Gospel Story Finder

I had awakened that morning to the sound of Trophy’s hooves on the dusty cobblestones outside my window. I jumped from my feather bed and ran to the window, flinging the shutters wide. Through the vines, I saw Trophy bobbing his head and waiting patiently as Malcolm Greenaway delivered milk to our doorstep and walked along the picket fence toward Bridey’s house. “Morning, Mr. Greenaway,” I called as he passed beneath my window.
“Morning, Jessica.” He waved, then continued on his way.
At the sound of my voice, Trophy swung his head slowly in my direction and peered at me from behind his blinders. “Hi, Trophy, old boy,” I whispered.
The black dappled horse followed his master, the milk wagon rumbling quietly behind. I leaned far out the window and pushed the green viny leaves aside, watching as the wagon turned the corner and went on down Church Street.
A horse is a beautiful creature, I thought, and sank back on my bed to stare at the ruffled canopy above. If Pa would only allow girls to ride horses, how much happier I would be! But my father held to the idea that girls and ladies should ride in wagons, with their skirts tucked neatly about their ankles. Grudgingly, I went to the washbasin, splashed water on my face and wrists, pulled my petticoat and dress on over my head, then ran downstairs.
After breakfast, Father took Steven by the hand and headed for the door. Then, without a thought for my feelings, he turned to Mother. “I’m taking Steven for his riding lesson,” he said. “We’ll not be long.”
When the door had closed behind them, Mother came to me. “I know how you feel, Jessica,” she whispered as she straightened my braids and fixed my collar. “But your father thinks riding is unladylike.”
A lump stuck in my throat. Then I swallowed and asked, “Shall I wipe the steps down, Mother?”
I was twelve and my brother, Steven, barely nine. Yet my dream was his reality! It was an unfairness that I could hardly stand! As I knelt on the hard wooden steps, I rubbed the banister railings until they shone. Then I bent my head and scrubbed the stairway, my tears mingling with the soapy water.
‘Course, I couldn’t blame Steven for his good fortune, but when he returned all smiles and smelling of horse and stable, I wanted to box his ears! Instead, I went to our granary and listened to the doves under the eaves. I could see Mother stirring apple butter in the iron kettle in our backyard, but it held no interest for me today.
I ran from the granary and across the meadow. And before I knew it, I was standing outside Malcolm Greenaway’s stable.
“Jessica?” Mr. Greenaway called. “Looking for someone?”
“No, Mr. Greenaway,” I replied. “Just wondering if I could feed Trophy.”
He walked over to me, his sleeves rolled to his elbows and a straw hat on his head. “Certainly!” he said with a smile. “I’m just going to join Mrs. Greenaway in the garden, so make yourself to home.”
I watched as he slanted his hat against the sun, then turned toward the garden. I stepped into the cool stable. Trophy bobbed his head over the door and greeted me with a snort. I held oats up to his mouth and watched his lips gently nibble them from my hand. Then—I don’t know what made me do it—I opened the stall door and stepped in beside Trophy.
He watched me for a moment with soft brown eyes. Then he nuzzled me with his nose, bumping me toward the side of the stall. Suddenly, I had an idea! I raised my skirts with a single motion and climbed up the side of the stall, where I perched on the top board and clicked my tongue till Trophy moved closer. Then, with trembling hands, I grasped his mane and swung my leg over his back. It seemed a long way up, and I thought I was in heaven. Trophy looked over his shoulder at me, then pushed the stall door open while I grabbed for his halter and hung on for dear life. Trophy slowly plodded out into the sunlight with me on his back. Gently I pulled on the halter, guiding him this way and that. I was riding!
Certainly it was a willful, deceitful thing to do, but every chance I had, I went to the stable. And if Mr. and Mrs. Greenaway were not about, I climbed up on Trophy’s back and circled him around the yard.
Then about two weeks later, when Steven was off gathering more berries and Mother and I were sealing preserves, we heard a frantic call. Mother rushed out the door, wiping her hands on her apron, and I followed, my dust cap flying. As we burst through the granary door, we saw Father sprawled on the floor, his leg twisted meanly beneath him. Mother cradled his head in her lap.
“Oh, please, Margaret,” he moaned. “Get the doctor, quick!”
Mother’s trembling hand went to her throat. “I can’t leave,” she said. “Jessica, please get help!”
I ran outside and called in every direction, but the yards were deserted and, without another thought, I ran toward the Greenaway’s stable. I pounded on their door, and although it was open, no one answered. Instantly, I ran to the stable and climbed onto Trophy’s back. Leaning forward, I grasped the halter and urged him toward Doctor Kroller’s house.
A short time later, Trophy stood frothy wet and snorting as I slipped from his back and banged on Doctor Kroller’s door. Panting, I explained about the accident, then watched as Doctor Kroller’s buggy raced toward our home.
Later, as I led Trophy to his stall, Mr. Greenaway came out of the house. “Young lady!” he snapped. “Your father would tan your hide if he knew you ran off with my horse!”
“Please, Mr. Greenaway … I had to fetch the doctor. My father’s had an accident in our granary,” I stammered.
“I’m sorry, child,” Mr. Greenaway replied quickly. “Come, let’s go see if everything is all right.”
After the doctor had left and Father was resting in bed, I tapped softly on his door.
“Come!” he replied.
I tiptoed into the room where the warm breezes of the afternoon blew through the open window. “I deceived you,” I said quietly.
He looked at me sternly, then patted the bed beside him. “I’m glad you came, Jessica. I have something to tell you.” He opened his arms and I slid into them, burying my head in his shoulder. “I know you rode Trophy to get the doctor, Jessica. Will you forgive me?”
I raised my head and stared into his face. “Forgive you, Father?”
“Forgive me for being a stubborn man.” He rocked me gently in his arms and spoke quietly into my hair. “We’re getting a horse, Jessica. It was to have been Steven’s and also to be used with a buggy. But now I see how unfair I’ve been. It will be as much your horse as Steven’s. And when Mother sends for clothing, I want you to look through the catalog and get a pair of riding—“
“Jodhpurs, Father?” I asked, hopefully.
“Yes, jodhpurs,” he said, his face beaming.
My father is a stern man, well educated and fair, and he always taught us to be truthful. I know he heard me when I said I’d deceived him, but he never mentioned it again, and somehow I know he forgave me.

After earning his law degree, he applied for a job at a law firm and was invited to lunch by some of the partners at the firm. The senior partner asked him if he would like an alcoholic drink before lunch and later asked him if he would like wine. Elder Cook declined both times, telling him the second time that he was a Latter-day Saint. This incident was more important than Elder Cook thought at the time. He has said:
“I received an offer of employment from the firm. A few months later, the senior partner told me the offer of the alcoholic beverages was a test. He noted that my résumé made it clear that I had served an LDS mission. He had determined that he would hire me only if I was true to the teachings of my own church. He considered it a significant matter of character and integrity.”3

Sarita loved her new school. I’m probably the happiest second grader in the whole town, she thought.
Next to Sarita sat Amelia. Sarita thought Amelia was very pretty. Instead of having brown hair and eyes, Amelia had long blond curls and beautiful blue eyes. Jed sat on the other side of Sarita. He had red hair. She was staring at him, trying to count his freckles, when Mrs. Wells said, “Good morning, class. Welcome to the first day of school.”
The first day of school was even more exciting than Sarita had imagined it would be. She fit in just fine. She’d been a little worried because she and Mamacita had been living in Sanford only a few weeks. Mamacita had found a good job here, and as she said, the Lord was opening new doors for them.
“I’m sending a note home with each of you,” Mrs. Wells said at the end of the day. “If your mother would like to be a room volunteer, please have her sign and return the paper.”
“My mother was a room volunteer last year,” Amelia said on the way home.
“Mine, too,” said Jed.
Sarita liked her new house. It was smaller than her old home in Texas, but it was still nice. She loved the new curtains with red and yellow flowers and the cozy, red homemade throw rugs that Mamacita had made. “What do you think?” Mamacita had asked. She always asked Sarita’s opinion, and that made Sarita feel special. You see, when Sarita was a small baby, she had been adopted by Mamacita and Papacito.
Sarita had been only four years old when Papacito died, and sometimes when she tried to remember him, she could not bring his smiling face to her mind. Today was a sometimes, so she went into the living room and looked at the family photograph. Then she felt Mamacita’s arm about her shoulder.
“Always remember that we are sealed for time and all eternity,” Mamacita said. “And that we have the Lord’s promise that if we are righteous and endure to the end, we will be together again.”
The next morning Sarita was up early. She made their lunches while Mamacita prepared breakfast, and while they ate, Sarita read a story aloud in Spanish. Mamacita said, “Sarita, you must be the best reader in this state. How talented you are to be able to read both English and Spanish when you are only seven years old.”
Sarita took out the paper that Mrs. Wells had given her the afternoon before. “Will you be a room volunteer?”
“I’d love to,” Mamacita said.
Jed, Amelia, and Sarita handed in the papers with their mothers’ signatures. “There will be a meeting for your mothers tomorrow night at seven o’clock here in the classroom,” Mrs. Wells told them.
After school, the three children waited for their mothers. Jed’s mother arrived first. She had red hair like Jed. She was tall and slender and the prettiest lady Sarita thought she’d ever seen.
Her own mother came next. She waved good-bye to Amelia and got quickly into the car.
The next day things did not go well at school. Amelia brought the first dark clouds when she asked Sarita why her mother was so old. “She’s only fifty,” Sarita said. “That’s not old.”
“My mom is twenty-nine,” Jed said.
“She has gray hair,” Amelia said. “And she’s sort of … well …”
“Fat,” Jed said.
Sarita was horrified. She knew that Mamacita was plump, but she’d never thought of her as fat—or old.
That afternoon Sarita slumped in the seat of the car and looked down at her hands, pretending to be busy so that she wouldn’t have to talk.
“I’m really looking forward to meeting your teacher and your friends and their mothers tonight,” Mamacita said.
“Oh,” Sarita said, “we might not be able to go. I think I might be getting sick.”
“What?” her mother said, wrinkling her forehead with concern.
She looked especially old to Sarita just then, so she closed her eyes tight. “I might be getting a headache.”
Sarita was slow getting dressed that evening. The other mothers would be young and beautiful, and that would make her mother look even older and more wrinkled. “Let’s not go, Mamacita,” she said.
“Sarita, do you really not feel well?”
Sarita tried very hard to feel sick. But she felt fine. Sarita couldn’t lie to her mother. She knew Heavenly Father would not be pleased with her if she lied. “I want to move back home,” she said, tears filling her eyes. “I don’t like it here anymore!”
“Why, you’re homesick,” her mother said, pulling her close. “Bless your little heart, you’re homesick.”
Even though Sarita tried to take forever braiding her hair and putting on her shoes, they were not even late for the meeting. Her mother walked into the room proudly, as if she were as young and beautiful as the other mothers there.
They sat down next to Amelia. “There’s my mom,” Amelia said, but she did not seem very happy.
“Amelia!” Her mother came over and sat down. “Why couldn’t you have waited for me? I don’t know why you have to aggravate me so much. When your father gets home from this business trip, …”
“Hello.” Mamacita smiled. “I’m Sarita’s mother.”
“Her mother? Why I thought you were her—” She stopped abruptly, turning red. “I’m sorry,” she apologized. “I’m really happy to meet you. It’s just that my husband has been out of town all week on business, and nothing seems to be going right for me.”
“It must be very difficult,” Mamacita said.
“It is. I own a little dress shop at the mall, and I need to be there. But I had to come to this meeting tonight. Amelia has nagged me about it for two days.”
Jed and his mother walked over and sat down just as Mrs. Wells opened the meeting. After welcoming them, she introduced everyone in the room. Sarita was embarrassed when her mother’s name was called. She stood up and said hello to the others just as if she did not know that she was old and gray. And fat. Sarita looked at Jed’s mother, at the lovely green dress that was exactly the color of her eyes. Then she looked at Amelia’s mother, at her silky beige dress and high heeled shoes. She looked at her mother’s shoes—comfortable work shoes, low heeled and scuffed on one toe.
Mamacita’s dress was plain cotton and homemade. She had let Sarita do the stitching on the button holes, and the sewing that she had once been so proud of embarrassed her now because the stitches were crooked and uneven.
After the short meeting, the three mothers talked together.
“I don’t know how you manage a job and taking care of a second grader by yourself at your age,” Amelia’s mother said. “Amelia and her sister keep me worn out.”
“Sarita and I take care of each other,” Mamacita said. “She brings me great joy.”
“Joy?” Jed’s mother said. “Chaos is more like it at our house.”
“And Amelia gets into everything,” her mother put in. “Yesterday she played with my makeup and ruined my eyeliner!”
Sarita thought of the many happy hours she spent putting on Mamacita’s makeup. Mamacita almost never wore makeup anymore, but she never got angry when Sarita played dress-up with it.
“I love Jed dearly, but he broke my best lamp when he kicked his soccer ball in the house,” his mother said. “It was an expensive antique. I wish he’d learn to play outside.”
Sarita remembered the lovely china dish she’d accidentally dropped. It had broken into so many little pieces that Mamacita had not been able to glue it together again. But Mamacita had not been angry about that, either.
“He and his brother and sister make too much noise in the house,” Jed’s mother went on. “As soon as I get on the phone with a client, they have to interrupt me.”
Sarita thought of all the noise she made at home, especially when she played her Primary tapes loudly and pretended to direct the music. Sometimes Mamacita came to her door and said, “I think that one day you will direct the Tabernacle Choir.”
“It must be difficult,” Amelia’s mother said to Mamacita, “worrying about Sarita all the time. It’s hard enough keeping up at my age.”
“Sarita doesn’t worry me,” Mamacita said. “She is my best friend. In fact,”—she winked at Sarita—“Saturday we are going to St. Augustine to see this country’s oldest city.”
“There’s no way I’d spend an entire Saturday chasing a seven-year-old around St. Augustine,” Jed’s mother said. Amelia’s mother agreed.
“Wow! St. Augustine!” Jed said. “I want to see the old fort there.”
“And Ripley’s Believe It or Not! museum,” said Amelia.
“Mamacita, could they … Amelia and Jed … go to St. Augustine with us?”
“I’d love to take them,” Mamacita said, “if it’s all right with their mothers.”
Jed’s mother smiled and put her arm around Mamacita’s shoulder. “You are a most remarkable lady.”
In the car on the way home from the meeting, Sarita closed her eyes and tried to imagine what it had been like six years before, when the Bishop had placed Sarita in Mamacita’s arms. She could have said, “No, Bishop. No baby for us. We are too busy and too tired. She might make noise when we are on the phone. She might aggravate us or ruin my makeup or break something.” But no, Mamacita and Papacito had opened their arms and their hearts to Sarita and thanked Heavenly Father for her in every family prayer. As Sarita looked again at Mamacita, she realized that the lines in her mother’s face were not wrinkles from age as much as they were crinkles from smiling and laughing. Mamacita may be short and plump and have gray hair, but I wouldn’t trade her for anyone else’s mother, no matter how young and beautiful she is!

Many years later, in 1873, Kitty, the wife of this great man, Jonathon Napela, contracted leprosy. She was a beautiful and noble woman in the early days of the Church in Hawaii. Today modern medical knowledge has advanced so that this disease is no longer fatal, but at that time, there was no cure for this dreadful disease. In order to prevent the spreading of this disease, once you contracted it you were forced to live on one of the seashores in the leper colony on Molokai. The lepers were taken there by boat. The sailors were so afraid of this disease that they pushed the patients into the sea, forcing them to swim to shore.

Because his wife had to go to Kalaupapa, the leper colony, Jonathon, too, wanted to go. He took her hand and they went there together. Why would he do this? Because he loved her so much! He knew that life is eternal and love is eternal, even through days of “sickness and health.”

History records that this valiant and giant man of God worked in the leper colony and fought to obtain government assistance for the lepers to have a more comfortable place to live. He was a giant in the pure love of Christ for his own people. Oh, I can almost hear the words of Paul to the Corinthians when he said, “Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not charity, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal” (1 Cor. 13:1).

This good brother later contracted that same disease and died even before his wife passed away. She followed him two years later.

In the four short years of Bimbo’s life, he had many experiences. One winter my brother had scarlet fever. In those days no one was allowed to leave the home during such illnesses. My father went to live with his parents for three weeks so he could continue his work. The rest of us, including Bimbo, were not supposed to leave the house.
A quarantine sign was placed in a window and no one came to visit but the doctor. Whenever Mother opened the door to let the doctor in, Bimbo would dart out. Then Mother or I had to chase him up the street and bring him back to his “prison” so he wouldn’t carry the disease to anyone. I don’t know who disliked the quarantine period most—me, my mother, or Bimbo.

Aunt Jennie sent me a scrapbook for my birthday. The cover is red with “My Book of Remembrance” written on the front in big blue letters. Inside, the pages are thick and gray.
I decided to put the supplies I needed to work on my scrapbook in a shoe box. I soon had the box filled with markers, crayons, stickers, scissors, glue, and tape.
Mom is going to help me fill my book with things about me. She said that when I have filled this book, she will buy me another one!
For the first page I glued a photo of me and signed my name below it. Then I wrote, “My eyes are green. My hair is brown. I am six years old.”
On the next page, I glued a special letter from Grandma. It is the first letter that I have ever received.
Last month I wrote my dad a poem for Father’s Day. Then I colored purple flowers all around it. Dad said it was OK to glue it in my book.
On another page, I drew pictures of my mom, dad, brother, cat, and me. I added a photo of the whole family and wrote, “We are a family.”
Mom helped me find a picture of the Portland Oregon Temple to glue in my book. I want everyone to know that we are a forever family.
I drew a picture of my house and my favorite climbing tree. I also wrote my address and phone number on the page.
If you read my book of remembrance, you will learn lots of things about me. You can fill a scrapbook with things about you, too. When people read it, they will learn about your history!

Ever since I joined the Church, my dream has been to serve a mission. I want to be a missionary. I want to bring souls to Christ. I want to help gather scattered Israel.
My mom always wanted me to be a missionary. She wanted me to serve a mission before her passing. She passed away April 26, 2022. My dad died in the same month, 2010. That April was a challenging time for me, and I would never have made it if it wasn’t for the grace of Almighty God.
I told myself that I wanted to go on a mission by the end of 2023. So, little by little, with the help of my bishop and close friends, I processed my paperwork. My friend told me “You said you wanted to go on a mission by the end of 2023 and your wish came to pass.” I told him “No, it was the will of my Heavenly Father, He planned it.”

Why?
Sven stood watching as his brothers, Nils and Erik, began digging. An icy wind had started, and the snow was falling hard again. It had been snowing steadily now for ten days. Sven folded his arms tightly against his body, more out of habit than for warmth; the question was more bitter than any pain the cold and the snow could bring.
Why had He brought them here for this?
Back behind his family’s tent Sven could see the other members of the company moving their carts into line getting ready to start for the day. A large man wrapped in a heavy wool blanket left the line and walked to their camp and stood by their fire.
“I’m sorry about your mother,” the man said, “but there’s no time for this. You’ll just have to cover her with snow. We have to be moving.”
Nils slammed his pick down and glared at the man: “We won’t bury her in the snow.”
“We’ll catch up,” Erik said.
The man glanced over his shoulder at the line of handcarts.
“We’ve lost people who’ve stayed behind and tried to catch up.”
“The wolves …” Erik said. “It’s hard enough for our father as it is. We can’t bury her in the snow.”
The man looked at the tent and nodded his head.
“I heard your father was taking it pretty badly.”
The man held his hands over the fire for nearly a full minute savoring the heat.
“We can’t help you if you get into trouble. I’m sorry. There were five others who died last night.” The man turned and walked away. Nils started hammering at the frozen earth again. Erik looked at Sven.
“Get the covering from the handcart and put it in the tent.”
The canvas was frozen stiff. Sven shook the snow from it and then carefully folded it. In the tent he found his father kneeling next to his mother. Except for the paleness of his mother’s face, she looked more alive than his father did.
“You’d better come out by the fire, father,” Sven said. His father didn’t move. He was a large man. He’d been a stonecutter in Sweden and planned on helping to build the temple in Zion.
Now, Sven thought, his face looks like it’s been cut from the same gray stone he once worked with. Sven set the canvas down and backed out of the tent. Through the haze of the falling snow he could see the line of handcarts moving slowly away. He watched until they vanished.
When the grave was nearly two feet deep, Erik stopped digging. “This will have to do.”
“No,” Nils said. “It’s not deep enough.”
“It’s nearly noon. We won’t be able to catch up to the company if we wait any longer.”
“Just a little more.” Nils started digging again. Erik stepped from the grave.
“Sven, you’ll have to help me.”
Erik bent down and entered the tent. Sven followed. Their father hadn’t moved. He was still kneeling next to their mother.
“We’ve finished digging, father.”
Their father remained motionless.
“We’re nearly half a day behind the company.”
Erik took a deep breath, picked up the canvas, and spread it next to his mother’s body. He then took the blanket that was covering her and laid it on the canvas. Sven knew they needed the blanket, but it felt right to leave it with her. She’d given them so much.
Why?
The question was now an incessant drumming in his consciousness that muted all other thoughts and memories.
“She looks so young,” Erik said. “It’s as if death is giving her back her youth.”
Sven looked at her face. She did look young. There was a slight smile. He remembered how easily a smile had always come to her face. When they had decided to go to Utah, he remembered how happy she had been. “Zion,” she’d said. “We’re going to Zion.” Sven had never heard a word spoken with more pleasure.
“Zion.” He unconsciously whispered the word out loud. His father looked up at him.
“Lift her shoulders,” Erik said.
They lifted her onto the blanket and then carefully wrapped her in it. Erik tied the bundle with a cord. Their father followed them out of the tent. Nils stepped from the grave, and they laid the body down gently. The dark earth in the grave and the canvas were quickly covered by snow.
“What do we say? The prayer should be right.”
“I’ve never done it before, not a funeral,” Erik said. “I think father should do it.”
He shook his head without looking up.
“Maybe it’s like the baptism prayer.”
“We have the priesthood,” Erik said. “It will be right. The words will come.”
Erik reached out his hand for Nils and his father. They took hands, the four of them, and knelt in the snow.
“By the power of the Holy Melchizedek Priesthood and in the name of the Savior,” Erik began the prayer. He whispered the words and sometimes the sound of his voice was lost in the wind, but still, somehow, they all heard the prayer.
Sven felt the tenseness in his brother’s hands relax. The pain that he felt also should have been softened by the prayer, but the question, the drumming noise in his head that was as intense as thunder, was too loud.
Why?
How could God allow this to happen? Sven had seen others die on the journey to Zion, friends, people he loved, but somehow that was distant, and then his mother had always been there to help him understand. In Sweden when his best friend, Ole, had drowned, his mother had talked with him the entire night after the accident happened. Where was she now for this death, the death that he needed her the most for?
When the prayer was finished, they stood.
“I wish we had some flowers, anything.”
“She always loved flowers.”
Erik took the shovel and began to fill the grave.
Their father held out his hand. “Wait.”
He walked over to the cart and took out a small bag and then walked back to the grave. He poured the contents of the bag into his hand.
“They were her favorite flowers.” His voice was hoarse.
He scattered the dark seeds over the grave.
That night, when they finally reached the company, and two days later, when help reached them from Salt Lake City, the question with its dulling thunder was still with Sven. It was with him five years later when he was traveling from Salt Lake City to the East to buy equipment for their stonecutting business.
The weather was cool and crisp when the sun came up over the mountains. Sven’s breath steamed up in the morning, but the newborn sunlight was warm on his face. It was spring. The leaves on the trees were a bright yellow-green, and the earth was covered with new grass.
Sven made his way carefully down a slope. He’d been drawn back to this area. This was where they had traveled with their handcarts. Somewhere on this trail his mother was buried.
He started up a long narrow swale. The floor of the hollow was covered with clover, and dandelions were scattered along the edge of a small stream. Sven couldn’t remember the stream or the trees or even the shape of the land, but the place was still familiar. His recognition was more of a feeling. The morning was warm now. The sunlight was strong, but Sven felt cold. He shivered. The question was drumming hard. It was more than just a question about his mother’s death now. It was his own death that he was facing also.
Sven stopped. There was something, something familiar, a fragrance. It was a memory that took him back beyond the day when his mother had died, back to Sweden. It was a good smell, the smell of his old home. With it came the memory of other smells of baking bread, of a warm fire, of linen. He started walking toward the fragrance. The small valley twisted ahead, and around the turn it broadened into a meadow. Sven stopped again. He began to feel what he knew was true, about eternity, about the things his mother had tried to teach him, about life continuing after death.
An area in the meadow, near the stream, was covered with the same flowers his mother had planted around their home in Sweden.

I recently visited with a woman who has been battling a life-threatening disease for over two years. She indicated that prior to her illness, her days were filled with activities such as cleaning her house to perfection and filling it with beautiful furnishings. She visited her hairdresser twice a week and spent money and time each month adding to her wardrobe. Her grandchildren were invited to visit infrequently, for she was always concerned that what she considered her precious possessions might be broken or otherwise ruined by tiny and careless hands.

And then she received the shocking news that her mortal life was in jeopardy and that she might have very limited time left here. She said that at the moment she heard the doctor’s diagnosis, she knew immediately that she would spend whatever time she had remaining with her family and friends and with the gospel at the center of her life, for these represented what was most precious to her.

For example, when we first started having discussions about faith, one of Meghan’s concerns was around our children having priesthood interviews without one of us present.
We started by asking, “What’s working?” and we agreed that we both love our children and care about them. We both want what is best for them. We want them to progress and to grow. And we reestablished the fact that we are on the same team.
Then we focused on “What’s not working?” For instance, Meghan didn’t feel comfortable with some of the questions our teenage children would be asked in bishop interviews without us there.
That brought us to question 3: “What do we want to do or think differently?” Meghan and I sat down and discussed a plan. We agreed that one of us would be present with our children if they had interviews with members of the bishopric. We spoke to our bishop about this, and he was supportive. He reminded us that he had all of our growth and welfare in mind.

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.

The young men, 16 and older, in the Duchesne Utah Stake have had a tantalizing taste of what it feels like to be a missionary. They held a stake missionary conference, planned by their leaders and two youth cochairs, that attempted to include some aspects of a two-year mission experience into two days. Of course, the young men only got a sampling of what it will really be like to be on a mission, but the experience is one they won’t soon forget.
Nearly 50 would-be missionaries arrived on a Friday afternoon at the Duchesne missionary training center—a.k.a. the Duchesne stake center—in their suits, toting their luggage, with their parents in tow. After a short devotional the young men went through one door into the cultural hall and their parents exited another to head back home (a la MTC fashion).
In the cultural hall, the young men were greeted with dinner, missionary packets, and an assigned companion. Outfitted with name tags that read “Brother_______,” the companionships headed to their first training classes. The classes covered a whole range of topics from learning the first missionary discussion and mission rules, to how to sort laundry and pack a suitcase.
Their Saturday classes were not only preparing the young men for their missions but also for their teaching appointments later in the day. The companionships were assigned to teach the first discussion to families in their stake, some of which were part-member and less-active families.
Besides teaching the first discussion, the young men also did what every missionary spends a good deal of time doing: service. They spent all morning landscaping around a chapel, cleaning a section of highway, and beautifying the Duchesne River boardwalk. It was so hot many of the young men were tempted to jump into the river, but a quick check of their missionary handbooks told them swimming was against the rules.
They chose to obey mission rules, just as they are choosing to prepare themselves to go on full-time missions when they turn 19. They are working on their faith and obedience to the gospel. As future missionaries, they know that’s a top priority. Delaney Mecham of the First ward says, “We should all go on missions to bring people to the gospel and to help ourselves. When we’re on our missions our testimonies will grow even more than they have at this conference.”

While I was daydreaming at school, a popular guy invited me to his party. “My parents are out of town,” he said. “I hope you can come!” He winked mischievously.
I knew his wink probably meant there would be alcohol at the party. I also knew that if his parents weren’t going to be there, then I probably shouldn’t be either.
Without hesitation, I said, “No, thanks. I won’t be able to make it.” He furrowed his brow and said, “I don’t get you Mormons. You never have any fun!” Then he turned and walked away.
I knew I had done the right thing. But as the hours ticked by, I began to doubt my decision. I thought, “Why don’t I go? It’s not like my parents would ever know. It’s not like I would drink.”
These thoughts continued until my last class. I tapped my pencil on my desk and asked myself again, “Why don’t I go to the party?” At that moment, I looked down at my pencil. Written on the side was the word Integrity. It was the brand name of the pencil I was using, but it was also a little answer to a big prayer in my heart.
I’m grateful Heavenly Father gave me an answer exactly when I needed it, and I’m glad I didn’t go to the party. I know I can make good choices because I am Heavenly Father’s child and I have integrity.
Missy D., Arizona, USA

Many experiences have helped strengthen my testimony of the power of prayer. Perhaps the one that had the most long-term effect on my life was my decision to accept a call to serve a mission.
I had always planned to fill a mission. From the time I was old enough to understand, my parents had taught me how important a mission was and that it was the right thing to do. After graduating from high school, I was fortunate to receive an academic and athletic scholarship to the University of Chicago. It was 1937 and the United States was struggling to emerge from the Great Depression. My parents were simply unable to help me financially with my college education, so the scholarship was my great opportunity. My mother was reluctant to let me go from our home in Salt Lake City to this great university so far away for a number of reasons, but primarily because she felt I might not choose to accept a mission call after my sophomore year, when I would be old enough. Cautiously she agreed to my going if I would still plan on going on my mission when the time came. I agreed.
When I returned home that summer, after my sophomore year, one of the first things she said was, “Lynn, now you can prepare to leave on your mission in the fall.” However, after being exposed to the philosophies of men, expounded by the world-renowned professors of that great university, I had changed my mind.
In essence I said, “Mother, I have changed my mind. I feel that many of the teachings of the Church are old-fashioned and out-of-date, and that it is more important for me to complete my junior and senior years, and then possibly fill a mission.”
I will never forget the terrible hurt look on her face. She didn’t shout or scold or chastise me in any way. She just wept, and later I learned that she and Dad prayed with all the fervor of their souls that I would change my mind. I also prayed for confirmation that I had made the right decision.
Fortunately for me, our prayers were answered, and I listened to the whisperings of the Spirit. The answer came on that last day when I had to decide whether or not to return to the university, and I decided to serve a mission.
My young friends, as I look back over the 50 years of my life since that important decision was made with the help of the Lord, I can testify to you that it was one of the best and most important decisions of my life. Reflecting on my attitude at the time and the direction I was going, I shudder to contemplate what would have happened to me if I had chosen unwisely. I could have easily become inactive in the Church and missed out on the most important experiences of this life and the eternities.

A few months later, during Christmas time, Radmila began to hear more about Jesus Christ. There were shows on television about his life, and people talked about him more. She wanted to learn about him, and she remembered the Book of Mormon. She began to read it. “I couldn’t understand a thing,” she recalls. “It wasn’t that the German was too difficult for me, it was just that I didn’t understand words like repentance because I had never heard of them before.”
She decided she would call the missionaries for help. At the same time, two new missionaries were praying for inspiration about which investigators on their list to visit. They both felt that Radmila needed them. When they knocked, she opened the door and said, once again, “Oh, come in—I’ve been waiting for you.”
She still didn’t want to hear the missionary discussions, but she set up a study schedule with them. Each week she would read ten chapters in the Book of Mormon, write down her thoughts, and then discuss them with the missionaries.
“They were so patient with my sometimes provoking and unimportant questions,” she says. “One time I told them not to come in because I hadn’t read that week. They suggested that we read together. We started reading about Ammon, and then they said they had to leave. I couldn’t believe it. For the first time, I was beginning to feel the Spirit and get excited about the book. As soon as they left, I went to my room and finished the story.”

It was the kind of Saturday that makes me appreciate the warm coziness of staying in bed. But this luxury was not to be. The annoying sound of my pager alerted me to a fire at a nearby cement plant, so I threw on my equipment and headed for the door, thankful my helmet would cover my messy hair. Vanity had taken a backseat ever since I joined our small town’s fire department and then became an emergency medical technician (EMT).
The cement plant fire was soon contained. But our pagers went off again, this time asking for EMTs to respond to a freeway injury accident involving a four-year-old boy. I knew this would be difficult, so my partner and I immediately began to pray. No EMT can truthfully say he or she is not affected when caring for seriously injured children.
We arrived to find a white van upside down in the median. I quickly looked around for our patient, thinking perhaps he was still in the vehicle. But I was called to the opposite side of the freeway where several people were huddled over the small form of a child. One man was a doctor. He gave me a rundown of the boy’s most serious injuries, then disappeared into the crowd. A woman was holding the child’s hand and reassuring him. I asked if she knew his name. “His name is Ryan,” she said. “I am his mother.” Remarkably, she and two older children were unhurt.
EMTs follow certain protocols to ensure the best care for our patients, but none of these procedures can prepare us for the human suffering we must deal with when responding to horrifying accidents. I remember reviewing my training in my mind but also feeling overwhelmed. My little patient was crying, and I wanted to calm his fears, kiss his hurts away, and promise his frightened mother that he would be all right. My hands went through the routines I knew so well, but I felt so inadequate, so alone. My partner was not able to assist me with Ryan because he was caring for the little boy’s father, who was still trapped in the van.
Ambulances soon arrived. I was assigned to stabilize Ryan’s head on the way to the hospital. I knelt above his head and spoke softly to him, but he continued to cry and thrash about. I worried that he might injure himself further, but restraining him would have caused other problems.
At this point my prayers became more fervent, and I asked Heavenly Father to bless me to know how to comfort and calm Ryan and ease his pain. I immediately received an impression: “Sing to him.” I hesitated. I questioned whether I had understood correctly. After all, I was a professional, and what would it look like to have an EMT singing in an ambulance over a critically injured patient?
Ryan cried out, and again I received the distinct impression: “Sing to him.” As I held his head I quietly leaned close to his ear and started singing, “I am like a star shining brightly, Smiling for the whole world to see” (“I Am like a Star,” Children’s Songbook, 163). As I sang, Ryan became quiet. I sang “I Am a Child of God” and many other Primary songs. I realized Ryan was a Latter-day Saint when I noticed his very distraught mother trying to sing with me. More than once the paramedics became concerned because he was too quiet, but Ryan would respond as asked. I continued singing all the way to the hospital and into the emergency room, where the trauma team took over his care.
Later that day I returned to the hospital to check on Ryan and his father. I learned that Ryan had undergone surgery and was now stabilized and doing well. Even though he and his father would require a lengthy hospital stay to recover, I was grateful for the news. Ryan and I soon became good friends, and I still look forward each year to receiving a Christmas card with Ryan’s picture inside.
I will always remember an answered prayer when my little patient quieted instantly in response to songs he loved, songs that reminded him of how much his Heavenly Father loves him. The effectiveness of emergency medicine is truly a marvel, but the beauty and simplicity of a few Primary songs will forever remain in my memory as a gentle and profound miracle.

“Look, Dad,” Clay called. “Aunt Pat gave me seeds.”
Clay held up a small envelope that rattled when he shook it. The word Zucchini was printed on it above a picture of a long green vegetable that looked a lot like a cucumber. “Aunt Pat says I should have a garden.”
Dad smiled. “But it will be good old Dad who does the digging.”
True to his word, Dad helped Clay dig out a patch of grass next to the fence. Then they loosened up the soil, planted the zucchini seeds, and watered them well.
For several weeks they watched and waited and wondered if anything was happening. It was. After a rainy day followed by three sunny days, tiny plants peeked out of the soil. From then on, the growing didn’t stop. A jungle of vines soon fought for the small space. Big spiky leaves tangled through the fence in one direction and sprawled across the grass in the other. Clay worried that the giant plants would take over the whole backyard.
Soon golden blossoms opened up and jiggled in the summer breeze as if they were laughing at a secret joke. The blossoms turned into little green pickles that seemed to explode overnight into long, pudgy zucchini. The zucchini hid shyly beneath the prickly leaves. Clay learned to scout them out.
Zucchini poured from the garden in a tidal wave. Awash in the big green vegetable, Clay’s mother learned many zucchini recipes. She cooked zucchini with onions, tomatoes, and sour cream. She filled zucchini with cheese and stuffed it with ground beef. She baked zucchini bread with raisins and mixed grated zucchini with chocolate to make cookies and brownies.
“I’d better watch out,” Clay said the night Mom served bowls of zucchini soup. “Next I’ll be eating zucchini cereal for breakfast.”
“Actually, I thought we might try zucchini-oatmeal muffins tomorrow morning,” Mom said.
“I’ve created a monster,” Clay thought. “I’ve got to find a way to get rid of some zucchini.”
“Tell Aunt Pat to come get some of this stuff,” Dad joked.
That gave Clay an idea. He could give other people a chance to enjoy his zucchini!
Early the next morning, he fought his way through the zucchini jungle, hunting for the elusive vegetables. He filled four brown paper bags and carried them quietly out of the yard.
The Wagners next door surely needed some zucchini. Clay looked around. The front door was closed. The curtains were drawn. He didn’t want to be thanked for his gift, so he tiptoed onto the porch, set one of the sacks beside the door, and hurried down the sidewalk.
At the next house, a newspaper still lay on the step. Expecting someone to come out for it at any moment, Clay dropped a sack beside the paper and scurried away.
Scarcely pausing, he made two more deliveries. Soon he was strolling home zucchini-free.
A few days later, Clay picked his crop again, packed four more brown bags, and made quick stops at the same four houses. All went well.
The third time Clay made his secret deliveries, a surprise waited for him. At the third house, right where he always set the bag, lay a white envelope. Large letters printed on it read, “To the Zucchini Bandit.”
Clay set down a bag of zucchini, picked up the note, and ran home, the fourth bag still clutched in his hand.
He dashed into the house. Mom was sitting at the table sipping orange juice and yawning. “Good morning,” she said. “You were out in the yard early again. What do you have in the bag?”
“Um, zucchini.” Clay plunked the bag down on the table.
“Oh good,” Mom said. “We haven’t had any for several days now.”
“Be back in a minute.” Clay hurried into his room, closed the door, and leaned against it. “Oh no,” he thought, staring at the envelope crumpled in his sweaty hand. “They’ve probably seen me and are warning me to stay away or they’ll call the police.” He straightened out the envelope, unstuck the flap, and pulled out a sheet of paper.
Dear Robin Hood of Vegetables,
Thank you for sharing your wealth with me. I haven’t had such fresh zucchini in a long time. It still has morning dew on it when I bring it in.
Sincerely,Your Grateful Friend
“Robin Hood of Vegetables,” Clay read aloud. He smiled. For the first time since they had started growing, he hoped he wouldn’t run out of zucchini.

I closed one chapter in my life when I became a widow in October 2010. At that time, I worked as an educator in southern France. An accident at work limited my mobility, and I was frustrated that I couldn’t quickly regain my health and strength. I had enjoyed a rewarding professional life for 11 years. I loved my work. I had many friends. But I could no longer meet the requirements of my job.
I must admit that, after more than 33 years of practicing the Word of Wisdom, I wondered why I was unable to “run and not be weary” or “walk and not faint” (see Doctrine and Covenants 89:20). Finally, I had to retire earlier than expected, closing another chapter in my life.
I was living with my daughter when she received notice that her work was transferring her to the Paris area. I decided I should go with her and open a new chapter in my life in a new place.
Shortly after arriving, we were both called to work in the Paris France Temple. My call to serve in the temple confirmed to me that I was in the right place at the right time because the Lord had brought me here. I have found much joy serving on a regular basis in the house of the Lord, and it’s fantastic to share moments in the temple with my daughter. It fills my heart with joy!
Today, I see the great blessing that was at first hidden behind an affliction. Being reduced in my mobility, unable to practice my profession, and having to retire early was difficult. But I know that our Lord Jesus Christ carried me. He has helped me to slow down and find the rest, hope, and peace that are now such a large part of my life.
Every time I walk through the doors of the temple, I feel the Holy Spirit. In difficult times with so much pressure from the world upon us, it is wonderful to know that the Lord has given us holy places where everything is orderly and beautiful. I feel immense gratitude for this new chapter of temple service in my life. It is magnificent!

I grew up in Mongolia and believed in Buddhism. But one day a friend came to my home. She was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. She talked to me about Jesus Christ and invited me to attend her church. I didn’t listen to her. She came again, but still I didn’t listen.
A few weeks after her visit I had a dream. In the dream a voice told me to go to church. I asked, “What? What church? I don’t understand.” The voice gave me directions on how to get to church. I was told, “Tomorrow morning go to this church. When you enter, two missionaries will be there to meet you.”
When I woke up the next morning, I was confused. “Who had come to me in a dream? Who had talked to me?” I wondered. But I decided to go to church.
I followed the directions and found the church. At the door were two missionaries to meet me. They shook my hand and invited me to attend the meeting. The members were nice, and everyone smiled. I felt very happy.
After sacrament meeting the missionaries invited me to hear the discussions. I said yes.
When Elder Johnson and Elder Sampson taught me the first discussion, I was confused, but they explained everything again. They had powerful testimonies. I asked many questions, and the elders always answered me. They read the scriptures with me and invited me to pray about what they had shared with me. Then they left my home.
I felt happy. I decided to ask God if what I was learning was true. I knelt down and prayed, “If God lives and loves me, if Jesus Christ lives, and if this Church is true, let me feel the Spirit.” After I prayed, my heart felt so good and so comfortable. I felt like I was flying. I felt the answer come to my heart: “God lives. He loves you! Jesus Christ lives. Do not be confused. This is the only true Church.” I knew this was the Holy Ghost testifying of the truth. I had received my answer from God.
Two days later the missionaries returned to my home. I told them about my feelings and that I wanted to be baptized. I was so happy I jumped up and down. During the next three weeks, the elders taught me the rest of the discussions, and I was baptized.
I know that God lives and that He loves us. Jesus Christ is our Redeemer and Savior. I know that Joseph Smith saw God the Father and His Son, Jesus Christ. I love the Book of Mormon and know it is the word of God. I am now serving as a full-time missionary in Raleigh, North Carolina, in the United States. I love my mission. This is the Lord’s work. I am so grateful I was guided to the true Church of Jesus Christ.

When I was preparing to serve a mission, my bishop called me to teach the Sunbeams. I had never before learned to love others more than myself until I had served those children in such a simple assignment. With time and patience I learned how to keep those seven children in their seats and listening to a simple lesson.
One day I invited Mike* to come to church and visit my class. Mike was my age but had stopped attending church completely by the time he was 12. We had remained friends over the years as I had served as the deacons quorum president, the teachers quorum president, and first assistant to the bishop in the priests quorum. He had been the topic of many fellowshipping discussions and was often part of my prayers. Once in a while Mike would accept my invitations to come to an activity. It always surprised me when he did, so I kept inviting him.
I don’t remember when I invited him to my Primary class, but one day he showed up. At that time, Mike had long, black hair and a beard.
“Class, I would like to introduce you to my friend Mike,” I said to begin my lesson. “He is visiting us today.”
Mike sat next to me in front. The children sat in a semicircle around us with their eyes fixed on Mike. They were much quieter than usual. I was about five or six minutes into the lesson when one little boy got up from his chair and walked across the room and stood directly in front of my friend. He paused for a moment and then climbed onto Mike’s lap. I watched the two of them as I continued with the lesson.
The boy stared into Mike’s face. Mike was quite uncomfortable but did not interrupt the lesson or turn the boy away. The other children watched the two of them for a few minutes.
Then one of the girls climbed off her seat and approached Mike. I was intently interested in seeing how Mike would react, so I did not ask the two children to return to their seats. The girl stood with her hand on Mike’s knee looking into his face.
Then it happened. The boy on Mike’s lap reached up with both hands and turned Mike’s face directly to his. I stopped my lesson to see what was about to unfold.
With the innocence of a child, he said to Mike, “Are you Jesus?”
The look on Mike’s face was total surprise. It seemed, as I glanced at the children’s faces, they all had the same question on their minds.
Mike looked at me as if to ask, Help, what do I say?
I stepped in. “No, this is not Jesus. This is His brother.”
Mike looked at me in shock.
Then without hesitation the boy on Mike’s lap reached up and wrapped his arms around Mike’s neck. “I can tell,” he said as he hugged Mike.
The rest of the children smiled and nodded in agreement as their question was answered. Mike blinked back tears in response to the love he felt from this small Sunbeam. The lesson went on, but that day the teacher who taught the most was a three-year-old child.
Mike spent more than a year getting ready to serve a full-time mission. It thrilled me to learn he left for the mission field a few months before I returned. When I think of those Sunbeams, I think of the scripture in Matthew 18:5: “And whoso shall receive one such little child in my name receiveth me.”