Gospel Story Finder

About that time I was waiting in a doctor’s office, and I noticed that the young lady seated next to me had opened a book with a blue cover. The book’s text was written in columns like the Bible. I was curious to know if it was the Bible, but I also wanted to get back to the comic book I had been reading.
I directed my eyes to the blue book and read a word at the top of the page: Alma. I made an effort to remember that name from my Bible reading, then went back to my comic book. But the blue book continued to attract me, and once again I directed my eyes to that mysterious book.
When the young lady noticed my interest, I asked if the book was the Bible. She answered no and asked me what church I belonged to. I told her none, because I didn’t know which one was true.
That night I couldn’t stop thinking about that strange book. I didn’t know its name, because the young lady had said only that it belonged to the Mormon Church. I told my friend Ghersi about it, and he offered to get me a copy. Several weeks went by, and then one afternoon he handed me a book without a cover and with worn pages. All he said was, “Here’s the book.”
That afternoon I opened the book and read the testimony of Joseph Smith. I felt that it was what I had wanted to know; the feeling became stronger when I read about the visit of the angel Moroni. Unable to contain my excitement, I arose from my chair and shouted, “This is what I was looking for! Here is the truth!” I read the first chapters of 1 Nephi very slowly. I felt that I understood them as I had never understood a book before.

“Mama! Mama! I’m sorry I got all wet, but Jalen was blowing bubbles in the pool!” Jordan shouted.
Jordan’s mother raced outside to find his baby cousin, Jalen, lying purple and lifeless on the deck of the pool near the stairs. She gathered up his body and began to pat his back. Jalen began to cough up lots of water.
Jalen’s parents had been upstairs. They rushed downstairs and took him to the doctor. Jalen’s PaPa and Grandma went with them. Then everyone began to notice that Jordan was soaking wet from head to toe—clothes, shoes, and all.
“Jordan, you are so brave! You pulled Jalen out of the pool without even taking time to take off even your shoes,” his mother said. “What happened?”
“When I went outside, I saw Jalen in the middle of the pool, and he was blowing bubbles. He was so scary looking that I didn’t want to touch him. But I got in the water and pulled him to the stairs. I didn’t know what to do next, so I went to get you.”
Jordan’s Aunt Amberly went to help him find some dry clothes. She asked, “If Jalen was so scary that you didn’t want to touch him, how did you know what to do?”
“Something told me what to do,” he told his aunt.
“Do you know that the feeling you had was like a still, small voice telling you what to do? Do you remember from Primary who the still small voice is?”
“I know—it was the Holy Ghost,” Jordan said. “I’m glad I listened to Him.”
Jordan Jones, age 6 (as told by his Aunt Dawn)Tupelo, Mississippi

A little while ago my family and I moved to Kentucky. I was really upset because I was leaving all my friends and extended family behind. Kentucky was very different from what I was used to. The first time we went to church, I saw that there weren’t very many people there. When I realized how small my branch was, I decided that I would do something about it.
The next day, my mom and I went to the store. Before we left the house, I grabbed a stack of pass-along cards. When we got to the store, I got a candy bar and went to check out. The cashier scanned the candy, then handed it to me. I handed it back. She looked confused and said, “You just paid for this, ma’am.”
I said, “I know, but I’m giving this to you as a gift.” Then I put a pass-along card with the candy. She smiled and thanked me. She looked at the back of the pass-along card, where I had written, “Everyone is a child of God.” I walked away with happiness, knowing that even if she didn’t join the Church, I still did something good.
Later that day, I remembered that I left the rest of the pass-along cards by the cash register! The next time we went to the store, I went to ask if they were still there. Then I saw something, and I stopped in my steps. About five of the cash registers had pass-along cards that said, “Everyone is a child of God.” The cashier had passed them out! I felt so happy because of what I did.

“A few years ago,” says one member, “I thought there was nothing more important than playing pool (a game similar to billiards), drinking and smoking with the boys, and staying away from home. Now I can’t understand how I ever did some of those things. When we moved to Texas things were about the same. I didn’t attend church and didn’t care much about religion. Then my wife went to our bishop and asked him to help. Of course, he passed on the plea to my elders quorum president, who prayed about it and decided that he should assign himself to be our home teacher. Then a strange thing happened. When he came to our house on his first visit, for some reason I let him in—and I had never let a home teacher in before. He talked to me as a friend and someone who cared about me. He asked me if I liked sports; well, that was great because I loved sports. He told me that they were playing basketball and asked me to join the fellows on the team. I was happy to cooperate. Meeting those good men on the team made me feel as though the friends I had in the bars weren’t really friends at all.”

But this brother still wasn’t attending church. Every month the home teachers would invite him to come, and “every month I would make up some excuse. I was afraid to make the change. But the president never made me feel bad or ashamed at my excuses; I was always happy and content when he was in our house. Then my father died. I realized that I had gone almost my entire life disappointing him, and vowed I would never disappoint him and my mother again. That next Sunday I went to church in Houston for the first time. The people accepted me like I had never been inactive at all.”

From there it was only a matter of continuing on his new path to reach the temple with his wife and children.

Let me illustrate this with an incident that happened some years ago. As a young man I was called on a mission to Tonga. Through a series of unusual circumstances, such as ship strikes, and so forth, it took three months to get to Tonga from Salt Lake. As I was the only one assigned to Tonga at that time, much of the journey was made alone.

Finally, in Samoa, the mission president put me on a boat to Fiji and assured me that he would telegraph ahead, and when I arrived in Suva two elders would meet me and put me on a boat to Tonga.

Even though I had been in transit for two and a half months at that time, that several-day voyage to Suva seemed extra-filled with trepidation. How I looked forward to seeing those two missionaries!

The boat arrived in Suva early in the morning. I looked and looked, but could see no elders. An hour went by, then two, then three—still no elders. The captain kept telling me to get off the boat as they were leaving soon. I kept telling him that I would be met soon by two young men, but they didn’t come.

Finally, noon arrived and the captain was ready to leave. “Get off,” he said, “you only have a ticket to Suva. I’m leaving, and you’re staying here.”

With great fear I started down the gangplank only to be met by the immigration officials. “Let us see your visa, your onward ticket, and the money to keep you while here,” they demanded.

I had no visa. I had no onward ticket. I had not sufficient money. But I assured them that two young men would be there right away with whatever was needed. How I prayed! But they didn’t come.

“Back on the ship then,” they insisted.

“Not on my ship,” bellowed the captain.

I can remember standing in the middle of the gangplank, looking up at the folded arms and glaring eyes of the stern captain, and then looking down at the equally determined faces and set jaws of the immigration men.

I looked at the ocean under the gangplank. I should have wondered how long I could tread water, but I was too scared to think of anything right then.

In the end, the captain proved to be the toughest; and amidst cursing and yelling and banging of bags, the gangplank went up, the ship departed, and I found myself in the not-too-friendly hands of the immigration officials.

There was a long discussion among them, most of it in a foreign tongue. Finally, one of the younger men, who seemed more friendly, came over and explained that for now I should move with my things into the “customs shed.” That’s where things go that aren’t really allowed into the country until duty or tax is paid on them. He assured me that he, too, felt that the two young men I referred to would soon be along and everything would be fine.

The afternoon wore on. I tried several times to contact the missionaries every way I knew how, but to no avail. I know missionaries are supposed to be brave, but right then I was scared and tired and hungry.

The sun was getting low, and it seemed the lower it got in the sky the lower my spirits became. I knew I wasn’t really in danger or in prison, but to one used to lots of freedom it seemed like it.

The pungent odor of curry and copra and drying fish and the myriad other sights and sounds and smells of an oily tropical wharf seemed so foreign to the cool, fresh smells of my Idaho home. I knew I was homesick. I wanted to cry, but I knew that wouldn’t do any good.

Finally, the whirring of winches, the groaning of blocks and cables, the banging of cargo, and the sputtering of machines ceased. The dock workers began to leave, then the immigration people, until just a few watchmen and supervisors were left. It was silent now. I don’t know when I have felt more alone.

I tried to lie down on the dirty, uneven cement floor. I prayed to know what to do. There seemed to be no answer. I watched the last rays of sunlight as they broke through the clouds and blazed across the ocean and through the holes of the metal customs shed.

“How long will the light last?” I thought. Then I wondered, “What will happen when those last rays disappear and fold into the night?” (Have you ever wanted to just sort of close your eyes and disappear—or have things around you change?) “But, no, I must have hope. Things must turn out all right.”

Once more, I closed my eyes in prayer, when suddenly I felt almost transported. I didn’t see anything or hear anything, in a physical sense; but, in a more real way, I saw a family in far-off Idaho kneeling together in prayer; and I heard my mother, acting as mouth, say as clearly as anything can be heard, “And bless John on his mission.”

As that faithful family called down the powers of heaven to bless their missionary son in a way they could not physically do, I testify that the powers of heaven did come down, and they lifted me up and, in a spiritual way, allowed me, for a brief moment, to once again join that family circle in prayer. I was one with them. I was literally swallowed up in the love and concern of a faithful family and sensed for a moment what being taken into Abraham’s bosom may be like. (See Luke 16:22.) I was given to understand also that there are other circles of love and concern unbounded by time or space to which we all belong and from which we can draw strength. God does not leave us entirely alone—ever!

Tears of joy flowed freely as I had restored to me the warmth of security, the light of love, and the strength of hope. And when I again felt the hard, uneven cement beneath me, there was no fear, no sorrow, no trepidation, only deep gratitude and certain assurance.

To conclude the incident, within a half hour I saw the young immigration man who had befriended me coming towards the shed with two young elders behind him. It seemed that on his way home he just happened to run into two young Americans with white shirts and ties and told them about one just like them down at the wharf. Apparently the telegram never arrived, but they followed him down to the shed, and soon all was straightened out, and within a few weeks I landed in Tonga and was ready to begin my mission.

To the many missionaries who may be listening this evening, I share the observation that the seeds of testimony frequently do not immediately take root and flower. Bread cast upon the water returns, at times, only after many days. But it does return.
I answered the ring of my telephone one evening to hear a voice ask, “Are you related to an Elder Monson who years ago served in the New England Mission?”
I answered that such was not the case. The caller introduced himself as a Brother Leonardo Gambardella and then mentioned that an Elder Monson and an Elder Bonner called at his home long ago and bore their testimonies to him and his wife. They had listened but had done nothing further to apply their teachings. Subsequently they moved to California, where, some 13 years later, they again found the truth and were converted and baptized. Brother Gambardella then asked if there were any way he could reach the elders who first had visited with them, that he might express his profound gratitude for their testimonies, which had remained with him and his wife.
I checked the records. I located the elders. Can you imagine their surprise when, now married with families of their own, I telephoned them and told them the good news—even the culmination of their early efforts. They instantly remembered the Gambardellas. I arranged a conference telephone call so they could personally extend their congratulations and welcome them into the Church. They did. There were tears, but they were tears of joy.

“Come on, Jennie. You’re an old slowpoke,” Tobie called good-naturedly to his little sister who ran to meet him every day after school. She could hardly wait to go to school with him and whenever Tobie declared that it wouldn’t be any time at all until she would be old enough, her eyes sparkled with anticipation.
Most afternoons were so quiet that Jennie and Tobie could hear birds singing or wild geese honking overhead. But today there came a new and different sound. Tobie looked in the direction of the strange, rumbling noise and saw a group of men coming toward them, raising a cloud of dust as they traveled.
Quickly Tobie pulled his sister back into the bushes and warned her not to make a sound. A crooked line of tired soldiers soon came into view, shuffling by slowly like the ragtag end of a beaten army. Several mules were pulling old, creaky wagons filled with injured men who moaned hoarsely every time the wheels jounced over stones in the road. As the strangers passed, Tobie noticed ragged and torn uniforms, bandage-wrapped heads, crutches made of broken tree limbs, and sallow, staring faces, some not much older than his own. The men who could walk were silent as they trudged along, their eyes fixed on the dusty road before them.
When the last marcher disappeared around the bend, Tobie grabbed Jennie’s hand and they ran to their farmhouse among the trees. Mother was coming from the barnyard with a basket of eggs she had just gathered. “What’s wrong children?” she asked.
They told her about the men, and when Father came home from the fields later for their evening meal he listened carefully to their news. The previous day, a neighbor had told him that British troops had taken over the nearby city of Philadelphia after a victorious battle near the Birmingham meetinghouse several days before.
When Tobie described their woebegone appearance, Father knew the bedraggled men belonged to General Washington’s defeated army. Apparently the surviving soldiers were looking for a place to rest and care for their wounded companions.
“I’m sure we have nothing to worry about,” Father said. However, when bedtime came the doors were bolted securely and his rifle was placed within easy reach.
The next day was Saturday and Tobie got up early to help with the chores. Jennie stayed so close to her brother that he called her his “little shadow.” It was nearly noon when they saw a man approaching the garden where they were picking tomatoes. The boy pushed his sister behind him and grabbed a hoe that was lying on the ground. Trying to sound brave, he asked gruffly what the man wanted.
The stranger looked sadly at the two children and, probably thinking of his family so far from Pennsylvania, sat down wearily on an old tree stump. “Don’t be frightened,” he said, “I just need a drink of water and a place to rest for a while.”
Tobie put down the hoe and hurried to bring some water from a bucket near the pump. Looking more closely at the man’s ragged clothing, he could tell that the tall, thin figure was a soldier in the Continental army.
Jennie ran to the kitchen for her mother. When they returned, the soldier tried to get up but the effort was too much. “Ma’am, I sure hope I didn’t scare the young’uns,” he said, motioning to Tobie and Jennie.
Mother looked at the man’s tired, bearded face, and tears came to her eyes. “We’re glad you’re here,” she said. “We want to help you.” And within minutes she was busily cooking food for the hungry stranger.
As they watched him eagerly eat every crumb of food from the plate, he told them about his children in Virginia. When he finished eating, the soldier talked of the men who had passed by the farm the day before. “There will be thousands like them,” he said, “coming to camp in the hills of Valley Forge. They have very little food and many are sick or wounded. A few stronger ones like myself have come searching for help from the surrounding farms. Others are cutting logs to build huts for shelter. There is no way of knowing how long we’ll have to stay, perhaps all winter.”
Later when Father came home and heard about the suffering of the men in the army, he and the soldier rode toward the place where General Washington’s troops were struggling to build a camp, while Mother began searching for pieces of cloth that could be used for bandages for the wounded men. Tobie and Jennie laid clean straw on the barn floor and placed buckets of cool water inside the door.
As dusk crept over the rolling Chester County hills, Father returned with some of the wounded men. Before long they were lying on the comfortable straw, eating hot soup and having their dirty bandages replaced with clean strips of cloth. As the tired and homesick soldiers thought of their own children so far away, they smiled at Jennie and Tobie.
By nightfall all were cared for, quiet fell over the barn, and the weary family returned to the house. They were preparing for bed when suddenly they heard the sound of horses’ hooves followed by a knock. Cautiously, Father opened the door.
A man stood in the doorway—a quite different-looking soldier than those in the barn. “May I come in?” he asked quietly.
There was something about this man who walked so very straight and tall that thrilled Tobie. A long black cloak almost covered a threadbare officer’s uniform. An aide, holding the bridle of a beautiful white horse, stood outside while the stranger visited in the kitchen.
“I understand that some of my men are sleeping in your barn,” he began. “Did you give them permission to stay there?”
After he was told of the day’s events the tall soldier was quiet for several moments. Then he said, “For my men and myself, I am grateful to all of you. Thank God there are so many good people in this great land of ours.” And before anyone could answer he bowed to Mother, shook Father’s hand and left.
It wasn’t until the next morning that the men in the barn learned of their commander’s visit the night before. They were grateful that in spite of his many concerns during this trying period he came himself to see after their well-being. But no one could have guessed then that the night visitor, Gen. George Washington, would soon become the first president of the United States.

I want to share with you an experience I had this summer. I spent three days in a wilderness camp with 150 youth. We did a lot of hiking and had some hard physical challenges like when we rappelled down an eighty-foot cliff. On the last day we were given instructions to go into the woods alone. Before leaving the group, each youth was given a letter from home which had been written by his or her mother or father for this occasion.
When I went out alone, I took my scriptures with me. I read about my Father in Heaven’s love for all of us and for me. It was then that I realized that these scriptures are like letters from home.
After a time we gathered together. Everyone had opened and read his or her letter. One young woman stood expressing the feelings of her heart. She held her letter close. In her words, “I nearly bawled my face off when I sat there alone and realized how much my mom and dad love me.” I nearly bawled my face off when I read again about how very much our Father in Heaven loves us.
Can you imagine being away from home and receiving a letter from your parents and not bothering to open it or read it? This is what happens when we don’t read these precious records. The holy scriptures are like letters from home telling us how we can draw near to our Father in Heaven. He tells us to come as we are. No one will be denied. He loves everyone. (See 3 Ne. 9:14, 17–18.)

When I was a boy in Primary, I believed whatever my Primary teacher told me. One summer day she taught us about prayer: “Remember, if you need Heavenly Father’s help, just ask Him. He’ll always answer.” I skipped home thinking of nothing more than playing ball with my brothers. I didn’t know that the next day I would test my teacher’s words.
The following morning began with the sun scorching the sandstone cliffs and rocky hills that circled my town. Into the warmth of that perfect day my friend Eva and I started off on one of our adventures. Clutching a bag of small, sharp fish-hooks, two spools of thread, and our lunches, we hurried toward the fish-pond.
At last we arrived. We paused and looked at the pond and the willow trees surrounding it, feeling as though some great ocean lay before us and that we had come to bury stolen treasure.
We sat down, slipped off our shoes, and dangled our dusty feet lazily in the cool water. Tying our thread to the hooks, we dreamed of catching a big fish. Then we realized that we had brought nothing to use for bait! It was unthinkable to use any part of our lunches, so the homemade lines just hung loosely in the water, our excitement sinking as rapidly as the bare hooks.
We soon found something new to occupy the morning. Close to the pond was a sand hill. One side of the hill was a smooth slope, but the other side dropped off steeply, forming a cliff as high as a house. At the bottom of the cliff was a pile of jagged sandstone rocks. We started up the smooth side of the hill, pretending to be the world’s greatest mountain climbers, courageously tackling the tallest mountain.
As we climbed, we could see an old wooden post on top of the hill.
“I’ll race you to the post!” I shouted to Eva.
We ran up the hill, sinking at times into the soft, warm sand. Small avalanches trailed behind us and could be heard falling on the rocks beneath the cliff. Soon I was crawling, hurrying toward the post as fast as I could—but I didn’t realize that I was climbing by myself. I reached the top, pleased with my victory, and turned around with a smile to speak to Eva. But she wasn’t near me! As she had climbed, she hadn’t been watching where she was going, and she had run into deep sand. Unable to lift her feet, she had panicked and started swinging her arms wildly—sliding sideways and backward toward the edge of the cliff.
Eva was very frightened, and tears streamed down her cheeks. I shouted to her to turn around and go down the hill on the safe side. But her only answer was a sobbing, “Help me!” We both knew that if I went straight down to her, the sand moving before me would push her over the edge. Desperate, she cried out again, “Help me!”
Suddenly, I remembered my Primary teacher’s words from the day before, and I prayed with all my strength. Eva stopped sliding. Something beneath her small feet was holding firm. I carefully went down a different way to where she was, and helped her turn around. Once she was on safe ground, I reached down to where she had stopped sliding and picked up a rock no larger than the palm of my hand! Somehow that hard bit of sandstone had kept Eva from falling. I put the rock into my pocket, and we went home. We had had enough adventure for one day.
When I got home, I put the rock on a shelf in my room to remind me of my wise Primary teacher’s words: “If you need Heavenly Father’s help, just ask Him. He’ll always answer.”

Illustration by Brad Teare
Joseph swung at the baseball and missed. Again.
“Strike three!” the umpire called. “You’re out.”
Joseph trudged back to his team with his shoulders slumped. How would he ever hit a ball this season? They had only one game left.
“Good try,” his coach said. Joseph shrugged and plopped down on the bench. He was so tired of striking out! He’d worked hard all season long, going to every practice and staying late most days. He even practiced at home whenever he could.
His coach once told him he had one of the best swings on the team. So why couldn’t he hit the baseball?
The next batter from his team swung hard and smashed the ball with a loud crack. Up, up, up it went. A home run.
Joseph sighed. He didn’t need to hit a home run. Just a normal hit. He said a silent prayer to Heavenly Father, asking that somehow he’d be able to hit the ball before the season ended. Tomorrow would be his last chance.
Later that night the missionaries visited Joseph’s house. Mom had signed up weeks ago to have them over for dinner. While they ate, Elder Seeley started talking about baseball.
Joseph sat up straight and paid very close attention. Apparently Elder Seeley was some kind of a baseball star back home before his mission. Nobody in Joseph’s family had known that before.
Mom seemed very interested too. She turned to Elder Seeley and asked, “Would it be OK if we all went outside so you could give Joseph a few tips on his swing?”
“Absolutely,” Elder Seeley said.
The moment dinner was done, Joseph raced to get his baseball and bat. Joseph couldn’t wait to see what the missionary might teach him.
Outside, Elder Seeley pitched a few balls and watched Joseph swing. “You’re swinging way too fast,” he said. “Slow it down, nice and easy.”
Elder Seeley also taught Joseph how to grip the bat better and the best height to hold his elbow.
“Let’s see that swing again,” Elder Seeley said and pitched one more time. Joseph swung and heard the crack of the ball hitting his bat. The ball flew over the back fence. He’d done it! He’d actually hit the ball!
Mom and the missionaries cheered.
A peaceful feeling came over Joseph. He was going to hit the ball in the game tomorrow. He just knew it.
The next day Joseph stepped up to the batting plate and took a deep breath. He tried to remember everything Elder Seeley taught him.
The first pitch came. He swung and missed.
“Strike one!” the umpire called out.
Joseph didn’t let it bother him. He still had two more strikes.
The next pitch flew out of the strike zone.
“Ball one!” cried the umpire.
Joseph took another deep breath. He could do this. He still felt that same warm feeling inside.
The pitcher let the ball fly. Joseph focused and swung.
His bat smacked hard against the ball and sent it flying. Joseph stared in wonder for a moment as the baseball soared away. Then he dropped the bat and ran toward first base as fast as he could.
A cheer rose from the crowd.
Joseph skidded to a stop on the base and smiled. Heavenly Father had answered his prayer. The answer hadn’t come in the way he’d expected, but Joseph knew Heavenly Father had sent someone to help him.

I suppose there are some things in life that we would never get used to. I am reminded of an experience that happened many years ago while I was a young missionary. Between the north and south islands of New Zealand is a very rough body of water known as Cook Strait. Out in this rough water are many small and beautiful islands. On D‘Urville Island lived a large group of wonderful Maori people who were members of the Church. They were in an excellent branch of the Church and lived the gospel well. All were related to one another and were mainly professional fishermen.

President Matthew Cowley, my mission president, and I left Wellington on the steamer that sailed between the two islands. It was a rather large ship carrying up to 600 passengers. The only way for a passenger to get off the ship anywhere near D’Urville Island was to climb down a rope ladder lowered from the side of the ship at about two o’clock in the morning. This little maneuver didn’t frighten me too much until the time to perform it approached.

It was a dark night with no moon and few stars. As the ship slowed down to stop, President Cowley and I could see off in the distance a little light bobbing up and down in the water. It was a lantern held by one of the Maori men who was rowing out to pick us up. As it got closer, we could tell that the water was very rough.

Finally the boat was right under us and we could look over the railing and see them. Then we heard one of them shout for us to come down. The deck steward on the ship opened a gate in the railing and threw down the rope ladder. I looked down into the water that dark night, turned to President Cowley, and said, “You are the mission president. You go first.” He looked down that rope ladder into the darkness of the night and said, “I am the mission president. You go first.”

Fearfully, yet bravely, I started down the ladder. Never in my life had I ever climbed a rope ladder more than two or three rungs long. The first and second steps were easy because I could still feel that I was near the side of the ship. But the farther down I went, the farther the ladder hung away from the side of the ship. After I had gone down about six steps I felt very much alone and was hanging on for dear life, praying with each step.

I think that in the darkness of that night, thousands of miles away from home, I learned how to pray all over again. I was frightened, but I hung on and slowly and carefully took it one step at a time. Finally a large Maori hand grabbed me by the ankle, and a voice assured me, “You’ve made it!” I managed to get into the rowboat and put on a raincoat to keep from getting wet.

I sat down and relaxed. Then I looked up the long rope ladder to watch my wonderful mission president begin to climb down. I am sure he prayed just as hard as I did, and finally he made it into the boat. We were then with friends, feeling safe and secure. In a short while we were on dry land on D‘Urville Island. The whole branch was out to greet us in the middle of the night.

Several times while we were there, I thought of that rope ladder. I thought, That is something no one would ever get used to doing. You could never take that downward trip for granted. But doing it over and over would make it easier and possibly less frightening.

When our visit was over and it came time for us to return to the North Island it dawned on me that we needed to climb up that ladder. I discovered that a climb like that would be just as dangerous and treacherous as the climb down. This would require practically the same amount of prayer and effort.

I will never forget that one dark night in the islands of the sea. It was a most unusual and unique experience in my life.

I yanked the middle drawer right out of my dresser and rifled through it, hurling all the rejected clothing to the floor. It was school colors day, I was late, and I couldn’t find my blue sweatshirt. I finally saw a blue sleeve poking out of the bottom drawer, and I grabbed the wadded sweatshirt. After stretching it to try to pull out the wrinkles, I threw it over my head and rushed to the front door.
“Bye, Mom,” I said, kissing her on the cheek and racing down the driveway toward the bus stop. From the sidewalk, I could see the last child boarding the bus.
Someone must have told the bus driver and everyone else that I was coming because they all turned to watch me run to the bus. Embarrassed, I slunk into the first available seat without ever looking up.
At school, I quickly realized I had forgotten my homework. The night before I had struggled through a math problem four times before figuring it out, and now I had left it at home where it would do me no good at all!
By the time school was over, I was miserable. I trudged home from the bus stop, rehearsing my troubles of the day. But then a happier thought entered my mind: Maybe Mom made some of her delicious cookies. The chewy ones with the crisscross marks on top. Warm. With milk. I couldn’t wait!
My happy thoughts quickly disappeared when I walked into the kitchen. My little brother—not my mother—had been busy in the kitchen! There was a white powder trail from the flour bin to the middle of the floor, where he sat with a big mixing bowl full of “bread dough.” “What are you doing?” I asked.
“I’m making bread—just like Mom,” he answered, throwing a handful onto the floor and “kneading” it.
On another day, I might have found my brother’s “cooking” funny. But not today—I was angry. I wanted to be greeted by warm cookies, not by a little brother making a big mess!
Just then Mom walked in and saw the disaster. “What’s going on?” she asked. “Michelle, why are you just watching him make such a mess?” Her voice got louder. “And your room is a disaster! Go to your room and don’t come out until it’s clean.”
I slammed the door to my room and flopped onto the bed. It isn’t fair! I didn’t make a mess in the kitchen. Why am I in trouble? I’m the one having a bad day. Nobody cares about me. I wiped the angry tears from my eyes. I could hear the twins crying. Slamming my door must have woken them from their naps.
I looked around my room. Mom was right—it really was a disaster! There was a drawer on the floor, and I had scattered clothes everywhere while looking for my blue sweatshirt that morning. And my brother must have invaded my toys, because they were scattered around the room, too. It was a mess. And it wasn’t fair! That brother of mine is a problem, I thought. Why can’t he stay out of my stuff? I decided to rearrange my room so he couldn’t reach my toys anymore.
I pulled everything off the shelves and out of my desk drawers—toys, papers, crayons, everything! Everything of any interest to a little brother was going to be moved out of his reach. As I rummaged through my closet, looking for things that needed to be protected, I found my dinosaur drawing kit.
Meanwhile, Mom had gone to the twins’ room to settle them down again. When she returned to the kitchen, she found my brother trying to clean up his mess. Dragging a wet towel in the dough, he had smeared paste from the middle of the room to the sink.
After Mom finally got the kitchen under control, she came to my room, where she found me sitting on an even bigger pile of stuff, playing with my dinosaur drawing kit. I knew right away that I was in big trouble. Her eyes widened and she opened her mouth to say something. Instead, she started to cry and left, looking totally defeated.
I felt awful. Everything had gone wrong—my sweatshirt, the bus, my homework, my little brother—and now Mom was upset with me. I felt all alone. Not knowing what else to do, I knelt beside my bed and prayed. “Heavenly Father, please help me. Help make everything all right. Help my mom be happy. Help her to love me even though I have a messy room. Please, Heavenly Father, please help me.” Still kneeling beside my bed, I buried my face in my pillow and sobbed.
Soon I heard Mom in the hall. I sat up and grabbed a shirt to act like I was putting it away—I didn’t want to get in trouble again for not working.
When Mom came into my room, her eyes were red and swollen, even worse than mine. She quietly asked if I had been praying. I hesitated because I knew I was supposed to be cleaning, but I nodded yes.
Mom cleared a spot beside me, sat down, and put her arms around me. “I love you,” she said. “I’m sorry I was upset with you. I’m sorry you’re not having a very good day. I’ve had a hard day myself, and I was praying for help when the Spirit whispered that you were praying for me, too.”
“Really?” I asked. “Heavenly Father heard my prayer, and the Holy Ghost told you?”
“That’s right,” Mom said, smiling.
I started to cry again, but this time I cried because I knew Somebody cared. Heavenly Father had seen my awful day, and He understood that I needed love more than I needed a clean room. And even though I didn’t get warm cookies, I felt a real warmth inside, a comforting knowledge that I am never alone.

I think of the sincere efforts of an aunt whose acts were never celebrated in the media or recognized in any special way. One of her neighbors was a reclusive woman who had lost her husband. She often engaged in peculiar behavior, which provided us children with opportunities to make fun of her. But seeing that she had neither friends nor family, my aunt visited her frequently, taking her food, talking with her, comforting her. When this neighbor died, only three people attended her funeral: my mother, my uncle, and my aunt.
In this as in many other instances, my aunt gave her best in personal and sincere ways. For my aunt, “Mankind was [her] business” (Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol, in Works of Charles Dickens [1982], 543).

Some of you may be familiar with Thornton Wilder’s classic drama Our Town. If you are, you will remember the town of Grover’s Corners, where the story takes place. In the play, Emily Webb dies in childbirth, and we read of the lonely grief of her young husband, George, left with their four-year-old son. Emily does not wish to rest in peace; she wants to experience again the joys of her life. She is granted the privilege of returning to earth and reliving her 12th birthday. At first it is exciting to be young again, but the excitement wears off quickly. The day holds no joy now that Emily knows what is in store for the future. It is unbearably painful to realize how unaware she had been of the meaning and wonder of life while she was alive. Before returning to her resting place, Emily laments, “Do … human beings ever realize life while they live it—every, every minute?”

Recently I heard of a good man who, after being married in the temple and having four children, fell away from the Church. His physical appearance became shabby and his demeanor sad as he became a drug addict, an alcoholic, and then a chain-smoker. He continued in this destructive lifestyle for many years. However, in time, with the help of a good wife, home teachers, a caring bishop, and our loving Heavenly Father, he eventually started on the long road back. One of the proudest days in his life came when he once again qualified for a temple recommend. Looking back on those bad years, he later admitted, “All I ever wanted was to belong.” Seeking acceptance from the wrong source brought untold misery and pain.

I shuddered, remembering that first day I had asked my parents’ permission to be baptized. They knew I had been studying with the Mormons and going to their meetings, but I don’t think they had admitted to themselves how serious I really was. My father is a quiet man, and kind. He thought about it for a long time before he replied. But my mother reacted immediately. Her face went pale and her mouth hard and tight.

“Absolutely not, Michelle,” she said, and her voice sounded cold and deeply angry. “It is absolutely out of the question, so don’t mention it again.”

“But why?” I demanded. “Why?”

“Why?” she screamed back, her eyes blazing. “Because you don’t know what you’re doing. I’m trying to save you from making a terrible mistake, Michelle. I know. You just have to trust me. I know.”

I wondered what awful things she knew or thought she knew about the Mormons. But no matter how persistently I questioned her, she wouldn’t talk. She just kept saying no in that hard, tight way. In the end, though, my father prevailed. He usually did because he was so reasonable and so patient. He kept reminding her that I was 20 years old. In a few months I would be able to decide for myself, without their approval. He reminded her of what a good girl I was: smart and hardworking, obedient and truthful. “She deserves to find her own way in life,” he told my mother gently.

So we made a bargain. I was to meet with the minister of my own church for classes in theology. I was to learn everything I could about the beliefs and doctrines of the church I had belonged to my whole life. In other words, I was to give their way one last, real chance, as much a chance as I had given the Mormons. Then, if I still wanted to leave—to reject their ways, to become a Latter-day Saint—they would give their consent.

Those visits with our minister, I reflected, had led to one of the most solemn, impressive experiences of my life. I remembered vividly how nervous, almost foolish, I had felt as I walked the path to the old stone church and pulled back the heavy door. My footsteps sounded loud and obtrusive as I crossed the hard, polished floor and knocked tentatively on the door of the pastor’s office. The office, itself, was enough to make me feel overwhelmed. It was large and thickly carpeted, and one entire wall was lined with shelves that supported hundreds of thick, old, impressive-looking volumes. Dr. Allred sat in a brown leather chair behind a massive desk, which separated us awkwardly as I perched on the edge of a chair across from him.

“So you think you want to be a Mormon?” he said suddenly, and his face never changed expression. I couldn’t begin to tell what he was thinking. Before I could find an answer, he continued. “It’s your parents’ idea that you come here, isn’t it?”

I nodded, while he gazed at me, until finally a slight smile began to break up the corners of the thin, long line of his mouth. “Well, let’s see what we can do,” he said, leaning forward across the desk.

We met together three different times, and I read the books and pamphlets he gave me. I answered his questions and he answered some of mine, but our discussions were always very polite and restrained. On our last evening together he sat behind his desk and looked across at me, and he left unopened the heavy book we were supposed to talk about together. Instead he lifted his eyebrow in a thoughtful manner and said, “I’ve done what your parents desired, Michelle. But there’s really nothing I can teach you; both you and I know that. What you do now must be your own decision, of course.”

He hesitated, and I found myself leaning forward in my chair, drawn by the expression on his face and something I felt in the tenor of his voice. He pushed his chair back suddenly and rose, walked quickly to the expanse of books and pulled down a small, slender volume. Returning to the desk he set it down firmly, then pushed it over until it rested mere inches from my own hand, which was gripping the smooth edge of the big desk. The lettering on the leather cover was close to me and easy to see. I gave a little gasp as I read the words: Book of Mormon.

“That’s right,” he said, “the Book of Mormon. I get some of the material for my sermons out of that book.” His voice was soft, but it penetrated deep inside me so that my heart began to beat wildly, and I felt a warm, tingling sensation across my skin.

“I would be a Mormon myself if it were possible.” He picked up the volume and balanced it thoughtfully in his hand. “I am a minister; it is my life. It’s all I’ve ever known. My father was a minister, and his father before him.” He paused and looked up, and his eyes held a sadness that was almost an intrusion to look upon. “But if I were you,” he continued in the same soft, firm voice, “I would become a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”

Dr. Allred rose and replaced the book. I rose from my chair. I knew there was nothing left to be said between us, but I was wrong. At the door he shook my hand warmly, holding me with his eyes. “What I said tonight I have said for you alone. If you repeat it, I will deny that it was ever spoken. And you know, of course, which of us would be believed.”

I nodded, trying to answer with my eyes and my smile, too overwhelmed to be able to do more, and walked home alone through the crisp, silent night.

The next week I was baptized. None of my family attended the baptism. This was something I wanted to do, and I had their permission. But permission and support are not the same thing. Even my kindly father could not offer support for something he could neither agree with nor understand.

“What a place for a reunion!” I tell myself the moment I see the cabin. When my grandparents retired they sold a perfectly normal house and bought this place in the woods near a very cold lake. They said it had room for everyone, so we should all come here for a reunion.
The cabin had been a simple A-frame at one time, but the previous owners kept making additions as if they were afterthoughts. Additions were attached to additions. I can’t believe my grandparents bought it. Even more unbelievable is the fact I’m in a car with my family, and we’re driving up to it, and we’ll be living here for the next three weeks.
As the car stops, I hear the noise, a kind of roar full of shrieks and bangs. My cousins. They come rushing out, leaping at us with their arms wide open, smothering us with hugs before they go running down the hill toward the lake.
Let me explain the family connections here. My grandparents have six children. The oldest is my dad. Now he’s moved into the cabin along with my mom and the two biggest suitcases. That leaves me (I’m 15), my brothers (13-year-old twins), and my little sister (who’s 10), standing with our bags in the dust. We’re staring at The Cabin when Sarah and Marleen come to help us. Sarah is my dad’s brother’s wife, the mother of six kids. Aunt Marleen is Dad’s youngest sister and is due to have a baby next month—her first.
Sarah and Marleen help us carry in our stuff. Once inside we see Grandpa and two of Dad’s brothers playing a computer game. As I approach the stairs I hear the wall of sound coming again and count as 18 cousins—all kids—rush past me and up the stairs. My grandmother stands in the kitchen doorway, hardly noticing the mob.
I am directed to the loft, which is much coveted by all but reserved for me since I’m the oldest grandchild. But I’m not convinced that’s where I want to be spending my nights. So I go to the basement to see if there are any spare rooms. That’s where I find four mattresses spread on the floor, with little girls’ clothes everywhere. Perpetual slumber-party-city. I’m doomed.
“Marti! Wanna see a caterpillar?” It’s my six-year-old cousin, Erin.
“Nah,” I say, turning back to the stairs. “I’ve seen lots of them, thank you.”
I discover a room loaded with books that’s kind of between floors. I’m looking at the books and thinking maybe I could move in when I hear a thundering sound above me. I look up to see the room is just under the staircase. That would be like living under a freeway overpass. Anyway, the room is soon overflowing with boys and their sleeping bags.
“Aunt Rebecca (that’s my mom) told us to use this room. She’s gonna use the one we were in. Isn’t this neat?” My cousin looks around at my brothers and his other male counterparts. They seem to be in agreement; they are staking out their individual territories.
So I head upstairs to find all the rooms there are taken by at least two people, some by four or five. Will I ever have a quiet moment for the next three weeks?
I go downstairs to explain my dilemma to my grandma, but she’s nowhere to be found. Grandpa tells me she went on a walk with Deenie, my little sister.
“Anything I can do for you?” I ask Grandpa, who is playing a computer game.
“Well …”
Grandpa pushes the pause button on the computer and turns around to look at me as he takes my hand. I think he knows I need to talk.
“Too bad we can’t do that with life,” I say, pointing to the button he’s just pushed.
“Unfortunately, life can’t be paused,” he says. “That’s why we have pause buttons on computers instead.” He squeezes my hand. “Now what’s troubling you?”
“I’m supposed to sleep in the loft, and I don’t really want to stay there because it’s all open and everything and everyone will see me and I’ll see everyone else and it’ll be all noisy and everything and …” My voice begins to sound like Minnie Mouse’s.
“Well, the only problem is there are lots of cousins who want that loft.” As if to emphasize the point, we hear a bang and then we hear several cousins running into the back bathroom.
“Are you willing to take whatever room is vacated? Even if there are other cousins there?”
Not exactly, I think. I want a room to myself. But just about anything would be better than the loft.
“Okay,” I declare.
“Then it’s set. Just wait and see.”
That night at dinner, my grandfather announces there will be a contest for the loft. A spontaneous cheer erupts, and I spill my spaghetti on my jeans.
“After dinner,” Grandpa announces, “we’ll all go down to the lake and skip rocks. Whoever is the best rock skipper will get the loft.” This declaration is followed by more cheers.
The rock skipping winner ends up being Tamara, Aunt Sarah’s 12-year-old. I’m amazed the boys didn’t out-skip her, but I think they’re too excited about being all together in the library room. I don’t skip any rocks. I just watch. When the contest ends, we all end up eating gooey cake that adds yet another interesting color to my jeans. And then I’m moved in with my six-year-old cousin, Erin.
I have doubts about abandoning the loft. Erin is constantly asking me questions. “Marti, what time does the sky turn blue? Why is your hair brown? Do fish sleep?” When Erin isn’t asking me questions, she’s staring at me. And when she’s not asking and not staring, she’s telling long involved stories about her day—tales of hiking, catching crayfish, and finding a dead bird. The next day is more of the same.
I’m relaxing on the beach soaking up some rays. Serious stuff. “Marti, come see,” she calls.
My answer is always the same: “Later. I’ll look later.” I then return to my book and/or tan. I’m hoping she’ll give up on me and give me some peace and quiet. Erin is soon joined by Deenie, and they approach me in tandem. “Marti. Row us to the island, pul-eeze! Pretty please?” Maybe I can find a place to hide. But they always manage to find me.
One day everyone is going for a walk around the lake together. I immediately see it as a chance to be alone at last. “Don’t you want to come with us, Marti? Are you sure?” Grandpa practically pleads with me. I say I’m tired and think it would be nice to be alone for a while.
Finally everyone leaves. And it’s great. The peace and quiet is all I had hoped it would be, except that it doesn’t last long enough. When everyone comes back, they’re all licking ice cream cones.
“Marti,” Erin exclaims, “we saw this really big bird that flew right down over us!”
“It was a bald eagle,” Jonathan says. I’ve never seen him look that excited about anything other than football.
“Yeah, it was so awesome,” adds Adam. “It flew right over our heads and then dove to the lake and grabbed a fish—right out of the water!”
“Probably the trout I’ve been hoping to catch all summer,” Grandpa says.
That night, I’m trying to pretend I’m asleep, but Erin starts talking to me anyway. “You missed it, Marti,” she says solemnly.
“Missed what?”
“The eagle.” She looks at me as if I’ve committed a crime.
It’s obvious I’m not going to get to sleep anytime soon, so I go outside on the deck where I find Grandpa looking through his telescope. I know he’ll make me look at some planet, so I go into the kitchen to get my yogurt. One problem. Someone has already eaten it.
“Honey, look,” Grandma says, holding up my jeans that are miraculously clean again.
“Yeah, great,” I say.
“You don’t seem happy about it.”
“Someone ate my yogurt.”
“Oh, we’ll get you some more.”
“And it’s so noisy here. All the kids are running around until late. Why do you let them?”
Grandma sits down and motions for me to do the same. “Honey, it’s summer and you kids all have so many rules all the time. This is a time to relax; to get to know each other. All you cousins don’t see each other that much. Frankly, I wouldn’t mind if we all stayed up playing and enjoying each other’s company.” Grandma stops for a moment, then focuses back on me. “Course, your moms would never allow that, staying up all night.”
Just then, Adam bursts into the kitchen. “Grandpa says come and look. He found Venus!”
Grandma jumps up and follows. I venture back to my room. Erin is already asleep, and I drift off to the most peaceful sleep I’ve had in days. But when I wake up it’s strangely quiet. I look at my watch and see it’s nine o’clock. How could it be this quiet? Erin’s bed is empty. I panic and run down the stairs, putting on my robe as I go. No one’s there.
“Anyone here?” I call out.
“Up here, Marti.” My grandmother calls me by name and I feel a chill. I enter the bedroom to see everyone there. Some have tear-stained eyes. My grandpa is in bed, sleeping peacefully. I think I must be having a strange dream. Then Mom says, “Grandpa died in his sleep.” That’s all she manages to say before she begins to softly cry.
Then my tears come out so fast they take me by surprise. “No!” I hear myself say, and I sink down on the carpet between Deenie and Erin. “I didn’t even look in his telescope.” It’s a strange thing to say, but everyone seems to understand.
For several days everything is like some kind of numb dream.
“He’s here,” Grandma says. “I can feel him nearby, loving all of us.”
“Yeah, he is,” Erin says, “except it will be a long time before I can give him a hug again.”
Four days later, after the funeral is over, we start to laugh and share all our memories. I surprise myself to see how I can cry so hard and laugh so hard in the same day.
Then I walk around the lake by myself. I see the eagle snatching another fish. “That’s my grandpa’s fish!” I yell, and realize my heart is beating rapidly just at the sight of the diving eagle. I look up at the sky. It looks bigger than I’ve ever seen it before, and there are pink clouds on the horizon. I say “Thank you” aloud to my grandfather for all he’s taught me.
And I thank my Heavenly Father, for the pink clouds, the eagle, one cousin named Erin, and the big sky that’s whispering “eternity” to me personally. I speak to my grandfather. “You’re right. Computers have pause buttons because you can’t pause life. I should know. I’ve been trying to pause mine.”
My heart is full of so many things, and they all translate to love. I pick some tiny flowers on my way back up the hill. I see Adam on the front deck examining the telescope.
“Think you could find Venus tonight?” I ask.
“I’m gonna try.”
“Let me know if you do.”
Erin looks at me curiously. I hand her the flowers, and she holds them close to her nose. She seems to be pondering deep thoughts for a long time. Then she raises her head and says, “Grandma said I can make chocolate chip cookies for dessert tonight. You wanna help me?”
“Sure.” She holds my hand in one of her small hands, the flowers in the other, and she escorts me to the kitchen, squealing enthusiastically, “Grandma, look at these beautifullest flowers!”
I don’t even flinch.

Perhaps you are aware that my family were refugees from Mexico. During the years that followed our arrival in the United States, Father had a difficult time getting enough food to feed his family. I remember the time about two years after we came out of Mexico (that would be about 1914) when Father got a job in Oakley, Idaho, teaching in the Cassia Academy for $80 a month.
When Father and his brother left Mexico, they both had large families. Knowing that they would have a difficult time making a living (they brought nothing out of Mexico except what they could bring in one trunk), they joined together and pooled their earnings. After a short stay in El Paso, Texas, they went together to Los Angeles, California, where they worked as carpenters. Later they moved to Oakley, Idaho, where they could raise their families in a Latter-day Saint environment. When one of them was out of work, they divided the income of the other and thus eked out an existence for both families. My uncle was out of work one winter in Idaho. That left them the $80 my father received for teaching with which to support about seventeen people. They had to pay rent; they had to buy everything they ate; and they would have had to buy fuel, except I went out on the hillside and dug the sagebrush from under the snow for fuel. I kept warm digging, and Mother kept warm poking it into the stove.
The question came up in the family council—should father pay tithing on that $80? If he didn’t he would have $40 a month to care for the family; if he did, it would be cut down by $4, and he would have $36 a month. I remember that council, and I remember that they decided they would pay their tithing; and I remember they sent me with the tithing to the bishop. It was cold, and I didn’t have warm clothes; I really wondered what had gone wrong with Father. But I learned from that—the training of my parents—I learned there is truth in the Lord’s promises.

Often in the temple, and as we engage in family history research, we feel promptings and have impressions from the Holy Ghost. Occasionally in the temple the veil between us and those on the other side becomes very thin. We get additional assistance in our efforts to be saviors on Mount Zion.
Several years ago in a temple in Central America, the wife of one of our now-emeritus General Authorities assisted a father, a mother, and their children in receiving eternal covenants in the sealing room, where the temple mirrors are located. As they concluded and faced those mirrors, she noticed there was a face in the mirror that was not in the room. She inquired of the mother and learned that a daughter had passed away and accordingly was not physically present. The deceased daughter was then included by proxy in the sacred ordinance. Never underestimate the assistance provided in temples from the other side of the veil.

In Curitiba, Brazil, 4,330 members from the temple district, supported by a choir of 1,700 voices, presented a most inspirational program through song, dance, and video. The enormous soccer stadium where the event took place was filled with spectators. The wind had been blowing, and rain threatened. I offered a silent prayer asking Heavenly Father to look with mercy upon those who had prepared so diligently for our entertainment and whose costumes and presentations would be damaged if a heavy rain or wind enveloped them. He honored that prayer, and it wasn’t until the end of the show and later on that evening that rain fell in abundance.
A history of the Church in Brazil was portrayed in song and dance. A particularly moving scene was the portrayal of Elders James E. Faust and William Grant Bangerter, who served as missionaries in Curitiba in 1940. As their photos were displayed on large screens, a tremendous cheer went up from the audience. All in all, it was a glorious event.