Gospel Story Finder

When I was called to Tahiti on my mission, I remember thinking, “What am I going to do there?”
I was a new member of the Church. I didn’t know a lot about the gospel. I hadn’t read the Book of Mormon cover to cover, though I knew it was true. And I would have to learn two languages: Tahitian and French.
I felt inadequate.
Thankfully, I had two things going for me: I knew how to work, and I knew how to obey. Knowing how to work came from my father; knowing how to obey came from the gospel.
So when I got to my mission, I worked hard and I obeyed. As a result, the Lord blessed me with some wonderful experiences, and He taught me to rely on the Spirit. In the process, He also taught me patience, because I was not the most patient missionary. If I had a senior companion who didn’t want to work hard, even though I was the junior companion, I would say, ‘C’mon, let’s go! We’ve got to work!’”
When I became a senior companion, I thought, “Finally, I’ve arrived. I can control the work now.”
But my mission president assigned me a companion who didn’t want to work. By that point in my mission, thankfully, I had learned enough that I knew I had to love my companion, be kind to him, and be patient with him. I knew I couldn’t push him.
One night in the little village of Fare on the island of Huahine, we were at an investigator’s home. Instead of teaching, my companion was playing a board game with a family member and I was sitting there alone, feeling that nobody wanted to listen to me. It was my first assignment as a senior companion, and I felt that I was failing.
As I was having these thoughts and feelings, an outpouring of the Spirit came into my heart. I knew I was not alone. That stayed with me the whole night—not just for a moment. When I awoke the next morning, the feeling was still with me. I knew Heavenly Father loved me. I knew He cared about me. I knew He was with me. Knowing that gave me the strength I needed.
That was a key experience for me. My mission president knew that I needed to have experiences that would humble me and help me recognize my dependence on the Spirit. From that point on I had an incredible mission.

Guilt forced me onto the jayvee basketball team. The fact that I was an embarrassingly tall ninth grader factored little into my decision. The coach, who said my height made me a shoo-in, and my mother, who repeated something I’d heard in Sunday School about developing my talents, combined to make me feel I had no choice.
Actually, I could think of a lot of good reasons to become a star athlete. I wasn’t the fame and glory that made me hesitate; it was something much more basic—my legs.
Playing basketball would mean exposing my skinny, white legs with their bulbous knees to the entire world. My knobby knees, my skinny thighs, my fleshless calves would lose their protective veil of pants. The shiny white skin, long hidden from the sun, would be burnt by hundreds of eyes, including the eyes of the prettiest girl in the tenth grade—Debbie McCulley.
I had spent many hours trying to convince myself my legs did not look that bad. After all, a tall, skinny kid would look funny with short, fat legs. I repeated the arguments over and over, but tryouts came and I still hoped I wouldn’t make the team.
But, because I was the second tallest kid at the tryouts, making the team was surprisingly easy. And, best of all, we were allowed to wear sweatpants, so all that stuck out beneath the ankles of my sweats were my feet.
The sweats kept everyone from laughing at my legs. The sweats and the fact that they were busy laughing at my clumsiness. I spent most of the time discovering how slippery and hard a wood floor could be.
But as the opening game approached, my basketball skills were improving. I bounced the ball on the floor instead of my feet; I made lay-ups instead of fall-downs; and I rarely missed the backboard when I shot the ball. Still, there was no real danger I would be a starter. I wasn’t that good. However, I might get subbed into a game, if it wasn’t too close or if several people got injured. So exposing my legs was still a threat.
The day of our first game came too quickly. As the hours before the game passed, my tension mounted. In the locker room I noticed my legs looked whiter than usual, and I blindfolded them with the team sweatpants before going out to the court for warm-up drills.
I had hoped to sprain an ankle during warm-ups, just a minor sprain that would heal in time for the stake dance on Saturday night. My legs, as a whole, liked the idea, but the ankles wanted no part of it. After all, they had socks to hide behind. Besides, getting injured while warming up is not without its own level of embarrassment.
But the drills went well and even provided a level of encouragement. I managed to avoid missing any lay-ups and, since I only took close shots, I was able to at least hit the backboard. I also had the presence of mind to formulate a plan for avoiding substitution into the game, my strategy of “inconspicuous bench warming.” I would do nothing extreme. I would root louder than my quietest teammate and quieter than the loudest. I would be neater than the sloppiest and sloppier than the neatest. I even applied this strategy to the bench itself, deciding not to sit right next to the coach and not at the far end either. With some judicious maneuvering after a silent pregame prayer (during which I asked for the obvious), I managed to plant myself near the middle of the bench, but not exactly in the middle.
We lost the game, but I felt satisfied—the coach did not even talk to me.
Then the first home game approached. The coach told us the other team looked even weaker than us, and if the starters could run up a quick lead, everyone might get into the game. I managed a weak smile and tried to appear anxious to play, but not too anxious, as I felt my heart sink to my knobby knees.
The next morning started early. I couldn’t concentrate in seminary or school. I spent the day looking at each of my classmates, picturing them laughing at the sight of my outlandish legs. Soon I would be in a gymnasium full of people—including Debbie McCulley—and they all would fall from the bleachers laughing at me.
Eventually it was time for the game, and luck seemed to be with me as the score stayed close during the first half. With no big lead, the coach would want to keep the starters in, so I started to feel much better and resumed a moderate amount of cheering. With less than a minute to go in the first half, my position on the bench looked mighty secure.
Then, as if in slow motion, our center, Josh Pasquali, went down grabbing his ankle—maybe I was too smug and this was my punishment. The coach helped Josh off the court. Suddenly I was the tallest player on our team.
“Get that warm-up suit off, Kendall,” the coach barked. “You’re in for Pasquali.”
My mind raced to think of a way out of this nightmare.
“Kendall, hurry it up!”
I clenched my teeth, closed my eyes, and took off my sweatpants. I listened carefully for the peals of insane laughter I knew would follow, but all I heard were some scattered cheers and applause. I opened my eyes, laid down my pants, and checked into the game. Could the stands be filled with blind people or could they just be here to watch a basketball game and not my knees?
I made my basketball debut lining up to rebound a foul shot. My teammate missed, but I got the rebound and quickly put my first two points on the scoreboard. Some more cheering came from the stands.
The final minute of the first half went by much quicker than I had expected. Soon I was back in the safety of the locker room, pulling on my sweatpants. On the training table sat our injured center, with the nurse looking at his ankle. She poked and twisted the injured joint for a moment. I felt sorry for Josh as I watched his grimacing face. As I gazed at him, his big feet caught my eye.
“I may have knobby knees,” I thought to myself, “but at least I don’t have to walk around with swim fins for feet.”
I pretended to listen to the coach’s pep talk, but my mind flashed to Debbie McCulley cheering for my basket. True, I did not actually see her do this, but it was her job as a cheerleader to cheer. And besides, I was almost certain I could hear her voice yelling just a little bit louder for me than she did for the other players. Maybe if I could get a few more points, she might not laugh at me if I asked her to dance at the stake dance.
By the time the second half was ready to start I was almost anxious to strip off my sweats and play ball. I had taken my warm-up seriously, even practicing to rebound the shots my teammates missed. I saw sports herodom within my grasp. Then I saw Josh Pasquali come back out on the floor, take a few shots, test his ankle, and check in for the second half.
For the rest of the game, I sat next to the coach and tried to deafen him with my enthusiasm. With a close score the entire game, I did not get back in to play. After the final buzzer sounded I started for the locker room. Looking over my shoulder, I saw Debbie and two other cheerleaders behind me.
“Nice shot, Matt,” Debbie said as she slid past. She had noticed me, and I didn’t even do much that was noticeable.
“Thanks,” I blurted out. “Um. I can dance, too.”
“Great,” she said, heading through the door. “Save me a dance this Saturday.”
“Okay,” I said, and bounded joyously up the stairs to our locker room.
I sat down next to Josh in the locker room, thinking about the dance. I took off my sneakers and tossed them on the floor. They landed beside Josh’s pair. My joy of anticipation for the dance turned instantly to dread as I noticed my sneakers lying beside Josh’s. Good grief! They were the same size! How could I ever go to a dance with such big feet?

A few years ago, I learned to index during a large indexing activity organized at the Les Abymes meetinghouse, led in part by Sabrina Bastien. It didn’t particularly captivate me as I found the documents difficult to read. Another time, I participated in an indexing activity on a Sunday with young people who had been called to serve as temple and family history consultants. I then began trying to do it alone at home, calling Sister Bastien for help when problems arose, and reading explanations on FamilySearch. I started indexing every Sunday afternoon. It became a way for me to help my family with their genealogy, as we are all part of our Heavenly Father’s family. If I find it easy to locate my close family, it’s because others have done work for me.
So, it’s my turn to return the favor. I noticed that by asking for help from our Heavenly Father, I could read certain writing more easily. This allowed me to have patience. During the first major COVID-19 lockdown, I indexed every day. And then every Sunday. I am happy to be able to help, through indexing, in bringing families together on both sides of the veil.
I used to index, but I stopped. This challenge encouraged me to resume service. [I found that] as soon as I engage in indexing, the Lord helps me stay calm, and patient, and I see difficult-to-decipher names light up. I feel joy in doing this service and want to do it over and over again. Thank you for the encouragement. Some of you (consultants) have the gift of motivating others to go further and contribute to this work. I am blessed and grateful to have you as brothers and sisters in Christ.
I started indexing when I became a Church member (10 years ago) And since then, I have participated in this work, thinking that I am serving others. I dedicate myself to it on Sundays in general, depending on my motivation level. My participation in the challenge this month helped me develop more patience and compassion for the people listed in the documents. And as Nathalie said, I developed the gift of indexing. I can add this gift to my list that I thought was empty.
During this indexing campaign, I learned that the Lord would allow me, with the help of other members, to better understand His work. I learned that with members who love each other, this work becomes a joy and a source of fulfillment. My relationships with my brothers and sisters have strengthened, thanks to this indexing month, and I love them even more intensely. I have developed, with other members, the gift of indexing.
Indexing did not interest me until now. The challenge allowed me to see indexing truly as a service rendered that will benefit everyone, the whole human family. The indexing group allowed me to get involved and be part of the game.
Indexing brings me even closer to Jesus Christ; it brings me a lot of joy when I do it. I feel a satisfaction that makes me want to continue. Thank you for your example.
This month of indexing has been revealing for me and has given me more momentum on the idea of indexing, and I am grateful to all of you. It also allowed me to become aware of several other things, among others: patience, perseverance, unity, and that whatever happens, the work of our Heavenly Father will move forward with or without us. So, I prefer to be part of it because I know more than ever that it is His work, and I am confident in the continuation of this mission because God cannot lie, and the spirit of Elijah is what will help us resist the difficulties to come in the last days.
I had already had the opportunity to index, but I admit it was not my favorite part of the work of family history. So, it was done a little here and a little there, especially during challenges. However, this year, because of all of you and the Lord, I felt a strength, and a motivation that allowed me to index beyond what I thought I could. I felt close to these people; I was participating in something marvelous. The spirit of Elijah was present. I sometimes saw the correct names materialize before my eyes. Indexing has taken on a spiritual dimension for me. I will continue to do it. The work must be done on both sides of the veil. So, yes, thank you, thank you to the Lord and to each of you for your encouragement, your help, and your love.

On July 22, 1839, in Commerce (now Nauvoo), Illinois, and in Montrose, Iowa, the Prophet went from house to house healing one after another of the sick and suffering Saints. Among those healed were Brigham Young and several of the Twelve. To one man who was at death’s door, the man of God said, “Brother Fordham, I command you in the name of Jesus Christ to arise from this bed and be made whole.” Wilford Woodruff, who was present, said, “His voice was like the voice of God, and not of man. It seemed as though the house shook to its foundations. Brother Fordham arose from his bed and was immediately made well.” (Essentials in Church History, p. 270.)

Much later, when I was a husband, father, and businessman, I was invited to attend a lunch with the president of the Republic of Guatemala. I found myself in a room with many other guests. When the president entered, waiters poured liquor so that everyone could join in a toast. But I covered my glass with my hand. The president said, “Mr. Pérez, won’t you join me in a toast?”
I replied, “Mr. President, if you’re asking me if I will wish you success in your government, I will. But if you’re asking me if I will drink liquor, I will not. I am a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. If that is a problem, I can leave right now.”
He said, “No, no.” They drank their liquor, and we sat down. A little later the president said, “Tell me something of your church,” and I did.
It doesn’t matter where we are or whom we are with, we can always stand by our principles. If we make a firm decision once and for all, when temptations arise we don’t have to think, “What am I going to do?” or “What am I not going to do?” The decision is already made.
We are never alone. Even though His creation is so immense, our Father in Heaven knows that you live and that I live. He knows our hearts. He knows our thoughts. He has given us His perfect plan of happiness because He loves us. He is always searching for ways to bless us.

More than 1,100 years ago, Viking explorers settled an isolated island located midway between North America and Europe and just south of the Arctic Circle. This was Iceland—a place both inhospitable and beautiful. Life could not have been easy for these settlers as they endured the harsh weather and struggled to tame the rugged land.
All the Nordic countries shared a common language during this early period, and many stories, or sagas, relating heroic episodes in the founding and settling of Iceland were written. Modern Icelanders, who still speak essentially the same language as their Viking ancestors, can read these medieval sagas with little difficulty.
Little has really changed in Iceland today. Life is still not easy, but another saga is unfolding—another chapter in the history of this land is being written—even now.
In 1851, almost 150 years ago, the restored gospel of Jesus Christ was first taught in Iceland. The Church flourished for a while, but in 1914, after a difficult period of persecution, missionary work was discontinued. It was not until 1977 that Elder Joseph B. Wirthlin, then a member of the Seventy, officially dedicated the country for missionary work. Today, a comparatively small group of devoted Latter-day Saints is working hard to keep the commandments and to share the gospel message with friends and neighbors.
Their work has not been without its challenges. The language itself was one of the first obstacles—Icelandic is spoken nowhere else in the world. One of the major needs of the fledgling Church in Iceland was translated Church materials. They had no scriptures and no manuals—all the lesson materials had to be translated each week.
When missionaries returned to Iceland in 1975, Sveinbjörg Gudmundsdóttir was one of the first Icelanders to investigate the Church. She spoke fluent English, and soon after her baptism in 1976, she began her 20-year career as a translator for the Church. “My first assignment was to translate the Book of Mormon,” she recalls. “I knew I wasn’t qualified—I had never really translated anything but pamphlets for the missionaries.” She spent many hours on her knees in humble prayer. “I knew I could not do it without the help of the Lord,” she says. The task was overwhelming, but Sister Sveinbjörg felt the guidance of the Holy Ghost. The Icelandic Book of Mormon was published in June 1981.
With the Icelandic scriptures now in their hands, the Saints in Iceland found a new strength and determination. The desire to obtain the blessings of the temple became foremost in their hearts, but to those who spoke only Icelandic, the goal seemed distant. Some members who spoke English did make the long and expensive journey to visit the temple in London, England. Others with a limited knowledge of English also went, but the difficulty of understanding the words sometimes made the experience overwhelming and frustrating. They dreamed of the day when the translation of the temple ceremony would be available.
Waiting for the realization of that dream was an exercise in faith. In 1981, Sister Sveinbjörg had been assigned to go to Salt Lake City to translate the temple ceremony; However, that translation was never recorded. A decade passed before she made that long journey once again—this time to update the translation and prepare it for recording.
During those 10 years of hoping and waiting, the Church in Iceland was growing. Testimonies were being nurtured, and new members were continually adding their strength. Gudmundur Sigurdsson and his wife, Valgerdur Knutsdóttir, were baptized in 1982. He was called to be the Reykjavík Branch president in 1983, and he became the first Icelandic district president in 1986.
Gummi (as he likes to be called) remembers the struggles they faced as the Church was gaining a foothold in Iceland. “We felt so isolated because we had no background for the Church in Iceland—we had no one to ask how things should be done. Sometimes people would offer to help me, but the problem was, I didn’t know what to ask for! Now we have built a base of leadership, and they are ready to be of assistance as new leaders are called.”
One of those more recently called leaders is Bárdur Á. Gunnarsson, current president of the Reykjavík Branch. He, too, first heard of the Church in 1982, but that was a time in his life when his thoughts were far from religion. Even though his lifestyle was not so different from most other young men in his country, he had many obstacles to overcome. “I tried several times to quit smoking and drinking, but I didn’t have the strength to do it,” Bárdur recalls. He had a family, but it was one that began without the blessing of a marriage ceremony. Finally, four years after the elders first knocked on his door, his desire to unite his family and to seek forgiveness led him to be married to Ólöf Bjarnadóttir, the mother of his three daughters. Ólöf was not ready to be baptized at that time, but she did give her consent for him to take their three little girls to church every Sunday. “My patriarchal blessing told me I would go to the temple with my wife and children, and I worked very hard to make this happen,” said Bárdur.
Bárdur’s dream of uniting his family began to come true in 1994 when word was received that the Icelandic temple ceremony was scheduled to be recorded in the Salt Lake Temple. In May of that year, Ólöf accompanied him to Salt Lake City, along with the small group who had been called to make the recording. While there, surrounded by their friends, Bárdur baptized his wife in the baptistry of the Salt Lake Tabernacle. They were sealed in the London Temple one year later.
After five days, the recording project was completed. Before the group who did the recording left the temple, they were allowed to view a small portion of the finished product. “Seeing just a part of the film and hearing those first few words in our own language touched me deep in my heart—it was something I will never forget,” said Gummi. “That increased our fervent desire to share this wonderful experience with all our brothers and sisters at home.”
It was now possible to think about organizing a trip to the temple for the members of the Reykjavík Branch. There was much preparing to be done—in addition to becoming worthy for temple recommends, branch members had to do genealogical research to find family names, and they had to save money for the trip. When whole families were planning to go, this became a sizable amount!
“There was a wonderful excitement, an extra amount of love and care shown among the members as they prepared for this experience,” recalls district president Ólafur Einarsson. “It brought a feeling of unity to the branch that we had not felt before.”
The necessary preparations were completed, and 38 members of the Reykjavík Branch—adults and children—journeyed to the London Temple in June 1995. For a week, they devoted themselves to the work of the Lord. “It was an unforgettable experience to see the joy on the faces of our group as the Spirit touched our hearts,” recalls one branch member. “The love and kindness we felt toward one another continued to grow as we shared the joy of our temple experiences.” They returned to their homes and families with strengthened testimonies and a renewed love of the gospel.
As the Church becomes stronger, the saga of the Saints in Iceland continues. In June 1996—still filled with memories of their experiences the previous year—some of the members of the Reykjavík Branch made a second trip to the London Temple. There, they once again were blessed to participate in holy ordinances as they renewed their covenants with the Lord—in the language of their Viking ancestors.

Hi! We’re Kynzley and Jayme. We did a service project to help a family in our ward. We raised a lamb and a pig and then sold them at our county fair.
Our friends’ dad was really sick. He went to see the doctor many times. Their family couldn’t go to church for a long time. We missed our friends in Primary. We wanted to help!
We decided to give the family the money we made when we sold our animals at the county fair. The money could help them pay medical bills.
We worked for nine months on our project. We prayed and fasted that we would pick good animals to raise. As we raised our lamb and pig, we spent a lot of time planning for the county fair. We made shirts, walked in parades, asked for donations, and helped organize the sale.
On the day of the fair, our animals were healthy and strong. We did a great job showing them at the livestock show. We were happy we could give the money we made to the family. We ended our project with a fast for them.
Working on this project helped us come closer to Heavenly Father. We learned to trust Him more. We did our best and let Him help us as we listened to the Holy Ghost. We struggled when our animals did not do what we wanted. But we remembered why we were raising them. We did our best to earn as much money as we could. We relied on the Lord and just worked hard.
We know that Heavenly Father cares about all of us and wants to help us. We are glad that we could help others too!
Illustration by Kiersten Eagan

As my siblings and I started high school, my dad could see the busy schedules of our teenage lives begin to crowd out precious family time. So he required my sisters and me to be home between five and seven o’clock for dinner every night. At first this was hard, but as we honored his wishes, something beautiful happened.

Every evening we came home to each other from school, work, and activities. We learned how to prepare dinner. We ate and talked together every night and then read the scriptures together. I still remember the spirit I felt as my mother and father testified of true gospel principles. There was a spirit of love and acceptance there that allowed us to express ourselves and discuss difficult topics. And when our parents needed to teach us something, it came naturally during scripture discussions, with love and testimony. We argued less among each other and became best friends.

Although I was involved in many things during my high school years, this memory stands out most in my mind: my family time together around the dinner table. All the other rewarding experiences I had during those years were silver, and this was gold.

Those dinner hours we spent together had a huge impact on the way I dealt with challenges and how I felt about life and myself. I knew that no matter what happened outside our home, I had a family who cared about me.

I knew Shannon couldn’t help being talented and intelligent. It wasn’t her fault that she always came home with straight A’s and that she had a natural talent for music and art. It also wasn’t her fault that her hair flowed softly over her shoulders and that she had the long willowy body of a model. But none of these things helped me any.
It was the summer before I was to enter high school. Everytime I looked in the mirror there was another freckle until they were all over everywhere, even on my toes. I was plump and dumpy, and I had hair that would only go the way it wasn’t supposed to go. I marveled that our parents’ genes could play such a dirty trick. How could one child turn out so lovely, enchanting, and full of grace, and the other turn out to be a homely little 16-year-old nobody.
That summer things were at an all-time, record-breaking low for me because I was to enter Jackson High School in September. I wasn’t looking forward to it. I begged my parents to let me transfer to another school, but they could see no sense in it. It made perfect sense to me. Shannon had been junior prom queen and secretary of her class and had sung the lead in the big musical just the year before. How could I follow in those footsteps? I also got nauseated at the thought of hearing those words again—the words I had heard all through Everest Elementary and Weston Junior High: “Is Shannon your sister?” (with the accent on the your). “Why she’s so beautiful … so talented …” (so everything you’re not). I knew I would hear those words dozens of times. They would bring tears of anger to my eyes. Yet how could they help being amazed? It wasn’t anyone’s fault.
Even though I knew no one was to blame, certainly not Shannon, I took my unhappiness out on her. There are subtle ways to persecute a sister. I knew them all. When she was trying to take a nap, I turned up my radio. When she tried a new recipe, I refused to eat it because it looked “funny.” I slipped into the shower just as she was getting ready to take one. I borrowed her shoes without asking. And I hurt her in thousands of more painful psychological ways.
But, Shannon never complained. It was always “Good morning, Janet.” Her cheerfulness made it worse, and I tried to think of more ways to make her angry. Nothing I did, however, seemed to stir her quiet grace. I guess the worst way I hurt Shannon was when I tuned her out of my life. I stopped telling her things, stopped sharing secrets, and stopped listening. When she came into my room just to talk, I would cut her off with “I’m busy right now.” She would walk out of my room sadly, and pretty soon she quit coming in. Our communication deteriorated to one- and two-word sentences. That summer we stopped being close because I wanted it that way.
Then it happened. It was just two weeks before school would start, and I had a date with Robert Bates. It was only the second date I had had all summer, and Robert was a pretty super guy. I had no idea why he had lowered himself to asking me out unless it was because we had had some fun times during roadshow rehearsals. I was excited and nervous, but I knew we’d have a good time because we got along pretty well. We doubled with Jill Quigley and John Turnbine and the date turned out to be even more fun than I had anticipated. In fact, I hadn’t had so much fun all summer.
Afterwards we stopped at my house for ice cream, and then we all sang around the piano. Jill could play the piano almost as well as Shannon.
“All I can play is the bass viol,” I proclaimed. No one believed me, so I went upstairs to get it. I had taken up the bass viol because I knew Shannon would never try to play one. She wasn’t the bass viol type.
The wall between our bedrooms is thin, and I was puzzled to hear Shannon in her room because I knew that she had had a date with Jack Smithson. I liked Jack because he was nice to me, and I set great store in a man who can be nice to his date’s little sister. The next thing I heard puzzled me even more. It was the sound of subdued sniffling. Shannon rarely cried. What did she have to cry about? My first reaction was curiosity, but I forced myself not to speak. I didn’t want to get involved.
Picking up my bass, I started toward the stairs. Getting it down the stairs was always the most difficult part. I had gone only a few awkward steps when I heard another sniffle. I wanted to just pretend I hadn’t heard: I could just go down the stairs and no one would know I had heard Shannon crying. Well, except me. I leaned my bass against the wall, walked back to Shannon’s door and knocked.
“You okay?” I didn’t get an answer and my duty was done, so I turned back toward the stairs, but there was another sob.
“I know you’re in there. Now, what on earth is the matter?” My voice was icy.
“Nothing. Just leave me alone,” she squeaked. “Just please, please, leave me alone.”
“Well, I’ll be back.”
I showed the group my bass viol and played for them. I think Robert was impressed even though I made a couple of bad mistakes. It was getting late, however, and everyone was tired, so they left—but I knew Robert would call me again.
When I went back upstairs, Shannon was sitting by her dressing table brushing her hair, pretending that nothing was wrong. I must say she didn’t look beautiful. Her skin was blotched and her aristocratic nose was swollen and red.
“What is it? Can I help you?”
“What?”
“Can I help?” I was as surprised as she was that I had said it. I guess it was because she looked so pitiful sitting there trying to pretend nothing was wrong. The shock of my concern set her off again, and she began sobbing like smooth, collected Shannon had never sobbed since we were small. It affected me so much that I put my hand on her shoulder and patted it.
“Come on. Come on. Things aren’t that bad, are they? Does it have something to do with Jack? You can tell me if you want to. I mean I’d like to hear if you feel like telling me.”
“You would?” I was ashamed at her amazement.
“Yes, I would.”
“Are you sure you don’t mind? Oh, Janet, I’m so miserable.”
“Come on; tell me about it.”
She sobbed again, gulped, and got control of herself.
“I’ve wanted so much to tell you about Jack. He’s all I’ve been able to think about for weeks. I can’t explain what it is about him. He’s different from the other boys I’ve dated. He’s so good-looking and intelligent and a good athlete, but it doesn’t seem to affect him. None of that has gone to his head. He’s always courteous and kind to people, even little children. Now I’ll never see him again.”
“What happened?”
“Oh, it was just awful. I couldn’t think of anything to say. I was nervous and jittery, and my stomach was all twisted inside. I was a bore. Finally I asked him to take me home early. I knew he was having a lousy time.”
“Oh, come now, Shannon. It’s all your imagination. Things couldn’t have been that bad.”
“They were. They were.” She began crying again. Then suddenly she blurted out some words that took me entirely by surprise.
“And it’s your fault.”
“My fault?” I couldn’t imagine what she meant. “What do you mean my fault?”
“I guess I might as well tell you what ruined the date. Just as we were going out the door, you had to come in and do one of your cute little routines. You always do that when I go out with someone—come in and show off your personality. Then, on the way out to the car, Jack said, ‘Wow, your little sister is sure a little firecracker. What a personality!’ After that the whole date was ruined. I couldn’t think of anything to say. I was like a dead battery. If I could have been like you, he would have liked me. You can always think of funny, witty things to say, and you always remember jokes and sayings. I get sick of people saying, ‘Is Janet your sister? Why she’s so bubbly and so full of energy!’ What they’re really saying is that I’m a bore.”
I was so stunned that I just sat there on her bed in a stupor. “Is she your sister?” I had almost hated her for those words. Then I began laughing, but I was crying at the same time.

Elder Graham W. Doxey, who once served in the Second Quorum of the Seventy, told me of an experience. His mother, who was later a counselor in the Primary general presidency, also told me of this experience.
During World War II, he was in the navy posted to China. He and several others went by train to the city of Tientsin to look around.
Later they boarded a train to return to their base, but after more than an hour, the train turned north. They were on the wrong train! They spoke no Chinese. They pulled the emergency cord and stopped the train. They were put off somewhere in the countryside with nothing to do but walk back to the city.
After walking for some time, they found a small pump-handle car, the kind that the railroad workers use. They set it in the rails and began to pump their way along the tracks. It would coast downhill, but it had to be pushed uphill.
As they came to one steep downhill slope, they scrambled aboard the car and began to coast. Graham was the last to get aboard. The only place left for him was in the front of the car. He ran alongside and finally climbed aboard. As he did so, he slipped and fell. He was bouncing on his back with his feet against the car to keep from being run over. As the car quickly gained speed, he heard his mother’s voice say, “Bud, you be careful!”
He wore heavy military boots. His foot slipped, and the thick sole of his boot caught in a gear of a wheel and stopped the car just one foot (30 cm) from his hand.
His parents, who were presiding over the East Central States Mission at the time, were sleeping in a hotel room. His mother sat up at about 2:00 in the morning and awakened her husband: “Bud’s in trouble!” They knelt by the bed and prayed for the safety of their boy.
The next letter he received said, “Bud, what’s wrong? What happened to you?”
He then wrote to tell them what had happened. When they compared times, at the very time he was bouncing along that track, his parents were on their knees in the hotel room half a world away, praying for his safety.

In my own immediate neighborhood we have had our share of heart-wrenching tragedies. In October 1998, 19-year-old Zac Newton, who lived only three houses east of us, was killed in a tragic automobile accident.
Less than two years later, in July, 19-year-old Andrea Richards, who lived directly across from the Newtons, was killed in an automobile accident.
One Saturday afternoon in July 2006, Travis Bastian, a 28-year-old returned missionary, and his 15-year-old sister, Desiree, who lived across the street and two houses north of us, were killed in a terrible automobile accident.
One month later, in August 2006, 32-year-old Eric Gold, who grew up in the house next door to us, suffered a premature death. And others in this neighborhood have also suffered heart-wrenching experiences privately endured and known only to themselves and God.
With the loss of five young people, one might assume that this is an unusual number of trials for one small neighborhood. I choose to think the number only seems large because of a close, caring ward, whose members know when there is a pressing need. It is a ward with members who are following the admonition of Alma and the Savior—members who care and love and bear one another’s burdens, members who are willing to mourn with those that mourn, members who are willing to comfort those in need of comfort, members who endure together.
In each of these instances we saw an outpouring of love, service, and compassion that was inspirational to all. Bishops arrived, home and visiting teachers went into action, and Melchizedek and Aaronic Priesthood quorums and Relief Societies organized to take care of both spiritual and temporal needs. Refrigerators were stocked, houses cleaned, lawns mowed, shrubs trimmed, fences painted, blessings given, and soft shoulders were available for crying on. Members were everywhere.
In every one of these instances, the families who lost a loved one expressed increased faith, increased love for the Savior, increased gratitude for the Atonement, and heartfelt thankfulness for an organization that responds to the deepest emotional and spiritual needs of its members. These families now speak about how they got to know the Lord through their adversity. They relate many sweet experiences that grew out of their pain. They testify that blessings can emerge from heartbreak. They give praise to the Lord and would echo the words of Job: “The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord” (Job 1:21).

Old Jerusalem.
Narrow streets—barely wider than alleys—are crowded with people from all over the world: tourists in shorts and sunglasses, priests wearing vestments of various religious orders, young soldiers carrying machine guns, Jewish men and boys wearing skullcaps, and Arabs in flowing robes and shepherd headwear. Some women are dressed in shawls and veils; others are wearing business suits. Little children are darting through the crowd.
As we make our way through the souk (marketplace), the sound of bargaining is everywhere. And the choices are overwhelming. Shopkeepers advertise their goods by lining them out in the street in front of their stores. Wicker baskets are filled with nuts, fruits, and vegetables. Long embroidered dresses hang from overhead. Shelves are filled with religious statues carved from olive wood. There are rows and rows of brass cookware, copper and silver trays, glazed Armenian ceramics, and Persian jugs. And there is an endless array of gold and silver jewelry, sheepskin and leather coats, and exotic oriental rugs.
Someone is making falafel (a fried mixture of spicy ground vegetables); someone else is roasting shish kebab; the smell of fresh bread mingles with the aroma of strange spices. Merchants stand at their doors and invite us inside. Music from various cultures blares from radios.
My wife, Mary, and I stop in a small shop that sells religious items significant to Christians, Jews, and Muslims. As we browse, the shopkeeper—a short, thin Arab man—explains the meaning and use of several items. And he tells us about the Koran.
We decide on our purchase and begin the expected ritual of bargaining on the price. Hoping we’ve settled on a fair amount, we hand the man several crisp, new bills.
He counts them out and surprises us by handing one back.
“You gave me too much,” he explains. The new bills had stuck together. We had overpaid him.
“Thank you,” Mary says. “We appreciate your honesty.”
“Oh, I’m not being honest for you,” the man replies. “I’m being honest for me and my household. I will not buy food for my family with dishonest money!”
As we return to the noisy, crowded street, we realize that we got more than we bargained for—the memory of an Arab friend who wouldn’t sell himself for a crisp, new dollar bill.

When I first accepted employment, I came to a decision that accounts in great measure for any success I may have had as a single parent: giving prime time to the children. Prime time meant every evening, with few exceptions. Since I was away all day, I decided that I should be home at night. This was a marked change from former days when my husband’s position as a television network executive involved us both in a busy business and social schedule in and out of town. Time and again as I had appeared to be all attention during a conversation, I had been worrying about the children’s homework or how dinner was progressing at home.
As we had traveled, I had thought about where the children were. At length, after Ralph’s death, I concluded that the next year would be different. I was needed at home more in the evenings when the children were there.
All decisions that shaped our future were not mine alone. The children had choices to make, too. They learned to cook through trial and error and became quite adept at cleaning the house. With their mother at work during the day, they went places by themselves on foot, bicycle, or bus. “Ask not what your mother can do for you, but what you can do for your mother,” became the watchword in our home. All children worked at summer jobs as soon as they were old enough. We even caught the littlest one selling his carefully scrubbed rocks from door to door in the neighborhood. Self-sufficiency, they soon learned, was the way to live.
Although I found myself widowed at a relatively young age, I was blessed with a generous measure of faith and hopefulness. I tried to convey this feeling to my children. The entire family felt a strong sense of opportunity and of the Lord’s hand in our lives.
Friends and family members also contributed their suggestions and ideas for our welfare. There was valuable advice and assistance regarding summer jobs, schools, scholarships, and many other things. Friends were there in times of illness, trouble, and teenage crises. They included us in family activities, fathers and sons’ outings, and other events. Our bishops and priesthood leaders were always available for counsel. Being on the receiving end of so much kindness is often difficult, but it has taught me and my children that blessings from the Lord are not just dropped on our heads. They are brought to pass through the hearts and hands of others.
A woman in the role of single parent, whether widowed or divorced, has a very special calling, and she will be held accountable before the Lord for what she does with her stewardship. Although her spouse is absent, she stands nonetheless commissioned by the Lord to perform the charge he issued to all parents: “And they shall also teach their children to pray, and to walk uprightly before the Lord” (D&C 68:28; see also D&C 68:25–27 and D&C 68:29–32). She may feel at times that she carries a disproportionate share of that responsibility, yet she has the Lord’s assurance that he will prepare a way for her to accomplish her task. (See 1 Ne. 3:7.)
The principal lessons a parent must teach are those of spiritual values. Elder Boyd K. Packer of the Council of the Twelve has suggested that when children are interested or teachable we should immediately take advantage of that moment and teach them. (See Boyd K. Packer, Teach Ye Diligently, Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Co., 1975, page 110.) When they are spiritually hungry, feed them. Without really knowing it, I followed this precept. We discussed gospel concepts freely while preparing the salad, walking to school, or sitting around the dinner table. It was not unusual for us to talk about the Atonement or the Second Coming any more than it was for us to talk about what was happening in the government or in the school classroom.
Through the years, I have proved the following scripture many times: “Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding.
“In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths” (Prov. 3:5–6).
We view eternity through the small window of mortal time: “For now we see through a glass, darkly” (1 Cor. 13:12). The day will come when we shall each see our lives with clear vision and an eternal perspective. We shall then have a full knowledge of what we understand by faith now: That the Lord does not leave us alone when we seek him, that he is never in debt to us, and that he always compensates. By showing us our weaknesses and providing an opportunity to turn them to strengths, he exchanges our dross for gold.

Cold wind blew as Brigham Young arrived at Sugar Creek on the evening of February 15, 1846. Scattered around a snowy patch of woods, not far from an icy brook, hundreds of Saints shivered in damp coats and blankets. Many families collected around fires or underneath tents fashioned from bedsheets or wagon covers. Others huddled together in carriages or wagons for warmth.1

Right away Brigham knew he needed to organize the camp. With the help of other Church leaders, he divided the Saints into companies and called captains to lead them. He warned against taking unnecessary trips back to Nauvoo, being idle, and borrowing without permission. Men were to protect the camp constantly and monitor cleanliness, and each family was to pray together mornings and evenings.2

A good spirit soon settled over the camp. Safely out of Nauvoo, the Saints worried less about mobs or government threats to stop the exodus. In the evenings, a brass band played lively music while the men and women danced. Saints who practiced plural marriage also became less guarded and began to speak openly about the principle and how it linked their families together.3

Sister Nichole Franklyn, Relief Society president in the Kingstown Branch, recalls, “We started a kitchen garden. We were happy, but it took a lot of work. We prayed each night over the crops, and Heavenly Father heard our prayers and blessed them.” Their simple garden has grown and is producing.
Not all the produce in their garden is ready to harvest, but they are reaping cucumbers and sweet peppers. They were worried that the ash fall would ruin their garden as it has much of the agriculture on the island. “Many crops have been completely wiped out, but God has spared ours. We were able to reap cucumbers. Right now, we can sell our cucumbers for five dollars per pound, but we opted to share with three shelters,” Sister Franklyn said.
Sister Franklyn is grateful for the blessings that her garden has brought to her family and to those in the shelters. “The Lord watches out for His children and provides when we are able to follow His teachings through our leaders,” she said. “It really feels good to give rather than to receive at this time.”

On 4 Dec 2020, Bishop Les Pointer of the Telford Ward, Newcastle-under-Lyme Stake, accepted an award on behalf of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in recognition for its generous support of the Telford and Wrekin Interfaith Council. The award was presented by Raj Mehta, chair and founder of the Telford and Wrekin Interfaith Council, and a town councillor.
Since Bishop Pointer’s call in October 2017, he has led the ward members to work ever closer with the community and other local faith groups. He was invited to become a trustee of the Telford and Wrekin Interfaith Council in April 2020. Admittedly, before the COVID-19 pandemic, it was easier to serve the local community. Despite the pandemic, Ward members have been able to find appropriate and safe ways to continue serving the community throughout 2020. Bishop Pointer was also nominated for an Unsung Heroes Award from the Telford and Wrekin Borough Council, which he accepted on behalf of ward members.

“Alexander, please be quiet and put the bear away. It’s time for the sacrament.” Alexander put the bear back into his sister’s diaper bag and slumped down on the bench. I know I’m supposed to think about Jesus during the sacrament, he thought, but I don’t really know what to think about. Sometimes he tried to imagine what Jesus Christ looked like. Long hair, a beard, white clothes, and sandals, maybe with lots of straps. It seems like Jesus walked around a lot, he thought.
I walk a lot, too, he decided. I’d like walking home from school if it weren’t for Zachary. Why does he have to bother me? He’s always walking close behind me and stepping on my heels. One of these days, I’m going to clobber him. I’ll just turn around so fast, he won’t have time to duck, and I’ll whack him with my backpack. No, that would make Mom and Dad sad. What can—
The deacon brought the bread, and Alexander remembered that he was supposed to be thinking about Jesus Christ. He passed the tray along and tried to concentrate again. He remembered the words of a Primary song: “It shouldn’t be hard to sit very still And think about Jesus, his cross on the hill. … It shouldn’t be hard, even though I am small, To think about Jesus, not hard at all.”* He tried to picture the images in the song. He thought of the poster that Sister Behunin had made to teach them the words of the song. Sister Behunin always makes good posters, he decided.
He heard the priest begin the prayer on the water, and he closed his eyes and again tried to concentrate. “… that they do always remember him, that they may have his Spirit to be with them. Amen.”**
“Always remember him.” Remember what? It’s hard to remember something I don’t even know, Alexander thought.
After church, Dad reminded him that he was in charge of the lesson for family home evening and asked how it was going. “Do you need any help?”
Alexander hadn’t even started preparing. “Can you help me find out more about Jesus? I want to know what I’m supposed to remember about Him. You know, like in the sacrament prayers?”
“Well, what do you already know about Him?”
“Christmas … He slept in a manger. He got lost once as a boy. I think they found Him at the temple. He walked around a lot and talked to people. He got baptized. He died on the cross. He was resurrected. And He talks to the prophet today.”
“That’s good, Alexander. That’s all true. Now tell me about the Savior and you. Does He know your name?”
“Huh? Me? How would I know if Jesus knows my name?” Alexander tried to remember a story about Jesus talking to children.
“Why don’t you tell us about Jesus Christ and children for family home evening. I’ll help you find a few scriptures.”
Alexander was nervous about that. Sometimes it was hard for him to read the scriptures by himself. But he knew that Dad would help him, so he agreed. His dad showed him a few scriptures to read and told him to come and talk with him after reading them.
The next night, Alexander was ready for family home evening. First he told the Bible story from Mark 10:13–16, where Jesus’ disciples scolded the people for bringing children to the Savior and He told His disciples to let the children come to Him. He held them and blessed them.
Then, from 3 Nephi 17:11–13, 21 [3 Ne. 17:11–13, 21] in the Book of Mormon, Alexander told about Jesus Christ visiting the Nephites and inviting the children to come to Him. He waited until every child had been brought to Him. He prayed with them and blessed them one at a time. Alexander finished by bearing his testimony. “I am thankful for Jesus. I know that He loves me. I believe that He knows my name.”
The next week during the sacrament, Alexander listened to the prayer. Then he got out his Book of Mormon. He turned to 3 Nephi 17 [3 Ne. 17] and found the verses he had marked in red the week before. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine standing in a crowd and seeing the Savior. He imagined Jesus asking to see the children. He tried to imagine climbing up on Jesus’ lap and hugging Him and hearing Jesus say his name and give him a special blessing. He tried to think of what Jesus would say to him, and what they would talk about.
After church, Alexander’s mom told him she was proud of him for being so reverent during the sacrament. He didn’t say anything, but in his heart, there was a special warm feeling.

The children in Ryan’s new neighborhood were from all over the world: Australia, Canada, Egypt, England, India, Kuwait, Mexico, Saudi Arabia, Scotland, the United States, and Vietnam.
Ryan had been amazed to meet people from so many places, but he noticed that sometimes children in the park played only with other children who spoke the same language. Ryan couldn’t understand why everyone didn’t want to play together, no matter where they were from or what language they spoke. Sometimes children from one country would be mean to children from another country. That made Ryan sad.
Ryan wondered what he could do, but it was hard to think of anything. He couldn’t just tell everyone to be friends—because they spoke so many different languages, they wouldn’t understand.
One day Ryan’s family took a walk down the street. Some of the boys who had been mean were outside. One of them was holding a soccer ball. Ryan liked to play soccer too. Getting up his courage, Ryan walked over to the boys. He knew a few words of their language, and they knew a little of his. Ryan and the boys started smiling and laughing as they tried out the different languages. Then Ryan pointed to the soccer ball. “Do you want to play soccer with me?” he asked slowly, hoping they would understand. He smiled extra big.
The boys looked at him, then at each other. They talked for a minute, but Ryan couldn’t understand the words. Then they looked back at Ryan and nodded. Ryan grinned, and they ran to the nearby park. Ryan waved to his friends who spoke English, and a little shyly they walked over. One boy set down the soccer ball, and the game began.
A while later Ryan took a quick break to run home for a drink of water.
“How’s it going out there?” Mom asked.
“Great!” Ryan said. “It’s like this, Mom. We’re all shoes!”
“Shoes?” Mom asked.
“Sure. We’re all different, but we all wear two shoes—and that’s all you need for soccer.”
“Good discovery,” Mom said. “You’re all children of Heavenly Father, and you’re more alike than you think.”
Ryan waved as he ran back out the door to play with his new friends.
After that day the children in the neighborhood went to the park every Thursday to play soccer together. It didn’t matter what languages they spoke or where they were from—they were all shoes, and that was enough.

One sunny day when I was seven years old, I was playing outside my grandmother’s home while my family visited on the front porch. As I walked along a shrubbery-lined path by the side of the house, I suddenly felt a sharp, terrible pain in my ankle. My family heard my screams and rushed to my side. To their shock they saw that I had been bitten by a snake.
I had to get to a doctor, but we were out in the country and didn’t have a car. My uncle ran several miles to a neighbor’s home to borrow a cattle truck, and once we were in the truck, we even had to stop to get gasoline. My leg started swelling, and we didn’t know what kind of snake had bitten me.
We finally reached the hospital—a little one-story frame building—and after some tests, the doctor determined that I had been bitten by a rattlesnake. Judging from the fang marks, it had been a huge snake—about five feet long! As the poison from the bite rose in my blood, it turned my skin black, until it was black only two or three inches below my heart.
I was in the hospital for many days, and it was a painful and difficult time. I can remember having nightmares and screaming. One time, a young medical student who lived in a house across the street heard my screams as he was taking a shower. He dashed over to the hospital to help me with just a towel wrapped around him. Another time, the owner of a small restaurant about two blocks away became alarmed when he heard me, and he called the hospital, wanting to know what was going on.
I’m told I almost didn’t survive, but while in the hospital I was given a blessing. Because I was unconscious at the time, I didn’t hear the words, but my family later told me that I had been blessed that my life would be preserved for a special purpose. My relatives later told and retold this experience at family gatherings. This has given my life special meaning, and it has strengthened my testimony of the importance and power of the priesthood.

Last October the Bountiful Utah Stake Primary encouraged children to earn money to buy copies of the Book of Mormon—but to pay for the book with their own labor—money they would earn.
Each placed his picture and testimony inside the front cover. Six hundred and twenty copies of the Book of Mormon with pictures and testimonies were sent to missions.
A few days ago one of those Primary children, little Sarah Richards, received this letter from Mrs. Earl Mock of Tucson, Arizona:
“Dear Sarah, Thank you so much for sending us the Book of Mormon with your picture on the inside. You are a very pretty girl and a very nice one. I will treasure the book and your picture and testimony always.
“I have just finished reading all of it and I too believe it is true. I enjoyed it very much and will be reading it many more times.
“Thank you again and may God bless you.”