Gospel Story Finder

Three months after we returned from our missions, a man killed my twin brother. My father and another brother were badly wounded in the same attack. We knew who did it, but he was never arrested. I learned what it was like to feel hate and want revenge. I even had dreams of hurting the man who had done this terrible thing. But the Lord had made clear what He expected of me:
“Ye ought to forgive one another; for he that forgiveth not his brother his trespasses standeth condemned before the Lord; for there remaineth in him the greater sin.
“I, the Lord, will forgive whom I will forgive, but of you it is required to forgive all men” (D&C 64:9–10).
With time and prayer, I did forgive that man. We all did.

Summer is just around springtime’s corner—summer with its gentle timelessness, its pastel skies, its fluffy white clouds, its slow, sweet mornings, its long lazy afternoons, its cool swimming holes under weeping willows, its fun, its freedom … its family reunions.
“Family reunion?” you say. “You mean that deadly get-together where everyone says, ‘My, how you’ve grown!’ and ruffles your hair?”
No, not that kind of family reunion. I mean a family reunion where cousins and kin congregate from all over and spend a glorious day, or three, or four, sharing some exciting experiences that you’ve helped plan—things you want to do like boating, climbing, and swimming, interspersed with … well, let me tell you about our family reunion.
We held it last summer in Heber Valley, Utah, the birthplace of our parents, J. R. and Mabel Price, on the 25th through 26th of July so that the early-comers could start the reunion with a good old fashioned 24th-of-July parade. Our group included the five Price children and their families—spouses, children, and grandchildren.
On the afternoon of the 24th, families began arriving at the Adams farm in Layton, Utah. The horses were saddled, the volleyball net was strung, the canoe was in the pond, and horseshoes were ready to pitch, so as soon as the hellos and hugs were over, the fun was on. There was even a little pony cart for the children to ride, and as our numbers grew, so did the excitement. Finally, by late afternoon, almost everyone had arrived. We ate dinner all over the place—on the lawns, under the trees, on the porch—“family hopping” to see everyone and try out their vittles.
The July evening was perfect for a hayride, and young and old climbed aboard for a tour of the farm. All was pleasant and peaceful as we jogged along munching goodies.
Suddenly, gunshots pierced the air and over the hill rode a gang of desperadoes who circled the wagon and rounded up the wallets. But Uncle Beech’s wallet was empty! That made the outlaws angry, so they threw him over a horse and carried him off over the hill. Adults laughed at the sight, but Uncle Gen’s grandkids called out: “Call the sheriff! Call the posse! Deputize the clan.” But just then, over the crest of the hill rode Uncle Beech, the captured gunmen walking in front of his pointed pistol with their hands skyward. The wallets were retrieved, and the desperadoes set free after they promised to repent.
That was about as much excitement as a family could take for one day, so we headed back to the farmhouse where we passed out our matching cartooned T-shirts (silk-screened by one of the clan, with a different color assigned to each of the five Price children and their families) and received schedules for the next three days’ events. We ended the day eating homemade ice cream and cake and singing our homemade family song, “The Price Family Tree Is a Mighty One.”
Our official activities began at noon on Wednesday, July 25, in the Heber Third Ward where we had workshops for all ages and inclinations. “Workshops,” you say? “you mean those classes where you go and listen to boring lectures?”
No, not that kind of workshop. I mean ones that you’ve selected ahead of time on subjects you’d really like to hear about, like “Preparing Joe Cool for a College School,” “Putting Music in Your Life—or Life in Your Music,” (whichever you need). The “Beginning Drawing” class began drawing young and old alike, and kids were wall to wall in the “Crafty Kids Crafts” workshops. The dads really went for the class on “Interviewing Your Children.” Teaching one another as a family added a special dimension as we shared ideas and talents.
And speaking of talents, they were spread out all over the cultural hall when we went in there for a refreshment break in the middle of the afternoon. There were hobbies and talents suitcased in from Arizona, California, and several parts of Utah—all arranged and labeled for us to ooh and aah and “I didn’t know Julie could do this” over.
We spent the evening sitting under the stars at an outdoor theater. Moms and dads and big brothers and sisters could all attend the show, thanks to a group of special girls from the Heber City wards who volunteered to babysit.
But don’t think the children were ignored. The next morning the upstairs room at the inn where we were headquartered was swarming with little kids making Play-Dough patties and painting pretty pictures.
On the other side of the room, moms, grandmas, and girls were creating something memorable. Steve and Gordon, two brothers of our clan, had designed a family flag, and this was the hour for the Betsy Ross Prices to shine. Some cut out patterns of things special to our family, like waves on a seashore (our traditional family vacation spot), the Arizona Temple (where our dad and mother had presided), pansies (dad’s specialty), and the open scriptures (our guidelines). Karen zigged and zagged all morning on her portable sewing machine. As the flag came together, we got more and more excited over traditions and memories and the family togetherness we were feeling. The others dropped in between swimming, horseback riding, and contests to see the pansies blossoming and the temple rising on the flag-red background. Red was dad’s favorite color. Our “New Glory” was beginning to unfurl.
In this afternoon, the big Prices, little Prices, and half-Prices headed for Park City and the Alpine Slide. Each of the five families was decked out in its own color-coded T-shirts, so it was easy and fun to spot whole families racing each other down the slopes. You could spot a few of those red and blue and yellow shirts on the golf course too as cousins competed on the greens.
But the day was not over—not for the teens and adults anyway. After the children were tucked in bed, we congregated again at the ward for a fireside.
“A fireside,” you say? “You mean a meeting where you listen to a speaker and try to stay awake?”
No, not that kind of fireside. A family fireside where you teach one another and exchange feelings about the gospel—where you reminisce about the lives and teachings of your parents and feel their precious presence even though they’ve been gone for some years—where you feel the Spirit of the Lord to such a degree that you glow inside. We wept as our older brother bore his testimony at the conclusion. He spoke by the Spirit and we listened by that same spirit. We were reluctant to conclude. We wanted to go on basking in the glow that we felt as we expressed our love to each other. We became spiritually acquainted that evening and caught a glimpse of what a celestial family relationship is like. Those who had not known our parents felt they knew them now.
And they knew them even better after the “Hopalong Heritage” ride we took the next morning atop two heaping hayracks. We began at the Heber Cemetery where Grandpa and Grandma Alexander are buried and heard stories about them as we decorated their graves with flowers. From there we traveled along the country road to the first little home mom and dad lived in after their marriage, and we were even invited inside by the lady who lives there now. All 83 of us filed through. That’s called Heber hospitality, and we found it all over the valley. We sipped root beer in the shop that long ago was the little confectionery, dad’s first business, and we sang our way over rocks and roads, seeing one special family site after another, as teens, tots, and old-timers told tales of our heritage at each site. We ended up where Grandma and Grandpa Price ended up—the Charleston Cemetery. Here we had a quiet conclusion as we honored them and our dear parents. Resounding in our hearts were the strains of our family song we had sung through the week, “The Price Family Tree Is a Mighty One.”
Meanwhile, back at the kitchen things were cooking—turkey and dressing and all the trimmings for the family feast that evening. And that’s not all. Scenery was being set up and costumes coordinated for a show depicting the Heber era of our parents’ lives.
How do you put on a show when the cast is spread out from Utah to Arizona to California? Well, you write songs and sketches and send them to family members in various cities and ask them to work up the numbers and be ready to perform. And perform they did, young and old. The finale featured the family flag and a parade of the clan, clad in costumes and pride as they marched and sang together:
“What’s more like Prices than the ocean,
The seashore and feet collecting tar?”
We paraded and sang through many stanzas, until finally the march ended, the tempo slowed, and there we were standing in a circle—an unending family circle—holding on to each other and to our memories of this week. Through our tears we finished the song.
“What’s more like J. R. Price than praying—
That’s Prices spelled Mabel and J.R.—
What makes us happier than saying,
We are! We are! We are!
The Prices!”
At that moment the Prices soared sky high as we felt the celestial meaning of family foreverness.
Our reunion was over, but not our union. That is stronger than ever before. Our reunion was over, but not our memories of it. They are history now, recorded on paper, on film, and in hearts. Our reunion was over, but not its effects.
“This reunion has changed my life,” said one young person.
“Every day was the best one, ‘exclaimed a little child.
“I’m so thankful to be a part of all this,” commented a new-in-the-family member.
“The family fireside was the greatest spiritual experience I’ve had since my mission,” said a young father.
“Teaching each other in this sort of family setting is different. It’s a higher level of learning and loving than I’ve ever felt, a celestial level,” observed one more.
Summer is just around springtime’s corner. It’s time to plan your family reunion.
“A family reunion,” you say? “You mean that event where everyone says, ‘My how we’ve grown—into the neatest family ever!’”
Forever.

When I was 16 years old and living in Porto Alegre, Brazil, my older brother had a friend who often visited our home. One day this friend told us that he had found a church and that he liked its members’ way of living.
He told us a little bit about his experience with joining The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, but he wasn’t sure that my brother and I were “church material.” He thought that the standards of the Church would be too much for my brother and me to embrace.
Our sister, however, was a good, kind girl. Because of these traits, our friend thought that she might be interested in what Latter-day Saints stood for, so he asked our mother if she could attend a Church activity with him.
Our mother agreed but only on the condition that my brother or I go too. My brother was faster than I was and quickly said, “Not me!” So I was designated to go to the activity with my sister.
I didn’t really mind. I had been curious about the Church since I had first seen the large, square chapel across from my school. I had seen people coming and going from the church often, and I had noticed that the men wore white shirts and ties. I wondered what could be going on inside “the big box,” as I then thought of the building.
My sister and I arrived at the church with our friend. Inside, at the center of a large cultural hall was a small group of people: two sister missionaries and maybe six others. They were playing a simple game and enjoying popcorn and juice. Everyone was laughing and having a good time.
“Who are these people,” I wondered, “and why are they so happy?” I knew it certainly couldn’t be because of the game they were playing or the physical environment or the treats they were sharing. Those were all so simple. The happiness seemed to be coming from inside them.
I had often wondered where true happiness came from and what I could do to find it. I thought maybe it came from exciting activities or taking exotic vacations or pursuing all that the world has to offer. And then I went to that meetinghouse, where these people were so happy without any of those things. It made a significant impression on me.
After the activity the missionaries stood at the exit to shake hands with everyone. When my sister got to the door, they asked her if she would be interested in knowing more about the Church. She said, “No, thanks.” But I was still curious. I felt a “desire to believe” (Alma 32:27), so when they invited me to learn more about the gospel, I said yes.
My parents weren’t interested in the missionary lessons or in having them conducted in our home, so I arranged to have the lessons at the meetinghouse. Over the next month I learned about the restored gospel of Jesus Christ—about what made those people in that cultural hall so happy. I learned that happiness came from doing what the Lord wanted me to do, that it came from within, and that I could be happy no matter what was going on around me. That doctrine was “delicious to me” (Alma 32:28). I wanted it in my life.
A month after that first activity, I decided to join the Church. In the years that followed, both of my parents also joined the Church.

She was always there, like a great stone face looking down on them from the prominent pinnacle of her own importance. She was the vast image superimposed on their horizon, the ever-present shadow on their youthful, sunburned shoulders. She was Bobby’s mother, Sister Eustacia M. Broderick, stake Relief Society president and stalwart Mormon matriarch par excellence. She was also the first person Kelly Sue thought of whenever she felt guilty, and in spite of Peru and Bobby’s new haircut and all the excitement of anticipation, Kelly Sue felt guilty now.
It wasn’t, certainly, that Bobby was unworthy of his mission, or that Kelly Sue had somehow sullied his honorable intentions by some inappropriate word or deed. Thank heaven she did not have to answer for anything like that! Outwardly she had given Bobby nothing but encouragement about his mission. And discounting a gentle arm across the shoulder, an affectionate clasping of hands, and an occasional kiss usually stolen beneath the birch tree that dominated the south corner of Bobby’s yard, their friendship had been what it was always meant to be, innocent, fresh, uncomplicated.
Except that for as long as Kelly Sue could remember, Bobby had been there, across the cedar fence which separated their back lot gardens, shooting marbles at eight, baskets at ten, and leaning on the gate at seventeen to tease and flirt and finally win the heart of the girl next door. And now the boy next door was leaving, going clear to Peru for 18 months, while his mother, Sister Eustacia Broderick, stood valiantly by, eager for him to fulfill the Lord’s call, as firm and resolute as Kelly Sue was miserable, as vocal as Kelly Sue was silent, as proud as Kelly Sue was ashamed. Bobby was marching off to serve the Lord, and Kelly Sue wondered gloomily if she might ever be forgiven for being so unhappy.
“There was never any question about whether Bobby would go on a mission,” said Sister Broderick from the pulpit. It was Bobby’s last Sunday at home, and the pews overflowed with family and friends and well-wishers, and Kelly Sue sat transfixed by Bobby’s new pinstriped demeanor. He sat to the right of his father with his new set of scriptures on his knee, looking oddly mature for his 19 years. “The prophet has decreed that every young man should serve a mission,” Sister Broderick declared. “Every young man. And Bobby has never considered doing otherwise.” Kelly Sue spotted the natural arch of Sister Broderick’s left eyebrow and noted how it always seemed to be raised in judgment, even when she smiled. Kelly Sue had always been in awe of this woman, Bobby’s mother, and now her words rang convincingly across the chapel pews. “There was never any question,” she repeated, “about Bobby following the advice of his leaders, about his going into the mission field to serve the Lord in bringing the gospel to others.”
Sister Broderick paused for only an instant and then stepped back to begin anew. The arch of her brow seemed higher than ever to Kelly Sue and her tone did not soften. “There is a birch tree in the south corner of our yard,” she said, “as straight and tall and fine a tree as any backyard could wish for. Through the years we’ve carved notches in the bark of that birch to mark the growth of our son Bobby.”
Kelly Sue saw Bobby’s shoulders stiffen proudly against the back of his chair as he watched his mother and knew what she might say. Kelly Sue stiffened too, but her pride in Bobby was overshadowed by the cold ache she felt and could not smother in spite of Sister Broderick’s stirring words. “There’s a mark on that tree about this high,” she declared, measuring up from the floor with her hand. “That’s the day Bobby started Primary 16 years ago. There’s a special notch a little further up that we made the day he was baptized, and another to mark his being ordained to the Aaronic Priesthood.” Sister Broderick paused again, squared her shoulders, and lifted her chin before she continued, “We carved the latest notch in the birch tree last week when Bobby was made an elder. He’s grown so tall I had to stand on tiptoe to see the mark was straight.”
Kelly Sue closed her eyes and envisioned the little family ceremony in her mind. Bobby had stood self-consciously but proudly against the tree with his dog Max yapping happily around his feet, while his mother had indeed reached on tiptoe to mark the tree just at the top of his head. His father had snapped pictures of the two of them and then had carved a more conspicuous notch in the tree with his pocket knife. “I remember the day Bobby started Primary,” Sister Broderick had told Kelly Sue, rubbing her fingers across the first notch. “He bawled like a baby and didn’t want to go, can you imagine?” Her fingers lingered momentarily at the notch, but she moved away when she caught Kelly Sue’s eye. “Yes, he did,” she said. “He cried like a baby.”
“Seems to me,” drawled Brother Broderick, “he did the same thing when he was eight. He was scared to death of the baptismal font. Cried all the way to the stake house.”
Bobby, who was pleasantly taking all of this while leaning against the tree with his arm draped around Kelly Sue, looked casually at the new notch nearby. “I won’t cry over this one,” he said. “I’ve never been so excited in my life.”
Back in the chapel Kelly Sue decided that Bobby’s mother was pretty excited too. “That birch tree has always pointed to the stars,” she was saying, “and so do the notches measuring Bobby. He has grown into as straight and tall and fine a young man as any family could want, and as a mother I could not be more proud to send him to Peru and follow the voice of the prophet!”
Sister Broderick sat down, but for Kelly Sue the remainder of the meeting was a blur. Even Bobby’s farewell speech, so sweet and determined and sincere, left her feeling weak. She longed to escape the reality of his leaving. She longed for a return to those warm summer evenings, walking hand in hand with Bobby around the lilac bushes or through McCarty’s orchard as they took a shortcut from school. She longed for the feel of laughter by the lake, the burn of wind on the ski lift, the taste of homemade ice cream on the patio in July. She wanted to be chased across the ball field, to end up rolling in a wild, bruising tackle executed by either Bobby or usually Max, yapping at the top of his canine lungs. She yearned to stroll around the birch tree alone with Bobby and carve her own memories into its pale gray trunk. She yearned for all these things and felt ashamed and guilty because of them. Sister Broderick was right. Bobby’s bent was toward the stars; how could she ever want to hold him, clinging to the past?
“It’s not that I don’t think he’s doing the right thing,” Kelly Sue said to her mother the morning Bobby was scheduled to leave for the Mission Training Center in Utah. “I know he is.” She was watching from the front window as Brother and Sister Broderick were busily loading their car with Bobby’s luggage and books. Bobby himself, carrying a garment bag containing his new suits, waved to her from the street and motioned for her to join him. Kelly Sue was planning to go with him to the airport, but she hesitated now, pondering the car through the window, the car with all of its trappings of imminent departure, and Sister Broderick valiantly standing by, orchestrating the whole affair as if she had planned it for a lifetime. And indeed she had.
“I know he’s doing the right thing,” Kelly Sue repeated, and her mother joined her at the window, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. “But I’m young, and I’ll miss him,” she added, suddenly releasing a flood of emotion. “I’ll miss him so much that down deep in my heart I wish he weren’t going, and I feel terrible about it, just terrible.”
“We’ll all miss him, Kelly Sue,” her mother whispered, pressing a finger to the girl’s cheek to catch an errant tear. “You needn’t feel guilty about that.”
Kelly Sue faced the window again, focusing her eyes on Sister Eustacia Broderick as she efficiently packed the last piece of luggage into the car. “She’s so strong,” Kelly Sue breathed. “How can she always be so strong, so faithful? Bobby adores her. He wishes I were more like her. I know he does.”
“Sister Broderick is a wonderful woman,” returned her mother quickly. “I’ve seen her raise Bobby from a child into a fine young man, and I’m sure she loves him, but people show love in different ways, just as Bobby loves you for yourself just as you are.” Kelly Sue’s eyes were still on Sister Broderick standing across the drive, and her mother’s final words, though lovingly said, cut into her heart more painfully than she could imagine. “Try not to feel anger or resentment toward Sister Broderick for somehow taking Bobby away from you and sending him on a mission. She’s really not to blame.”
The words tiptoed through her mind for the remainder of the day. She remembered them as she stood with his family and waved him out of sight amidst the farewell chorus of a dozen familiar, happy voices. And at the center of it all was Sister Broderick, straight and determined and tearless, bidding her only son good-bye, and Kelly Sue suddenly knew that her mother was right. She had resented Sister Broderick, just as she had been intimidated through the years by her constant presence in the backyard of Bobby’s life as well as her own. Her steadfast attitude regarding Bobby’s mission was the final straw. Surely there was some room for wistfulness, for nostalgia, for the longing and ache that is naturally part of a long farewell. Yet, Sister Eustacia Broderick displayed a need for none of these, so firm was her faith in what Bobby was doing.
Kelly Sue said her prayers early that evening. Alone in her bedroom, still fully clothed, with the last rays of an orange sunset still flooding her window, she knelt down to come to grips with her feelings. She was determined not to cringe in Sister Broderick’s shadow for the next 18 months, not to be burdened by her presence, not to let anything negative come between herself and the yard across the back fence. Finally, in the midst of her prayer, she knew she wouldn’t have to. She imagined Bobby in Peru, saw him greeting people and loving them. She saw how his unique charm was brightening their lives, as it had hers for as long as she could remember. And suddenly she was proud, too, proud to share her own best friend with all those people who needed him.
“Thank you, Sister Broderick,” she said aloud, as the warmth of understanding and reconciliation swelled within her and a genuine smile played along her lips for the first time in days. “You knew it all the while, didn’t you?” she added triumphantly, still speaking to the woman from the house next door, who was no longer a threat but an example.
From across the fence, Kelly Sue heard the Broderick’s back door open and knew someone had come out. With new resolve she bounded down her own stairs, determined to complete the reconciliation by telling Sister Broderick how she felt, by apologizing, by making peace at last, if only within herself.
She hurried through the grass by her own yard, past the garden and the clothesline, straight to the gate of the high cedar fence, hoping to keep the light for a few minutes more. She moved quietly through the gate and looked curiously toward the house which seemed veiled and silent, even gloomy in the twilight. No one seemed to be around. Even Max had apparently retired to his favorite corner of the garage.
“He never was a very good watch dog,” Kelly Sue laughed inwardly, happy now in the warm evening air. She looked over Bobby’s backyard, filled with so many memories, for one last time, just as the darkness settled in, and she was about to turn again to her own gate when she was caught short by an odd sound coming from the south corner, through the lilac bushes, by the birch tree.
It began as a whimper and at first Kelly Sue thought a kitten may have become tangled between the fence slats at the end of the yard. She moved silently now, not wishing to disturb the house, and it was only as she neared the birch tree that the form huddled against the trunk became apparent in the shadows. It was Sister Broderick, slightly illuminated by the silky white bathrobe she wore, so that even in the gathering darkness Kelly Sue could see the woman’s cheek pressed against the bark of the tree as her fingers ran gently over a notch of memory carved nearby. Sister Broderick was weeping, softly, controllably, but most assuredly weeping, as though her heart would crack. And the silent old tree stood beside her, straight and unswayed in the darkness.
Kelly Sue crept quietly back to her own gate, her own yard, her own bedroom. From a window there she viewed Bobby’s birch tree for the next 18 months, standing straight and tall in the corner of his yard, realizing somehow that she was no longer very young anymore.

In 1994 a horrific genocide occurred in Rwanda. Between 600,000 and 900,000 people were killed in a matter of 60 to 90 days.
Eventually, the Church established a branch in the capital city of Kigali. The branch was doing well—without full-time missionaries. In 2011 we were serving in the Africa Southeast Area when we learned, sadly, that our registration as a church with the country of Rwanda was invalid, which meant that we were functioning illegally as a church. We also learned that our meetinghouse, a converted two-story home, was not appropriately zoned to hold Church meetings. The Area Presidency, in consultation with our first contact in the Quorum of the Twelve, made the agonizing decision to close the branch. Our members were no longer able to meet for Church meetings.
Lawyers in Kigali, Salt Lake City, and Johannesburg, South Africa, began working fervently to resolve the problems. All the while, the Saints kept asking when they could meet together again. Months went by without resolution or progress.
After about 10 months, we flew to Kigali to visit those Saints and try to buoy up their spirits. Before we did, we asked that the matter be placed on the temple prayer roll of the weekly meeting of the First Presidency and Quorum of the Twelve.
The Tuesday before our scheduled trip from Johannesburg to Kigali, we were notified that, in a surprising move, the government had granted the Church provisional registration in Kigali. Then on Thursday of the same week, the zoning commission granted an exemption from the zoning ordinance. The Kigali Saints could once again meet in our building without violating the law.
This was miraculous! Members were quickly notified that the branch would be meeting on Sunday. We arrived on Friday and invited members to come to church. When Sunday came, all the members—all of them—and many of their friends came to church. They arrived early, eager to be together again. As the sacrament was blessed and passed, we all experienced an extraordinary renewing, refreshing, and cleansing spirit.
We remember, in the meeting, wondering why we did not feel this same spirit every week as we partook of the sacrament. We looked around at the Saints and realized that they had come hungering and thirsting for the sacrament. Their faith, diligence, and patience brought all of us blessings. We pledged that whenever we again partook of the sacrament, we would remember this experience with the Kigali Saints. We committed that we too would hunger for the blessings of partaking of the sacrament.

Years ago, I received a phone call from an individual who had been arrested for trespassing. He told me it had been revealed to him that additional scripture was buried under the ground floor of a building he tried to enter. He claimed that once he obtained the additional scripture, he knew he would receive the gift of translation, bring forth new scripture, and shape the doctrine and direction of the Church. I told him that he was mistaken, and he implored me to pray about it. I told him I would not. He became verbally abusive and ended the phone call.

I did not need to pray about this request for one simple but profound reason: only the prophet receives revelation for the Church. It would be “contrary to the economy of God” for others to receive such revelation, which belongs on the prophet’s runway.

Romaine, seventeen, and his teammates on the A-l basketball team from the Church College are well known nationally in New Zealand. The school had won the national schoolboy basketball championship five years in a row—until two years ago. Romaine doesn’t like to talk about it, but that year the team came in third. They had the painful experience of having to come back to school and explain the loss to the other students. They didn’t want to go through that again. The team was determined to regain the top spot. And they did. The next year, the A-1 boys’ and the girls’ basketball teams both took first place in the national basketball tournaments.

I’d only been registered for about five minutes when I found out Lincoln High didn’t need a Jason Bennion. The school already had one. “Jason Bennion?” someone had quipped in first period. “You’re no Jason Bennion!” In other classes the students snickered or exchanged smirks.
So finally I asked, “Who is this other Jason Bennion?” Jed Pierce, who sits next to me in AP history, said, “He’s our junior class president.” Then he told me more. He was the only sophomore on the varsity basketball team last year. “You ought to see the range he has on his jump shot.”
“I’m impressed,” I said. In reality I was rather relieved. I wasn’t that great at sports, and it didn’t bother me that this guy was a good athlete. When it came to brain cells, however, mine seemed to absorb information pretty quickly. So, even though the other Jason Bennion was known as Jason Bennion, the Jock, and, okay, the Leader, I could still be known as Jason Bennion, the Mind, the Brains, the Thinker. Couldn’t I?
By sixth period, even those hopes were dashed. “Hmmm,” Mr. Atkins, my calculus teacher, said. “It looks like we have two Jason Bennions this period. I think our original Jason is on some NHS business, so we’ll deal with this when he comes back.” The inside of me felt like it was scraping the floor boards. NHS, I thought. National Honor Society? I was supposed to be the Jason Bennion with the brains.
“So this Jason Bennion is pretty bright,” I said to Phil, seated in front of me.
“More like brilliant,” he said.
“Oh.”
That night as I sat at my desk, I just stared at the still-unloaded boxes around my bed. Finally, after three moves in two years, Dad’s company had said, “This is the place.” Finally, I thought, I’d be in one place long enough to make some friends. I envisioned Omaha as my permanent home, the place where I’d make a name for myself. Now it seemed my name had already been established—but by someone else.
I’d been told all my life that as a member of the Church, I was special. But as I looked in the mirror that was leaning against my closet door, I didn’t feel so special. I’d seen a picture and the write-up on this guy who shared my name on the school’s Wall of Fame. Compared to him, I was nothing but ordinary. I sighed and felt like packing the boxes right back in the truck we’d rented. I wanted out of here.
But I couldn’t do that. So I began consoling myself, thinking that being ordinary wasn’t so bad. Hey, there are a lot of ordinary people in the world, I thought. Suddenly I smiled. I’d seen how some of these athletes strutted around. My very down-to-earth attitude could be my trademark. I could be Jason Bennion, the All-Right, Everyday-Kinda Guy.
I gave up on that idea the following day when Jason Bennion appeared in person in calculus. He had already heard there was a new Jason Bennion at Lincoln High, and he had found out who I was. I was amazed when he walked into class, came up to me, introduced himself and said, “Look, I can go by my middle name. It’s Elliot.”
The class laughed until they realized the guy was serious. He really was willing to go by his middle name. We were in awe. I put out my hand and told him I could go by Jace, and that there was no need for him to change his name. A girl who sat two rows over wasn’t nearly as kind. “Jason goes by ‘Jace’ half the time,” she hissed, with a how-dare-you-hijack-someone’s-name tone to her voice.
Nothing was resolved, so for the next few days I learned to tune out my name. Everywhere I went it was Jason Bennion this and Jason Bennion that. By about my fourth day at Lincoln, I did something unusual for me. I smarted off. After Mr. Penn piled on about six hours of homework, he asked if there were any questions. “Yeah,” I said too loudly. “Where’s the bathroom? I’m getting sicker by the minute.”
Mr. Penn frowned, but those around me grinned. And one girl laughed aloud. This encouraged me to do more damage. Later I was mimicking Mrs. Dale’s way of shoving her glasses up on her nose. It disrupted her explanation on molecular energy, but hey, I was getting laughs. It didn’t matter much that after class I saw Mrs. Dale in her room with her head down rubbing her forehead. Even that didn’t stop me. Oh, I never did anything delinquent. I wasn’t the one who “accidentally” set off the fire alarm. I was only there. And I never sluffed or hung out after midnight with some of the people who had taken an interest in me. A slow death would be easier than dealing with my parents about issues like that. But I did pick up a few new words from these new friends which I used during lunch once in a while. I also began letting a few things slide—like homework.
I’m not sure how long I would have continued being this Jason Bennion whom I didn’t recognize and didn’t feel comfortable being. I suspect about the time midterm grades came out I would have had a change of personality. As things turned out, some words I heard one Friday right after school sped up the process.
I was scanning the list of scores for the last English quiz I hadn’t studied for, half hidden behind Mr. Penn’s door, when I heard someone talking about Jason Bennion again. I was about to tune out when I heard, “No, not the Jason Bennion. The new guy. You know, the Mormon.”
I was stunned. I’d lived in two different Utah cities as well as Boise, Idaho, and never once had I ever been called “the Mormon.” Was that what I was known by here? If these people judged Church members by my actions, I had some shaping up to do—fast.
The next Monday I was back to being the Jason Bennion I was more familiar with, one I liked a lot better. No more acting. No more being somebody I wasn’t. My homework was done, my hair was combed, and my mouth stayed shut—even when I could have said something clever at somebody’s expense.
Some of my new friends gave me puzzled looks at first. Then they began to steer clear of me. I didn’t care. I had an identity now and an image to project. I was Jason Bennion, the Mormon.
As first semester drew to a close I was feeling better about the direction my life was going. Even though basketball season had started and the other Jason Bennion was leading the team in scoring and rebounding, I worked like crazy to make up past assignments and incomplete grades. Once in a while someone would whisper, “He’s a Mormon.” And though the title brought mixed reactions, I’d hold my head a little higher. By second semester, I didn’t see much of the other Jason Bennion. He’d qualified for some kind of university math program and he wasn’t in calculus anymore. Then one day he stopped me in the hall. “Hey, Same Name.” It was a term we’d begun using with each other whenever we spoke.
“I heard something about you.”
“What’s that?”
“I heard you’re a Mormon.”
“I am,” I said.
“We visited Salt Lake when I was a kid,” he continued, “and I was impressed. I like your health code. What is it, the word of what?”
“Wisdom.”
“I think I’ve been living it.”
Figures, I thought.
And then I knew it was my turn. There couldn’t have been a more opportune time to do a little missionary work. I needed to say something about how he could find out more. I needed to invite him to church. I knew I had to do something. The other Jason Bennion stood there for a second or two like there was something else he wanted to say, and then he was off.
“Well, see you, Same Name.”
“Yeah, you too.”
Sleep comes to the peaceful. It didn’t come to me that night. I knew why I hadn’t wanted to say more to the other Jason Bennion. I didn’t want him to know more about the Church. Being a Latter-day Saint was the one thing that kept me out of the pit of anonymity. I had the rest of this year and my senior year to go, and it would be a miserable, lousy year without something to cling to and be known for. It was my identity we were talking about. Yet I knew very well that the Church was more than a title or name. It wasn’t simply someone’s claim to fame. What kind of low-life creature was I? This was Christ’s restored church I was thinking of not sharing. It was obviously time to get some help.
I found my knees and prayed hard and long about my feelings. Then I thought of the words I always say at the end of prayers, “In the name of Jesus Christ.” Those words had more impact than usual as it came to me that this wasn’t just a way to close a prayer. How concerned I’d been about my own name and being important and being somebody. Now the Spirit was letting me know what really makes us of worth isn’t what we do for our own names. It’s what we do for the Savior’s.
I can’t say it came as a surprise to me that a high-quality human being like Jason Bennion would not only show up for the activities I invited him to, but would eagerly absorb the truth. It was a Saturday night, a few months after he first began investigating the Church, when this leader, star athlete, super brain, and one of the most humble and spiritual individuals I’ve ever known took upon himself the same name that I’d taken upon myself. There was a lump in my throat the size of Nebraska when I helped him out of the font after I’d baptized him. And as I listened to his confirmation, as the gift of the Holy Ghost was bestowed on him, I felt a power and a peace like I’d never felt before.
We’re seniors this year. Even though he’s made no secret of the fact he’s planning on a mission, some big-name schools are after Jason. Once in a while these college recruiters call me by mistake, and I let them know I’m the other Jason Bennion. In fact, I guess that’s my title at Lincoln High now—the Other Jason Bennion.
But it’s okay. It really doesn’t matter anymore. The Lord knows who I am, and so do I.

The number 40 was symbolically significant to ancient Hebrews. In scripture it is mentioned 146 times and can represent a long period of time. For example, Moses lived 40 years in Egypt, then 40 years in the wilderness when he led his people out of slavery. The Saviour fasted for 40 days after being tempted by the devil, etc. For the Saints in the Cook Islands, many have indeed waited a long period of time to receive their patriarchal blessings—and in April 2023, 40 members received their blessings. Several miracles were evident around this special week.
Earlier this year, when leaders of the New Zealand Auckland Mission planned to visit the remote island country of the Cook Islands for the district’s semiannual conference, they invited the Auckland New Zealand Harbour Stake patriarch, Steven Stebbings, to join them to provide an opportunity for members there to receive their patriarchal blessings.
Brother Stebbings and his wife, Kathy, who is also his scribe, arrived in the country during a torrential rainstorm. One might have thought that would discourage people from venturing out—it did not. Two young elders happily gave up their car for Brother and Sister Stebbings to use while they were on the island. The missionaries were more than happy to use bikes for the week.
The Saints came in that heavy rain. They came with hearts full of gratitude and excitement for what was about to happen. They came to listen to and feel the love of their Heavenly Father and His Son, Jesus Christ. They came to learn more about their potential and the blessings the Lord has in store for each of them. The people kept coming—the Spirit was strong, and the Stebbings experienced the sweet joy that comes from serving the Lord.
Brother Stebbings is used to giving about four blessings a week; he anticipated he’d interview and bless 15–20 people, so he was more than surprised that 40 members aged 12–74 came in from the outer islands to Rarotonga to receive their blessing.
Sister Stebbings said they started working early each morning and worked long into the night—and through their exhaustion, the Lord sustained and strengthened them to be able to accomplish all that they did.
The experience began in February 2023 when Elder Doneal White and Sister Claudia White arrived in the Cook Islands to serve a mission where there was no stake patriarch. In an early morning seminary class, they heard that 14 students told their teacher they had not received their patriarchal blessings. Wheels were set in motion and soon thereafter Brother Stebbings was authorised to travel to the Cook Islands to provide the desired blessings.
Elder and Sister White said they had prayed the Stebbings there—to the Cook Islands, and the timing was perfect—with a district conference during that time, and it was school holidays—plus a national youth soccer tournament the following week had brought in two groups of members for the tournament—and they could receive their blessings.
Brother Stebbings said patriarchal blessings are given to worthy members of the Church and contain personal counsel from God. “This blessing is intended to be like a road map that helps guide a person through their life,” he said.
“As a patriarch, I have no blessings to give,” Brother Stebbings said. “When I place my hands upon a person’s head, I receive inspiration and revelation for them by the power of the Holy Spirit, which then becomes their blessing.”
“These blessings are not to be neatly folded away and forgotten, and they’re not to be framed or published,” Brother Stebbings said. “It is to be read, followed and loved, and it will see a person through their darkest nights, and will guide them through all of life’s stages.”

One day I was feeling down and I remembered something someone told me: “If you don’t know that Heavenly Father loves you, ask Him.” So I did just that. I didn’t hear a small voice say, “Yes, absolutely” or “Of course I love you,” but I did feel prompted to read my patriarchal blessing. So I pulled it out.
Before I read a single word, I was overcome with emotion. I felt the Spirit testify to me in my heart boldly that my Heavenly Father loves me and that my patriarchal blessing is not just a blessing about the future but also a blessing of love and comfort whenever I need it.

About six months before the end of the war, I was assigned to an outfit where incoming young people were trained on radar. We were stationed in the Harz Mountains, and I was about 17. One day we had to write a composition about Germany, and mine won. The officer had me stand in front of the whole outfit, and he said: “Congratulations for writing the best composition. I expect you to volunteer now to become an officer for the German Reich. We need people with your potential, and I expect your written application tonight.”

“I don’t have to wait until tonight,” I said. “I refuse.”
He got really furious and wanted to punish me. He said, “Tomorrow, I will ask you again, and the next day again.”
“Well, I’m not going,” I told him. I was not in tune with the spirit of national socialism. My father was a friend of the Jewish people, and we had always prayed for them in our home. I just wanted to get out of there with the others. He asked me what I wanted to do. “I want to go with the rest of the group,” I said. He told me if I didn’t want to volunteer I was ordered to stay behind and train the young people. There was no other choice.

Although I was forced to stay I felt very secure about it, like that was where I was supposed to be. All my friends were sent to Russia. Only one came back—all the others were killed.

María Isabel Parra de Uribe of the Villas de La Hacienda Ward, México City México Tepalcapa Stake, tells of an experience common to many who have sought blessings of healing. Five months pregnant, she was suffering intense pain. Tests showed she needed surgery immediately, and she was told she might lose her baby.
“My husband and I were confused,” she says. “We didn’t know whether to have the surgery or not. We decided to ask God if surgery was the right choice. After our prayer, we felt peaceful and calm.
“While I was waiting to be taken to the operating room, my husband gave me a priesthood blessing. When it was over, we felt not only calm but certain our baby would survive.
“After I came out of surgery, a nurse said, ‘Everything is all right. Your baby is fine.’ I smiled to myself, realizing, I already knew.”
The power of godliness had been manifest in her life.

Elder Camargo, who joined the Church in an unusual way, said that “the missionaries never knocked on my door.” As a youth he attended a military academy in his native Resende, planning to become an officer. But because of an accident, he had to give up his dream. Instead he went to teach at the same military school that he had attended as a student. A few years later Elder Camargo decided to leave military service and enter the ministry. He attended the Methodist seminary for three years.

“On one occasion in one of my seminary classes,” he related, “the teacher was discussing the beliefs and doctrines of certain Christian groups, or sects, as they were called. I remember asking him about the Mormons, and he said that he didn’t know if Mormons were even Christians. I said, ‘I think that they think they are, because the name of their church is The Church of Jesus Christ of something,’ but I couldn’t remember the rest of it.

“The teacher said to me, ‘Why don’t you try to find out if there are Mormons in São Paulo so that we could invite one of their ministers to come here and explain their doctrines.’ So I went to the mission home in São Paulo and met the mission president, who sent two missionaries to our class to explain the doctrines. This was the beginning. To make the story short, I left the seminary, studied the doctrines of the Church for about eight months, and then was baptized with my wife. At that time we had five small children. Another child was born soon after we were baptized.”

Two other members of Elder Camargo’s class also left the seminary and joined the Church. And all three of them have been stake presidents and mission presidents.

Louisa Lula Greene Richards was 23 years old when she was called to be the editor of the Women’s Exponent, a Church paper established in 1872. It served as a medium for LDS women to righteously represent themselves against unfriendly comments and gross misrepresentations and defend the principles and doctrines of their faith. This timid, retiring young woman lacked confidence in her capabilities, but she possessed implicit faith in her Heavenly Father’s power and goodness. So prayerfully and with reluctance she consented to accept the call from the prophet and became one of the first woman journalists in Utah.

Soon it was time for Emma’s baby to be born. The pile of manuscript pages had grown thick, and Martin had become convinced that if he could let his wife read the translation, she would see its value and stop interfering with their work.32 He also hoped Lucy would be pleased with how he had spent his time and money to help bring forth God’s word.
One day, Martin asked Joseph for permission to take the manuscript to Palmyra for a few weeks.33 Remembering how Lucy Harris had acted when she visited the house, Joseph was wary of the idea. Yet he wanted to please Martin, who had believed him when so many others had doubted his word.34
Unsure what to do, Joseph prayed for guidance, and the Lord told him not to let Martin take the pages.35 But Martin was sure showing them to his wife would change things, and he begged Joseph to ask again. Joseph did so, but the answer was the same. Martin pressed him to ask a third time, however, and this time God allowed them to do as they pleased.
Joseph told Martin he could take the pages for two weeks if he covenanted to keep them locked up and show them only to certain family members. Martin made the promise and returned to Palmyra, manuscript in hand.36
After Martin left, Moroni appeared to Joseph and took the interpreters from him.37
The day after Martin’s departure, Emma endured an agonizing labor and gave birth to a boy. The baby was frail and sickly and did not live long. The ordeal left Emma physically drained and emotionally devastated, and for a time it seemed she might die too. Joseph tended to her constantly, never leaving her side for long.38
After two weeks, Emma’s health began to improve, and her thoughts turned to Martin and the manuscript. “I feel so uneasy,” she told Joseph, “that I cannot rest and shall not be at ease until I know something about what Mr. Harris is doing with it.”
She urged Joseph to find Martin, but Joseph did not want to leave her. “Send for my mother,” she said, “and she shall stay with me while you are gone.”39
Joseph took a stagecoach north. He ate and slept little during the journey, afraid that he had offended the Lord by not listening when He said not to let Martin take the manuscript.40
The sun was rising when he arrived at his parents’ home in Manchester. The Smiths were preparing breakfast and sent Martin an invitation to join them. By eight o’clock, the meal was on the table but Martin had not come. Joseph and the family started to grow uneasy as they waited for him.
Finally, after more than four hours had passed, Martin appeared in the distance, walking slowly toward the house, his eyes fixed on the ground in front of him.41 At the gate he paused, sat on the fence, and pulled his hat down over his eyes. He then came inside and sat down to eat in silence.
The family watched as Martin picked up his utensils, as if ready to eat, then dropped them. “I have lost my soul!” he cried, pressing his hands on his temples. “I have lost my soul.”
Joseph jumped up. “Martin, have you lost that manuscript?”
“Yes,” Martin said. “It is gone, and I know not where.”
“Oh, my God, my God,” Joseph groaned, clenching his fists. “All is lost!”
He started pacing the floor. He did not know what to do. “Go back,” he ordered Martin. “Search again.”
“It is all in vain,” Martin cried. “I have looked every place in the house. I have even ripped open beds and pillows, and I know it is not there.”
“Must I return to my wife with such a tale?” Joseph feared the news would kill her. “And how shall I appear before the Lord?”
His mother tried to comfort him. She said maybe the Lord would forgive him if he repented humbly. But Joseph was sobbing now, furious at himself for not obeying the Lord the first time. He could barely eat for the rest of the day. He stayed the night and left the next morning for Harmony.42
As his mother, Lucy, watched him go, her heart was heavy. It seemed everything they had hoped for as a family—everything that had brought them joy over the last few years—had fled in a moment.43

One of the choice privileges of a General Authority is perhaps thirty or forty times a year to visit the stakes of the Church and to be guests in the homes of stake presidents. I am certain we have seen firsthand some of the greatest homes there are in all the world.
I remember being assigned to a conference some time ago in a stake where the president was a dentist. It was evident from his home and furnishings he had a successful practice. I guess he could have given his children almost anything they could have wanted. However, he loved them enough to teach them responsibility. He moved from the city out into a rural area, where he was teaching his family the value of work.
How I enjoyed sitting with the children and having them describe the projects they had been assigned the responsibility for. With pride they would tell me how many eggs per day the chickens were producing, or how high the corn was, or how the cattle were in the field. This family had as their motto the 88th section of the Doctrine and Covenants, 119th verse: “Organize yourselves; prepare every needful thing; and establish a house, even a house of prayer, a house of fasting, a house of faith, a house of learning, a house of glory, a house of order, a house of God.”

We moved last year from Ellicott City, Maryland, USA, with our family to Harrogate. We are blessed with four children, two of whom are now serving missions. Our daughter, Natalie, started serving in May 2022 as a teaching missionary in the Arizona Gilbert Mission. In February 2023, her brother, Peter, was called to serve a service mission in the England Leeds Mission.
While we have been wonderfully blessed since our daughter started her mission, we have felt a change in our home since Peter was called. We truly felt increased spiritual power in our home as our son began to participate in the service missionary training centre meetings the week prior to being set apart. The Spirit is more accessible, the Christlike attributes that we are seeking to obtain come more easily. I attribute that to the blessing of having a missionary serving from our home. He has been set apart, completed his training, and is beginning to serve in our local community.
We have noticed so many positive and miraculous changes in him, and in our family dynamics already. We look forward to the changes that Elder Rosenquist will yet undergo and experience as he continues his mission.
And in divine serendipity, our son’s service mission leaders, Elder and Sister Conway, are from Gilbert, Arizona. Their daughter Kelsie and her family are living in Gilbert, Arizona, in the ward in which Sister Rosenquist is labouring.

Shortly after I returned from my mission, my stake president asked me to interpret for Elder Hartman Rector Jr., then of the Seventy, who had come to Mendoza, Argentina, to preside over a stake conference. These marvelous opportunities have continued over the years. I interpreted for President Thomas S. Monson and other General Authorities during the 11 dedicatory sessions of the Buenos Aires Argentina Temple.
During four of those sessions, I read the dedicatory prayer in Spanish from the pulpit in the celestial room. My voice broke up several times because of my emotions; tears filled my eyes and flowed down my face. I was reading the inspired prayers and promises for my country from Heavenly Father, who lives and reveals His will, just as He did 12 years earlier through my mission president when I accepted the challenge to learn English.
I also interpreted for the prophet, President Gordon B. Hinckley, during the four dedicatory sessions of the Montevideo Uruguay Temple and the four dedicatory sessions of the Asunción Paraguay Temple.
It’s difficult for me to explain how sacred those moments were for me when I stood alongside prophets, seers, and revelators in the Lord’s house. I felt somewhat like Peter, James, and John when they had the amazing experience of seeing Jesus transfigured. Peter expressed my feelings when he told Jesus, “Lord, it is good for us to be here” (Matt. 17:4).

Dear Buddy,
Wow! Two letters from you in one week! That was great! But now I have a real problem, and it’s all because of you and your good looks and charm. I’m worried that you may steal my girlfriends from me!
Seriously, Melissa and Kelly are both good friends, and there’s nothing too serious between us as far as I’m concerned. But if they both show up at the house at the same time, you’ll have to use your charm and personality to save the day.
Elder Watts and I are teaching some terrific people. The Brooks family has a boy just a year older than you. His name is Bobby, and he’s been going to Primary for three weeks now and has made some friends there. Bobby and his mother want to get baptized and join the Church, but Mr. Brooks says that he can’t seem to get a testimony. We challenged him to finish reading the Book of Mormon and to pray for a testimony of whether it is true or not.
We are also teaching a student from the university, a great guy named Will Landers. Will likes the Church but has to solve some problems before he can join. Please remember all these people in your prayers.
And whatever your problem is, don’t be afraid to tell me.
Love,Reed
Dear Reed,
Today was the second worst day of my entire life! (The worst day was the day that you left home.) We had baseball tryouts, and I was terrible! I couldn’t do anything right. I need you here to help me. Dad says that he’ll practice with me, but you know how busy he is all the time. How can I ever learn to play baseball good enough to get on the team and then play for the high school and get a scholarship for college like you did? Sometimes I feel like a dumb little kid who can’t do anything right.
Do you know now what my secret is? My secret is that I don’t think that I can stand to have you be away for two years. I want you to come home right now! I need you, Reed. Please come home now!
Love,Buddy
P.S. If I ever decide to play baseball again, can I borrow your glove and bats?
Dear Buddy,
Last time you and I played baseball, you were as good as I was when I was your age—maybe even better! Your problem is that you want to be great right now. But you have a lot of work and practice and growing to do. Lots of the guys who were better baseball players than I was at seven and eight years old never made the college teams because they didn’t work as hard as I did all those years. So don’t give up if you really want to do it.
As far as the other problem goes, you know that I can’t leave my mission. But I’ll tell you a secret. Sometimes I get homesick, and it really hurts inside when I want to see all of you and can’t. I miss playing baseball with you, Buddy, and going for ice cream and to the movies and talking in the dark after we’ve gone to bed. What I do when I get homesick is pray for strength and comfort. And then I try to forget about myself by helping other people. That seems to work every time.
You can help Elder Watts and me too. Please pray for the Brooks family and Will Landers. And pray that Elder Watts and I can help them.
Love,Reed
P.S. I’m afraid that my glove and bats are too big and awkward for you, but you can try them if you want. And you can have all my baseballs if you promise to wear them out with your practicing.
Dear Brad May,
My name is Bobby Brooks. Yesterday your big brother baptized me, and I became a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints! Elder Watts baptized my mom and dad. I’m really happy now, and Mom and Dad are happy too. We know that we did the right thing because this is the right church.
Elder May is a great guy! I like him a lot. He’ll be here only a short time, but you’re lucky because he’ll always be your brother. I hope that he’ll always be my friend. I want to be a missionary like him someday. Thanks for sharing him with us.
Sincerely,Bobby Brooks
Dear Reed,
Something awesome just happened! When I got your letter, I tried to do what you said. I prayed for help so that I wouldn’t miss you so much. Then I prayed for the people you’re teaching. Then I thought that maybe I’d write a letter to them. But before I wrote, I got a letter from Bobby Brooks, and he said that you baptized him!
I want you to stay on your mission and find more people who want to learn about the Church. I want you to tell me all about your mission because I want to grow up to be a missionary just like you.
Please tell Bobby that I’ll write a letter to him soon.
I have to go now so that I’ll be on time for baseball practice.
Love,Buddy
(To be continued)

My family has been reminded of this recently in a very poignant way. I have 17 nieces and nephews, who are a pure delight. We have hiked and biked and fasted and prayed together. And recently we have cried together. A few weeks ago we suffered a crushing loss when an accident took the lives of two of my sister’s children—Amanda, who was 11, and Tanner, who was 15. Because we have lived together in love, we have truly wept for the loss of them that died (see D&C 42:45).

Our friends in our hometown wept with us, most of them nonmembers, and we knew their hearts might never be more open to truth than on the day two caskets rested in our little Kansas chapel. So we dedicated the funeral entirely to testifying of Christ and the restored gospel. Afterwards many told us how moved they were by what they heard and by what they felt. Some have even asked to learn more. Now, we don’t know if anyone affected by our children’s deaths will join the Church. But this we do know—that standing up for what we believe and teaching the gospel to friends who had never before been willing to listen helped soothe our pain and bring us joy as a family.