,” Karen said. “Can you come?” Missy looked down at her good dress and shiny black shoes and sighed. “I’ll ask,” she said, “but I know my parents won’t let me go on Sunday.” Missy loved the water slide more than any other place on earth.
As she feared, Dad said no.
“It isn’t fair,” Missy told him. “There are too many rules. I’m always so busy following rules that I never get to have any fun.”
When she came home from school the next day, Missy found a mysterious envelope on her bed. Inside was a note in her mother’s handwriting:
“Dear Missy,
There is a wonderful treasure to be found if you can follow the clues that lead to it. It comes from far away, from someone who loves you. You will find the next clue somewhere in your room. Happy treasure hunting!
Love, Mom.”
Missy glanced around. Everything looked the same as she had left it that morning. The second clue must be hidden. She felt a tingle of excitement as she began searching for it.
She started with her desk, wondering what in the world the treasure could be. Maybe it’s money, she thought as she rifled through drawers. Or a new bike, she hoped, looking under the blotter. But after a thorough check, she found nothing.
She looked in her dresser, on her bulletin board, and under her bed. When all those places turned out to be clue-free, she plopped herself onto her bed in frustration. She was about to ask for help when she felt something hard under her pillow.
She pulled out a small silver box. Inside was another note:
“Congratulations on finding the second clue. Keep it in this box along with the other clues. In a room that’s dark and deep, the next clue lies buried.”
“This one’s easy,” Missy said aloud. “The deepest, darkest room in the house is the basement, and it’s the only one with a dirt floor.”
As she went down the basement stairs, she saw Dad’s shovel against one wall. She could tell that the dirt beneath it had been recently disturbed. She dug down a few inches and hit an old tin can with a plastic lid. Inside was the third clue.
This game is starting to be a lot of fun, Missy thought as she pulled a note out of the can. This one said:
“You’ve found number three; you’re halfway to the treasure! Number four waits where flowers bloom.”
Missy put the third clue into her silver box and ran outside. The next clue must be in the garden, she told herself. And she was right. She found an old leather wallet lying between a rosebush and some tulips. The note inside read:
“Well done! You’ve found all but the last clue. Look where dinner is cooked.”
Missy hurried to the kitchen and went to the stove. She couldn’t see anything on the top, so she opened the oven door. There it was—a small brown box with the fifth clue inside. Missy read the note aloud.
“Congratulations! You have discovered the fifth and final clue. The treasure is above your room, moving to and fro.”
Hmmm. This one’s a little strange, Missy thought, adding the last clue to the silver box. But I know that the only room above mine is the attic! She took the attic stairs two steps at a time but was stopped at the door by a strange creaking sound. It frightened her a little, but she wasn’t about to quit, so close to the prize. She opened the door and stepped into the attic.
In the middle of the floor was Grandpa’s old rocking chair, moving back and forth. And on the seat was an envelope. Missy opened the envelope and gasped in surprise. Inside was an airplane ticket to Florida and a letter from Grandma. Missy quickly read the letter and began to jump up and down. Grandma had invited her to come for a visit.
Just then, her parents stepped out of the shadows at the back of the attic.
“Oh, Mom, Daddy!” she exclaimed happily. “Grandma wants me to visit her.”
“We know,” Dad said. “That’s wonderful, and we’re sure you’ll have a great time. But sit down now, and let’s have a talk.”
“Did you like our little game?” Mom asked.
“Oh yes, it was fun!”
“We’re glad you enjoyed it,” Dad said. “But we also hope it will help explain why we have rules to follow.”
Missy looked puzzled. “What are you talking about?”
“Look at your ticket, dear,” Mom said. “Is there a date?”
Missy examined the ticket. “It’s for this Friday.”
Dad took the ticket and hid it behind his back. “What if we’d just said, ‘There’s a treasure in the house. Find it and you can have it.’?”
“I’d have searched until I found it.”
“Of course,” Dad said. “But would you have found it by Friday?”
“Oh.” Missy’s face grew serious as she thought it over. “You and Mom would have helped me find it on time,” she finally said.
“Why?” Dad asked.
“Because you’re my parents, and you love me.”
“Right again,” Mom said. “That’s why we gave you the clues. But it was up to you to follow them.”
“Your Father in Heaven is your parent, too,” Dad said, “and He loves you very much. He has also sent you on a treasure hunt. The treasure is to become like Him and to live with Him again.”
“And He has also given you clues to follow,” Mom added. “They are clearer than our clues were, and they are much more important—but not always so easy to obey.”
Missy smiled. “I think I understand—Heavenly Father’s clues are the commandments, and if I want the treasure, I have to follow them.”
Missy thought about the treasure hunt as she sat next to Mom in the airplane on her way to Florida. She knew she wouldn’t have wanted to miss this treasure. She didn’t want to miss Heavenly Father’s treasure, either.

Something was different about nine-year-old Heidi after school that cold afternoon. Instead of flinging her jacket like a Frisbee, she carefully hung it on the hook. Rather than pouncing at the refrigerator like a hungry tiger, she stared quietly out the window as if she was looking at something far beyond the border of the yard.
“Well, hi there!” Mom said, hoping to get her attention.
Like a person awakened from a dream, Heidi looked at her mom and smiled. “Oh, uh, how was your day, Mom?”
Mom wiped her hands on her apron and studied Heidi’s face. “My day was fine. How was yours?”
“Well … ,” Heidi began slowly, “it was … different.”
“I believe you. You seem to be a million miles away.”
“Well, maybe not a million. But at least as far as Arkansas.”
“Arkansas is a long way from California. What started you thinking about Arkansas?”
Mom cut an apple into four pieces and offered one to Heidi, who just cradled it in her hand.
“There’s a new boy named Billy coming to join our class tomorrow. The teacher told us his parents were both in a car accident in Arkansas. His mother died, and his father is in a hospital, not expected to live. Billy was sent here to California to live with an uncle.” Heidi looked down at the apple she was holding. “Can you imagine being that boy, Mom?”
“No, but you’re really trying to, aren’t you?”
Heidi nodded. “I just wish that there was something I could do for him. He’s going to feel so alone tomorrow.”
“I’m sure that there are some things you can do to help. Let’s think of some.”
“I can smile at him.”
“Good idea.”
“I can show him around the school and tell him about our classroom routine.” Heidi put her chin on her hand and looked up at her mother. “But it isn’t enough. Isn’t there something special I can do?”
“Well, there is something special we can do for Billy. Something that just might be ‘enough’.”
“What?”
“You and I can fast and pray for him. We can ask Heavenly Father to bless him to feel at peace in his new home and at his new school. We can also pray for his father to get well. What do you think about that?”
Heidi thought a moment about fast Sundays. She had been taught that fasting would help her feel the Spirit, but she usually just felt hungry and grumpy. She hesitated, but then something inside made her feel that it was going to be OK. She smiled at her mother. “I like that idea. Let’s do it.”
Just then, Heidi’s thirteen-year-old brother, Chris, entered the kitchen. Hearing Heidi’s last sentence, he asked, “Do what?”
Mom briefly told Chris about Billy and explained their plan. Chris said, “I’ll fast with you.”
“Wow! Really?” Heidi asked.
“Yeah, sure,” he answered, reaching for some cookies. Stopping his hand just above the cookie jar, he asked, “When do we start?”
“After dinner,” Mom answered.
The next day, Heidi came home, looking a little pale but happy.
“Wow! I thought fasting on Sundays was hard! Try playing kick ball and watching everyone else eat lunch! But you know, I believe our fasting and prayers helped Billy.”
“Oh good! Tell me about it.”
“Well, when I smiled at him, he smiled back at me. The other kids were pretty nice to him, and he seemed to have made friends with a couple of boys by the end of the day.”
“That’s great,” Mom said.
“And then—it was weird,” Heidi added. “You know how the language on the playground has been really bothering me lately?” Mom nodded, and Heidi continued, “Well, it was amazing, because I heard those same swear words but for some reason, they couldn’t get inside my mind. It was as if my brain was protected all day from getting dirty! Neat, huh?”
“That’s wonderful, Heidi,” Mom said, smiling.
“I’m really tired, but I feel happy. I hope Billy feels as peaceful as I do right now.”
Mom gave her a little hug. “I have a feeling he does.”
Chris came home, flopped into the nearest chair, and let his heavy pack thud to the floor. He leaned his head against the big cushion and closed his eyes. “When do we eat?”
“Let’s finish our fast together with a prayer. We’ll have dinner soon,” Mom suggested. “But first, tell me how your day went.”
“Well, you know how I’ve been dreading P. E. for weeks because a certain guy has been trying to shorten my life span?”
“Yes,” Mom answered, wondering what new form of violence this “gym enemy” had tried on Chris.
“I don’t know how to explain it, but today I didn’t feel any anger toward him, and he left me alone.”
As the three of them knelt to say one more prayer for Billy, Mom put her arms around her children’s shoulders. Was it her imagination, or had they both grown a little taller that day?

I was twelve years old when my grandfather died. To me he was the epitome of a saint—kindly, gentle, purely good.
His death was difficult for me to believe, and it made me very sad. I had not only lost a friend but I was also convinced that somehow heaven had allowed him to die too early. In my childish (though enthusiastic) understanding of the gospel, I had been sure that he was destined to be a great leader in the Church before he left this world. He was a man of great charity, who had literally given his shoes to a beggar knocking at the door, his coat to another man who was colder than he. I was sure that his death came too early. He had too much more service to give.
As I look back now, I see that I equated service with high callings. So many of the Saints have a basic goodness, a charity that qualifies them to be disciples. But serving is not synonymous with position. Whether serving in a visible calling or in secluded corners, disciples follow the example of the Christ. A calling may formalize our work for him, but serving is a blessing available to all of us, whether officially called through the Church organization or in our daily association with others.
My grandfather tried to copy the Savior’s life. My grandfather’s life was not wasted. I was deeply affected by his life, and I’m sure many other people were also influenced by him. I will tell my own children about the patterns of goodness that emerged in his life in simple yet powerful ways. Any one of us can become a disciple by following examples of goodness as he did.