Gospel Story Finder

Teddy and I checked the victory garden every day, weeding and harvesting what was left of the summer crop. Then we watered the tiny vegetable trays mother kept on the windowsills. We tried to grow food in every possible way, so I suppose it was a blessing when Father came home one afternoon with a box of peeps under his arm.
I remember the air raid siren had sounded the all clear signal. Mother, Teddy, and I climbed the stairs and continued preparing our meal. Teddy, who always ran to the window looking for damage, shouted, “Father’s coming!”
Sure enough, his cap bobbed along above the hedges, and in a minute he turned in at our gate. That day he wore a broad smile and carried a box. He kissed all of us, gave Mother a hug, and pointed to the small wooden container.
“Come see what I’ve brought!” he invited.
We all gathered around, and as he lifted the lid, fluffy yellow and brown balls of feathers began peeping and begging for food. He reached into his pocket and sprinkled some tiny seeds and the chicks pecked, making the seeds disappear.
“Oh, Arthur,” Mother gasped. “What on earth?”
“Now, Lucile,” he smiled. “No need to be alarmed. We’ll raise the chicks and have poultry to eat.”
“Raise them!” she exclaimed with peaked eyebrows. “Where?”
“If they were a little bigger and winter weren’t coming, I’d build them a coop outside. But, as it is, I thought they might be all right up in the attic.”
“In the attic!” Mother exclaimed, glancing around in a panic.
“There, there,” Father soothed. “It’s not that bad. You’ll see. I’ll build a cage. Then all we’ll have to do is clean the cage and feed and water them. They’ll do fine.”
Mother relented, the cage was built, and the chickens grew in our attic. Then Teddy, with his big mouth, began telling everyone what nice pets we had in the attic. I could have died of embarrassment. Still, it wasn’t fair to blame him—after all, he was barely six! It was too good an opportunity for the kids to pass up though, and even my best friend Natalie Thomas began making fun of us.
Teddy and I walked to school that autumn, looking neither to the right nor to the left, but holding our heads proudly as Mother had said we should.
“Katie and Teddy sleep with chickens!” came Natalie’s singsong chant as we neared the school yard.
I clutched Teddy’s hand tighter, lifted my chin higher, and my knuckles turned white against the dark edges of my books. It isn’t true! I wanted to shout, but I wouldn’t give my friend the satisfaction of knowing how much her remark hurt. No, I thought determinedly. It’s better to ignore ignorance.
Still, it was always a great relief when I heard the dismissal bell. Again, I would clutch Teddy’s hand and drag him home. Once inside our house, I blew my nose while Teddy wiped his eyes. Then we went about our chores, trying, as everyone else did, to act as though nothing were wrong.
But there was a lot wrong. That year, the Germans blockaded the English Channel and bombing raids came almost daily. Many of the houses were left burning, and people everywhere were suffering. Lunch was little more than dried biscuits, and there was no longer any jam. During class you could hear a constant grumbling of stomachs, and my head often ached from hunger. Even Natalie, who I no longer spoke to, had made new holes in her belt, for her clothes bagged even more than before.
Then we had our first snow. It fell in huge fluffy flakes and covered everything with a soft white blanket, and our shoes made gentle squeaks as we walked. I wondered how many people would be able to keep warm through the winter.
As Teddy and I crossed our threshold that first snowy day, we smelled a most delicious aroma. My mouth watered as I lifted the lid of a simmering pot. Inside was a colorful mixture of noodles and carrots floating in a golden broth. Teddy’s eyes got round and happy as I lifted him up to see.
“It smells so good, Katie!” Then he grinned. “Do you think we could have a taste?”
“I don’t see the harm,” I replied as I blew on a spoonful of hot broth.
The rich, warm liquid trickled through our lips, then Teddy’s face twisted into a smear of lines. “It’s chicken!” he sobbed.
“Of course it’s chicken,” I agreed. “What did you think it was?”
He held his mouth and ran from the room. Then, and only then, did I think of our peeps. Slowly, I replaced the spoon and climbed the stairs to the attic. I counted four chickens where there had been five. My stomach rolled over and I sat down to gather my senses. One chicken is gone.
At the bottom of the stairs, I heard Mother call, “Katie, Teddy, are you home?”
I descended the stairs slowly and Mother must have read my face. She asked quietly, “Katie? Are you feeling all right?”
“We tasted the soup, Mother,” I replied, staring at the floor. “It’s … it’s chicken soup.”
Mother sat down on a chair and unbuttoned her coat. “Yes, dear, it’s chicken. Are you terribly upset?”
“I don’t think I can eat it,” I said quietly. “I thought of them as pets.”
“We all did, dear,” she replied. “But your father explained—”
“Oh, Mother!” I sobbed, suddenly losing complete control. “How could you?”
Mother grasped my shoulders and hugged me close. “I’m sorry, Katie, I really am. But in times like these, we do what we must.”
“We have vegetables,” I sobbed.
“Yes, Katie, we do, but unfortunately there are those who don’t.”
I sniffled and looked up into her face. “What do you mean?”
“Natalie’s mother has been giving her children most of their food and going without herself. I went there today and she looks so thin and pale, with dark circles under her eyes. It’s hard for her with her husband fighting in the war. Would you deny a neighbor food?”
I thought of Natalie’s hurting chant, “Katie and Teddy sleep with chickens!” And for a brief moment I almost said, “Yes!” Then I thought of her sagging clothes and looked down at my own. We were all thinner, paler. The world was at war, and these were hard times shared by all. “So you made the chicken soup for them?” I wondered aloud.
“I made it for all of us, Katie.”
I nodded and stared at the table.
“They’ll be along soon, dear. Would you please set the table?” Mother asked as she stood to hang her coat on a peg.
“Is Natalie coming too?”
“Of course,” Mother nodded.
With a smile, I reached for the bowls and began setting them around the table. As I did so, I reasoned with myself, Maybe Heavenly Father sent the peeps to us because He knew we could take the jeers without becoming revengeful. Maybe He even knew that when the time came, we would share what we had. It made sense to me, and I liked to think that it was so. I determined to explain it to Teddy that way. Maybe then he, too, might understand about the peeps in our attic.

Isn’t it too bad that it usually takes trials for us to learn to really appreciate others? I have always loved my family very much, but not until I became totally dependent on them did I realize how completely lost I would be without them.
In the fall of 1981 it was discovered that I have a disease called neurofibromatosis. This is the same disease that afflicted the Elephant Man. It causes benign tumors to grow, and it was found on my spinal cord and in my brain. Since the first tumors were discovered I have had three major operations, lost a great deal of my balance and coordination, had my lungs collapse three times, and had increased difficulties with digestion. Worst of all, the right side of my face and my vocal cords have become paralyzed, and I have become deaf.
How have I survived? Through the love and support of my family. I am 17 and the youngest of three children. I have a brother who is 21 and a sister who is 24.
Without my family I would never have survived, for they are my most faithful teachers, dearest friends, and treasured loved ones. When God placed me on this earth, he must have said, “That girl’s going to need a special family,” because he made sure to put me in the best one.

Many years ago I told a story in conference that I think I will repeat. It is a story about a baseball player. I realize that some of you in various parts of the world do not know much about baseball. You do not even care about it. But this story brings with it a tremendous lesson.
The event occurred in 1912. The World Series was being played, and this was the final game to determine the winner of the series. The score was 2-1 in favor of the New York Giants, who were in the field. The Boston Red Sox were at bat. The man at bat knocked a high, arching fly. Two New York players ran for it. Fred Snodgrass in center field signaled to his associate that he would take it. He came squarely under the ball, which fell into his glove. But he did not hold it there. The ball went right through his grasp and fell to the ground. A howl went up in the stands. The fans could not believe that Snodgrass had dropped the ball. He had caught hundreds of fly balls before. But now, at this most crucial moment, he had failed to hold the ball, and the Red Sox went on to win the world championship.
Snodgrass came back the following season and played brilliant ball for nine more years. He lived to be 86 years of age, dying in 1974. But after that one slip, for 62 years, whenever he was introduced to anybody, the expected response was, “Oh, yes, you’re the one who dropped the ball.”

The youth of the Lindon Utah West Stake (this page) were called by their stake president to be missionaries for a day at an outdoor activity where they gave “Church history tours.” They took visitors to various booths where other youth acted out episodes from Church history and the life of Joseph Smith. KC McMillan, a priest from the Lindon Fifth Ward, played Joseph Smith in the Smith family home booth. He says his testimony of Joseph Smith has “increased quite a bit. The Spirit can be so strong when you’re talking about Joseph Smith.”
Following the tour, visitors eventually arrived in an area that represented Nauvoo, where they could play pioneer games and participate in other activities. Youth and other stake members also helped construct a large replica of the Nauvoo Temple.
Braden Sweeten, 18, from the Lindon 18th ward, helped youth and other stake members build the replica of the temple. He said while he was building, “It really sunk into my heart how much the Prophet and the Saints really sacrificed to build the temple.”

Luke S. Johnson was also called to the original Quorum of the Twelve in 1835. His spiritual resolve weakened over some financial speculation in 1837. Looking back later he said: “My mind became darkened, and I was left to pursue my own course. I lost the Spirit of God, and neglected my duty; the consequence was, that at a Conference held in Kirtland, September 3, 1837, … I was cut off from the Church.” By December 1837 he joined the apostates in publicly denouncing the Church and was excommunicated for apostasy in 1838. For eight years he had a medical practice in Kirtland. Then in 1846 he and his family returned to the fellowship of the Saints. Said he: “I have stopped by the wayside and stood aloof from the work of the Lord. But my heart is with this people. I want to be associated with the saints; go with them into the wilderness and continue with them to the end.” He was rebaptized in March 1846 and came west with the original company of pioneers in 1847. He died in Salt Lake City in 1861 in full fellowship at the age of 54.

I was at church, and I was listening to the talks. Someone said, “a service is service no matter how small.” And that gave me an idea. I called it “The Service Club.” I took paper and a few markers and made invitation cards. Then I cut them out and gave them away.
Last Sunday was the first meeting, and we decided to do nice sidewalk chalk messages at the homes of people who needed encouragement. We did that for six families! I feel good that we did the service club. I’m glad we did service. The club’s motto is “a service is service no matter how small.”

People generally want to go home for the holidays. We even sing “I’ll be home for Christmas.” Being at home with loved ones and repeating family traditions is what makes Christmas special. A few years ago, however, I learned that when you are with those people you love, you can feel that you are home for Christmas anywhere.
In December of 1981 I was in the Primary Children’s Medical Center in Salt Lake City for brain surgery. The operation was scheduled for December 10 so I’d be well enough to go home before Christmas. Things didn’t turn out to be so simple. The operation lasted 14 hours, and within the next two weeks my right lung collapsed twice; so I was obviously in no condition to go home when Christmas rolled around.
Christmas in the hospital? It was not a pleasing thought for me. In fact, I became quite depressed. How could I enjoy Christmas in this situation?
A traditional Christmas at our house starts on Christmas Eve. Last minute tasks have already been taken care of because Christmas Eve is as special as the next day. It’s the time for our Christmas Eve program of songs, stories, and presentations. The last part of the program is always the reading of the Christmas story from the Bible by my mother. Then just before bed, everyone is allowed to open one present from under the tree.
Christmas morning we all get up together to see what Santa Claus has brought. Then one by one we go through the stockings stuffed with surprises. Next, all the presents are passed out, and we take turns opening each gift. These are the basic traditions that make Christmas memorable to me.
But that year in the hospital there were no presents under a tree, no stockings on the fireplace, and no piano to sing songs around. There were just a few decorations strung around the room between the machines and tubes hooked to my body, and the small Christmas tree my grandma had sent. While I was wondering what kind of a Christmas it was going to be, my family was making plans, and they were able to get me excited for the occasion even in my bleak circumstance.
I’ll bet there are few people who can say that they’ve held a family Christmas Eve program in a semi-intensive care hospital room. It may have been the shortest program in history, but we still had one. My sister, who knows three chords on the guitar, even brought her instrument to play some carols. My mother read the Christmas story as beautifully as ever.
Christmas morning Santa Claus not only came, but he awoke me personally with a large box filled with candy, games, and a homemade doll. After my morning routine with the nurses, my family arrived. They hauled all of the family’s presents up to my room, and passed out the gifts. One by one we went around the circle opening all the packages.
Because of my family’s love and our traditions, it turned out to be a wonderful Christmas after all and one of my most memorable as well. Surely, if you can succeed in making yourself feel at home for Christmas in the hospital, you can find a way to be at home for the holidays anywhere.

Illustration by Bethany Stancliffe
It was another cold and rainy day for my companion and me as we walked the streets of the small seaside town of Los Vilos, Chile. It had been a difficult few weeks for us—we didn’t have anyone to teach and were struggling to find anyone who wanted to listen to our message. I was pretty discouraged, and I felt like we weren’t having much success because we weren’t teaching many lessons.
My companion and I were walking along that night, and I looked over and saw a woman on a park bench crying. I just knew we needed to speak to her. I looked at my companion and motioned toward the woman. As we walked up to her, I kept feeling like she really needed to hear something from us, but I couldn’t think of what. I just knew it was important that we speak with her.
The instant she saw us, she said, “Go away. I don’t want to talk to anyone.”
I tried telling her who we were and that we just wanted to help, but she wouldn’t listen. She asked us again to leave. I tried to think of what we could say but came up blank. We walked away.
We were only about four steps away when I got another feeling that we needed to talk to her. I turned to my companion and said, “We have to go back.”
We went back, and the exact same thing happened, but this time she was more upset. “I need to be alone. Go away.”
Again, I couldn’t think of anything important to say to her. I could tell she was having a really hard day, but I didn’t know what she needed to hear. So I sighed, and once more, we walked away.
We were a bit farther away when I got the feeling again: Go talk to her.
“I hate to say this, Hermana,” I said, “but we really have to go back and talk to that lady.”
My companion suggested that we not do it, since the woman was clearly not very happy with us.
Honestly, I agreed with her and felt a bit worried about going back again and annoying the woman, who was clearly in distress. But instead I said, “Nope, I really feel like we need to. She doesn’t know it yet, but she needs to talk to us.”
We cautiously made our way back to the woman on the bench, who was still crying. Before we got to her, I said a small prayer. “Heavenly Father,” I thought, “please just help me know what this woman needs to hear.”
As soon as we got to her, I said, “I’m sorry to bother you again, but I just want to tell you that you are a child of God. He really needs you to know that He loves you. Because He does. And we’re happy to talk to you more, but if you really don’t want us to, it’s OK. I just needed you to know that.”
She looked up at us with a much calmer expression. She said, “I guess you can come sit down.”
Her name was Veronica. She opened up and told us about what was going on in her life. She was having a lot of family trouble and had gotten some bad news about her job. She had been feeling very lost and alone.
We shared a scripture from the Book of Mormon with her and asked if she wanted to hear more about the gospel. She politely declined but thanked us for our message and for being so insistent about talking to her. Before leaving, we prayed with her on that small park bench, and we asked that she and her family would be blessed and guided.
We never saw Veronica again, but that experience taught me that even though we might not see someone get baptized, just expressing love to someone is an important act of missionary work. Even the smallest actions can have a great impact, so when we receive a prompting—even if it seems a bit scary or we don’t know why—it’s important that we follow it. Because Heavenly Father knows what His children need. Even if the best we can do is to simply share the love of God with someone, that is still a success.

When the former Governor of Missouri, Lilburn Boggs, was shot, Porter Rockwell was charged with the crime. Without any evidence of his guilt, Porter was taken prisoner and kept in an unheated dungeon without any bedding for over nine months. He was given food that even the dogs refused to eat. Without his natural stamina, Porter never would have survived the ordeal.
One day a Sheriff Reynolds came to the jail and offered Porter a large sum of money if Porter would take him to Joseph Smith so that the Prophet could be captured. “I will see you damned first,” responded Porter.
After Porter’s release from jail, he walked most of the way to Nauvoo, Illinois. He arrived at Joseph Smith’s house on Christmas Day in 1843, as the Prophet and his friends were having a supper party. “During the festivities,” Joseph recounted later, “a man with his hair long and falling over his shoulders, and apparently drunk, came in and acted like a Missourian. I requested the captain of the police to put him out of doors. A scuffle ensued, and … to my great surprise and joy untold, I discovered it was my long-tried, warm, but cruelly persecuted friend, Orrin Porter Rockwell.” (History of the Church, 6:134–135.)
It is believed by those who knew Porter Rockwell best that it was on this occasion that the Prophet Joseph promised Porter that if he remained faithful to the Church and didn’t cut his hair, he would never suffer death from a bullet. From then on, Porter wore his long hair braided and tucked into a bob at the back of his neck.
The sight of Joseph and Porter riding together out to the Prophet’s farm was not uncommon. And when Joseph went to Washington, D.C., to see if government authorities could help right the wrongs suffered by the Saints at the hands of the Missouri mobs, Porter went with him.
It may have been supposed that Porter was only a bodyguard to the Prophet Joseph. However, frequent mention was made of his attendance at council meetings with Joseph Smith and other Church leaders. And when Joseph decided to leave Nauvoo and go west to help lessen the persecution of the Saints, Porter and only two others went with him. Afterward, when the Prophet learned that his departure was thought by many to be an act of cowardice, he said, “‘If my life is of no value to my friends it is of none to myself.’” Turning to Porter, he asked, “‘What shall I do?’ Rockwell replied, ‘You are the oldest and ought to know best; and as you make your bed, I will lie with you.’” (History of the Church, 6:549.)
After Joseph and Hyrum were killed in Carthage Jail, Porter went west with the first party of pioneers. He believed that the Prophet Joseph would have wanted him to do that. His services as a scout and game hunter were invaluable.
In 1849 Porter Rockwell was appointed deputy marshall of Great Salt Lake City, and he was a peace officer in Utah until his death. When pursuing lawbreakers, Porter was relentless, and his endurance was legendary. He would follow a trail at a gallop in his buckboard where others would walk their horses, searching for clues.
Detractors make much of the fact that Rockwell could neither read nor write. Yet he was remarkably successful in a number of business enterprises. It should be remembered, too, that illiteracy was not uncommon in the nineteenth century.
Porter remained loyal to his family and friends, and he was generous to others who needed his help. A touching act of Porter’s charity, recorded in a letter, was the gift of his shorn hair to the widow of Don Carlos Smith, the brother of Joseph Smith. The woman had lost her hair when she had typhoid fever, and Porter’s hair was used to make her a wig. When Porter’s hair regrew, he wore it in a bob again.
Porter traveled thousands of miles on horseback in service to the Church as a scout, guide, and expert in solving problems with Indians. When he died during the summer of 1878, he had been a member of the Church longer than anyone else then living. At his funeral service, Elder Joseph F. Smith of the Council of the Twelve said, “He had his little faults, but Porter’s life on earth, taken altogether, was one worthy of example, and reflected honor upon the Church. Through all his trials he had never once forgotten his obligations to his brethren and his God.”

“The Lord could not have put it more clearly when he said, ‘Why call ye me, Lord, Lord, and do not the things which I say?’” (Luke 6:46).
Brother Murray’s talk suddenly pushed through my thoughts of the Civil War and tomorrow’s geometry test.
“For decades He has been telling us to prepare our families for self-sufficiency by putting aside a year’s supply of necessities. We have been counseled to produce as much of our own food as possible. But how many of us are really prepared for any emergency the future might bring?”
Thinking of my frequent errands to the supermarket for mom, I looked along the bench. Mom and dad’s faces were serious. Fourteen-year-old Greg looked deep in thought. Even 11-year-old Corey and Carrie were listening. We all probably had the same thoughts. With six of us in the family, it seemed that food started disappearing as soon as a grocery bag entered the house. Live off our storage for a year? We didn’t even have a month’s supply of most things!
But what could I do—16-year-old Joyce Brown? No part-time job was allowed because my parents didn’t want me distracted from schoolwork and Church activities. My allowance of $5 a week covered lunches, school supplies, and assorted small miscellaneous expenses. And, with the junior prom a month away, I’d been saving all my baby-sitting money for a new dress. I couldn’t think of a single contribution I could make to a storage program for the Brown family.
“Church leaders haven’t prescribed a storage system that fits everyone,” Brother Murray went on. “Each of you, each family using free agency has to prepare in its own way. The important thing is to start! Don’t put it off any longer. If you wait until you can buy a year’s supply all at once, you may still be waiting when the chance for preparation has slipped away.”
Brother Murray’s words bounced around in my head. “The important thing is to start!” “Prepare in your own way.” “Start!”
Opening my hymnbook for the closing song, I vowed that this message would not be hidden away in my mind to be dealt with on a distant, vague someday.
At dinner I mentioned Brother Murray’s talk.
“It was a good reminder,” dad said. “We should start putting something aside for the future.”
“When?” I asked.
“Soon,” he said and finished spooning gravy onto his mashed potatoes. “I think Mr. Blanchard is going to come through with that raise within a couple of months. Then we’ll really have some funds to work with. Please pass the salt, Greg.”
“Brother Murray said we shouldn’t wait until we could start in a big way. We should just make sure we start.”
Mom passed the green beans to me. “It takes extra money to buy extra food, Joyce. Of course, being prepared is important, but—”
She didn’t finish because Corey spilled his water while reaching for a slice of bread.
I just couldn’t push family preparedness from my mind. “The important thing is to start! Start!” But how?
Tuesday after school, mom asked me to go to the store for her. “We’re having spaghetti tonight. I need a can of tomato sauce.”
It’s amazing, but the twins can hear the car keys jingle all the way upstairs in their bedrooms.
“Where are you going, Joyce?” Corey asked, bursting into the kitchen.
Carrie was right behind him. “We want to go,” she said when I disclosed my destination.
“I’m starving,” Corey moaned. “Can I buy a fruit pie to tide me over till supper?”
“Me, too?”
Mom smiled. “It’s quite a while till soup’s on. Go ahead. You can have something, too, Joyce.” When we got home, I handed the bag to mom.
“Joyce, I only need one can of tomato sauce.
You’ve got three in here!”
I smiled at the twins.
“It’s for storage,” Carrie explained.
“Joyce convinced us to give up fruit pies for extra tomato sauce.” Corey was looking in the refrigerator. “We’ll have a jam sandwich instead.”
With a puzzled look, mom put the extra cans on the shelf.
Friday was payday. That meant allowances for everyone. As dad handed me my $5 bill, mom said, “You just might have enough for your prom dress now.”
Dad grinned. “My princess is growing up.”
“Oh, dad!” I smiled.
That evening I spent some time going over my clothes. When I finally pulled out my best go-to-school-dances dress, it didn’t look as bad as I’d thought. In fact, Saturday, when Mom took me shopping for a prom dress, I just couldn’t find anything to top the dress that was already hanging in my closet.
After a stop at the market, we went home.
Dad was in the kitchen. “All right,” he smiled. “Let’s see that dreamy prom dress you picked out.”
I laughed because dreamy is dad’s idea of teenage language. He uses it when he wants to show he’s not old-fashioned. I carefully tipped my grocery sack over and let the contents slide onto the table: 3 large bags of pinto beans, 2 bags of rice, and a box of powdered milk!
Dad just stared for a few seconds. “A very interesting prom dress,” he finally said.
“I decided I’d rather add to our storage instead of buying a new dress,” I explained. “My old one is dreamy enough!”
Dad glanced at mom, but she just gave him her don’t-ask-me shrug. She said, “Find a place for all that stuff.”
I finally fit my storage contribution into the bottom of a corner cupboard. At least it would be undisturbed, unless someone wanted to risk a sprained back getting it out again.
Thursday, after I had maneuvered an extra jar of peanut butter into the storage corner, I unkinked my back, had a brilliant idea, and went to find Greg. He was practicing foul shots on our old basketball hoop in front of the garage.
“Greg, I have this idea. Will you help me?”
He bounced the ball a couple of times. “Sorry, Joyce, I’m busy.”
“Not now, I mean tomorrow afternoon.”
“I have a million things to do,” he said, making a basket.
“Nice shot,” I beamed, deciding not to beg. “I can understand your obligations. Just tell me where I can find the hammer and nails.”
“Hammer?”
“And some nails,” I said with a smile.
“You’re going to hammer?” He looked very surprised when I nodded. “Just what are you making?”
“That’s what I was going to get your help with,” I said, starting toward the house. “I know you’ve been doing some carpentry in Careers Ed. I was going to put some of that skill to work.”
“Since you put it that way, I’ll do it, Joyce,” Greg said, following me. “I can make time. I mean, if you really need a carpenter, how can I turn you down?”
After dinner I found dad reading the paper in his favorite chair.
“Dad?”
“Hmmmmm?”
“Greg and I are going to use some of that lumber stacked behind the garage. Okay?”
He didn’t look up. “Sure, honey,” he said without even asking why.
I have to admit, Greg’s carpentry skills surprised me. He had shelves built in half of my closet before dad got home from work on Friday. I was so proud of Greg’s work that I dragged both mom and dad in to show off our storage shelves. The beans, rice, dried milk, peanut butter, and two cans of tomato sauce looked a little lonely, but it would get more crowded as time went on. At least I wouldn’t have to strain and stretch to get things under the kitchen cupboard.
Mom and dad smiled at each other.
“What a perfect arrangement,” dad teased. “If Joyce is going to buy food instead of clothes, it’s only logical to reserve half of her closet for food.”
The next week mom bought a few extra sale items each time she went to the store. Greg gave up a record album and a new sweatband so he could add three cans of honey to the shelves. Even the twins added a jar of jam apiece by giving up ice cream cones.
After a few more weeks, the little bit that appeared on our storage shelves started to really look like something. It was still a little something, but something just the same.
By then, warm spring days were here, and I knew there was one more thing that Joyce Brown could do to help with the family preparedness. One Monday right after school, I got the trusty shovel from the garage and began turning over the far corner of our backyard. Years ago that area was set aside as a garden spot, but something always came up to prevent us from using it.
Greg came out to play basketball, stopped, then sauntered down to me.
“Looking for gold?” he grinned.
“Better than gold,” I puffed. “I’m going to plant a garden.”
“A garden? you’ve got to be kidding!”
“Nope.”
“What do you know about gardening, Farmer John, or should I say Farmer Joyce?” He was smiling, but at least he didn’t laugh.
“Not much,” I admitted, “but I can read, and the library is full of books about raising vegetables.”
He took the shovel from me. “We just might make it … if we team up! Farmer Joyce and Gardener Greg!”
We had a pretty good-sized section turned over when dad drove in. He sat in the car watching us for a long time. Finally he walked over.
“Don’t tell me,” he sighed. “A garden, right?”
We both grinned and nodded.
“Just what the storage program needs!” Greg panted and jumped on the shovel again.
Dad went in while we worked awhile longer.
After supper, dad announced, “Special lesson for family home evening, or maybe I should say, emergency meeting!”
Emergency meeting? It was all very mysterious, so we got settled in the living room very quickly.
“First of all,” dad started, “your mother and I appreciate the special effort all of you have been giving to a storage program. Joyce and the twins showed real initiative in getting it started.”
The twins beamed at each other.
“Then Greg used his talents to help the project along. Now, if you kids could use some more partners, your mother and I would like to join in.”
Everyone agreed unanimously.
“It looks like the next step is a garden. Joyce and Greg have already started turning the ground in the corner of the yard. I say, let’s all help them and make this an organized Brown family project! Now, I really don’t know too much about gardening—”
Corey interrupted, “Carrie and I can stop by the library after school tomorrow. I’m sure they have tons of books on gardens.”
“That’s a good idea,” mom said. “I’ll find that book on food preservation that Aunt Norma gave us a few years ago so we’ll know what to do when all those lovely vegetables start rolling in.”
For the next few minutes everyone juggled for a time to share their ideas about this family food project. Then dad looked at mom, and she smiled some encouragement.
“You all know how we enjoy a pretty nice family vacation each summer,” he said. “We’ve made some special memories while traveling around visiting new places.”
We all nodded.
“Well … your mother and I thought … that maybe the family would like to think about taking some of the vacation money we’ve saved to really get the Brown family preparedness program heading in the right direction.” Dad looked at us uncomfortably. “You know, plan what we’ll need for a year’s supply, keep track of inventory, build a real storage area—things like that.”
All of us just looked at dad.
“We could take one-day-trips and really explore the area close to home.”
The room was quiet.
Finally I said, “We’re quiet not because we don’t want to give up our vacation but because we think it’s a great idea!”
Greg grinned. “In fact, it’s weird, because Joyce and I talked about the same plan while we were working outside, and then we talked to the twins before dinner.”
“We were worried about what you two would say,” Corey added with a smile.
“We know how much you enjoy those vacations,” Carrie said.
Mom and dad looked at each other and then at the four of us. I think there were tears in their eyes.
Dad smiled. “Even with that money, we will still be working at this preparation business slowly, a little at a time. We won’t be able to get ready all at once, but the important thing is to start!”

When Omer and his parents moved from Tijuana to Monterrey, they left behind family, friends, and a home they knew and loved. It was hard, but it was also exciting for Omer. One thing that wasn’t so exciting, however, was leaving behind a conveniently located temple in San Diego. Now a trip to the temple involves considerable travel.

“I really miss the temple,” says Omer. “Here you usually get only one chance a year to go to the Mexico City Temple. In Tijuana we would cross the border and go to San Diego on the first Saturday every month. The feeling in our family was always a little bit different, a little special on those days. The people in the temple always seemed glad to see us there. I know that it will be the same when the temple is here.”

I stood next to my father in a hospital room. My mother, his wife of 41 years, lay on the bed. We had watched her for hours. We began to see the lines of pain disappear from her face. The fingers of her hands, which had been clenched into fists, relaxed. Her arms came to rest at her sides.

The pains of decades of cancer were ending. I saw on her face a look of peace. She took a few short breaths, then a gasp, and then lay still. We stood there waiting to see if another breath would come.

Finally, Dad said quietly, “A little girl has gone home.”

He shed no tears. That was because the Holy Ghost had long before given him a clear picture of who she was, where she came from, what she had become, and where she was going. The Spirit had testified to him many times of a loving Heavenly Father, of a Savior who had broken the power of death, and of the reality of the temple sealing he shared with his wife and family.

The Spirit had long before assured him that her goodness and faith had qualified her for the return to a heavenly home where she would be remembered as a wonderful child of promise and be welcomed home with honor.

For my dad, that was more than a hope. The Holy Ghost had made it a reality for him.

A great help for missionaries and for Spanish-speaking people everywhere is the translation of the Book of Mormon into Spanish. Meliton Gonzalez Trejo is the man who is most responsible for its first translation. The son of a nobleman, Meliton was born in Garganta la Olla, Spain, in 1843. Well educated as a boy and young man, he was always interested in religion. But nothing he read about various churches satisfied him.
One day, however, he heard a friend mention a group of people, called “saints,” who had been led over the Rocky Mountains in America by a prophet. These people, Meliton was told, were living in the Salt Lake Valley. He was so anxious to find out more about them that he asked for and was given permission by the queen to join a military expedition to the Philippine Islands, as he thought this would be a help toward his going to America.
During his stay in the Philippines, Meliton became seriously ill. While recovering, he had time to think more about religion and the “saints” in the Salt Lake Valley. One night after a fervent prayer for guidance, he was directed in a dream to leave the army and journey to Utah. This dream was so sacred to Meliton that he never told the details of it to anyone but President Brigham Young whom he met soon after arriving in Utah. In order to leave the Philippines the young soldier needed money. In time, he was able to secure two thousand dollars in bills that he sewed inside the lining of his vest before he left.
Arriving in Salt Lake, Meliton investigated the Church and soon became a member. He was one of the first missionaries to go to Mexico, and was asked by the General Authorities to translate the Book of Mormon into Spanish. With some help from another man, Meliton Trejo finished the translation in 1886.

A new boy in my class didn’t have any friends. Kids made fun of him and called him mean names because he looked different. I felt bad for him. I talked to my mom about how sad it made me feel that he had a hard life and got teased for no reason. One day I asked my mom to put two brownies in my lunch. At lunchtime I asked Sammy if he would like one of the brownies. He had a big smile. The other kids looked at me as if they were wondering why I gave him a brownie. I said, “Sammy is my friend.” Sammy started asking me for help because he knew he could trust me. After I showed Sammy kindness, other kids did, too. It made me feel happy inside to know that I made a difference in Sammy’s life. We’ve become good friends. I think Jesus wants me to treat Sammy the way I do. He loves all children.

Have you ever had a heart-wrenching question for God? Maybe a time when the gospel answers other people offered weren’t enough, or when usual sources of spiritual clarity—like scriptures and conference talks—were more confusing than helpful? I’ve experienced that before. Here’s what I learned from grappling with one long-held gospel question. I hope something in this story helps you in your quest for truth.
The root of my question had to do with God’s blessings. Matthew 7:7–8 says:
“Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you:
“For every one that asketh receiveth, and he that seeketh findeth; and to him that knocketh it shall be opened.”
Here was my problem: It seems to me that God does not give us everything we ask for! Sometimes we put a lot of effort into something—almost as if we’re “knocking” as hard as we can—and rather than being met with an open door, we’re met with disappointment. How do we reconcile those mortal experiences with these prophetic words?
This question tasted especially bitter during the tougher seasons of life. Like when I experienced medical problems and hospital visits instead of the good health I prayed for. Or when I struggled with feelings of loneliness while watching friends and siblings find companionship. Even though I had plenty to be grateful for, questions about absent blessings remained heavy in my heart. Where was the simple “ask and receive” relationship the scriptures promised? During one period of time in particular, I felt especially betrayed by God. I found myself questioning if the scriptures were true, and if it was worth it to keep going to church and remain temple worthy.
I realized that I had a decision to make.
I would be lying if I said that I just decided to be faithful and that “gospel grit” alone got me through. The truth is that I was fortunate to have supportive friends and family members who encouraged my faith, even when they weren’t aware that I was struggling. I was lucky that my employment was a faith-tolerant atmosphere instead of a toxic one. And I was blessed with callings that helped me remain involved in my ward without being overwhelming. My heart aches for people who don’t have a similar combination of positive circumstances to help them get through periods of doubt. With all this help and a desire in my heart to understand the truth about God, I decided to remain active in the Church, even though it was painful at times.
Over time, I learned an important lesson: God had created me with two hands, each capable of holding something at the same time. Spiritually speaking, just because I had “picked up” a doubt or question in one hand didn’t mean that I had to let go of all the gospel truths I held in my other hand. It often felt like I was metaphorically holding on to the iron rod and pressing forward while dragging these questions behind me. But I didn’t really see an alternative. I didn’t want to ignore the questions I had, and I also couldn’t deny the spiritual truths I already knew. So, although it was exhausting, I found ways to honor both parts of my feelings.
For example, when Sunday Church meetings seemed incredibly draining, I decided to stay only long enough to take the sacrament, committing that I would always show up at least for that ordinance. When scripture study became a source of frustration, I decided to just read Psalms or other verses that were comforting to my soul. And please don’t get me wrong—I’m not suggesting that we adopt these as longtime habits or look for reasons to excuse ourselves from what prophets and apostles have recommended. But this allowed me, during that particular season, to remain close to God while exploring my questions with an open heart. The whole time, I pleaded in prayer for increased understanding.
Time passed. I got better at gripping the iron rod more tightly while holding my doubts more loosely. Church, scripture study, and prayer became easier to participate in once more. And eventually, a couple of specific life events helped lead me to the answer I was searching for.
The first event was an intense health challenge, including long periods where I struggled to digest meals, and food seemed like an enemy I was forced to live with each day. It was an extremely frustrating situation. Little did I know that this trial would help me recognize a precious truth. The second event that helped me discover my long-awaited answer was hearing a Church leader invite us to study the scriptures topically. As I thought about which topic to study, I felt impressed to study food in the scriptures.
As I used the Topical Guide to read every verse about food that I could find, I was led to Matthew 7—one of the chapters with the “ask and receive” promise that had always seemed so confusing. But this time, I was reading these verses with food and nutrition in mind. Verses 9–11 say:
“Or what man is there of you, whom if his son ask bread, will he give him a stone?
“Or if he ask a fish, will he give him a serpent?
“If ye then, being evil, know how to give good gifts unto your children, how much more shall your Father which is in heaven give good things to them that ask him?”
I thought about how those verses describe God as a giver of nourishment. And then it dawned on me. All my life, I had read the “ask and receive” promise with a modern mindset. As I read about the child asking for a fish, I pictured my friend’s daughter begging for a pet puppy. But these verses aren’t talking about childish wants. They’re talking about essential nourishment—bread and fish, sources of food. These verses aren’t telling us that God will give us whatever we want and ask Him for. They are teaching us that God will give us whatever we need and ask Him for. He will always nourish His children, strengthening them enough to face the challenges that come their way.
After I made that connection, Matthew 7 finally fit in perfectly with my understanding of God and His plan of happiness. I have come to see that when the scriptures invite us to knock and promise that a door will be opened, the doorway they are talking about is not a magical portal to an easier life. Instead, it’s more like a doorway to a roadside soup kitchen, which will appear wherever we are along our mortal journey. If we enter that doorway, we will find the Bread of Life and Living Water, He who provided fish for His disciples and promises us an eventual land of milk and honey.
Years ago, Matthew 7 was a source of pain and confusion. But today, those same verses are a source of joy. Not only do they remind me of what I’ve learned about the nourishment that God and Jesus offer, they also remind me of what I’ve learned about grappling with gospel questions.
I still have unanswered gospel questions. And you know what? I bet I will throughout the rest of my life. But as I carry those questions, I will never give up holding on to what I know is true. I trust now more than ever that God will reveal His answers when we are prepared to receive them—either collectively as a Church or individually as His children. And most of all, I hope we can be compassionate to those around us who are struggling.
If you are struggling, don’t give up hope. Answers will come. One day, we will see all promises fulfilled. I look forward to the time described in Revelations 21:4, which says, “God shall wipe away all tears from [our] eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away.”

“When your great-great-grandmother Emily Burk left Nauvoo to come west, she had an old hen she wanted to bring with her. It had been doing something rather unusual—sitting on a nest of duck eggs—and Emily just couldn’t leave her behind. So she set up a box in the wagon for the nest. Soon the ducklings hatched, and every night when the wagon train stopped, Emily filled a washtub with water and let the little ducks swim. Everyone in camp came to watch them.
“You see, Rachel, part of being a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is helping others. There’s even a scripture in the Book of Mormon that tells us how important it is to ‘bear one another’s burdens’ [Mosiah 18:8]. Heavenly Father wants us to take care of those who can’t take care of themselves.”
“You mean, just like Emily took care of the chicken and like the chicken took care of the ducks?”
“And just like the Lord took care of the pioneers and how He still takes care of all of us. He wants us to be happy, so He watches over us.”
“Why doesn’t He take care of Sister Heaton instead of having Mom do it?”
“That’s how He is taking care of Sister Heaton—through your mother. Most of the time Heavenly Father answers our prayers through someone else.”
“So Mom is Heavenly Father’s answer to Sister Heaton’s prayers?”
“Probably. Your mother is helping Sister Heaton rest and get her mind off her troubles, sort of like those ducklings helped the tired pioneers find a little bit of enjoyment at the end of their long days.”
“But why do I have to baby-sit?”
“So your mom can help Sister Heaton. The ducks wouldn’t have been able to bring some enjoyment to the pioneers if the chicken hadn’t cared for them. Your mom wouldn’t be able to help Sister Heaton if she did not know you would take good care of your brother while she’s gone.”
“So, in a way, I’m helping Sister Heaton too?”
“In a very big way.”
“Then I guess I don’t feel so bad about waiting until tomorrow to go skating.”
“I’m glad you think so.”
As Aunt Pearl left, Rachel heard David waking up. On her way upstairs to get him, she thought more about what Aunt Pearl had said. Rachel was still a bit disappointed to miss out on the trip to the park, but it helped to know that taking care of David helped Heavenly Father take care of Sister Heaton.
“As we keep the commandments and [serve], the Lord can ‘pour out his Spirit more abundantly upon [us]’ (Mosiah 18:10; see D&C 20:77). The reward for obedience and service is not only the gift of the Holy Ghost but also special gifts of the Spirit. Paul defines the fruits of the Spirit as love, joy, peace, long-suffering, gentleness, goodness, faith, and meekness (see Gal. 5:22–23). The Holy Spirit blesses us with Christlike attributes as we serve each other.”Elder Merrill J. BatemanOf the Seventy(Ensign, Jan. 1999, 10.)

Tobogganing was a great sport in my younger days, and the foothills above our house offered unlimited slopes for our favorite sport. Our only trouble was that we didn’t have a toboggan large enough to hold more than one person.
One day when I was about ten years old, two of my friends asked me if I would go with them to an abandoned shack high on the hill. Its sides were made of corrugated iron, but they just hung loose, flapping in the breeze. With one end turned up, what a perfect toboggan a piece of that shack would make!
I hurried home after school to get a hammer. The only one I could find belonged to my father’s dental laboratory equipment. Father was not at home, so I took the hammer and went with my friends.
The snow was quite deep that winter and the days were short. We stayed longer than we had planned, and it began to get dark before we finished making our toboggan.
Finally we decided we better hurry home before it was too dark to see. There was no trail on the hill, and the snow came up above our knees. We started running down, jumping through the deep snow.
My hands were cold and half numb. All of a sudden I felt Father’s hammer slip through my fingers and fly into the snow behind me. I called to my friends to wait. They stopped to see what the trouble was, but soon they became impatient and insisted on going on.
I went back in my tracks to try and find the hammer, but it hadn’t even left a mark in the snow. I looked around frantically.
It was really getting dark now, and I was alone up on the hill in the deep snow. I knew I shouldn’t have taken my father’s hammer without his permission, for he needed the tool in his work. Now it was lost and I couldn’t find it!
As I sat in the snow, I was so sad and cold and lonely that I felt just like crying. Then I remembered how I had been taught that when I needed help, I could pray to our Heavenly Father—no matter where I was. I needed help, so I put my face in my hands and prayed with all my heart.
As I opened my eyes and rolled sideways to get up, my hand went down deep in the snow and touched something hard. I took hold of it and pulled it up through the snow. It was Father’s hammer!
I thanked our Heavenly Father for answering my prayer. Then I jumped up and hurried as fast as I could to overtake the other boys who were way ahead of me.
As I overtook them, I realized I had learned something of special importance that day—that we are never alone and that our prayers are heard and answered.

At one difficult point in my life, I couldn’t discern answers to my heartfelt prayers for a long period of time. A dear friend of mine was going through some difficulties of her own. But as we played and sang hymns and gospel songs together, we often experienced overwhelming feelings of solace and testimony. I now recognize that the Lord was fulfilling His promise. He was answering the songs of my heart, again and again. And that really did help me lift up my heart and go on.

In 1977 the newly created Ottawa Ontario Stake in Canada, was facing some unique challenges. With headquarters in Ottawa, this large stake took in eastern Ontario, part of the province of Quebec, and northern New York State. The new stake thus showed a varied ethnic composition. It included a Chinese branch in Montreal, Canada, where two missionaries from the Hong Kong Mission aided in proselyting; a bilingual (French-English) branch at Hawkesbury, Canada; and an all-Lamanite branch at Hogansburg, New York, on the St. Regis Reservation.
One of the most urgent needs of the new stake was the erection of suitable buildings, since many wards and branches were meeting in rented halls and schools. Our stake president, Boyden E. Lee, felt impressed that before the Church could more rapidly increase its growth in the area, suitable chapels would have to be built. A five-year stake building plan was initiated, but by the end of the first year it had produced very limited results.
So the stake presidency decided on a special program to raise the required amount—one million dollars—in two years. President Lee worried a great deal about this decision, wondering how, during a period of inflation and financial stress, he could ask the members of the stake for such a large amount of money in such a short time.
As he prepared for a special stake assembly, he said he felt impressed to pronounce a special blessing and promise upon the members of the stake and to seal that promise by the power of the priesthood, just as one would in giving an individual blessing. He was initially hesitant, but the impression persisted, and he was unable to forget it.
The special stake building fund program was presented at the assembly. Adult members of the Church had been asked to fast and pray before coming to the assembly. At the close of that meeting, President Lee did indeed pronounce a special blessing on the members of the stake and promised then that if they would do all they could, the Lord would open doors to enable them to meet their building-fund assessments. This promise was sealed upon each member of the stake by the power of the priesthood.
Many others reported similar experiences. Jobs were found, promotions were obtained, seemingly worthless investments became profitable, bank accounts long since forgotten were discovered, and inheritances were received.
Two years after the challenge was issued, over $ 800,000 had been raised for the stake building fund. Three chapels have since been completed, two more are under construction, and four have been approved for construction. When these buildings are completed, each of the sixteen wards and branches of the stake will indeed have a modern chapel.
The refrain from the familiar hymn that “sacrifice brings forth the blessings of heaven” (Hymns, no. 147) has been richly felt throughout the stake. Our special building program is now bearing fruit in increased spirituality and convert baptisms. On 6 July 1980, only three and a half years after its creation, the stake was divided into the Ottawa Ontario Stake and the Montreal Quebec Mount Royal Stake, thus laying the foundation for future growth and development.

On a special weekend, I had the privilege of assisting Elder Jorge M. Alvarado of the Quorum of the Seventy in the wonderful reorganization of a stake in the Dominican Republic. After stake conference, we decided to counsel with the families of the newly called leaders. Elder Alvarado looked at the young couples who had just been given this enormous responsibility and asked, speaking especially to the sisters: “Sisters, what are your feelings, what are your impressions?”
One of the sisters replied, “Elder Alvarado, after all I have just heard and felt, nothing will ever be the same again. For me, there is a before and an after this conference. Nothing will be as it was before!”
Later in the afternoon, we had the honor of visiting a couple of families in their respective homes. The same question was addressed to a couple who had been married for several decades. The sister replied with a big smile: “My husband and I have been married for several years; it may sound strange for many to hear, but after what we just went through and felt at the conference, our married life has just begun.”