Gospel Story Finder

Just a little over a year ago, I determined that I would not put off any longer a visit with a dear friend whom I hadn’t seen for many years. I had been meaning to visit him in California but just had not gotten around to it.
Bob Biggers and I met when we were both in the Classification Division at the United States Naval Training Center in San Diego, California, toward the close of World War II. We were good friends from the beginning. He visited in Salt Lake once before he married, and we remained friends through correspondence from the time I was discharged in 1946. My wife, Frances, and I have exchanged Christmas cards every year with Bob and his wife, Grace.
Finally, at the beginning of January 2002, I scheduled a stake conference visit to Whittier, California, where the Biggers live. I telephoned my friend Bob, now 80 years old, and arranged for Frances and me to meet him and Grace, that we might reminisce concerning former days.
We had a delightful visit. I took with me a number of photographs which had been taken when we were in the Navy together over 55 years earlier. We identified the men we knew and provided each other an update on their whereabouts as best we could. Although not a member of our Church, Bob remembered going to a sacrament meeting with me those long years before when we were stationed in San Diego.
As Frances and I said our good-byes to Bob and Grace, I felt an overwhelming sense of peace and joy at having finally made the effort to see once again a friend who had been cherished from afar throughout the years.

Lizbeth stared out the car window on the way to church. There was a bug on the outside of the window. She grinned. Bugs were her favorite!
Lizbeth had autism. Sometimes people with autism focus a lot on one thing. Maybe that’s why she loved bugs so much. She couldn’t get enough of them! Lizbeth loved when Mom told her scripture stories with bugs in them—like when God sent locusts to help Moses.
“I almost forgot!” Dad said as he stopped at a red light. “The bishopric is being released today.”
Lizbeth’s eyes got wide. “Brother Baugh too?”
“Yep.”
“I don’t want Brother Baugh to leave!” Lizbeth felt like crying. It was hard for her to deal with changes. She liked things to stay the same.
Mom twisted around in her seat. “He’s not leaving, sweetie. He just won’t be in the bishopric anymore.”
That made Lizbeth feel a little better. “Will he still be on the stand waiting for my pictures?”
“Not after today,” Mom said. “But you can still see him at church.”
Every Sunday, Lizbeth drew a picture for Brother Baugh. It started one week when he visited Lizbeth’s Primary class. Lizbeth drew a praying mantis on the chalkboard of her Primary classroom. She was sad she had to leave before it was finished. Brother Baugh asked Lizbeth to draw a new picture for him on paper. She drew a bright red ladybug with black spots. Brother Baugh liked it a lot! Lizbeth decided to draw a picture for him every week.
Last week she drew him a beetle. Before that she drew an ant colony full of twisty tunnels. Now it won’t be the same, Lizbeth thought.
“What if Brother Baugh doesn’t want my pictures anymore?” she asked Mom and Dad.
“I think he will,” Dad said. “Remember when he brought you an antlion from the desert?”
Lizbeth nodded. That was a really cool bug! It caught ants in its trap.
Dad parked the car, and they all got out. Mom put her arm around Lizbeth as they walked. “What if you draw an extra-special picture for Brother Baugh today? That way you can thank him for being your friend.”
That was a good idea. Lizbeth tried to think of something special to draw. During sacrament meeting, the bishopric shared their testimonies. Brother Baugh said everyone should make Jesus the center of their lives. That gave Lizbeth an idea. She got out her yellow crayon.
First she drew a big beehive. Then she drew some bees. Each one had wings, stripes, stingers, and even a proboscis—a long nose for drinking nectar. She had to hurry to finish her picture during the closing hymn.
After the meeting, Lizbeth showed Brother Baugh her picture. “Look! For bees, the hive is the center of their lives. And Jesus is the center of our lives. We are the bees, and Jesus is our hive.”
Brother Baugh gave Lizbeth a big smile. “That’s wonderful, Lizbeth! Thank you! I hope you’ll keep saying hello to me at church. I may not be in the bishopric anymore, but I still want to see your great pictures.”
Lizbeth felt warm inside. She knew that Brother Baugh put Jesus at the center of his life too and that he loved her, like Jesus did. She walked to her Primary classroom, humming like a bee. What could she draw next week?

I was called to a home in a little village in New Zealand one day. There the Relief Society sisters were preparing the body of one of our Saints. They had placed his body in front of the big house, as they call it, the house where the people come to wail and weep and mourn over the dead, when in rushed the dead man’s brother. He said, “Administer to him.”
And the young natives said, “Why, you shouldn’t do that. He’s dead.”
“You do it!”
… I had [a faithful old Maori] with me. … The younger native got down on his knees and he anointed this man. Then this great old sage got down and blessed him and commanded him to rise.
You should have seen the Relief Society sisters scatter. He sat up and said, “Send for the elders; I don’t feel very well.” … We told him he had just been administered to, and he said, “Oh, that was it.” He said, “I was dead. I could feel life coming back into me just like a blanket unrolling.” He outlived the brother that came in and told us to administer to him. …
God does have control of all of these elements. You and I can reach out, and if it’s His will, we can bring those elements under our control for His purposes.

Born in Semarang, Indonesia, in 1914, Julie was one of six children. Her father died when she was eight, and her Chinese mother, who had been disowned by her family for marrying a Dutchman, was unable to take care of her children. Julie lived with a foster family for several years until the family was reunited.
Julie finished school, earning a degree in education, and worked as a secretary until she met Rudolf Jacobs, whom she married in 1938. When World War II started, Rudolf, an experienced pilot, was called into action and soon became a Japanese prisoner of war.
Julie, pregnant with twins, was left to care for her infant son. As she struggled for the next three years to provide for her children, she sold knitting and other handiwork, trading everything she could to obtain food.
Rudolf returned from the prisoner-of-war camp very sick and underweight, and the family decided to move to the Netherlands, where better medical help was available. So in 1947 Julie left Indonesia, not realizing she would never return to the land of her birth.
Six years later, Rudolf Jacobs was killed in a plane crash and Julie was again left to provide for her family—four children ranging in age from five to fourteen. She went to work teaching typing and shorthand. In 1960 Julie suffered another blow when her oldest son was killed in a car accident.
Reeling under the loss—“It felt like part of my body had been torn away”—Julie experienced a crisis of faith.
“I couldn’t understand why I had to go through this,” she says. “I struggled every morning and evening to bend my knees in prayer, as I was used to doing, but I found I could not pray.”
Even though Julie had never attended a church, she had a strong belief in God that pulled her through. “After a while I heard a voice that seemed to repeat, ‘And still God is love.’”
She began to pray once more. “In thankfulness to my Father in Heaven, I searched for a church where I could serve him.” One rainy evening in 1962, two Latter-day Saint missionaries knocked on the Jacobs’s door.
Not long after, one of Julie’s sons was baptized, followed by her sister and mother. But Julie was not yet convinced. The evening before her daughter was to be baptized, a missionary challenged her to pray in an effort to gain a testimony of the gospel.
“I did not promise the missionary anything,” Julie remembers.
“And when I said my prayers that night I did not mention the Church. But in the middle of the night I woke up with an urgent need to ask Father in Heaven if this was indeed the true church where I could serve him.
“Never had I prayed so sincerely or for so long. And never had I felt God’s love and strength as I did on that night. When my prayer was over, I saw the sun shining through the curtains at my bedroom window. As I gazed outside in the early morning hour, I felt a happiness and peace I had not known since before my son’s death,” she recalls, her face reflecting the wonder of that morning a quarter of a century ago. She was baptized that very day, along with her daughter.
For the next twenty-one years, Sister Jacobs served in the Relief Society. For five years she was Relief Society president of The Hague Netherlands Stake. “It wasn’t always easy, but during those years I learned to kneel in prayer often to receive the help and inspiration I needed.”
Three times a year a special week in the London Temple is organized for the Dutch members. “We usually leave at night, driving for several hours,” Sister Jacobs explains. “Then we take the night boat to England, and drive for three hours. Each day we are there, we arrive at the temple before 6 A.M. and stay until 6 P.M. When I get back to Holland I am tired, but happy that I was able to work in the house of the Lord.”
“Life isn’t always easy,” Sister Jacobs admits. “But our final reward will be that God will lovingly take us in his arms when we leave this world. Thinking about that gives me the courage to accept the things that happen in my life.”

The baby was crying, our three other young children needed to be put to bed, and I was exhausted.
As I tried to wrap my mind around the impossible task before me, all I could hear in my mind were the last words of my husband (who was currently serving as our bishop) as he walked out the door that evening: “I’ll be at the pool with the priests. Tim is teaching the boys how to scuba dive.”
“Really?” I thought to myself. “I’m here juggling four children, and you’re off learning to scuba dive? How is this fair?”
Later that evening when Bruce walked in the door, he met one tired wife.
“How did your evening go?” he asked.
In tears, I told him how hard it had been to put four children, including a fussy baby, to bed knowing that he was off learning how to scuba dive. I could understand him leaving if someone in the ward was facing a crisis, yes. But scuba diving? Not so much.
Bruce sat down beside me. “I’m sorry it was hard for you. I didn’t go for the scuba diving. I didn’t even know if I would get into the pool. I went for two young men.”
He told me he had felt strongly he should attend this event because two priests who hadn’t attended church or activities for a long time were going to be there. He shared that he had been able to talk to them that evening, strengthening his relationship with them and helping them integrate with the others.
My heart softened, and I was reminded that him being called to serve as a bishop while also being a husband and father required a sacrifice from both of us.

President Hinckley, in a comment a short time ago, talked about the links of his family, his family chain, and hoping that he would be a strong link in that chain and that his link would remain strong. He told the account of attempting to pull the stump of a tree out of the ground on their property and how the chain had broken. He went to the store to try to get another link to fix the chain so they could pull the tree stump out, which they were finally able to do. He said he thought of his own responsibility to his posterity, to remain a strong link in that chain (see “Keep the Chain Unbroken,” Brigham Young Magazine, spring 2000, 6).

One of my earliest memories is of waking up one morning when I was about four years old and seeing my mother lying on her bed in terrible pain. She couldn’t get up. She told me to get my Uncle Mike, who lived about three hundred yards (270 m) down our country lane.
I climbed up on a stool and cranked the telephone, trying to call my uncle. When that didn’t work, I hurried outside, calling his name.
Somehow Uncle Mike heard and came. As soon as he saw Mother, he knew something was wrong. He bundled her up, carried her out to his car, and drove her to Salt Lake City.
The doctors never did know exactly what was wrong with Mother, but she was very ill. While she spent months in Salt Lake City being treated, I lived with relatives. We were happy when she came home, even for brief periods, and my older brother and sister and I did what we could to help her until she left for another long period of treatment.
Our family prayed to Heavenly Father often. We always asked Him to help my mother feel better and be strong. Mother also received priesthood blessings. I saw Heavenly Father strengthen my mother and bring her peace. I know that He hears and answers our prayers.

Nine-year-old Carrie held her dad’s strong hand tightly as they walked through the bleating sheep in the paddock (enclosed area). Ewes, watching their playful lambs, stamped their feet protectively as father and daughter pushed through the milling flock to the sheep shed. Old Jake, his face weathered by the Montana summer sun and winter cold, met them at the door. He was holding a new lamb.
“We have a bad one this time, boss. I gave him his first feeding, but he’s got a crooked set of hind legs and can’t seem to get up on them at all.”
Dad took the squirming lamb gently and carefully examined its twisted legs.
“What do you think, boss?” Jake asked. “He won’t be able to suck from his mother, so he’ll be just another bummer (orphan) lamb—and a mighty poor one at that.”
Dad put the lamb down in the new straw and watched the determined baby struggle to get up. Its forelegs were strong.
Carrie knelt beside it and stroked its wiry, short wool, hardly warm enough to keep it alive without a mother in the cold April nights. Its huge, soft eyes turned to her, and with a loud bleat it again struggled to get to its feet. Instead, it fell, the deformed legs useless. “Daddy, you wouldn’t really kill this lamb, would you?”
Dad studied the lamb, then Jake, then Carrie for a long time. Finally he asked Jake, “Do you think he’s pretty healthy otherwise?”
“Seems to be. He took the bottle OK.”
“Please, Daddy,” Carrie pleaded, “if he can take the bottle, can’t I feed him with the other bummer lambs?”
“That’s a big responsibility,” Dad said. “Raising a bummer is hard enough when they can fend for themselves and go to the pasture for grass when they’re bigger. You’d have to be not only his mother but also his back legs.”
The lamb continued to bleat and struggle to get up. Carrie hugged it. “But could I try? I promise to get up early to feed him before school. And as soon as I get home, I’ll take care of him again.”
Jake laughed, “Well, you can’t beat that for loving. But you’re forgetting the feeding during the day and at least one in the middle of the night. And how are you going to keep this little fellow warm?”
Carrie looked up at the old sheepherder. “You’d help me, wouldn’t you?” she pleaded. “I could help extra by feeding the ewes after school for you.”
“It looks like she’s as determined to keep that lamb as he is to get up and walk,” Dad said to Jake. He turned to Carrie. “Yes, you can keep this lamb. He will be your special responsibility. Jake and I will help you, but you will have to ask us.”
Joyfully Carrie picked up the lamb and followed Dad outside.
Soon Carrie faced the problems of her little lamb. It couldn’t be put in with the other bummer lambs for fear that they would trample it. She not only had to put up a pen for it outside, but she also had to put it in a big box in the sunroom at night to keep it warm. It couldn’t move about by itself, so she needed to move it often and change its straw frequently to keep it clean and warm. Like all the other bummer lambs, it had to be fed at six in the morning and again in the evening, as well as by Jake while she was in school. And she had to get up at night to check on and feed the hungry baby. No matter how sleepy she was, she had to clean out the bottles so that no sour milk would cause sickness. Besides, as she had promised, she helped Jake with the ewes.
One night at supper, Carrie, especially tired, slumped in her chair and blurted, “It’s just too hard.”
“What’s too hard?” Mom asked.
“It’s too hard to take care of my lamb. And he’ll never run and play with the other lambs. He’ll always be different.”
“Did you want to help him?”
“Yes, but I didn’t want all his problems,” Carrie faltered.
“Have you asked your father for his help? I know he said that he’d help you if you asked him.”
Carrie did ask for help. She and her dad made a better pen for the lamb outside. They also fixed up an old wagon for her to haul the growing lamb around in. They found that with some grain and a few hours in the pasture each day, it needed fewer bottle feedings.
Whenever the lamb, affectionately named Little Lamb, heard Carrie’s voice, he bleated happily to her and wriggled all over in excitement. Despite his unusable back legs, he started to pull forward on his forelegs, and when she held him, he nuzzled her lovingly and shook his head playfully.
Spring slipped into summer. The lambs spent more and more time in the pasture. With his strong forelegs, Little Lamb joined the others, pulling himself forward slowly but determinedly.
Watching the little flock of orphans one evening, Carrie and Dad laughed to see the strong bummers leap over Little Lamb and circle back around him, including him in a playful game of tag.
“Well, Carrie, it seems that your lamb is doing wonderfully,” Dad observed. “Thank you for taking such good care of him.”
“Oh, Dad, I couldn’t have done it without you!”
The next morning, Carrie ran out with her bucket of bottles as usual, calling “Lambie, lambie, lambie,” and hearing a chorus of noisy, appreciative blatting in return. Just as they recognized her call, she knew their voices. But one was missing—Little Lamb’s.
She ran to the lamb pen. He was gone! Frantically she looked in the pasture, in the driveway. No Little Lamb. She ran to the house, calling, “Dad! Mom! Jake! Have you seen Little Lamb?”
Soon the entire family was involved in the hunt.
It was Jake who discovered that the pasture gate had been left open. Somehow, Little Lamb had pulled himself to the creek flowing past the house. Jake found him lying lifeless near the water.
Carrying the lamb, he slowly walked back to the house. “I’m sorry, Carrie. He’s gone.”
“Oh, no!” she sobbed, reaching for the lamb. “He can’t be. I tried my best to take care of him. I loved him even with his bad legs. Dad, Jake, can’t you do something?” Dad gathered Carrie and the lamb into his arms, cradling them silently for a few moments as Carrie continued to sob. “Why did he have to die? Why?”
Finally Dad spoke. “I don’t know why this lamb died, but I do know that he lived for a special reason. He was born too deformed to stay with his mother. But he lived to give you love, to help you know that all life is good, even though it may be different. He lived so that you could learn the joy that comes from caring for someone else, for putting the needs of someone else above your own. Maybe you won’t understand all that right now, but I hope you’ll understand that the love you have for Little Lamb is good and that your memories of him should be happy ones.”

One day at school we were having a limbo contest. To do the limbo, you have to walk under a pole without touching it while bending over backwards.
If you touch the pole or the ground, you’re out of the game. When I went under the pole, my knee touched the ground. My teacher didn’t see what happened, so she asked me if I touched the ground. I knew that if I told the truth I would be out, but I told her that my knee touched the ground anyway. I was out of the game, but at the end I got the honesty award. My mom said that was better than first place any day.

Mother had been living with me for almost five years. In love and gratitude I was glad I could care for her just as she had cared for me for so many years. But I missed her smiles and humorous comments. I longed to have her experience again the joy and excitement she had once felt when she went on rides with me. It hadn’t really mattered where we went. Mother never missed pointing out the flowers, the birds on the telephone wires, or the children playing.
I missed the companionship we had enjoyed as we peeled potatoes, snapped beans, or read together. I longed to share childhood experiences with her and tell her news about my siblings and her grandchildren. She had always enjoyed family dropping by, especially the grandchildren. But now her dementia had changed things. She really wasn’t sure anymore who I was, other than someone special who cared for her.
It had been a particularly difficult day with Mother. She gave me the usual blank stares when I tried to make conversation and distrustful looks when I tried to assist her. I was exhausted and frustrated as I sat down on the couch to think. I began to read aloud one of Mother’s journals in hopes that she might be entertained by it and perhaps remember a little. My efforts proved futile, but as I continued to read to myself, the memories surfaced in me.
In those pages Mother repeatedly expressed the joy she had felt when her family would visit and the void she had felt when they left. She wrote of how hard it had been for her when my father became ill and, after a long struggle, had left her a widow at the age of 59. She wrote of how she missed Father and of how she worried about my older brother, who was stricken with the same disease.
Mother wrote of happy, fulfilling experiences like teaching Church classes and participating in single adult activities. She wrote of the satisfaction she had received in going to Dilkon, Arizona, to teach the gospel once a week on the Navajo Indian reservation. This brought to my mind how she had always emphasized the importance of being dependable when someone was counting on you. Sometimes her entries were short because she had been helping someone; they reminded me of how she often took food or gifts to anyone she thought needed help or cheer. Many times in her entries she bore her testimony of the gospel.
I was especially touched by how she expressed the sorrow and worry she had felt when my daughter was born with Down syndrome and associated problems. Had she really spent almost a whole month feeding and caring for our other children as my husband and I went back and forth to the hospital while Debra Sue underwent open-heart surgery and related complications? Yes! And she had done it at age 70!
I remembered how she had always been there for me when I needed her. Through the years I learned that if she could not be with me in person, her faithful letters and prayers would sustain me.
That night, as I sang hymns to Mother to calm her to sleep, I had an overwhelming surge of love for my brave, always-sacrificing mother and deep gratitude for the words of her journal that had brought her back to me.

1. It was two days before Christmas in Sharon, Vermont. The sharp features of houses, trees, and fences were softened and rounded by a heavy blanket of snow.
2. Near midnight the scattered farm homes were dark—except for the Smith’s, where a single lamp shining through a bedroom window made a checkered pattern on the snow outside. Although it was Christmastime, a light that late at night was unusual.
3. Something wonderful had happened on that twenty-third night of December 1805; a baby who would become a prophet had been born.
4. The next morning when Alvin and Hyrum, oldest of the children, saw a neighbor coming to visit, they plowed through the drifts to meet him and shouted …
5. “We have a new baby!”
“It’s a boy!”
6. Trudging back to the house, the trio waved at little sister Sophronia who was watching them.
7. Father Smith came to the door and let them in …
8. Inside, the baby was sleeping peacefully in his mother’s arms.
9. “Well what do you know … a baby boy!”
“We’re so pleased! He’ll be named Joseph after his father.”
10. There were no telephones, just neighbors to pass the word along.
“Another boy for the Smiths.”
“They can always use another hand on the farm.”
11. Mother Lucy stroked the soft baby hair and even though he looked now like any other baby, she dreamed that someday he would be a leader, a mighty man.
12. But she could not have guessed that this tiny Joseph would restore the Church of Jesus Christ and that millions would follow his teachings.

Lonnie Johnston, a Laurel from Fallon, Nevada, is interested in a lot of things, including softball, volleyball, dancing, public speaking, and goat tying.

Goat tying?

Yup. Lonnie excels at goat tying and other rodeo events. As the National High School Rodeo Association’s queen, she is now spreading her message about how much fun rodeo events are.

“I want to educate people about how rodeo works and what it’s all about,” says Lonnie.

Her year as queen has afforded her the opportunity to travel around the country and make new friends.

“I always take my scriptures wherever I go. People always ask me what they are. It’s a great way to share the gospel!” she says.

Illustrations by Sal Velluto and Eugenio Mattozzi
When Joseph Smith was seven years old, he became very sick. He had a fever, and a sore formed on his shoulder. Then he felt a terrible pain in his leg. Soon his leg began to swell.
Oh, Father! My leg hurts. How can I bear it!
Joseph’s mother, Lucy, and brother Hyrum cared for Joseph. They carried him around the house, sat beside his bed, and held his sore leg to lessen the pain.
A doctor came to help Joseph. The doctor cut into Joseph’s leg. Joseph felt better for a while, but then the pain became worse than before.
Other doctors came to help. They decided to amputate Joseph’s leg.
Gentlemen, what can you do to save my boy’s leg?
We can do nothing. We must amputate to save his life.
You will not take off his leg until you try once more.
The doctors decided to do a different operation. They wanted to tie Joseph to his bed and give him strong drinks to lessen the pain.
No, Doctor, I will not be bound.
Then will you drink some wine?
You must take something, or you can never endure the pain.
No. I will not touch one drop of liquor.
Joseph asked his father to sit on the bed and hold him in his arms. He asked his mother to leave the room so she wouldn’t see him suffer.
The Lord will help me, and I’ll get through it.
The doctors removed large pieces of diseased bone from Joseph’s leg. The operation hurt Joseph very much. He cried out, and his mother ran to him.
Oh, Mother, go back, go back.
I do not want you to come in—I will try to tough it out if you will go away.
After the operation, Joseph felt much better. As his leg healed, he walked on crutches. Although he walked with a slight limp the rest of his life, he became strong and healthy.

“O God, where art thou?”
Things must be pretty bad to ask a desperate question like that. For the Prophet Joseph Smith, who was suffering in Liberty Jail in Missouri, USA, they were.
The year was 1839. Joseph and his friends had been in prison—on false charges—for over four months. It was the coldest winter on record, and they had barely anything to keep warm. His family, his friends, and the rest of the Church had been driven from the county by violent mobs. Joseph had very little contact with them. It was one of the darkest times in Joseph’s life.
At one point, Joseph asked from the depths of this dark prison, “O God, where art thou? And where is the pavilion that covereth thy hiding place? How long shall thy hand be stayed, and thine eye, yea thy pure eye, behold from the eternal heavens the wrongs of thy people and of thy servants, and thine ear be penetrated with their cries?” (Doctrine and Covenants 121:1–2).
Even in a life full of trials, something about Liberty Jail seemed to drain Joseph Smith more than almost any other difficulty.
However, right during the worst of it, a ray of hope shone down into that cold prison cell. Joseph and the other prisoners received some unexpected letters from friends and family—and the darkness of the experience decreased.
About that occasion, Joseph Smith said, “We received some letters last evening … all breathing a kind and consoling spirit. … When we read those letters they were to our souls as the gentle air is refreshing.”1
On March 7, 1839, Emma Smith wrote a letter to her husband, Joseph, who was imprisoned in Liberty Jail.
Of course, those letters didn’t make the jail warmer. They didn’t make the guards kinder, nor the food taste better. But the letters made all the difference as to how the prisoners felt. That simple show of support from friends and family helped Joseph move from wondering where God was, to being able to hear the comforting words of the Savior, “My son, peace be unto thy soul” (Doctrine and Covenants 121:1, 7).
Joseph Smith offered this perspective: “Those who have not been enclosed in the walls of a prison without cause or provocation can have but a little idea how sweet the voice of a friend is. One token of friendship from any source whatever awakens and calls into action every sympathetic feeling.”2

My parents, Aparecido and Mercedes Soares, always dreamed of serving a mission. They wanted to repay the Lord for the many blessings that had come to their family since they had joined the Church. Their opportunity came in 1989 when they accepted a call to serve in the São Paulo Brazil Temple.
Only a few months into their mission, however, my father suffered a heart attack and passed away. During his funeral, I embraced my mother as we stood before my father’s casket.
“Mom, what’s next for you?” I asked.
“Your father and I dreamed of this mission,” she replied. “I am serving right now, and I will continue to serve—for him and for me.”
A kind temple president assigned another widow to serve as my mother’s companion, and my mother continued her mission for more than 20 months. Her missionary service blessed her, and her faith and example blessed my family and me.
During her mission, two of my brothers also passed away, and my wife and I lost two children. The first was born premature and did not survive, and we lost the second to miscarriage. During that trying time for our family, my mother was there in the temple every day reaffirming her faith—and strengthening ours—in the plan of salvation.
Her faith in a glorious reunion with my father and the promise of eternal life in the presence of our Heavenly Father sustained her for 29 years as a widow until the end of her days, at the age of 94.

“You’re kidding, right?” I asked my dad as he dumped a pile of cassette tapes on my desk. “Transcribing all these will take weeks, maybe the whole summer.”
Earlier that week, I had agreed to help him record stories from the emergency room. As an inner-city doctor, my dad is always seeing unusual cases—like a boy with a watermelon seed stuck in his ear and a man who claimed his dandruff and flaking skin were caused by aliens. My family loves to hear his stories, and one day my mom suggested he record them on tape. I volunteered to type them.
This was, of course, before I remembered I was going to be in summer school all day, studying chemistry. After the first week of learning about elements and chemical formulas, the thought of reading, writing, or even thinking outside of school made me sick. I didn’t want to spend two hours a night typing stories. I wanted to do unproductive things like watching TV or playing video games.
“Well, I guess I can find someone else to do it,” said my dad, looking disappointed. “Or maybe we can just put it off for a while.”
I almost said “great” and left, but he looked so crestfallen I couldn’t. “Leave the tapes, Dad. I’ll see what I can do,” I said finally.
Every evening after summer school, I would come home, eat, go running, and head upstairs to the computer. For two hours I would transcribe the tapes, typing at a painfully slow speed because I made so many mistakes. At first I hated it, and my eyes seemed constantly blurred from staring at the screen. But it was easy to get interested in the stories my dad was telling, like the one about an old woman who saved her fingernail clippings in a jar for a year and then brought them in for examination.
One case, in particular, touched me. It was about a boy from Mexico who was dying. When my dad went to see the patient, he found the mother by the boy’s bedside, weeping.
“Hola, Señora Garcia,*“ said my father, who had served a Spanish-speaking mission. Startled to hear Spanish, the woman told my dad she had brought her son from Mexico to receive care. They continued to talk, and the woman told my father she was LDS. As the only LDS emergency room doctor at the hospital—and the only one who spoke Spanish—my dad was able to give the boy a blessing of comfort before he died and help the mother with funeral arrangements.
As I heard my dad bear testimony of the experience, I realized that these tapes were doing more than improving my typing skills. They were improving my relationship with my father. In a funny way, I was getting to know my dad better as I listened to his stories. Soon I couldn’t wait to get home from summer school each day so we could talk about what I had typed the night before. My dad seemed excited, too, that I was interested in this part of his life.
He would frequently come up to me to tell me little things he had forgotten to put in a story. “Did I tell you the male nurse who kept fainting was transferred to pediatrics?” he’d ask, or, “Did I remember to say that the bicyclist who crashed was 83?” And sometimes we would sit and talk for hours—about his job, my schoolwork, anything.
As we talked, I began to realize what a wonderful friend my dad was. In the past, I had been so busy with school and cheerleading that there were days when I barely said hello to him. But the tapes helped me see what I was missing. And once we developed the habit, taking time to talk was easy. We were friends.
Within a month, I had finished transcribing the tapes. “Here you are, Dad,” I said, handing him 38 single-spaced, typed pages.
“Thanks, Elyssa, I hope this didn’t take too much time away from hanging out with your friends,” Dad said.
“Nah, it was actually pretty cool. I’m kind of sad to be done,” I said, smiling. I had been hanging out with a very important friend.

I realized the importance of teaching principles after I attended a Relief Society lesson at the local branch. The lesson, taken from the manual, was on keeping our homes neat and clean. An illustration in the lesson manual showed an American home that was neatly arranged and obviously well kept. Our instructor was so unfamiliar with Western-style homes that she held the picture upside down when she showed it to the class.

Later that week, I went to Ekaette’s house and found her covered from head to toe with mud. She was beaming. Inspired by the lesson, Ekaette was cleaning her home. She had taken every single item out of the house (there wasn’t much), and she was smearing new clay mud on the walls and floor. She excitedly showed me how she had decorated the front of the house by using a darker mud along the bottom for a nice trim. It looked beautiful. Ekaette had learned the principle, then implemented it in a way that was practical for her.

Marcus sat on the couch and watched cartoons. Mom picked up the toys and clothes he and his little sister, Julie, had left on the floor.
But it was hard for Marcus to hear the TV because Julie was crying.
Mom, can you make Julie be quiet? I’m trying to watch cartoons!
Marcus, it’s time for Julie’s nap. I want you to turn off the TV and do something else.
Marcus didn’t want to turn off the TV, but he did. He looked for something else to do. He saw his crayons, but he didn’t want to color.
He found a soccer ball, but he didn’t have anybody to play with. He picked up a toy, but its batteries weren’t working. He walked to Mom’s bedroom to ask for some new batteries.
When Marcus got to the bedroom, he saw Julie asleep in her crib. Mom was asleep on the bed next to some folded towels and a basket of socks.
Mom’s tired.
Instead of waking her up, Marcus decided to help her.
In the kitchen, he began putting the clean dishes in the cabinets, just like Mom always did—only a little louder.
After a couple of minutes, Mom walked into the kitchen. Marcus was sitting on the counter, trying to put away the plastic cups.
Marcus! What are you doing?
Surprise! I wanted let you rest.
Thank you, Marcus. I was very tired.
Mom gave Marcus a big hug and a kiss. As much as Marcus loved to watch cartoons, doing something to make Mom happy made him feel even better.

Prison warden Kenyon J. Scudder related this experience:
A friend of his happened to be sitting in a railroad coach next to a young man who was obviously depressed. Finally the man revealed that he was a paroled convict returning from a distant prison. His imprisonment had brought shame to his family, and they had neither visited him nor written often. He hoped, however, that this was only because they were too poor to travel and too uneducated to write. He hoped, despite the evidence, that they had forgiven him.
To make it easy for them, however, he had written them to put up a signal for him when the train passed their little farm on the outskirts of town. If his family had forgiven him, they were to put a white ribbon in the big apple tree which stood near the tracks. If they didn’t want him to return, they were to do nothing; and he would remain on the train as it traveled west.
As the train neared his home town, the suspense became so great he couldn’t bear to look out of his window. He exclaimed, “In just five minutes the engineer will sound the whistle indicating our approach to the long bend which opens into the valley I know as home. Will you watch for the apple tree at the side of the track?” His companion changed places with him and said he would. The minutes seemed like hours, but then there came the shrill sound of the train whistle. The young man asked, “Can you see the tree? Is there a white ribbon?”
Came the reply: “I see the tree. I see not one white ribbon, but many. There is a white ribbon on every branch. Son, someone surely does love you.”
In that instant all the bitterness that had poisoned a life was dispelled. “I felt as if I had witnessed a miracle,” the other man said. Indeed, he had witnessed a miracle. We too can experience this same miracle when we, with hand and heart, as did the Savior, lift and love our neighbor to a newness of life.

On June 1, 1843, Addison Pratt left Nauvoo, Illinois, to preach the gospel in the Hawaiian Islands, leaving his wife, Louisa Barnes Pratt, to care for their young family.
In Nauvoo, as persecutions intensified, forcing the Saints to leave, and later at Winter Quarters as they prepared to migrate to the Salt Lake Valley, Louisa faced the decision of whether to make the journey. It would have been easier to stay and to wait for Addison to return than to travel alone.
On both occasions, she sought guidance from the prophet, Brigham Young, who encouraged her to go. Despite the great difficulty and her personal reluctance, she successfully made the journey each time.
Initially, Louisa found little joy in traveling. However, she soon began to welcome the green prairie grass, colorful wildflowers, and patches of ground along the riverbanks. “The gloom on my mind wore gradually away,” she recorded, “and there was not a more mirthful woman in the whole company.”