Gospel Story Finder

While the Mayflower skimmed westward with the breeze in her sails, Ellen played on deck with four-year-old Mary Allerton, the youngest passenger on board.
“Mary,” Ellen said, “shall we play pretend?”
“How do we play pretend?” Mary asked.
“Well, first, you make believe you’re my sister. Now I need to find a brother. Let me see … John Howland will be just right.” Walking briskly up to him, she said, “Ahoy, mate. A jolly good day it is.”
“Righto!” replied John, grinning. “That it is.”
“Aye, and a jolly good day for pretending,” Ellen added. “Would you like to pretend you’re my brother?”
“I’d like that very much,” the boy answered.
“Then it’s all settled. We are a family. Families stick together on ocean voyages and help each other.” Pretending helped ease Ellen’s homesick longing for Sarah and Roger.

At the beginning of 2019, when the new Come, Follow Me was just beginning, we could feel the excitement of the students. Even though we were studying from the Doctrine and Covenants in seminary, they started sharing things they had learned from studying the New Testament with their families. They were so excited about it. When we studied Doctrine and Covenants 89 (the Word of Wisdom) in seminary, it was around the same time we were studying John 2 (when Jesus Christ turns water into wine) in Come, Follow Me. Finding common principles and ideas between the two readings allowed the students to share with their peers what they had learned at home. They were much more engaged, and the discussion was much more invigorating because the students had things to talk about. They were able to apply the things they had learned at home to what we were learning at seminary.

I recently learned a modern story that parallels this situation from Old Testament times:
A Latter-day Saint couple bought a restaurant that had not previously been highly successful, but they planned changes to put new life into the business. Sunday had been one of the restaurant’s busy days, and some of their acquaintances—including a close friend who had loaned them money to buy the business—urged them to keep it open on Sunday. The couple agonized over whether to close the restaurant on Sunday; after all, it defied good business logic. But they finally decided to close it, follow their own beliefs, and trust in the Lord. The succeeding months saw an immediate increase in sales, and since then the business has steadily and consistently grown.
This couple’s experience, along with the experiences of others, teaches us that the Lord rewards those who obey his commandments. Just as he promised the Israelites of Moses’ day a double amount of manna on the day before the Sabbath (see Ex. 16:29) and a more bountiful harvest during the sixth year to provide for the seventh and eighth years (see Lev. 25:3–7, 20–22), in a modern restaurant, he can increase sales on Friday and Saturday to compensate for—and often exceed—what could have been earned on the Sabbath.

Choir practice was every Wednesday night in the chapel at 7:30 P.M. By that time I was also a forward on the ward M Men basketball team, athletic manager, and captain of the team. Choir rehearsals and league games were often scheduled on the same Wednesday night. This produced conflicts. One night father insisted I attend choir practice and miss a game. Usually, in such cases, I was excused from choir practice. As I look back, the bitter taste I felt during that particular rehearsal has long since vanished. The glorious sounds of Handel resonate through my soul while my basketball prowess has somewhat diminished!

At 53, Elizabeth seized another learning opportunity. She and her daughter Jessie were walking down the street in Bendigo when a man in a black coat and top hat introduced himself as a missionary from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. He offered them a book and said it would teach them God’s plan for His children. Elizabeth always eagerly accepted free books, but this one would change their lives.
All through that night, Jessie read The Book of Mormon to her mother, and the Holy Spirit affirmed to them this book was true.
Elizabeth and three of her children were baptized on 2 February 1902. A couple years later, her two grandsons were baptized.

Bang! Scritch! Scraaaatch!
Jesse didn’t like the noises coming from outside his window. He shivered and pulled his covers over his head. Jesse regretted watching that superhero movie. He knew it wasn’t real, but the bad guy in the movie was really scary.
Screeeech!
Jesse’s eyes flew open. What was that scratching sound against his windowsill? He sat up. Was it his windowpane rattling? Jesse said a quick prayer in his mind. With his heart pounding, he tore off his covers and ran across the hall to his brother’s room.
“Steve! Hey, Steve!” Jesse said as he skidded to a stop next to where his brother lay sleeping.
“Mmmph,” Steve answered, not lifting his head from the pillow.
Jesse tugged on Steve’s arm. “Steve, there are noises outside my window. I think something is trying to get in!”
Nothing.
Jesse talked to himself as he trudged back to his room. “There’s nothing to be afraid of,” he said. “Be brave.”
Scraaaatch!
Jesse froze. Trying to be brave, he lifted the corner of his window shade to take a peek. He searched the darkness outside of his window. He couldn’t see anything, but he expected something to pop up and scare him at any moment.
He stared hard, but the only thing he saw was the top of the bush below his windowsill. Relieved, he took a deep breath and sank back down onto his bed. He closed his eyes for a moment, but then he heard another sound. Scritch. Scritch. He sat up. He didn’t want to feel scared anymore. He said another silent prayer.
“Heavenly Father, please, please, please help me sleep. Please make the sounds go away.”
Jesse looked at the shadows on his walls and trembled. Why weren’t his prayers working?
Then he had a thought. He remembered that the Holy Ghost helps people feel peace. Maybe feeling the Holy Ghost could help him feel better.
Jesse glanced over at his bookshelf where there was a book of scripture stories and pictures. He rushed over to the shelf and snatched the book. Turning on the light next to his bed, he began to read some of his favorite scripture stories. Jesse felt calm as he read. His room felt warmer somehow. Though he could still hear scratching outside his window, the sounds seemed to be softer and not as scary.
Jesse read another scripture story, and then another. Soon he didn’t feel afraid anymore. Heavenly Father had answered his prayers—not by making the scary sounds go away—but by giving him the idea to replace his fear with the peace of the Holy Ghost.

The heat was sweltering, and it was raining heavily. Still, the missionaries continued down the road, a mix of perspiration and rain rolling off their backs and faces. To their left and right were the humble houses of the people of Hong Kong.
As they walked, Elder Tavita Sagapolu seemed a giant. Standing 1.8 meters tall and weighing over 120 kilos, the former college football star, who was now a full-time missionary, towered over most of the people in this city. And now he discovered that he towered over their homes, too. The buildings came up only to his chin.
After approaching one of the houses, Tavita’s more experienced companion, who had been on his mission several months, turned to the young Samoan man and offered to let him knock on the door. This would be the first door Tavita would knock on since arriving in Hong Kong, and it would be an experience that he would remember throughout his life.
Tavita shook with nervousness as he prepared to knock. “My mouth went dry and refused to open,” he recalls. Nonetheless, he mustered the courage to approach the door, a door so small he had to kneel down to knock.
“As I was kneeling there, I forgot how strong I was. I didn’t even have to knock—my hand was shaking so much that all I had to do was put my arm up to the door.” Before Tavita knew what was happening, the door fell in under the weight of his arm. Panic swept through him as he tried to put the door back on its hinges before anyone came.
Suddenly, an elderly woman appeared at the door. When she opened it, it fell on her. She came out screaming. “I grabbed my companion and put him in front of me. I said to the woman, ‘Here, talk to him!’ The memory of that little old woman’s face after the door fell down will always be with me.” Now, when he recalls the episode, Tavita chuckles.

Ricardo’s testimony was strengthened that day, but before he was 11, he didn’t even know what a testimony was. Then one day a friend invited him to church. He enjoyed it so much he kept coming back.
His mother didn’t like him going. And she didn’t want him joining the Church when he asked to be baptized. “But the missionaries talked to my mother, and she liked them, so she finally gave permission,” he says.
Ever since then Ricardo has been a devoted and energetic disciple of Christ. He currently holds the priesthood office of priest in the Barueri Ward, Barueri Brazil Stake. Ricardo is usually the first one at church, even though he must walk two and a half miles (4 km) to get there. He says he wants to come to every meeting, even those not on Sunday.
Although he is the only Church member in his family, he still does all he can to build the Lord’s kingdom. That’s what you want to do when you have a testimony, he says. He is even learning to play the piano so he can accompany the singing in priesthood meeting.
“What is important is eternity,” he says. “Now that I’m a member of the Church, I see everything in an eternal light.”
Does heaven’s light shine for anyone who seeks the Lord? Even for those who consider themselves the least in the kingdom? Indeed it does. Ask Ricardo. He knows.

In another ward the bishop asked a semi-active priest to tutor a deacon having problems in school. After balking at the request, the priest found the young boy began to follow his example of attending Church. They decided to go to MIA together. When the deacon asked if he should go on a mission, the priest said yes, and his new friend replied, “When are you going?”
“Well, what could I say? I couldn’t let him down. So here I am an elder and on my way to serve the Lord for two years in Norway. I know this is what I must do and want to do with my life right now. School can wait.”

This story happened in Zimbabwe.
The sun was shining, and Lynn ran outside to play. The other children in the village were playing kickball. They had made their own ball by crunching up papers and wrapping them tightly with plastic bags.
Lynn hurried to join them. But then something made her stop.
Sitting under a nearby tree was a girl named Awesome. Some other children pointed at her and laughed. But Awesome didn’t laugh. Instead, she covered her face with her hands. Big tears rolled down her cheeks.
Soon the others joined the kickball game and left Awesome alone.
Lynn looked at the children having fun. Then she looked at Awesome. She wanted to do what Jesus Christ would do.
“Are you OK?” Lynn asked. She smiled at Awesome.
Awesome wiped her tears and nodded.
Lynn picked up two small sticks and handed one to Awesome. “Want to draw with me?”
“Sure.” Awesome took the stick and drew a circle in the dirt.
“That looks like a sun,” said Lynn. “The sun always makes me happy.” The girls giggled as they drew more pictures. Lynn liked Awesome.
Then Lynn had an idea. “Would you like to come to church with me tomorrow? We’ll sing songs and learn about Jesus Christ. It’s really fun.”
“OK,” said Awesome. “Let me ask my mother.”
As Awesome ran to find her mother, Lynn felt a little nervous. She knew some people in their area had bad feelings about the Church.
But soon Awesome came running back. “My mother said yes!” She gave Lynn a big hug. “I told her you are my best friend ever!”
The next morning, Lynn and Awesome went to church. It was a long walk. Lynn taught Awesome some Primary songs as they walked.
On the way, they saw other children walking with their families to church. Some of them were the ones who had been mean to Awesome.
“Are they coming to church too?” asked Awesome nervously.
“Don’t worry,” Lynn said. “It will be OK.” Lynn said a little prayer in her heart that the others would be nice to her new friend.
When they walked into Primary, the other children smiled at Lynn. But when they saw Awesome, some of their smiles faded. They seemed a bit worried and nervous too.
Sister Moyo read a scripture. “Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works and glorify your Father in Heaven.”* She looked up. “We can share our light by showing love to others. Can anyone share how you helped someone feel loved?”
No one spoke. Some of the children shuffled their feet under their chairs.
At last, one of the boys said, “Uh, Awesome, we were not very kind to you. We are sorry we made you cry. Can you forgive us?”
Lynn looked at Awesome. What would she say?
Awesome nodded slowly. “Yes,” she said. “I forgive you.”
Sister Moyo smiled. “That was brave and kind of both of you. I know you’ve made the Savior very happy.”
The next day, Lynn and Awesome sat under the tree and sang songs they learned in Primary. Soon the other children heard them singing and joined them. Music filled the air they all sang.
Lynn felt like sun was shining in her heart. She was grateful she had shared Jesus Christ’s love with her friend.
Awesome kept going to church with Lynn. Later, she was baptized!
Illustrations by Katie Rewse

I can remember only bits and pieces of that September day in 1986. I can remember going to work, but I can’t remember going home. I can’t remember, either, the meeting I had that evening as Young Women president of the Salt Lake Sugarhouse Stake with a new ward Young Women president. But she says that I did visit her and that I left her house at about 6:30 P.M. After the meeting, I must have decided to drive my new car up Emigration Canyon east of Salt Lake City, for it was there that another driver, drunk and driving at a high speed, rammed into my car.
The accident left my memory a shattered wreck and nearly took my life. And yet, in spite of the months of pain and fear I have endured, the experience has produced something of a miracle. Because of it, I am convinced to the very center of my soul that God loves each of us and that he cares for us in ways we rarely recognize.
I suppose I must have taken that drive up Emigration Canyon to enjoy the autumn colors and spend a little free time before my next meeting with the stake Young Men/Young Women committee. Whatever the reason for my being there, it cost me dearly. As I was coming around a curve, another car swerved into my lane. We met head-on. My car was totally demolished, and I was pinned inside. When the paramedics finally pried me out of the car, they were sure I would not survive. The report sent with me to the hospital read “dead or dying.”
My spleen had been ruptured in two places, my diaphragm had been torn open, and my left lung had collapsed. I could barely breathe. I had many other severe internal injuries, and something had dug into my left leg, injuring the nerves. My left arm was cut up, my right ankle was broken, my head had severe lacerations, and my pelvis had been fractured in four places.
In the emergency room, the doctors prepared to insert a tube into my lungs to inflate them, but felt prompted not to do so. Instead, they rushed me into surgery. There they found that the internal damage was so severe that putting a tube into my lung cavity would have killed me.
The only identification I had in my purse that enabled the hospital to locate my family was my temple recommend. From it, they obtained the name of my bishop, John Pruess, and he was finally able to contact my mother.
She and my youngest brother, Cal, arrived at the hospital at about 2:00 A.M. I was out of surgery by then, and Dr. Nelson apologized for not waiting to get permission. Hospital personnel hadn’t been able to contact any of my family right away, and my damaged body had required immediate attention. When Mom discovered how badly I had been hurt, she almost went into shock.
Cal called my sister Marguerite and asked her to let the rest of the family know what had happened. She said that she started praying for me immediately. It was then that she received a strong, calm feeling and the thought, “Trust me. She is in my hands. I’m in charge, I know what’s best, and I’m all-powerful.” She wondered if that meant I would be in God’s hands in the same way our Dad was: he had died two years earlier. She began to pray again and felt rather than heard the message that I would be all right and would be getting married soon. She wondered why the Lord would tell her this, but decided it must have been the best way to comfort her.
At the time, I was not dating anyone or even thinking of getting married. I was forty-nine years old and had long since resigned myself to being single. I had struggled for many years with the fact that my patriarchal blessing had promised me marriage and yet I remained alone. I sometimes wondered if the Lord really knew I was here. There were even times when I thought that I really didn’t matter to him, since I was just an average sort of person—no one very important.
The accident changed all that. When she heard about the accident, my sister Esther wondered why the Lord hadn’t protected me, since I was an active member of the Church. Into her mind came the words, “What makes you think I didn’t?” I know that the Lord truly did protect me. He preserved my life and protected me from the kind of injuries that would have left me crippled. He protected me in the emergency room by prompting the doctors. But perhaps greatest of all, he let me glimpse the almost overwhelming power of his love.
The morning after I was admitted to the hospital, Cal and a member of my bishopric gave me a blessing. Cal had no hesitation in promising me that I would recover. He said later that he had the same feeling Marguerite had—that I would be getting married soon.
I was in intensive care for a week, hooked up to all kinds of machines that helped me breathe and that monitored my condition. Other than my stake president, my family were the only ones allowed to see me during those first few days. I was conscious but not talking. I was under such heavy medication that I have very little memory of those first two weeks. Mostly, I remember isolated times when people came to see me.
After I left intensive care, I was awake and talking. I had become very dependent and wanted one of my family with me all the time, so they set up a schedule and took turns sitting with me. I was in a lot of pain.
The first thing I became consistently conscious of was an intense awareness of love. I can’t ever remember feeling so secure. I felt very much wrapped in God’s love. The feeling was so profound that even to this day I can’t adequately describe it. I was also very much aware of the love my family had for me, and I could feel it surrounding me.
This feeling expanded as I became aware of other people. My Young Women counselors came to see me almost every day, and I felt their concern. Bishop Pruess came to visit me often and told me that the ward was praying for me, and I felt love coming from the ward. Members of the stake came to see me and told me of the great outpouring of prayer for me in the stake. My friends at work visited me, and I also sensed their concern.
I felt all this love at the deepest, most fundamental level of my soul. That love, I believe, is what helped me survive the very difficult time that followed the accident.
The Lord blessed me in so many ways during the following months. I don’t know how I knew, but I knew from the first that all of my injuries would heal and that I would return to normal. I also knew that if I were to recover, I couldn’t waste any strength hating the man who had hurt me. I concentrated on getting better rather than dwelling on what was wrong. I knew that the Lord was helping me focus on love and on people rather than dwell on the horror.
After I had been in the hospital two and a half weeks, the doctors said I could leave. They suggested, however, that my family take me to a convalescent center. I was quite frightened at the thought of moving. I remember pleading with Cal to ask the Lord what we should do. I had been leaning very heavily on the Lord, and I didn’t want any decision made without consulting him. My family was there, and I had been leaning on them, but I knew that, above all, the Lord was caring for me.
On September 20, I was transferred to a care center. The medication was cut in half, so I became more aware of what was going on around me. For a week, I worked hard at building up my strength and learning how to get around with broken bones. Then I was moved to Cal’s house. I appreciated him and his wife for letting me stay with them. It felt good to be in their home. His children would come to my room after school and tell me what they had done that day. Their visits did much to ease me back into normal life.
I had been so heavily drugged in the hospital that even though I knew why I was there, I hadn’t been able to focus on any one thought. But now I was off all medication. For the first few nights at Cal’s, I was afraid to go to sleep. I felt I had such a slight hold on life that I might not wake up in the morning. While lying awake at night, I would start to think about the horror of what had happened and about my injuries. I realized that I could have been killed or permanently damaged physically.
On those nights when I became frightened, I would turn to the Lord for help. Almost immediately, my mind would be filled with peace and with an awareness of the many blessings He had given me. A great calm would envelop me, and I would fall asleep. At such times I felt overwhelmed by Heavenly Father’s goodness and love.
About seven weeks after the accident, I was able to return home. My family stayed most of the day, helping me get settled in, but I spent my first Sunday morning home alone. That was very difficult. After being with people and being surrounded by their love, I felt a terrible loneliness that day—something deeper than I had ever felt before. I had gone through the typical frustrations of being single and of wanting to be a mother. Now, after having been wrapped in the wonderfully sustaining love of my family, I wondered if I could handle living alone any more.
That afternoon, Jerry Tucker came to visit me. We had come to know each other through his calling as high council adviser to the Young Women program, so I wasn’t too surprised when he continued to visit me. Months later, though, when he proposed marriage, I wondered if I was reading my feelings correctly. I suppose, quite naturally, that I felt the need for outside assurance to confirm that my judgment and thoughts were sound. Because the Lord had been so close to me through the crisis of the accident and the slow healing, and because my family had given me such tremendous support, I felt the need for their approval and for wisdom outside my own.
So I began praying about Jerry’s proposal. My prayers were answered one day when a great feeling of peace washed over me. I knew then that this was my time to be married. I also knew that the Lord had not left me alone and that I would never be cheated of anything he had promised me. Jerry and I were married in the Salt Lake Temple on 12 February 1987.
I have wished that I could share with all my single friends the assurance that this experience has given me. I am convinced, at a deeply personal level, that though we sometimes can’t see or understand what is happening in our lives, Heavenly Father is always there, caring for us.
In time, all of my injuries healed. But I will never be the same. I learned so many things that I thought I knew but really didn’t. I have a much deeper faith and trust in the Lord now. I know he lives. I have felt his influence in my life.
I learned that miracles do happen to ordinary people. I had felt that I was no one special, and yet I know now that I am special—I am a daughter of God. We are all special, because we are all children of a loving Heavenly Father. That fact is very real to me now.
Before my accident, I didn’t know how incredibly loving and kind God is. I am sure that even now I don’t begin to comprehend the depth of his love, but I sense that it is far deeper than any of us know. I know that even if I had died or had been crippled, the Lord would have been there looking after me, blessing me in ways he saw best.
I learned how important prayer is. I could actually feel the strength of the prayers being said for me. Now as I pray for the Lord to watch over my loved ones, it has special meaning. If something distressing were to happen, I would want him to be with them as he was with me. When my miracle happened, it was several hours before anyone knew and could begin praying—but how many times had my family remembered me in their daily prayers before that time?
I learned about joy. The Lord told me in a blessing that he had extended my life and that he wanted me to make it a joyful, happy one. I understand now that it is important to him that we are happy. I find references to joy throughout the scriptures. I see far more clearly now that the gospel is a gospel of joy.
I learned the value of health. Our bodies are a special blessing, and good health is to be treasured. I feel an urgent need to take care of my health. Our Heavenly Father has given us life and everything we have. Our part is to take care of what he has given us.
Something terrible happened to me, but I have received so many blessings that I still feel in debt to the Lord. I owe him more than I can ever repay. But I don’t think he wants “repayment.” He wants my love. He wants me to be happy—and that will happen as I love and serve him with my whole soul, sharing my joy with those around me.

We have been promised that as we “run with patience the race that is set before us” (Hebrews 12:1), “in the strength of the Lord” we can do all things (Alma 20:4). We can run and not be weary, and walk and not faint as we wait upon the Lord to gain a fuller understanding of our life challenges. I testify that this is so. I bear solemn witness that continuing opportunities to wait upon the Lord have blessed my own life. I am sensitive to making reference to my own life experiences, but I’ll use the excuse of Henry David Thoreau, who said, “I should not talk so much about myself if there were anybody else whom I knew as well” (Walden [1854], I, Economy).

As a young child my life was secure and happy in a home centered in the gospel of Jesus Christ. The pain of the death of my mother when I was seven years old was cushioned by the love of my family. I graduated from Brigham Young University, married in the temple, supported my husband through graduate studies, held Church callings, and had five beautiful children. I was blessed with a wonderful and secure life. I had multiple opportunities to serve.

Then came the test of the depths of my faith. Twelve years ago I found myself a single mother. I felt shock that anything could so disrupt our family, disbelief that divorce could happen to the “perfect family,” fear of the future, and anger. I held my sobbing children in my arms at night, trying to comfort their broken hearts. One of my little daughters carefully hid in her room a white envelope filled with tiny pieces of a photograph of her mother and father, shredded by the hands of a heartbroken child.

After 23 years of marriage and five children, after 14 months of litigation and thousands of dollars in legal fees, I found myself in a Kansas courtroom going through what was abhorrent to me. I was alone in that courtroom. I thought of another who was alone: he who said, “I have . . . trodden the wine-press alone” (D&C 76:107). There are some things that must be done alone.

I was determined that although the adversary had destroyed a marriage, he would not destroy our family. On the wall of our home hung an inscription of the stirring commitment of Old Testament Joshua: “As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord” (Joshua 24:15). I drew my children close in an intimate circle of love. We read scriptures on my big bed, my children like a litter of puppies sprawled across and around each other and me in a casual, happy atmosphere. Our family was strengthened by pillows of faith that cushioned and softened the blows of life with flexibility and resiliency. (See Lynn Clark Scott, “A Time to Heal,” Ensign, April 1989, pp. 56–63.)

President Howard W. Hunter said:
A line from Cervantes’ great classic, Don Quixote, . . . has given me comfort over the years. In that masterpiece, we find the short but very important reminder that where one door closes, another opens. Doors close regularly in our lives, and some of those closings cause genuine pain and heartache. But I do believe that where one such door closes, another opens (and perhaps more than one), with hope and blessings in other areas of our lives that we might not have discovered otherwise. [“The Opening and Closing of Doors,” Ensign, November 1987, pp. 54–59; emphasis in original]

Ten years ago, unsolicited and across many miles, came the invitation to join the faculty in the College of Nursing at Brigham Young University. My first response was no. It would not be possible for me to uproot my children from their childhood home when they had already experienced so much pain. It would not be possible for me to complete my graduate studies, take my comprehensive examinations, pack a household, sell a home, move a family halfway across the country—a single woman with five children—all to be accomplished in a few short weeks.

In turmoil and doubt I went to the temple, seeking the Lord’s guidance, and there came to me the gentle whispering: “Go.” And with that counsel came these reassuring words: “For I know that the Lord giveth no commandments unto the children of men, save he shall prepare a way” (1 Nephi 3:7).

The way was prepared, my graduate studies completed, the house sold, the offer accepted, and the move negotiated. Then came the day when Dean June Leifson unlocked the door to my small corner office in the Kimball Tower. As the door closed behind me and I was alone, I looked out the window to a magnificent view of the Provo Temple: the house of the Lord with the mountains beyond. I fell to my knees with tears of gratitude streaming down my face for the many blessings of a loving Heavenly Father to one of the least of his daughters.

Nearly nine years ago I knelt again with tears in my eyes—this time kneeling across the altar of the Provo Temple with a man who loves the Lord. It is only when we have known the bitter that we may prize the sweet (see 2 Nephi 2:15, Moses 5:11). The philosopher Kahlil Gibran observed, “The cavity created by the suffering through which we go becomes a receptacle for compensating blessings.” I am grateful for the multitude of compensating blessings that have come as I waited upon the Lord. We were sealed in the house of the Lord, bringing together a blended family of 11 children. It seems significant that our first two grandsons were born only hours apart—and we planted two tiny spruce trees in celebration of those births. These two grandsons were baptized this month and are happily preparing to serve missions in only 11 short years! Missions and marriages and more grandchildren have come and keep coming. Our cup runneth over! We are rich in posterity. We anticipate two temple marriages of our last two children in the coming months and will be celebrating the births of three more grandchildren in the coming weeks. There are continuing challenges and opportunities for growth, including the death of a precious daughter, Lucianne, last July—but how blessed our family is.

One day while running some errands, I saw a homeless man in front of the bank. I had seen him there before, and I had always tried to make sure that I smiled and said hello. Although I didn’t usually give him money, I wanted him to know that I’m not trying to avoid him and that I recognized him as a real person. When I got out of the car, I went to put change in the meter, but all I had was a “loonie” (Canadian dollar coin) and a bunch of pennies.
As I stood there and pushed the pennies around, making sure there wasn’t a nickel or dime, I heard the homeless man ask, “Do you have change?”
I told him I didn’t, not even for the meter. Then he surprised me by saying, “Oh, here. I’m sure I have a dime for you.”
I had just tried to shake off this homeless man because I didn’t have any change for him, and then he handed me a dime. But his gift was more than monetary. He also gave me a change of heart. His simple act was charity and service in its truest form. A homeless man begging for change gave his change to someone who needed it more at the moment. I thanked him and then, even though he wasn’t expecting it, gave him my loonie.

One of these small acts of kindness was performed by Sister Lucy Carr, and led to my first contact with the Church. Sister Carr, a pioneer of the gospel in South Africa, was a schoolteacher at a primary school where my sister Carol also taught. One day, Sister Carr gave Carol a copy of a Church-produced magazine called The Friend, recommending that it had some good stories for Carol to read to her grade 1 class. She accepted the magazine and followed Sister Carr’s recommendation.

Carol then noticed it was a magazine published by a church and asked Sister Carr a few questions about it and the Church. Over a short period, the questions continued. When the time was right, Sister Carr asked Carol if she would be interested in having the full-time missionaries visit her and answer more questions. Carol agreed and as a result, joined the Church in 1971.

Sister Lucy Carr—for taking that step of sharing the gospel in a normal and natural way with my sister Carol, which led to my baptism and conversion.

Illustrations by J. Beth Jepson
I never felt like I didn’t belong at church until my husband, Cameron, and I began struggling with infertility. The children and families who had typically brought me joy to see at church now started causing me grief and pain.
I felt barren without a child in my arms or a diaper bag in hand. In Relief Society, playgroups were announced, moms chatted, and it seemed every lesson tied back to motherhood.
I felt lost.
I didn’t have a child to bring to playgroup. I didn’t have personal stories to share about rearing my child in the gospel.
I desperately wanted to be a part of the conversations about motherhood and to make friends with the sisters in my ward, but I felt like there was no connection between us because I wasn’t a mother.
The hardest Sunday was our first one in a new ward. Because we didn’t have kids, we were asked if we were newlyweds and when we planned on starting a family. I had gotten pretty good at answering these questions without letting them affect me—I knew they weren’t meant to be hurtful.
However, on this particular Sunday, answering those questions was especially hard. We had just found out, after being hopeful, that we were—yet again—not pregnant.
I walked into sacrament meeting feeling downtrodden, and answering those typical “get to know you” questions was hard for me. During the sacrament, I scanned the congregation looking for other young couples without children whom my husband and I could relate to. We didn’t see anyone else.
But it was Sunday School that truly broke my heart. The lesson—intended to be about the divine role of mothers—quickly shifted gears and became a vent session. My heart sank and tears silently flowed down my cheeks as I heard women complain about a blessing I would give anything for.
I bolted out of church. At first, I didn’t want to go back. I didn’t want to experience that feeling of isolation again. But that night, after talking with my husband, we knew we would keep attending church not only because the Lord has asked us to but also because we both knew that the joy that comes from renewing covenants and feeling the Spirit at church surpasses the sadness I felt that day.
That experience happened four years ago. Time has passed. And I still don’t have a baby in my arms or a diaper bag in my hand, but I know now more than ever that I do belong in church.
While processing my own grief, I’ve become more observant of those around me. I still scan the congregation, but now I try to notice those who might have come to church feeling like they don’t belong. And I’ve learned that we all feel like we don’t belong at times.
In the Church, there are widowed, divorced, and single members; those with family members who have fallen away from the gospel; people with chronic illnesses or financial struggles; members who experience same-sex attraction; members working to overcome addictions or doubts; recent converts; new move-ins; empty-nesters; and the list goes on and on.
Each of us may feel that our trials or circumstances prevent us from belonging, but the truth is that our unique lives and our individual adversities are actually what make us belong in Christ’s Church the most.
The purpose of being a member of the Church is to follow Him. We belong with our Savior, and so we belong in His Church. He has told us, “Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest” (Matthew 11:28).
The Savior invites us to come unto Him—no matter our circumstances. We come to church to renew our covenants, to increase our faith, to find peace, and to do as He did perfectly in His life—minister to others who feel like they don’t belong.
There might be times when I’m the only one in Relief Society who doesn’t have children. And times when people still ask why we don’t have children. Those times may be difficult, but for as many difficult experiences, there are even more joyful ones.
Feeling the Spirit at church and showing my love for my Savior will always surpass any feeling of being alone. I know there is peace in Christ. I know there is healing in attending church. I know we’re blessed as we keep going. Our trials may be different from others’ at church, but our personal experiences can help us become more empathetic to others who may feel like they don’t belong. And as a result, those experiences can unite us.
I know that by sharing my testimony and opening my heart, I can help others come to understand that they—and each and every individual—belong in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

My friend Donna grew up desiring to marry and raise a large family. But that blessing never came. Instead, she spent her adult years serving the people in her ward with unmeasured compassion and counseling disturbed children in a large school district. She had crippling arthritis and many long, blue days. Yet she always lifted and was always lifted by her friends and family. Once when teaching about Lehi’s dream, she said with gentle humor, “I’d put myself in that picture on the strait and narrow path, still holding to the iron rod but collapsed from fatigue right on the path.” In an inspired blessing given just before her death, Donna’s home teacher said the Lord “accepted” her. Donna cried. She had never felt her single life was acceptable. But the Lord said those who “observe their covenants by sacrifice … are accepted of me.” I can envision Him walking the path from the tree of life to lift Donna up with gladness and carry her home.

Consider some of the choices of my great-great-great-grandfather Henry John Platt. Born in England in 1828, he was orphaned in his infancy and was placed in the care of Richard and Mary Speed. The Speeds heard the restored gospel and were baptized in 1841, when Henry was thirteen. But in Henry’s words, his guardian judged that he “was not sedate and good enough to be a member in the church.”39 He nonetheless emigrated with the Speeds at age sixteen. However, before reaching St. Louis, Richard drowned in the Mississippi River. The rest of the family scattered, but Henry sought out the Saints in St. Louis and was baptized at age twenty.
Henry spent the rest of his life serving in the kingdom—in St. Louis and later in Salt Lake City, St. George, Utah, and my hometown of St. Johns, Arizona. Through all the challenges of emigrating, settling in the desert, losing three children in the same year, and more, he nonetheless reported that he was “up to date endeavoring to do right (and) honor my calling.”40 It was not an easy path, but he chose this! He trusted the Savior and sought the joy that only He could give. He knew it was right.
I see similar faith demonstrated in my parents’ conversions. My grandfather fell inactive in his youth, which meant that my father, Mitch Platt, was not raised in the faith despite living among many members. Upon arriving at the University of Arizona, his assigned roommate was Kenny Evans, a somewhat recent convert to the restored Church. Kenny’s example and testimony opened my father’s heart, and near the end of his freshman year, my father was baptized. My father tells me that he didn’t have a deep understanding of scripture then, but he saw the fruits of the gospel and wanted them for himself and for his future family.
My father then transferred to finish his degree at Michigan State and almost immediately met my mother, Mary Johnson. With the same enthusiasm of his freshman roommate, my dad proceeded to introduce her to the restored gospel. She took her time—three years—to carefully consider this new church. During their senior year, her close friend was also meeting with the missionaries. After a university course that they shared, the two would meet at the student union to discuss over coffee what they were learning in the Book of Mormon. Sometime during that year they shifted to hot chocolate.
My mother’s father, Arnold Johnson, was a lay minister in the Lutheran Church. He was not thrilled with my mom’s potential conversion, but he did offer her important advice, saying, “If you do choose to join that church, don’t you ever change your mind. You should be sure.”
Eventually she was sure, choosing to be baptized shortly before graduating. My parents married civilly two months later and were sealed for eternity a year after her baptism.
My parent’s baptismal and temple covenants with the Savior have guided their lives through challenges and through joys and have influenced all their posterity. By late fall this year, five of their grandchildren will be called or serving full-time missions simultaneously, one of whom is my oldest son, Garrett. My parents chose this! They loved the Savior and sought His joy for their family. They knew it was right.

And while this angelic atmosphere graces every general conference, I feel the October 2019 general conference experience may best express how my own heart and soul were such desperate and blessed recipients of Latter-day Saint blessed kindness—of that soul-restoring light and love of Latter-day Saint kindness that truly establishes your community “as a light unto the nations.”

From left to right: Michael Law, Yael Charnes, Rabbi Joe Charnes, and Elder S. Gifford Nielsen of the Seventy attend general conference in October 2019.
Photo courtesy of Michael Law.

The story itself actually begins a week and a half before the October 2019 general conference session, when I, along with family and friends, had to bury the loveliness of my mother, Eudie (YOU-dee) Charnes. My heart was broken, grieving, and empty beyond empty. The beauty of Eudie, the beauty that was Eudie, was, simply and sadly, no more. She was no longer before me to hold, to hug, or to nourish—to bless, to sing to, to cry over, or to pray with. The life and the light that had given me life had died, her blessedness now gone and beyond. And so too a part of me died with her also, a part deep within, leaving me forever without. With grace she died, embraced by faith, interlaced in the loving arms of her beloved family: of my wife, Sarah; of our daughter, Yael; and of mine, her newly orphaned son.

We were all together yet completely alone—each alone in our individual loss but bound together in our shared loss. And that fragile togetherness that we shared with each other was helped, and at times was even held together, by the kindness and presence of two living Latter-day Saint community treasures: Brother Mike Law and his eternal celestial companion, Sister Debbie Law, of Colorado, USA. Their humble hearts overflow with a love that can only be described as being inspired from above, and we are forever grateful for the light of their accompanying presence during our walk through the darkness and the despair of death.

It was during this time, a mere two days after burying my mother, that my desperate cry for the blessed was answered—answered in the form of a simple phone call and offer from my treasured friend, Brother Mike Law. He was again reaching out and reaching in, as always, to see how I was faring and wayfaring along, in loss along this long and lonely journey of woe.

While we were speaking, I noticed a subtle tenor of uncertainty entering into Mike’s voice, as he asked me the following question: “Joe, I know the answer is probably going to be no, but would you like to go to general conference, if I can get tickets?” My response was simple, immediate, direct, and urgent: “Mike, there’s actually nowhere else that I’d rather be.”

Those were my words, friends; those were my words, words sung forth in solemn song and solemn sorrow. I just knew that general conference would be that consecrating moment of graceful uplift for my heart. I knew the generous arms of every Latter-day Saint–inspired heart would be unconditionally extended and extending in love—that the arms of their loving hearts simply would not fail.

In graceful embrace: Elder Matthew L. Carpenter of the Seventy (right) and Rabbi Joe Charnes (left) at the October 2019 general conference.
Photo courtesy of Michael Law.

At general conference, people simply smile from the heart. They say hello from the heart, and they glow from the heart. There is an unspoken language of presence of heart. Their presence says hello. Just being there says hello. Just being there is being embraced.

That was the balm my aching soul needed—that heart-embracing balm of general-conference kindness. That is why general conference would truly be that healing balm of Gilead for my soul in need.

And this is a general truism of your grand faith. Wise, loving, nurturing kindness is the service anthem of the Latter-day Saint community; it is the emblematic hallmark and legacy of your faith. If the old adage is true that “the highest form of wisdom is kindness,” then general conference is truly a gathering place for some of the wisest human beings on the planet.

You are “a light unto the nations,” and a light unto my heart. Bless you, Mike, for following the promptings of your heart. Your devotion to helping me restore peace within has the heavenly choir above singing, “Well done, good and faithful servant” (Matthew 25:23).

Jeff and Dad were as still as statues while a squirrel nibbled crumbs from Dad’s hand. Another squirrel scampered by and demanded its share, then chattered with delight to find crumbs in Jeff’s hand too. Jeff and Dad had been sitting under the tree for about an hour. Two deer had cautiously entered the nearby clearing, shyly watching them.
Jeff loved being in the mountains with his dad. As they hiked to their campsite, Dad taught him the names of the wildflowers and showed him where a beaver had stripped the bark from a tree. After they ate dinner, they sat serenely on top of a little knoll and watched the sun set.
They were just snuggling down into their sleeping bags, with the stars twinkling over their heads, when the peacefulness of the night was shattered by loud rock music and the roaring of a truck’s engine.
A group of people pulled up to the next campsite. They kept revving the engine, shouting, and swearing. Jeff watched, dismayed, as they broke branches from the trees to start a fire, then swore at each other when the fire would not start in the green wood. After a long time, Jeff was able to fall into an uneasy sleep.
Early the next morning, the sun had barely risen when Jeff stood by the lake, reeling in his first fish. He was so excited that he could hardly stand still while his father undid the hook and put the fish in the creel. As the sunlight touched the treetops on the far mountainside, the birds were singing in high spirit, and some chipmunks went scurrying by. The beauty of it all made Jeff want to shout for joy.
He thought about the night before. “Dad, why were those people acting that way last night? They seemed to hate each other, their campsite, and the other campers.”
“Maybe they never learned to be reverent and respectful,” Dad suggested.
“What does reverence have to do with it? That’s a church word.”
Dad was quiet for a moment while he thought. “I love nature. I feel a reverence for nature that is a little like the reverence that I feel for Heavenly Father. I love the mountains so much that I’ve tried to learn about them. I’ve learned the names of the flowers and birds and trees. I’ve learned to walk quietly and sit quietly so that I can watch the animals. I pick up litter whenever I see it so that it doesn’t spoil what’s here, and I’m very careful with our campfire. I do everything I can to show respect for the beauty that is here and try to make sure that my activities don’t interfere with other people’s enjoyment of the area. Every time I come, I love it more. After I’ve been in the mountains, I have a good feeling about myself. I always leave with a feeling of peace. The reverence that I feel for Heavenly Father is similar, only much stronger.”
“I think I understand,” Jeff responded. “When we feel love for Heavenly Father, we want to learn as much about him as we can. We do everything we can to show respect for him. The more we learn about him and respect him, the more we love him.”
“That’s right. And after I’ve been worshipping Heavenly Father and praying to him, I feel good about myself.”
“What about the kids in church who talk and joke during the lessons and don’t pay attention?”
“Well,” Dad replied, “when someone is not reverent in church, it might mean that he isn’t feeling very good about himself, that he wants attention for himself instead of giving it to Heavenly Father.”
“Is that why Jared is always acting like a smart aleck?” Jeff wondered aloud. “Sometimes I hate to be around him.”
Dad put his arm around Jeff. “Well, you might be able to help Jared be more reverent by being his friend. Maybe we could bring him up here with us sometime. When someone is not reverent, he usually knows that he is doing something wrong, and he feels even worse about himself.”
“Is that why Jared is always trying to get attention?”
“It could be. When someone is not respectful toward Heavenly Father, it’s hard for the Holy Ghost to help him love Heavenly Father and himself.”
Jeff thought for a minute. “We also need the Holy Ghost to help us have a testimony. When you’re not reverent, it must be hard to have a testimony.”
Dad gave Jeff a hug. “You’re right! And now look at the sun! It’s time to go cook some fresh fish for breakfast.”
The truck was gone when they got back from the lake. Jeff was amazed at the mess its passengers had left the campsite. There were cans and papers and torn branches everywhere. The fire they had finally started by pouring gasoline on the wood was still smoldering, and a bush was completely crushed where the truck had been parked.
Dad got a garbage bag, and father and son started cleaning up. “I wonder,” Jeff said, “if those people have ever had a deer come close to them and watch them. Or a squirrel eat out of their hand.”
“I doubt that they have,” Dad said. “I wonder if they like themselves better today. Do you think that they know how truly beautiful these mountains are?”
After a breakfast of fish, pancakes, and hot cocoa, father and son made sure that the campsite was clean and the fire had been put out. Jeff lay on his stomach to enjoy the deep, sweet-smelling grass one more time before they had to go. He was full of love for the mountains, for his dad, and for Heavenly Father. “You know, Dad,” he said, “some people think that reverence just means being quiet. I think that’s sad. There’s a lot more to reverence than that.”

Fourth, give your children the opportunity of having a joyful, happy childhood. The priesthood manual a few years ago quoted a story written in 1955 by Bryant S. Hinckley. It is as follows:
“‘Three hundred twenty-six school children of a district near Indianapolis were asked to write anonymously just what each thought of his father.
“‘The teacher hoped that the reading of the essays might attract the fathers to attend at least one meeting of the Parent-Teacher’s Association.
“‘It did.
“‘They came in $400 cars and $4,000 cars. Bank president, laborer, professional man, clerk, salesman, meter reader, farmer, utility magnate, merchant, baker, tailor, manufacturer, and contractor, every man with a definite estimate of himself in terms of money, skill, and righteousness. …
“‘The president picked at random from another stack of papers. “I like my daddy,” she read from each. The reasons were many: He built my doll house, took me coasting, taught me to shoot, helps me with my schoolwork, takes me to the park, gave me a pig to fatten and sell. Scores of essays could be reduced to “I like my daddy. He plays with me.”’
“Not one child mentioned his family house, car, neighborhood, food or clothing.
“The fathers went into the meeting from many walks of life. They came out in two classes: companions to their children or strangers to their children.
“No man is too rich or too poor to play with his children.” (The Savior the Priesthood and You, Melchizedek Priesthood Manual, 1973–74, p. 226.)