Gospel Story Finder

I read the account of a young man who had experienced some severe personal trials. In the course of a few months his brother died, then he lost his job, and finally his girlfriend broke up with him. Although he was feeling misunderstood by his boss and somewhat betrayed by his girlfriend, he didn’t lose his faith. In fact, he prayed to the Lord for counsel because he really wanted to be happy.

After praying, he opened the scriptures, determined to act on whatever verse he found. The book fell open to section 88 of the Doctrine and Covenants. Almost immediately he recognized a call to action contained in these words of scripture:

Cease to be idle; cease to be unclean; cease to find fault one with another; cease to sleep longer than is needful; retire to thy bed early, that ye may not be weary; arise early, that your bodies and your minds may be invigorated.
And above all things, clothe yourselves with the bond of charity. [D&C 88:124–25]

As the young man pondered this counsel and applied it to his own situation, he realized that he could no longer sit around moping. He needed to be anxiously engaged in a good cause, like finding another job—and another girlfriend. There was a lot about his life that he decided to change, including his sleeping habits. He also decided to begin to pray for the gift of charity. This timely advice helped him put the past behind him and look forward to the future.

When I turned 14 and was called to go home teaching, I was assigned to be his companion. He didn’t have a car and I didn’t drive then, so I rode my bike over to his place, now just a little way out of town since things had grown so much since he first moved there.
His living room had a round kitchen table with four chairs around it, with a shaggy throw rug on the floor and a reading lamp that hung from the high ceiling. Lying on the table were a large copy of the Book of Mormon and a Bible.
He shuffled over to the reading lamp and switched it on. Once he told me a horse had kicked him and left him with a limp. He stood there looking at me and then reached in his back pocket and pulled out a large handkerchief and wiped his nose.
“Jamie, we got to have a word of prayer.” He grabbed the edge of the table for support and lowered himself to a kneeling position with his hands folded on the seat of the chair. Then he looked up at me and said, “You kneel, don’t you?”
I knelt down.
“Father in heaven,” he began, “Jamie and me come to ask thee to help us as we go as home teachers into the homes of thy Saints.” It was a long prayer, and my knees were soon aching, so I tried to shift my weight around to get a better position, but by the time I found it, he had finished.
“Jamie, help me up.”
I reached down and put my arm under his elbow and pulled. He was a big man, and it was a struggle to get him on his feet.
He walked over to the window and looked out.
“Come over here. Do you see the place over there by the big tree, and the place next to it down the road? On the way here, do you remember seeing the place with the ‘Rhubarb for Sale’ sign nailed to the fence?” I nodded my head. “The Lord’s given us stewardship over those families. Do you know what that means?”
“Yes sir.”
“What does it mean?”
“Well, we have to visit them once a month.”
He rubbed one hand over his stubble beard. “Is that what you think it means?”
“I think so.”
“You got a long way to go, son.”
The nurse came in and gave him some pills. He didn’t look very good. But when he talked, and you forgot about the chalky grayness of his face and his short, quick breaths, he was the same.
“Did you go fishing yesterday?”
“No, I’m waiting for you to get out so we can go together.”
He looked out the window for a long time, and I thought he hadn’t heard me. But after a few minutes he turned to me.
“Jamie, you better learn to tie your own flies. I can’t furnish you with free equipment your whole life.”
“I will.”
“I would have taught you before, but you were such a slow learner at fishing. I thought I’d better wait.”
The first time he offered to take me fishing behind his place, I brought the stuff my friends and I used when we fished from the old country bridge.
“What kind of a rig you call that?” He looked at my large lead sinker and a treble hook with a wad of dried-up cheese stuck to it. “Here, let me see that. You’re not supposed to club the fish to death.” He took the sinker from the line. “And what’s this?” he said, pointing to the cheese. “You bring your lunch?”
“I usually use worms or cheese for bait.”
He shook his head. “I’ll teach you to fly fish. Then you’ll know something about fishing.”
He stepped a little ways into the river so he could get a free swing with his fly rod. “Look over there, just in front of the boulder.” He whipped the fly line back and forth a couple of times to let out line, and then cast. The fly landed gently on the water and glided into the swirling water downstream from the boulder. Suddenly the water boiled as a German Brown rose up and took the fly. He carefully fought it to his side and then reached down and swished it up in his net. “You think you can learn to do that?” he said as he reached down into the net and pulled out the trout and dropped him gently back into the water.
Nearly every weekday afternoon that summer I’d go over to his place with my rod, and we’d walk across his field to the river. He taught me how to cast a fly rod, and where to stand, and what kind of flies to use for each part of the summer. “You got to find out what they’re feeding on, Jamie. That’s the secret.”
He slept a while because of the pills. The bishop stopped by to see him, but saw him asleep, and said he’d come back later.
The second month that we went home teaching, Brother Johnson had just bought a new horse. And so we walked out to the corral and took a look.
“Mort, how much you pay for that mare?”
“About a thousand dollars. Why?”
“She’s a fine horse. How come you spent so much money for her?”
“She’s got a good line.” Then he stopped and looked at the old man. “Why are you asking me a question like that? You been around horses most of your life.”
“I never had a horse worth a thousand bucks. What will you do with her, sell her to the glue factory?”
“You know I’m not going to do that.”
“Yep, I know that.” He looked at the mare for a while and then turned to Brother Johnson and said, “Mort, how long did your dad serve as a bishop?”
“About ten years, I guess. Why?”
“You come from a good line, Mort. As far as the Lord is concerned, you’re registered stock. But you’re no good to the Lord the way you are now. It’d be less of a waste to sell that horse to the rendering plant as for you to keep away from church any longer. The Lord wants you back in harness, Mort.”
Brother Johnson took the toothpick out of his mouth and dropped it on the ground. “You may be right,” he said simply.
When the old man woke up, he was embarrassed that he’d fallen asleep. But I said it was okay; I didn’t mind, and it would make him get better fast.
“Jamie, you been here too long. Your folks’ll be worrying about you.”
“It’s okay. They know I’m here.”
He turned his head so he could see outside. “What day is it?”
“June 13.”
“June 13. Now starting in a few days, I’d try an Adams with a number 14 hook. You got enough flies? If you need any, you know where they are.”
All of a sudden he seemed to get some strength, and he leaned forward. “Now, you keep visiting them families, you hear? The Johnsons are coming along fine, but you ask the bishop to get the Scoutmaster over there to get their boy Brad in Scouting.” He grabbed my hand and squeezed it hard, and there was an urgency to his voice. “Jamie, you keep yourself clean so you can marry a pure and beautiful LDS girl in the temple when the time comes. And get ready to go on your mission. You need to read the scriptures more than you do.”
“I will.”
He still was holding onto my hand. “Jamie, once on my mission I went and saw the changing of the guards … Jamie …”
Before he could finish, a nurse stuck her head into the room. “I’m sorry but visiting hours are over.”
He released his grip. “You’d better go, Jamie. Come back tomorrow if you can.”
The next day when I got home from my softball game, my mom told me he had died that afternoon.
I walked over to his place and down the path to the fishing spot on the river where we used to go, and sat down on a rock. The river takes a bend just upstream from that point, and there was a hole where the eddy currents curled around in slow lazy loops, and there, he told me, the fish stayed when they were feeding on a hatch of flies coming down the river. The spot was hard to find because of the growth of trees on both sides, and most people who fished it probably got their line tangled in the fallen branches that lay in the water. But he told me where to stand and how to cast so you avoided the hidden traps.
My thoughts were interrupted by a trout jumping clear of the water for a fly. And then, for a moment, I could hear in my mind the old man say, “Don’t whip the water, just let it slide down nice and easy. You’re supposed to make the fish think a fly is landing on the water and not that a tree has fallen into the river. Use the Royal Coachman now, Jamie. How come you’ve never read the Book of Mormon? I want you to read it, and in three months I want you to tell Brother Johnson about it and bear your testimony.”
I sat there for a couple of hours thinking about him, until finally it was too dark and I got up and walked back down the path to my home.

It was just past noon when we returned from a spectacular tour of the Acropolis and Mars’ hill where Paul preached to the Athenians. The young people had assisted their not-so-young associates along the rugged terrain among the ancient ruins, not only giving their physical strength, but sharing their excitement and wonder as well. When we returned to the hotel, we were stunned by the news that Greece was at war with Turkey. Cyprus had been invaded by Turkish troops. All of the Greek men between the ages of 18 and 45 were to be mobilized within the next few hours. Suddenly the streets were filled with people. Young men carried small tote bags; neighbors gathered for brief farewells; a woman stood in her doorway weeping as she saw the men leave. She told us her children were too young to go, but she had five brothers who would have to fight.
This was not just a disruption of the afternoon-scheduled tour to Corinth. This was not just the temporary inconvenience of having no other bus at our disposal. Greece was at war! Greece’s borders were sealed. Her harbors were closed. Her airports were shut off. No commercial transportation was allowed in or out of the country. With the shortage of help in the hotel, we were informed that we would receive no further clean linen, there would be no room service, and the waiters from the dining room were gone. Making our own beds would be no problem. Hanging our towels to dry was no inconvenience. But what kind of chaos would the dining room be in without anyone there to help?
Dinner time arrived, and we walked into the dining room. To our delight there seemed to be plenty of help. John seated me at our table, and Jerome filled our water glasses. Carolyn was serving the rolls to other hotel guests, while Virnell followed up with butter. Bonnie was laughing and joking with some of the tourists as she and Diane served them cool beverages. Shelly was clearing dirty dishes from the tables and refilling glasses with ice. Melvin did anything that might have been overlooked—clearing tables, bringing a salad where one was forgotten, or resetting tables for the next group. They had not been asked; they had volunteered. For the duration of our stay in Athens, their service made the dinner hour something to look forward to.

“We knew quite early that Shawn would be good in basketball,” says Reiner. “I played ball with some men in the ward early mornings at the stake center. I asked Shawn if he would be interested in coming along. He went with me many mornings to the stake center and played with the adults when he was only eleven or twelve years old.”
Some time in his early teenage years, Shawn first beat his Dad in one-on-one basketball competition. “I don’t remember when it happened. When Dad would win, it would make me feel bad, so the next time, he’d let me beat him. I never really knew when I actually could beat him.”

I believe Heavenly Father saw me heading in the wrong direction during high school and reached out to me by inspiring my parents. They noticed that I wasn’t myself anymore and that a lot of the light I used to have inside was missing. So, my mom asked if we could start having one-on-one scripture study together every night. I agreed, even though I hadn’t personally studied the scriptures for a while.
At first it felt like reading a chapter each night wasn’t making much of a difference; however, after a few months, I looked back and realized how far I’d come in strengthening my connection with God. I noticed an increase in my baseline level of happiness, and it became easier to let go of those friends who weren’t good influences.
Refamiliarizing myself with the scriptures has been a great blessing. I especially love the story of Alma the Younger and his incredible change of heart (see Alma 36:6–24). In my scripture journal I wrote this about his story: “God freely forgives anyone who repents. All we have to do is reach out. Those who leave the path are welcome back as soon as they make an effort to return.”

As summer was beginning, my family was getting ready for a short vacation to one of Utah’s beautiful canyons. For some reason, my 15-year-old brother and I got in a very heated argument. It began as a simple disagreement that led to name calling first, and almost slugging later. Both of us were thinking of the most insulting things we could say to each other. It was an emotional competition in which the winner was the one who didn’t start crying. Sadly enough, I was the winner.
The looks I received from my parents and siblings after the argument had ended were enough punishment for me. As I sat there struggling to enjoy my “victory,” my mother interrupted my celebration by telling me of her grave disappointment. With tears in her eyes, she told me how sad it made her to see us argue. My father responded by telling us he didn’t know if there would be a vacation now.
And while I was still fuming at my brother, I was also beginning to be extremely angry with my parents for their inability to understand my feelings. I was looking for someone to say I had done the right thing and that my brother had deserved what he had gotten. But no one would. No one, it seemed, was on my side.
Amidst all of the disappointed looks I was getting from my parents, my nine-year-old brother was sitting on the corner of the couch with his face hidden in the pillow. I suddenly stopped arguing with my parents when I heard the sound of him sobbing. I looked at him and asked what was wrong. He raised his head from the pillow, his eyes red and tears rolling down his cheeks. The room was silent except for his crying. Then he said something I will remember the rest of my life. He looked directly into my eyes and said, with a voice shaking from his sobs, “What would Jesus do?”
I sat there, helpless. I watched my younger brother continue to cry, and I began to feel the truthfulness of his words. Here I was, this supposedly mature young man being taught a lesson by someone half my age. I sat there in shock, feeling so angry with myself for what I had done and for the bad example I had set. As the words sank in, I immediately knew what to do.
I went downstairs to my brother’s room and tried desperately to apologize. Not surprisingly, he was not in the mood to accept. I left his room and went to mine. I fell on my bed and began to cry out of shame for what I had done. My younger brother’s words kept ringing in my head: “What would Jesus do?”
I realized how un-Christlike I had been. As I lay on my bed in tears, my brother came walking through the door ready to accept my apology. With our eyes red and puffy, we gave each other a hug. We continued to talk for a while, and I told him what our little brother had said. Just as it had touched me, it also touched him.
We walked up the stairs together where the rest of our family was waiting. We had obviously apologized, so my parents did not say very much about the incident. Instead we again began to prepare for our vacation.
I now realize the importance of that short question my brother asked, and will always be indebted to him and to whoever taught him that simple question: What would Jesus do?

I witnessed the righteousness and power of God in great glory, received through faithfulness to covenants and ordinances, in the life of a young Church member who was partially paralyzed in a horrific automobile accident. After this individual’s grueling months of recovery and adapting to a new lifestyle with restricted mobility, I met and talked with this stalwart soul. During our conversation I asked, “What has this experience helped you to learn?” The immediate response was, “I am not sad. I am not mad. And everything will be OK.”

On one occasion when my wife’s father was serving as a bishop, he was falsely accused of something and was immediately released. My mother-in-law was so hurt that she asked her husband if they should continue to go to church. He answered that they of course would continue to go to church since this is not the church of men, but this is the Church of Jesus Christ.

It took some time before the truth came to light and apologies were made. What could have been their breaking point just added to their strength and conviction.

A friend of mine told me this experience: A financially successful man came home from work one day and said, “Dear, there has got to be more to life than just getting up, going to work, making money, watching TV, eating and sleeping, and then doing it all over again! We have all the money we need. Why doesn’t this satisfy us? Somehow we are missing the purpose of life. What is our dilemma? Could it be possible that it is religion we are missing?” In the conversation that followed, his wife mentioned the Mormons. After serious investigation they soon found satisfying answers to their questions and joined the Church.

“This is it, Mark,” I say as I gaze out at the field strewn with hundreds of colorful eggs. “Next year we’ll be too old, so we have to win the prize basket today.”
“I know, Emily,” Mark answers, his grip tight on our basket, his body poised to bolt onto the field.
At the community egg hunt, we’re allowed to work in teams of two. My friend Mark and I have come close to winning before, but this year we have to win the prize basket. Besides the chocolate eggs and stuffed animals in it, there are a gift certificate to a video store, a bunch of CDs, two passes to that new amusement park—all kinds of great stuff.
And we’re going to do it, because this year, Mark and I are among the oldest, tallest, and fastest kids here. I know we can scoop up more eggs than anyone else.
Behind me I hear a woman saying, “I just don’t know if it’s a good idea to let her try this, Mike.”
I glance back and catch a glimpse of a girl in a yellow skirt. She is with her parents and looks younger than me.
The flag goes down, and everyone goes tearing onto the field. Mark and I have planned out our strategy. We run past the kids stooping down to pick up the first eggs they come to. Instead, we head for the eggs beyond them. We grab eggs like crazy.
Mark and I have loaded our basket by the time the others have cleaned the front part of the field and start swarming into the area where we are. Even so, Mark and I continue to find a few eggs with the other children.
“You’re going to win,” one of the older boys groans when he sees our basket.
I smile. Yes, we’re going to win. I’m sure of it.
By now, the field has almost been picked clean of eggs. Mark and I start to recheck our chances of winning. We feel pretty confident.
Then I notice the girl in the yellow skirt walking slowly toward us. What is she doing? I wonder. She doesn’t have a partner, nor has she found a single egg. She holds her empty basket in one hand. Her other hand grips a long white stick tipped with red. She taps the stick to the ground and sweeps it in front of her as she walks as if she’s looking for something in the grass.
She can’t see! That’s why she has no eggs. Everyone ran out in front of her and grabbed every single egg, leaving none for her to find.
Why did she try this? I wonder. She couldn’t possibly beat us to eggs, let alone win.
Then I realize something. All I care about is finding the most eggs and winning the prize. But that girl doesn’t care a bit about the prize. She just wants to find eggs for the fun of it. And we’ve all taken that chance away from her.
I look over at Mark. He’s watching the girl, too. I can tell by the way he looks at me that he knows what I want to do. I can tell by the look in his eyes that he’s begging me not to do it. He wants to win.
But I step forward, lift an egg from our basket, and place it quietly in front of the girl. As her stick hits the egg with a satisfying clicking sound, she smiles. She bends over, gropes around for the egg, and finding it, places it in her basket.
I put down another egg. As she finds that one, Mark adds one to the grass. We both put out a couple more.
A little boy darts in front of me, heading for the eggs. I gently grab him before he can reach them. “No,” I whisper in his ear. “They’re hers.”
I know the girl will never have the most eggs—it takes her a long time to find them, and the hunt’s almost over. But at least she’ll have some. And the smile on her face shows how much fun she’s having.
The contest judge announces that the hunt is over, that we should bring all our baskets up to determine the winner. Mark and I go, but we know that we may have lost. We do lose by four eggs.
Suddenly I feel a hand on my shoulder and turn to see the woman who stood behind me earlier. Her eyes glisten with tears, and she mouths “Thank you” at me before she goes to admire the eggs in her daughter’s basket.
And then my mom’s there. “Emily, Mark,” she says. “I know how much you wanted that prize.”
I shrug. “It’s OK that we didn’t win.”
My mom puts her arms around our shoulders and squeezes. “But you two did win.”
She’s right. Even if our basket was totally empty right now, I think I would still feel like a winner, and I can tell that Mark feels that way, too. We wanted that prize basket. Instead, we’re taking home a wonderful feeling and the memory of a young girl’s smile. That’s the best prize of all.

I also encourage all parents hearing or reading this message to make the Book of Mormon an important part of your home. As our children were growing, we read the Book of Mormon as we ate breakfast. This is the bookmark that we used. On the front is a quote from President Benson promising that God would pour out a blessing upon us as we read the Book of Mormon.11 On the back is this promise from President Marion G. Romney, formerly a counselor in the First Presidency: “I feel certain that if, in our homes, parents will read from the Book of Mormon prayerfully and regularly, both by themselves and with their children, the spirit of that great book will come to permeate our homes and all who dwell therein. … The spirit of contention will depart. Parents will counsel their children in greater love and wisdom. Children will be more responsive and submissive to the counsel of their parents. Righteousness will increase. Faith, hope, and charity—the pure love of Christ—will abound in our homes and lives, bringing in their wake peace, joy, and happiness.”12

Now, many years after our children have left home and are raising their own families, we can see clearly the fulfillment of President Romney’s promise. Our family is far from perfect, but we can testify of the power of the Book of Mormon and the blessings that reading it has brought and continues to bring into the lives of our whole family.

I asked, "Alex, do you have any idea how much impact you and your book have had on the people of the world?"

He answered, "I think so."

I said, "I haven't been involved in Family History Administration too many years, but it seems to me there is an invisible hand guiding this work, bringing people like you and scientific developments and special events together toward a pre-determined course."

He slammed his fist on his knee and said, "That's right! I felt the guiding hand of the Lord."

How appropriate that one year after the broadcast of Roots, in June 1978, the historic revelation was announced that all the children of God could enjoy the full blessings of the Priesthood.

One other incredible example of the "invisible hand" operating upon the hearts and minds of people: We cultivated relationships with the USSR for about 30 years in an effort to microfilm vital records. In 1989 one of the employees of the Family History Department, Kahlile Mehr, was in conversation with Dr. Patricia Grimsted of Harvard University, recognized as the top scholar on Russian Archival records. Brother Mehr expressed strong interest in the church being able to microfilm public and church records in the Soviet Union. She told Kahlile that in her opinion this church would never have access to Russian archival records. The Lord thought differently.

As President of the Genealogical Society of Utah, accompanied by Sister Clarke and our European acquisition Manager, Lynn Carson, we traveled to Moscow, Russia in April 1992. Sitting around a table in the offices of the former Central Committee of the Communist Party located at the Kremlin, I signed a contract with Dr. Rudolph Pikhoia, Chairman of the Committee of Archival Affairs for the Republic of Russia. This contract authorized the Genealogical Society of Utah to microfilm vital records in 200 regional archives throughout Russia. What in 1989 was said to be impossible was now reality. "Is anything too hard for the Lord?"

James Peter Fugal was an honest man! He herded sheep much of his life in the rolling hills of Idaho. On one bitterly cold winter night, he was herding sheep for another man when a blizzard set in. The sheep bunched together, as sheep do, in the corner of a fenced area, and many died.
Though the death of the sheep was no fault of his, James Fugal felt responsible and spent the next several years working and saving to repay the owner for his lost sheep.
I thought of James Fugal, the humble sheepherder, and how wonderful it was that these children were being taught the same values that made him a man of such noble character.

We were still living in our home country, Argentina, when my husband and I started our family. We were returned missionaries and knew it was a blessing to be married in the Lord’s temple. We were excited to walk the path back to Heavenly Father together.
We knew that the plan of salvation included trials, but we trusted that we would be able to overcome anything through faith and prayer. But we did not expect adversity to come upon us without stopping. Trial after trial seemed to rain down upon us.
One afternoon I was alone, feeling very sad and crying inconsolably because of our trials. I didn’t know what to do. Every time I tried to stop crying, I only felt more depressed and anguished.
I then thought about the many men and women who shared with me how valuable prayer had been for them during difficult moments. I had a testimony of prayer, but my mind and spirit were so tormented that I thought I wouldn’t be able to find the words to say.
In tears, I knelt by my bed and with all of my heart, I asked Heavenly Father for comfort and peace. I didn’t ask for a solution or even for the trial to disappear. I just asked for peace.
While I was praying, I heard a knock on my front door. I opened it, with tears still in my eyes, and saw a sister from Relief Society. She told me she was working in the area and had stopped by on her motorcycle. All I could do was hug her. She said, “I don’t know why, but I felt I needed to stop by and see you.”
We sat at my kitchen table and she helped me calm down. After talking with her for a few minutes, I finally started to feel that I wasn’t alone and that Heavenly Father had heard my prayer.
It is a blessing to be able to talk to my Heavenly Father through prayer. He listened to me in my hour of need and sent one of His children to help me. I’m grateful this sister heard the inspiration of the Spirit and followed it.

After four years of trying to have another baby, Anna (names have been changed) and her husband were grateful for the birth of a daughter. But Anna found that adapting to the needs of a newborn, in addition to caring for her sons, was overwhelming. She found herself sinking into depression in spite of her best attempts to manage everything and maintain a sense of normalcy. Anna was struggling with postpartum depression.
All mothers, including Anna, know that having a baby is “supposed” to be a happy time and new mothers are “supposed” to be grateful for this incredible blessing in their lives. Yet for some women, postpartum mood disorders detract significantly from these happy feelings. Postpartum depression is manifested in many ways and can have physical, emotional, and even spiritual implications for the women who suffer from it. For instance, these women might have unrealistic expectations for themselves at a time of great transition, feeling that they should be able to do everything immediately for themselves and their newborn because they should be “super-mom” and “super-wife.”
It is important that these women—and their families—understand what postpartum depression is (and what it is not), recognize symptoms, find effective ways to manage it, and, most of all, know that there is hope for normal functioning while dealing with feelings of depression.
A woman’s experiencing postpartum depression does not mean that she is weak, that she has done something wrong, or that she is to blame for her overwhelming feelings. In most cases the state is temporary. Suffering from postpartum depression, like facing other trials, can bring us closer to the Savior as we find ways to obtain spiritual strength. As former Young Women general president Ardeth G. Kapp explained: “We know about our Savior, but it is often in our adversities that we truly find Him and know Him and love Him. … I can testify from my own experience in life that some of our heaviest burdens, disappointments, and heartaches can in time be replaced with ‘the peace of God, which passeth all understanding’ (Philippians 4:7) while we ‘wait upon the Lord’ (Isaiah 40:31).”1
For some women, giving birth creates temporary feelings of sadness that are often referred to as the “baby blues.” Symptoms—which usually appear within the first week after giving birth and can last up to 10 days—may include tearfulness, irritability, fatigue, anxiety, and emotional sensitivity with highs and lows. Baby blues are most often attributed to physical changes the mother is experiencing, but these symptoms can be aggravated by sleep deprivation, inadequate nutrition, a challenging infant, and lack of support. The baby blues are observed in all cultures across the world and affect up to 80 percent of women who give birth.
In contrast, postpartum depression is an illness with a biochemical basis. Although no one is sure what the exact cause is, researchers believe that the hormone-level shifts that occur during pregnancy and after childbirth may contribute to chemical changes in the brain. That, combined with the stresses and fatigue that accompany having a new baby, can lead to depression. About 10 percent of women who have a baby will experience postpartum depression, which typically occurs within four weeks after giving birth but can occur anytime during the following year. Many women who experience postpartum depression have had a previous encounter with depression; new mothers in this category should closely monitor their feelings so they can get help if symptoms appear and escalate.
Some women experiencing postpartum depression start to feel better within a few weeks, while others don’t feel “like themselves” for several months. But help is not out of reach: identifying symptoms is the first step to starting to feel good again.
Often, a new mother assumes that feeling depressed demonstrates weakness. She may even worry that others will think less of her if they know how she is feeling. For these and other reasons, she might not discuss her symptoms, leaving the postpartum depression to go undiagnosed and untreated.
John, speaking of his family’s experience with postpartum depression, said, “My wife, Carolyn, hid her symptoms from everyone, even me. It was hard for me to know how much she was truly suffering. I think she thought that as the bishop’s wife she couldn’t let anyone—not me, not her friends, not her mother—know what was going on.”
Dr. Cheryl Tatano Beck, a noted nurse-researcher, calls postpartum depression “a thief that steals motherhood.”2 But family members and close friends can help mitigate this “theft” by watching for its symptoms. They may notice behavioral changes in the new mother, including the following:
A depressed mood lasting most of every day.
The absence of laughter or play with the infant.
A downcast or blank facial expression.
Persistent sadness.
Comments about flaws she perceives in herself or the infant.
Indications of feelings of guilt or inadequacy.
Indecisiveness about ordinary matters.
Noticeable irritation, especially related to the infant’s fussing or crying. (See “Symptoms of Postpartum Depression” sidebar on page 30 for more internal signs that only mothers themselves may notice.)
If family members and close friends think they detect some of these symptoms but aren’t sure, they can sensitively ask the mother such questions as “Are you feeling down [or depressed or hopeless]? How long have you been feeling that way?” or “Do you feel a lack of joy in your life?” Once the mother and those closest to her recognize the symptoms, they can begin to get a handle on the depression.
Managing postpartum depression is important not only for the woman’s welfare but also for that of the infant and the rest of the family. Because the mother is often the center of her child’s social environment, her mood affects the child. And the mother’s and the baby’s well-being affect the family’s well-being.
Because this condition affects the entire family, the management of the postpartum depression is a family concern. It is important for the woman to have support from her husband, family members, and others.
Support from Family and Friends. According to “The Family: A Proclamation to the World,” “husband and wife have a solemn responsibility to love and care for each other and for their children.”3 The primary strategies for meeting the challenge of postpartum depression are to strengthen the couple’s relationship and increase the husband’s sensitivity. It is essential that the new mother have help and support from her husband in activities like these:
Taking over household tasks and the care of other children.
Limiting the number of visitors to foster a peaceful environment. (For some women, however, having visitors may help alleviate symptoms of depression.)
Helping the mother get enough rest, appropriate nutrition, and exercise.
Assisting with infant care.
Becoming educated about postpartum depression.
Giving priesthood blessings as appropriate.
Offering the gift of presence—listening, caring, and just being with her. Accompanied by a hug, a healing conversation may be just one sentence long: “This must be very hard for you.”
Encouraging the new mother to get professional assistance as appropriate.
Rachel, who experienced postpartum depression after the birth of her third child, said, “The smallest task seemed insurmountable because I lacked emotional and physical energy. I was so grateful that my husband was understanding and compassionate and assisted me in getting the help I so sorely needed.”
Postpartum depression may be difficult for a husband to understand, and sometimes he may react with confusion, frustration, anger, guilt, anxiety, or embarrassment. It may be helpful for him to engage in counseling or reading to increase his understanding of postpartum depression and to learn how he can be most helpful. His doing so can benefit both him and his wife.
Johanna, who suffered postpartum depression after having preterm twins, said, “Although the experience was challenging for Sam and me, our marriage became stronger. We became closer in our relationship than we had ever been before. We worked together to resolve issues. I relied on him for priesthood blessings. We truly communicated with each other and the Lord.”
Extended family and the Church community can augment the support of the father. Kathleen H. Hughes, former counselor in the Relief Society general presidency, spoke about her experience with postpartum depression and the help she received from others:
“After the birth of our son … , I sank into a horrible depression. Many of the women in my family suffer from postpartum depression and, as you may know, in those days medical professionals did very little to help women with this condition. I was left to fight my way out of the darkness.
“But those hard times for me were often tempered and lightened by wonderful sisters in the ward who cared for my children and who cared for me physically, emotionally, and spiritually—helping me through that emotional battle.”4
Women might find additional support through organizations for new mothers. Christine, who lived far from extended family and felt alone after she had her first baby, reported, “As I talked to other young mothers in my housing complex, I found a lot of commonalities in our struggles. It really helped—and I even found myself laughing instead of crying.”
Professional Treatment. New mothers might consider seeking professional assistance, including counseling from LDS Family Services (see www.ldsfamilyservices.org) or from an appropriate source recommended by a health care provider. For some, medication may be necessary, as prescribed by a psychiatrist or other clinician.
Taking Care of Yourself. It is vital that new mothers care for themselves by resting as much as possible, eating a nutritious diet, and taking “time out” with mothers’ groups or children’s play groups.
In addition, because motherhood is physically and emotionally demanding, mothers should set realistic goals that allow for flexibility, remembering that “to every thing there is a season” (Ecclesiastes 3:1). Elizabeth, who gave birth to four daughters in a period of just a few years, said, “It isn’t feasible to quit doing housework and cooking when there are other children needing clean clothes and lunch. I found it helpful to do just a little bit each day—one load of laundry, cleaning the bathroom sink (instead of the whole bathroom), planning the meals, and having my husband do the shopping. Feeling productive, even if it’s just a little each day, is very encouraging.”
Other Helpful Outlets. Other activities might also be helpful in managing and overcoming postpartum depression:
Listening to uplifting music.
Reading the scriptures and other inspiring books. Anna reported that she especially enjoyed reading 2 Nephi 4, which documents Nephi’s feelings of discouragement and doubt, then his growing recognition of the love of the Lord for him: “My God hath been my support; he hath led me through mine afflictions” (2 Nephi 4:20).
Keeping a journal. Rachel said, “As I wrote in my journal, I was able to articulate my feelings of deep despair. It helped me to become more aware of what seemed to trigger feelings of depression. It also helped me begin to count my blessings.”
Praying for help and comfort. Anna said, “Being depressed made it harder for me to feel the comfort of the Holy Spirit I so desperately needed. I tried to challenge the negative voices that left me feeling weaker and doubting my capacity to overcome my negative emotions.” Johanna asked herself and the Lord this question as she engaged in personal prayer and contemplation, “Heavenly Father, what am I supposed to learn from this?”
Recognizing that we can learn from our trials can strengthen our faith, even as we are in the midst of them. God does not leave us alone in our struggle to find hope. Elder Jeffrey R. Holland of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles counseled: “To any who may be struggling to see that light and find that hope, I say: Hold on. Keep trying. God loves you.”5 And He does. Sister Patricia Holland, Elder Holland’s wife, once invited us to return to “the wholeness of our soul, that unity in our very being that balances the demanding and inevitable diversity of life.”6
Anna explained the process she went through: “As I struggled to overcome postpartum depression, I sought to get beyond the darkness and into the light, the light of the Son of God. I wept as I read Isaiah 53:3–4, understanding fully for the first time that the Savior was ‘a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief. … Surely he hath borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows.’ I held on to the promise that the Savior was my personal Savior, that He had been sent to ‘give unto [us] beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness’ (Isaiah 61:3). As I looked toward the Savior, I realized more fully that He knew my pain, that He could sensitively succor me as I reached out to Him.”

In 2019, one of my closest friends invited me to join a discussion with the missionaries when they were teaching his little sister. I turned down the offer many times because they were learning outdoors—I didn’t want to have others see I was learning with the missionaries. My friend then said, “Today we will go inside,” to which I agreed.
During our first meeting, we discussed the first principle in the first lesson. Everything they were saying I agreed with, such as “God is your loving Heavenly Father, He knows you personally,” and other things like that. The problem came when the missionaries said, “God has a body of flesh and bone that is perfect.” My friend’s little sister agreed, but I did not. They tried to help me, but I refused to change my view. Before the lesson ended, they invited me to read, pray, and come to Church. I accepted their invitation.
They then gave me an example that, “if I were selling TVs and there is one customer that wants to come and buy a certain TV but doesn’t have money at the moment, the customer might ask if I can keep the TV till tomorrow when she would come and then be able to buy. She would always repeat the same statement every day for months without purchasing the TV. And then another customer comes with money. Will you sell the TV to the second customer?” I replied, “No, I will keep the TV for the first customer.” Later, I changed my mind and said, “I will sell it to the second customer.” The missionaries then told me that it’s just the same with them. If I do not keep the commitments, they will stop coming to me and focus on other people who are keeping commitments.
When I heard these words, my desire to learn the restored gospel was triggered. “Why do they want me to learn this gospel so much?” I asked myself. After the first meeting, my friend asked me, “Why were you making this lesson hard to understand?” He continued, “Just give them time and listen to them.”
My friend’s little sister heeded the missionaries during the lesson. I then recognized that I was not humble enough. From that day I humbled myself to the missionaries because of my good friend and his little sister.
I tried to keep the commitments. The days I still remember vividly are, first, a day I was asked to study 3 Nephi 11:1–17. In our next appointment they asked what I learned from the chapter, I then recited most of the verses I had read. Second, one day I was invited to attend a baptismal service. On the morning of the baptismal service, I was busy playing video games with my friends and when I realized that I was short on time I ran to the chapel that was about a mile away. “We thought you were not coming,” the missionaries said when they saw me. I never missed the sacrament because of the example the sister missionaries gave to me. It was a good time to learn the restored gospel with the sister missionaries.
I was baptized on 2 November 2019.

“They kicked me out of school because I’m a Mormon,” says seven-year-old Raúl. That may seem like a big price for one so young to pay. But Raúl doesn’t think so—even though he was happy at the school, had lots of friends there, and loved his teacher.
Raúl Ever Aquino Gonzales was a first grader in a religious school in a small town in Paraguay—and was the only Latter-day Saint in the school. One day, he says, “people started criticizing the Church without knowing anything about it. They were saying things that aren’t so.” Raúl—a likable, outgoing boy—felt he couldn’t just sit there without saying anything. “I tried to defend the Church by telling them they were wrong,” he explains. “I was expelled because I wouldn’t conform.”
Now Raúl, still a first grader, is enrolled in a different school. “I’ve already told the people at the new school that I’m a Mormon,” he says. And with a grin, he adds: “But they didn’t kick me out!” His best friend in his new class is also a member of the Church.

I was reading the story “Walking in Remembrance” in your July 2002 issue. While reading this I was reminded of my stake’s pioneer trip and my experience in June 2000. Our trip was to be four days long but was cut short because of a really bad storm. We were awakened at 1 A.M. the first night because our sleeping bags were soaked. We were sent home the next afternoon. I often ponder how fortunate I am because when the pioneers went through rainstorms or snowstorms, they couldn’t pack up and call it quits. Through my experience on the pioneer trek, I have gained a huge appreciation for what the pioneers did.
Julia NelsonSpanaway, Washington

It’s Friday night. From Recife to Rio and from Salvador to São Paulo, the great megalopolises of Brazil teem with life as young people fill the streets, heading down beach boardwalks and downtown drives to outdoor festivals and markets, movies and shows, restaurants and clubs.
But in a certain corner of São Paulo—Brazil’s largest metropolis, with a population of 21 million—all the bustle of a big-city Friday night is forgotten as dozens of teenagers play a part in something most unusual.
They sit in small groups around a large, luminous building, occasionally checking their watches as they talk quietly into the night. They’re not staying up late to go to a dance club. They’re not lingering for the late show. They’re eagerly awaiting something of far greater significance, something their ancestors have also waited for: their assigned time to do baptisms for the dead in the São Paulo Brazil Temple.
Because this temple has been the only one in a nation of more than 700,000 Latter-day Saints, its doors have been open all night every Friday and until late Saturday in order to accommodate the busloads of Church members from outlying areas who are able to travel to the temple only on weekends. Upon their arrival, stakes are assigned times round the clock to do temple work.
According to former São Paulo temple president Aledir Barbour, handling such large numbers of temple goers “is now our greatest challenge because so many stakes want to come, but we cannot accommodate them all as we’d like.” He pauses, then smiles and adds, “But certainly it is a challenge we like to have.”
The white-haired, soft-spoken temple president cites the example of a group of youth and their leaders who traveled by bus from Belo Horizonte, a large city about 200 kilometers northeast of São Paulo. Youth from this stake brought with them the names of 10,000 ancestors, all of whom the teens had identified through their own research. The group stayed from Tuesday to Friday, but it wasn’t nearly enough time to perform the baptisms for all their ancestors.
The temple baptistry is so full of youth patrons, individuals can usually be baptized for only four or five deceased persons each time they come to the temple. And this is after many teens and their parents from outlying areas have saved for months to travel to the temple and have ridden on a bus for days to get to São Paulo.
When the São Paulo Temple was dedicated in 1978, it could handle the Church membership in Brazil, which then totaled less than 60,000. But membership in Brazil has increased more than tenfold since then, and for some time the temple has been consistently overflowing.
Fortunately, the rapid growth that has caused such a challenge is also a catalyst in bringing about wonderful change—change that is already beginning to bless the lives of Brazilian youth.
Peering through the rails of a fence, 17-year-old Fabio Fogliatto and his friends of the Canoas Brazil Stake watch intently as workers in hard hats construct a building near the southern tip of Brazil. Fabio notes with satisfaction that one of the workers leaves the construction site before smoking a cigarette. “He must know this is a sacred site for us,” Fabio says.
On the other side of the fence from the teens is a spectacular sight. Against the backdrop of the city, the walls of the Porto Alegre Brazil Temple rise out of the red earth.
“Just watching them build the temple, I can feel it really is a temple of the Lord,” says Ivan Carvalho, age 14, of the Esteio Ward. “It makes me feel even stronger that I want to come here to do ordinances for the dead and for myself.”
Fourteen-year-old Guilherme Recordon of the Estância Velha Ward adds, “And now that we have to go only 20 kilometers instead of 300, maybe we’ll be able to come here every week!”
The feelings of these boys represent a growing excitement all across Brazil as temples are built. Another temple is nearing completion in Campinas (a city just west of São Paulo), and yet another will be dedicated soon in the northern city of Recife. As the Church builds temples in Brazil, youth here are constructing their own temple-worthy lives.
Living worthy of going to the temple can be anything but easy for young Brazilians. They are teased by their peers if they don’t use drugs, alcohol, and tobacco. Extreme immodesty is common on billboards and prime-time television. Many students carry pornographic magazines to school. During carnaval, a weeklong festival Brazil is famous for, immodesty and immorality parade in the streets.
But Latter-day Saint youth say that looking to the temple helps them keep the commandments despite the many temptations and trials they face. “At school, when you won’t look at the [pornographic] magazines, people make fun of you. But I have a goal to serve a mission and marry in the temple, so I already know that if they push this stuff at me, I won’t do it,” says Fabio Marques, age 16, of the Campinas Fourth Ward, Campinas Brazil Stake. “I’ve already made my decision.”
Fabio says having a temple so close to his home in Campinas will strengthen him and his Latter-day Saint friends. “It’s hard to get to the temple in São Paulo, but soon we’ll be able to do baptisms for the dead more easily and frequently at the Campinas temple. And each time you do that, you make a stronger goal to return to the temple and to be worthy to marry in the temple.”
Whenever challenges seem too much for 18-year-old Janise Figueiró, she looks at a little bottle of red earth she received from her Young Women president in the Higienópolis Ward, Porto Alegre Brazil Moinhos de Vento Stake. “Whenever I look at that soil from the temple site, I remember to live worthy.”
Fourteen-year-old Juliano Garcia of the Guaiba Jardim Ward, Porto Alegre Moinhos de Vento stake, was thrilled with the prize he won. Although he had been a Church member for just under a year, he won a scripture chase in his multistake seminary bowl. As he began to look through the pages of his prize, a booklet entitled The Holy Temple by Elder Boyd K. Packer of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, he became fascinated with the pictures of temple baptismal fonts and celestial rooms. Juliano didn’t know much about the temple, but as he read in the booklet about baptism for the dead, his heart turned to his deceased grandparents. “I thought about my grandparents, how great they were, and I thought that more than anything I wanted to go to the temple for them.” Juliano hasn’t been able to travel to the São Paulo temple, but he is now preparing to go in Porto Alegre.
As Juliano and other Brazilian teens continue to construct their own temple-worthy lives little by little, they do not doubt that when the doors of the new temples are ready to open, they will be ready to enter.
When the angel Moroni appeared to 17-year-old Joseph Smith in 1823, he told the young prophet that Elijah the prophet would “plant in the hearts of the children the promises made to the fathers, and the hearts of the children shall turn to their fathers” (JS—H 1:39).
This prophecy is literally being fulfilled in the hearts of young Brazilians. “The Spirit of Elijah is working … , especially on the young people, to do work for their ancestors. It’s something that we cannot explain,” says former São Paulo temple president Aledir Barbour.
For example 16-year-old Jeferson Montenegro of Canoas (pictured below) and Suelen Alexandre (age 15); José Meirelles (age 18); Priscila Cavalieri (age 18); Carlita Fochetto (age 14); and Carolina (age 16), Christiane (age 15), and Carlos Rodriguez (age 12) of São Paulo volunteer in their Family History Centers for 10 to 20 hours each week. They assist Church members in their research, enter extracted names into the computer system, and search for names of their own ancestors.
These teens aren’t unusual. Many Brazilian youth have found the names of hundreds of their ancestors and have eagerly begun their temple work. Why? “I feel the influence of the Spirit of Elijah,” says Jeferson. “It makes me feel a closeness with those who’ve gone before me.”

I fidgeted impatiently in the backseat of the car, excited as much by the prospect of an end to our long ride from California to Kansas as by the thought of seeing my grandparents again.
“Do you think she’ll like my hair short? Last time she saw me I was wearing it in braids. Can you imagine? I must have been about ten or eleven. I hated those braids! Remember when Grandpa offered to cut them off with the hedge clippers?”
My mother exchanged glances with my father. “Don,” she began.
Dad cleared his throat and spoke to me in the rearview mirror. “Tara, you realize that they’ve changed. People do as they get older. You’ve changed, and they will have, too. You have to expect that.”
“I know, I know.” Impatiently I brushed aside the warning in his voice. “But I’m eager to see them.”
“So are we, dear,” Mom said, but there was an edge to her voice that I didn’t understand.
We reached the edge of the little town where my grandparents lived, and Dad turned down their street. Grandpa was waiting for us on the front porch.
I shot from the car and hugged him as tightly as I could. He seemed thinner than I’d remembered, almost fragile, so I released my grip on him.
He held me at arm’s length. “Tara, you look wonderful. But whatever happened to those beautiful braids?”
“Well, one day I was trimming a hedge and they just happened to get caught in the clippers,” I teased.
We laughed and hugged again.
“How’s it going, Dad?” Mom asked him. “You holding up okay?”
Grandpa kissed her soundly on the cheek. “You bet.” He turned to Dad and clapped him on the back. “Good trip out?”
Dad shrugged. “Can’t complain.”
I couldn’t stand this exchange of pleasantries any longer. “Where’s Grandma?” I interrupted.
Grandpa looked at Mom and she nodded.
“She’s at the rest home by the courthouse. We can see her tonight,” he said.
“Oh, can’t we go now?” I begged. “I want to see her.”
“Well, Tara, you’ve come all the way from California, and your father probably wants to rest after such a long drive. We’ll go tonight.”
“Please?” I wheedled. “Pretty please with sugar on top?” It had been my favorite childhood phrase when I had wanted something very badly, and I could see him weakening.
Dad solved it. “Let me unpack the car. You three go, and I’ll snooze a bit while you’re gone.”
I threw my arms around Dad. “You sweetie!” I turned to Mom and Grandpa enthusiastically. “Let’s go!”
We pulled up in front of the sedate red brick rest home. As Grandpa got out of the car, my mother leaned over the back of the seat to speak to me.
“Don’t forget,” she cautioned in a tight voice, “she’s not the same grandmother you remember.”
Not the same grandmother? Of course she was. Oh, I knew from Grandpa’s letters that sometimes her memory slipped and she couldn’t remember people’s names, but she was still my grandmother, the same one who had read me Winnie-the-Pooh when I had scarlet fever, the same one who had let me name the barn cats, the same one who had taught me how to make the world’s best grape jelly. The same one.
I leaped from the car and began to sprint across the vast green lawns of the nursing home, until I remembered that Grandpa was with us, so I waited patiently in the quiet Kansas afternoon for him to catch up to me.
My grandfather led us confidently, like a tour guide, through the cool halls of the nursing home, holding a jar of peaches he had put up himself. “They’re her favorite, you know,” he said. “Bring her some each time I come.”
We stopped outside Grandma’s room, and Mom reached over to squeeze my arm, perhaps to reassure herself as much as me. I ignored her touch and opened the door.
She was sitting on the edge of the bed, almost engulfed in a flowered robe that was much too big for her. She looked up as we entered.
Her eyes looked past me and found my grandfather. “Oh, there’s the nice man with the peaches,” she said.
My mother dropped on the bed beside her and put an arm around her. “Hey, Mom,” she said, “remember me? I’m Annie.”
Grandma ignored her and held out her hand for the peaches. “It’s so nice of you to bring me peaches each time you come.”
I wanted to say triumphantly to Mom, “See? She does remember. She is the same grandmother.”
Then Grandma cocked her head and looked quizzically at Grandpa. “Now, what did you say your name was?”
I wanted to leave. I wanted to be outside in the cleansing heat of the summer day, where the sun could burn this scene from my mind. I wanted to forget it had ever happened. It was changing my entire world.
But my grandfather was speaking to Grandma. “I’m Frank. And this is your daughter, Annie, and your granddaughter, Tara.” He spoke slowly and patiently.
“Hello,” Grandma said politely to Mom, and held out her hand. “I’m pleased to meet you.” She turned to me. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
“Tara,” I blurted.
A smile lit up her face, and my heart with it. She remembered me!
“Why, that’s my name, too!” She peered closely at me. “Will you be going to my school?”
I looked helplessly at my mother. She was crying silently, her face in her hands. My grandfather touched my shoulder and gently nodded.
I took a deep breath. “I hope so,” I said.
“Good. We’ll have great times. I hope you don’t live too far from me.”
I didn’t know what to do. She obviously expected me to say something. Suddenly I decided what to do. I plunged into her world.
“Tell me about the other people who go to the school,” I prompted.
Grandma’s eyes looked back 60 years. “Well, there’s Edith Scott. She’s nice and has the most beautiful red hair. And there’s Rob Anders, but stay as far away from him as you can. He’s trouble. And there’s Frankie Gleason.” A sly smile stole over her face. “I’ll bet he goes for you in a big way.”
My grandfather caught my eye and winked.
“Oh, no, I don’t think he will,” I said. “I think he likes you.”
Grandma blushed and smoothed the lap of her robe. “Well, some have thought so, but I don’t know. He is a nice fellow, though.”
“Why, I’ll bet that one day you and Frankie Gleason get married and have a beautiful daughter,” I teased. My mother looked up at me startled, and I wrinkled my nose at her. I was beginning to enjoy this.
Just then a nurse walked in. “Are you ready for your lunch, Mrs. Gleason?” she asked my grandmother.
Grandma’s face brightened. “Can I have peaches?”
In the middle of the night, the phone rang. A few minutes later my mother came into my room and sat on my bed.
“Tara, that was the nursing home. Grandma’s had a stroke, and it’s a bad one.” Her voice broke. “They don’t expect her to make it to morning.”
I sat up, suddenly awake. “Are we going?”
Mom touched my forehead, smoothing away stray hairs. “You don’t have to go.”
“But I want to go!” I cried. “She’s my grandma!”
Mom bit her lip and looked at me before she nodded. “Okay. Get dressed. We’re going right away.”
The nursing home looked different at night. “It looks so asleep!” I burst out. Grandpa patted my arm.
As we crossed the lawn, I noticed something in Grandpa’s hand.
“Peaches,” he said, embarrassed. “Her favorite. Bring her some each …” His voice cracked.
It was my turn to pat his arm.
Inside, the only person in the lobby was a nurse, who nodded understandingly at us and said softly, “Go ahead.”
Grandma’s room was brightly lit, and a doctor stood beside her bed.
“How is she?” asked my mother.
The doctor shrugged helplessly. “I never know what to say. It’s been a massive stroke, and her heart isn’t strong.”
Grandma looked very small on the bed. She looked past my mother and my grandfather to me. “Tara! How kind of you to come see me.” Her voice faltered. “I don’t think I’ll be in school tomorrow. I don’t feel very good.”
“That’s all right,” I said as reassuringly as I could. “I’ll explain to the teacher. By the way, I brought someone with me to see you. Frankie Gleason.”
We stood in a stiff line at the cemetery to “accept condolences,” as my mother put it. I felt numbed, yet painfully aware of what was happening. Grandpa seemed to shrink even more as his friends filed by to lay gnarled hands on his shoulders and wordlessly offer looks of understanding with eyes that had seen other loved ones laid to rest in this same grassy stretch. This man who had been the strongest man in the world to me when I was a child suddenly looked vulnerable, and I moved closer to him, instinctively wanting to protect him.
After the other people had left, Dad cleared his throat. “They’re serving lunch at the church. Come on, Tara.”
I hung back, reluctant to let Grandpa stay there alone, yet not wanting to hurry him into a premature separation from Grandma.
“I’ll wait and go with Grandpa,” I said.
Mom looked up sharply. “Tara …”
Grandpa stopped her. “Let her stay, Ann. We’ll meet you at the church after I say . …” His voice wavered. “After I say good-bye.”
When we were alone, I told Grandpa I’d wait for him in the car. He nodded absently. In a rush of empathy, I put my arms around him. He held on to me, and I could feel his thin shoulders shaking. Tears collected in my eyes, and I blinked helplessly as they ran unchecked down my cheeks.
“I’ll miss her, too,” I said. “But you know what makes me feel good, really good? Out of the millions of people in the world, I got her for my grandma. I feel very lucky and very grateful to whoever picks grandmas.” I leaned my head against his. “And grandpas.”
Grandpa lifted his head and smiled at me. “And granddaughters.” He took a large white handkerchief from his suit pocket and blew his nose.
I patted his arm. “I’ll meet you at the car.”
When he got to the car, I offered to drive. I started the car, and as I pulled out of the parking lot, something rolled out from under the car seat and tapped my foot. I stopped the car and reached down to pick it up. It was a jar.
“Peaches,” Grandpa said. “They’re her favorite, you know. Bring her some each …” He buried his face in his hands.
I laid my hand on his arm. “Let’s take them to her.”
Grandpa raised his head and looked at me. Then he nodded.
He carried the peaches in one hand and held my hand with the other. Together we walked back to the grave.
Grandpa knelt with difficulty and placed the jar of peaches in the midst of the flowers. Then he turned to me.
“Looks kind of simple here with all those showy flowers.”
I smiled at him. “You’re a nice man, Frankie Gleason.”