Gospel Story Finder

We love the Friend and read from it almost every morning. After reading “Conference Reverence Tent” in the October 2008 issue, we decided to make our own conference reverence tent for the next conference. We decorated the inside of the tent with pillows, blankets, and a picture of Jesus. We were happy we were listening when President Monson announced there was going to be a temple built in Calgary—that’s where we live!

He has marked the path and made it available for our return to His presence, but an important question we might ask ourselves individually is, How willingly do we accept His interest in our well-being and happiness? This question is at the heart of the following allegory.
William loved all of his many sons and daughters. Each was very special to him. Although he wanted them to stay close to him, he allowed them to leave home for a time so they might answer for themselves who they were and what they were to be. He gave them instruction, blessings, and counsel. He pled with them to accept and keep the rules he had taught them so they might be rewarded for their willingness to learn, to understand, and to act appropriately. He invited them to call often, telling them he would always be there, excited to hear from them.
Having made careful and prudent investments in the past with his own time, intelligence, and resources, William had amassed wealth and influence he now sought to share. He busied himself with carpentry tools, plants, and flowers in preparation for his children’s return. He began to prepare a place for each of them more beautiful than they could imagine. Everything around William glowed with warmth, love, and sunshine, and he smiled as he considered each child’s return and pondered the joy and peace they would all share on his pleasant estate.
Finally the day came when the children began to return. First came Paul and Mary, then Kenneth and Sarah. William had never seen them so happy, and he wept as he took them into his arms and kissed them. Then, to their delight and joy, William gave them a glimpse of the great estate to which they were heirs and helped them realize that what lay before them was only a beginning, that its dimensions and beauty would increase according to their own vision and effort.
“But where are Charles and Thomas, Nancy and Clara?” asked William. The promise to them was the same. Did they not know they needed to follow his simple instructions and persevere?
“Father,” said Kenneth, “they understood in part but really couldn’t see. Some things blinded them. Thomas said he wanted to come, but he was a little too busy; he didn’t even have time for his children. Charles is building an estate; it has a modest beauty, and between that and a booming business, he has time for very little else. Nancy said she’s confused and disoriented and it’s not her fault, but she won’t be coming. Clara’s case is another matter. She said she had kept the rules long enough; she asked that we please leave her alone and said she just wants to be free.”
William sorrowed over these words, for the gift he had offered seemed as marvelous as all eternity. Said he: “How will they even begin to comprehend the blessings of this great gift I have prepared if they receive it not and reject me as the giver? What great joy will have slipped from me and from them!”

“My father died when I was two and a half years old. I was the youngest child of seven. A sister died shortly before my father, so three boys and three girls were raised by my mother, a remarkable woman who lived to her eighty-fifth birthday. She was a great, great lady.
“Mother had none of the economic advantages that some people have. She relied on her own resources, the Lord, and her children. When my oldest brother was seventeen, he left high school to go to work to feed us. He and Mother and then each child in turn supported the rest while we went on missions and to school and so forth. Mother was the heart of the family. We loved her, and our lives revolved around hers. We all understood that we needed to help each other. As I look back now, I marvel that there really wasn’t any sense of discouragement or hopelessness or despair about our meager situation.
“Mother was the Relief Society president, first in the ward and then in the stake. At that time, during the Great Depression, food for those in need was delivered to the Relief Society president’s home. I remember that on occasion some day-old vegetables and bread and a five-gallon can of milk were delivered to our door, I don’t know by whom. The milk went into my mother’s canning jars and was parceled out with the other commodities, which I delivered to the poor. I couldn’t help wondering at the time why we weren’t numbered among the poor. Nevertheless, we never tasted any of that food; it went to the poor.
“I remember taking a plate of food each Sunday to the little Scandinavian lady who lived in a basement apartment on the corner of our street. She had no family or friends nearby. The dinner was sent on Mother’s nicest china with a cloth napkin over it.
“People were always coming to my mother for comfort and counsel or food. Somehow it was always there. She was a sweet soul; she was strong and loved the Lord and had great faith. She knew that if we did our part, everything would work out all right. And it always did.
“Once, when I was about seven years old, Mother gave me a dollar bill and asked me to go to Joe Wood’s market to buy a pound of hamburger. As Joe Wood put the hamburger on the counter, I put my hand in my pocket for the money—but the dollar bill was gone! I just panicked. I said to him, ‘I’ll have to come back later,’ then ran out of the store and retraced my steps, looking for the money. I couldn’t find it. I got all the way back home without finding it.
“I couldn’t face Mother and tell her I’d lost the dollar, so I ducked under the kitchen window and went around to the coal shed. I knelt down on the ground and told Heavenly Father that I just had to find that money. Then I crawled back under the window and went down the street again. There in the parking lot I found the dollar! Gratefully, I picked it up and went into the store to pay Joe Wood his money and get the hamburger.
“By the time I was eleven years old, I was working many hours a week. Every night after school until eight or nine o’clock and all day Saturday from seven in the morning until nine at night I worked in a butcher shop. I earned seventy-five cents a week, which I gave to my mother.
“I have had the unusual blessing of living both in England and in Asia with my own family. We have been exposed to the friendship of a great many little children. Here is one thing they all have in common: They really are all children of God. He loves them, and Christ died for them, and they are individually valued.
“There will come to you, no matter where you live or what your circumstances are, opportunities to be useful and constructive and helpful. If you use those opportunities, you will acquire a sense of respect and love for all people.
“You are valuable. You must never permit anyone to think otherwise. And you yourself have to start where you are in life. There is no other place to start. Accept what there is to work with and make something fine of yourself.”

The story is told of a man in a small village who because of his ingenuity and intelligence owned a very prosperous fish market. One day one of his customers came to him and said, "Everyone in our village knows that you are extremely bright and very successful. What is it that has made you so smart?" Without even pausing to reflect, the man replied, "It's the fishheads." "You mean," said the customer "that if I eat fishheads I'll be smarter?" "That's correct," said the shop owner. "How much do they cost?" asked the man. "They're $5.00 a head," said the owner. Wanting to grow smarter, the customer said, "give me three of them," and he placed $15.00 on the counter.

The next day the customer was back in the fish market. "I ate those fish heads," he said, "and not only were they terrible, but I don't feel any smarter." "You didn't eat enough of them," replied the shop owner. "How many do I need to eat?" asked the customer. "You need to eat at least ten of them," said the man. Thereupon, the customer put $50.00 on the counter and walked out of the shop with ten more fishheads.

The following day he was back. In disgust, he said that he had eaten all ten of those fishheads. "They were absolutely horrible," he said. "Why for that amount of money I could have bought ten entire large fish." "See," said the shop owner. "You're getting smarter already!"

In the spring of 1978 I opened my own typesetting business in Denmark. Suddenly my earnings doubled what they had been when I worked for someone else. I made a budget and kept careful books and tax records. Then I got the idea of opening a tithing bank account. It was actually a savings account, but I called it my tithing account and thought it to be a tremendously good idea. After just a few months, I was shocked to see how much money my tithing account contained.
“Someday I’ll make a check out for the whole amount and give it to my bishop,” I thought. But the more the account grew, the harder it became to make out the check. Besides, it became fun to add up the figures.
After six months with lots of work and lots of money, orders suddenly stopped coming in. As day after day passed with no new orders, I began to worry as my savings grew low. “Well,” I consoled myself, “you can always borrow from your tithing account should this continue much longer.”
When I told my mother my idea, she immediately said, “You don’t touch the money you owe to the Lord!” My mother was a strong-willed woman, and even as an adult I felt rebellious if I didn’t obey her. She continued, “The sooner you get your tithing money to the bishop, the better. Make out a check today for the full amount and take it to him.”
I explained that my rent, car payment, taxes, and utility payments were all due and the only money I had was in my tithing account. “Never mind,” my mother said, “You had better pay the bishop today.”
Even though I didn’t like it, I knew she was right. So I went straight to the bank. Never have I been so tempted in all my life than I was that day to make the check out for cash to myself, but I prayed to the Lord to make me strong.
Still, I felt so heavy when I handed the check to the bishop. How could I save my business and my home without money coming in? My mother said, “Your oldest daughter is old enough to fast with us. Let us pray and fast together for twenty-four hours.” And so we did. After the fast, three days passed and nothing happened. “Let’s repeat the fast,” my mother said. Again we fasted, and the very next day the mailman knocked at my door with an order from a brand-new customer—a big order that would keep me busy every day for the next month. Tears came to our eyes, and my mother, two daughters, and I bent our knees to thank the Lord for his mercy.

McLear was different from most deer. Most deer are timid, but McLear wasn’t afraid of anything!
He would go into the haunted house or jump off the high bridge over Blueberry Creek. He would even walk past the mean bull in the back pasture.
He could run faster down the slope and climb higher up the bluff than anyone else. So naturally when little Betty Bobcat climbed too high and was afraid to come down, everyone thought of McLear.
“McLear will rescue her,” cried Reggie Rabbit. He ran to get McLear.
“Come quick!” he shouted. “Betty is stuck on the bluff, and no one can get her down.”
When they reached the bluff, McLear saw that it was very steep and that the little bobcat was on a very narrow ledge. But he bravely climbed up and brought her down.
After that everyone said that he was the bravest deer in the whole world. And pretty soon he began to believe them!
But Willy Weasel did not like all the attention McLear got. One day Willy said, “I’ll bet you’re not brave enough to pick up Sulky Snake.”
“Pooh,” bragged McLear. “I’m not afraid.” He grabbed Sulky by his tail and held him high.
“Oh! McLear is the bravest deer in the whole universe!” cried Milly Meadow Mouse.
“Humph!” sniffed Grandfather Bear. “That’s not brave. That’s foolhardy. Some day he’ll pick up the wrong snake. Then he’ll learn that it’s sometimes smart to be afraid.”
McLear just laughed and took every dare his friends could think of. Once they dared him to sneak up on Sammy Skunk and scare him. Then they wouldn’t play with McLear for a week because he smelled so bad.
Another time Willy dared him to eat a red pepper in one bite.
“Don’t do it McLear!” cried Reggie.
McLear had never tasted a red pepper. But he didn’t want Willy to think that he was afraid, so he popped the whole pepper into his mouth and chomped. Suddenly he felt like he was on fire! He nearly drank Blueberry Creek dry, hoping his mouth and stomach would stop burning.
Willy and his friends rolled on the ground. They laughed until tears ran down their cheeks. McLear knew that they weren’t laughing because he’d been brave.
The next day the forest animals saw Percy Porcupine sleeping under a tree.
“McLear,” said Willy, “I dare you to sneak up and pat Percy’s tail.”
McLear looked at Percy’s prickly tail. Then he looked at Willy. Willy had a sly grin on his face. McLear gulped hard. “No!” he shouted. “You just want to see me get hurt so that you can laugh at me!”
The forest animals gasped.
“I never thought that McLear would be afraid of anything,” Reggie said sadly.
“I guess he’s losing his nerve.”
“You’re wrong, Reggie,” said Grandfather Bear. “That’s the bravest thing McLear has ever done. It takes more courage to say no than to take a foolish dare.”

Have we studied his counsel and identified the things we need to avoid or to do differently? I know a 17-year-old who, just prior to the prophet’s talk, had pierced her ears a second time. She came home from the fireside, took off the second set of earrings, and simply said to her parents, “If President Hinckley says we should only wear one set of earrings, that’s good enough for me.”

Wearing two pair of earrings may or may not have eternal consequences for this young woman, but her willingness to obey the prophet will. And if she will obey him now, on something relatively simple, how much easier it will be to follow him when greater issues are at stake.

The deacons in the Church have a sacred obligation to visit the home of every member to collect fast offerings for the poor. President Thomas S. Monson once related to me how he, as a young bishop, began to sense that the young deacons in his ward were complaining about having to get up so early to collect fast offerings. Instead of calling the young men to task, this wise bishop took them to Welfare Square in Salt Lake City.

There, the boys met a disabled woman operating the switchboard. They saw a blind man placing labels on cans, and an elderly brother stocking shelves. As a result of what they saw, President Monson said, a penetrating silence came over the boys as they witnessed the end result of their efforts to collect the sacred funds that aided the needy and provided employment for those who otherwise would be idle.

I faced a lot of challenges after my baptism. The changes I needed to make in my life were significant. On top of that, sometimes I felt that I had no friends in the Church, and it was tempting to go back to my old friends. But my desire to feel joy—and my understanding that we can be happy regardless of external circumstances—helped me keep coming back to church. I knew I couldn’t “lay aside [my] faith” (Alma 32:36). Over time I made friends within the Church who helped me during the transition. And as I continued to live the gospel, my testimony and my happiness grew (see Alma 32:37).

On the day before Easter, Kurt’s grandparents invited his family to a barbecue. Kurt was especially excited to go because his favorite uncle, Darren, had just come home from his mission. He had missed Uncle Darren a lot.
Kurt bounded into his grandparents’ backyard, ran past Grandpa, who was standing over the sizzling grill, and found Uncle Darren sitting in a patio chair.
“Hey, Kurt,” Uncle Darren greeted him. “Are you excited for Easter, little buddy?”
“Yes!” Kurt scrambled into his uncle’s lap.
“What do you want in your Easter basket*?” Uncle Darren asked.
“Candy, I guess.” Kurt grinned. He imagined finding chocolate bunnies, marshmallows shaped like baby birds, and jelly beans spilling out of his Easter basket. His heart skipped excitedly just thinking about it.
“What do you want in your Easter basket?” Kurt asked, poking his finger into Uncle Darren’s chest.
“I don’t think I’ll get one this year,” Uncle Darren said. “I guess I’m too old for that. But it’s OK because last year I got the best Easter basket ever.”
“What was in it?” Kurt asked.
“Don’t you remember?” Uncle Darren looked surprised. “You helped send it to me.”
Kurt tried to think about last spring, but it was a long time ago. He remembered the family gathering at Grandma’s house to make a package for Uncle Darren. Plastic colored eggs and stringy Easter grass had been strewn all over the kitchen table. Strips of paper, markers, and pens had been piled on the countertop.
“Why was it your favorite Easter basket?” Kurt asked. He couldn’t remember sending anything special.
Uncle Darren squeezed Kurt tightly. “It was my favorite Easter basket because there was no candy inside.” Kurt giggled, expecting to see a teasing twinkle in Uncle Darren’s eyes, but he looked serious.
“No candy?” Kurt cried. “Why not?”
Uncle Darren laughed. “Come in the house. I want to show you something.”
Kurt watched Uncle Darren rummage through a shoe box full of letters. He reached into the box, pulled out an envelope, and handed a strip of paper to Kurt.
The Church is true, Kurt read. I love Jesus and my family. Last year he had written these words, folded the paper up, and placed it inside a plastic egg. Everyone else—his parents, aunts, uncles, and cousins—had done the same. Now Kurt remembered! Uncle Darren’s missionary Easter basket had been filled with testimonies.
“You liked these papers better than jelly beans?” Kurt asked. He couldn’t imagine why.
Uncle Darren nodded. “Easter is the time to celebrate Jesus Christ’s Resurrection,” he said quietly. “Do you know what that means?”
“Jesus came back to life so that we can all be resurrected someday,” Kurt answered.
“And do you know what that means?” Uncle Darren asked. He rested his hand on Kurt’s shoulder. “It means that I will always be your uncle!”
Kurt was confused. “The Resurrection makes it so that you can be my uncle?”
“We couldn’t be an eternal family without eternal life,” Uncle Darren said. “Jesus Christ died for us so that we could live forever with Him.”
When Kurt and his parents had visited the temple grounds, Mom had pointed to the temple and said that she and Dad had been married there. Because of the sealing ordinances, they could be a family forever. Mom hadn’t said anything about Jesus’ Resurrection.
“What about temples?” Kurt asked. “I thought we could be with our families forever because of temples.”
“The temple is the Lord’s house,” Uncle Darren explained. “Without Jesus Christ and His Resurrection, there wouldn’t be any temples, either. The power that seals us together is His priesthood.”
Kurt hadn’t thought about that before.
Uncle Darren continued. “I taught people on my mission who didn’t believe in eternal families. They believed in Jesus, but they didn’t understand everything He did for us.”
“That’s sad,” Kurt said with a frown.
“Reading everyone’s testimonies reminded me that our family can be eternal,” Uncle Darren said. “It was the best Easter gift I could have received.”
Kurt looked up into his favorite uncle’s beaming face and suddenly felt very grateful. He had missed Uncle Darren terribly during the past two years. He couldn’t imagine being separated from him forever.
Uncle Darren suddenly swooped Kurt up on his shoulders. “I bet the hamburgers are almost done. Should we go find out?” Kurt was giggling too hard to answer. “Then we can be partners for the Easter egg hunt,” Uncle Darren promised.
Kurt was excited, but colored eggs, candy, and Easter baskets didn’t matter so much compared to spending time with Uncle Darren. Kurt smiled, knowing that he could call Darren his uncle forever.

I always thought my relatives had already traced our family history back to the beginning of time. So in the October 2011 general conference when Elder David A. Bednar of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles invited youth to work on family history in order to take names to the temple, I didn’t think I would have much success in finding names. But something in his talk made me want to try, and I sat down at the computer to figure out how to find my ancestors.
Within 15 minutes, I found someone. His name was Stephen Barker, and he was the youngest member of his family. All of his temple ordinances had been performed except one—he was the only child who hadn’t been sealed to his parents. Suddenly I thought, “What if that were me? What if I were the only child not sealed to my family and I had waited hundreds of years for the opportunity?” I gave his name to my parents so they could go to the temple and do the work for him. I have never felt the Spirit so strongly, and that is when I knew I needed to keep doing family history.

When Neil was five, his family moved to a dairy farm in Pocatello, Idaho. Neil raised rabbits, rode horses, and played in the fields with his siblings. When Neil was about seven years old, a rabbit he especially liked escaped from its cage. He relates:
“I looked all over our little farm, but I could not find it anywhere. I remember walking back behind an old barn and praying that I could find the rabbit.
“Immediately after the prayer, an image came into my mind of a spot beneath some boards. And sure enough, I went to that spot and found my rabbit. This experience and many others like it taught me that the Lord responds to the small and simple prayers of all of us.”

My second example emphasizes the importance of persevering through the trial of our faith. A few years ago a family traveled to Europe from the United States. Shortly after arriving at their destination, a 13-year-old son became quite ill. The mother and father initially thought his upset stomach was caused by fatigue from the long flight, and the family routinely continued on its journey.

As the day continued, the son’s condition became worse. Dehydration was increasing. The father gave his son a priesthood blessing, but no improvement was immediately evident.

Several hours passed by, and the mother knelt by her son’s side, pleading in prayer to Heavenly Father for the boy’s well-being. They were far from home in an unfamiliar country and did not know how to obtain medical assistance.

The mother asked her son if he would like to pray with her. She knew that merely waiting for the anticipated blessing would not be enough; they needed to continue to act. Explaining that the blessing he had received was still in effect, she suggested again petitioning in prayer, as did the ancient Apostles, “Lord, Increase our faith” (Luke 17:5). The prayer included a profession of trust in priesthood power and a commitment to persevere in doing whatever might be required for the blessing to be honored—if that blessing at that time was in accordance with God’s will. Shortly after they offered this simple prayer, the son’s condition improved.

The faithful action of the mother and her son helped to invite the promised priesthood power and in part satisfied the requirement that we “dispute not because [we] see not, for [we] receive no witness until after the trial of [our] faith” (Ether 12:6). Just as the prison holding Alma and Amulek did not tumble to the earth “until after their faith,” and just as Ammon and his missionary brethren did not witness mighty miracles in their ministries “until after their faith” (see Ether 12:12–15), so the healing of this 13-year-old boy did not occur until after their faith and was accomplished “according to their faith in their prayers” (D&C 10:47).

Many years ago I attended a large gathering of Church members in the city of Berlin, Germany. A spirit of quiet reverence permeated the gathering as an organ prelude of hymns was played. I gazed at those who sat before me. There were mothers and fathers and relatively few children. The majority of those who sat on crowded benches were women about middle age—and alone. Suddenly it dawned on me that perhaps these were widows, having lost their husbands during World War II. My curiosity demanded an answer to my unexpressed thought, so I asked the conducting officer to take a sort of standing roll call. When he asked all those who were widows to please arise, it seemed that half the vast throng stood. Their faces reflected the grim effect of war’s cruelty. Their hopes had been shattered, their lives altered, and their future had in a way been taken from them. Behind each countenance was a personal travail of tears. I addressed my remarks to them and to all who have loved, then lost, those most dear.
Frederick W. Babbel, who accompanied Elder Ezra Taft Benson on his postwar visit to Europe to assist the struggling Saints, recounts in his book On Wings of Faith one heartrending account. A woman, even the mother of four small children, had been newly widowed. Her husband, young and handsome, whom she loved more than life itself, had been killed during the final days of the frightful battles in their homeland of East Prussia. She and her children were forced to flee to West Germany, a distance of a thousand miles. The weather was mild as they began their long and difficult trek on foot. Constantly being faced with dangers from panicky refugees and marauding troops was difficult enough, but then came the cold of winter, with its accompanying snow and ice. Her resources were meager; now they were gone. All she had was her strong faith in God and in the gospel as revealed to the latter-day prophet Joseph Smith.
And then one morning the unthinkable happened. She awakened with a chill in her heart. The tiny form of her three-year-old daughter was cold and still, and she realized that death had claimed her. With great effort the mother prepared a shallow grave and buried her precious child.
Death, however, was to be her companion again and again on the journey. Her seven-year-old perished, and then her five-year-old. Her despair was all-consuming. Finally, as she was reaching the end of her travel, the baby died in her arms. She had lost her husband and all her children. She had given up all her earthly goods, her home, and even her homeland.
From the depths of her despair, she knelt and prayed more fervently than she had ever prayed in her life: “Dear Heavenly Father, I do not know how I can go on. I have nothing left—except my faith in thee. I feel amidst the desolation of my soul an overwhelming gratitude for the atoning sacrifice of thy Son, Jesus Christ. I know that because he suffered and died, I shall live again with my family; that because he broke the chains of death, I shall see my children again in the flesh and will have the joy of raising them. Though I do not at this moment wish to live, I will do so, that we may be reunited as a family and return, together, to thee.” This prayer, this testimony sustained her until finally she reached Karlsruhe, her destination.

Both of my parents served missions. At a young age I heard their mission stories and dreamt of the day when I would be able to serve the Lord as a full-time missionary.
Preparing for my mission was one of the most precious times of my life. I was closer to the Lord than ever before. I received my mission call to the Budapest Hungary Mission and entered the Provo Missionary Training Center (MTC), determined to give my all to my Heavenly Father.
Being at the MTC was an incredibly spiritual experience for me. As I grew closer to the Lord, I sincerely prayed that I was willing to do anything He asked and promised that I would love the Hungarians with my whole heart.
Near the end of my MTC experience, I became ill. After a short stint at home to recoup, I was given the opportunity to continue my mission to Hungary. I was placed with a wonderful trainer, Sister Sunshine Nestor, who taught me how to recognize the daily tender mercies and miracles of the Lord.
After a few months, I became ill again. Although Sister Nestor and I continued to work the best we could, I had to return home yet again.
In my mind I had let the Lord down because I had not served a “full” mission. I was convinced that there were still Hungarians that I “should have” taught if I hadn’t become sick. I wondered if I did not have enough faith to be healed because, after all, the Lord protects His missionaries. I had never considered that my sacrifice to the Lord would not be to give a year and a half of my life, but rather to sacrifice the kind of mission that I had anticipated.
As I walked off the plane coming home, I couldn’t help but think that I had left the most important work of my life behind in the mission field. It took time, but I learned that there was work at home that would bring my life meaning as well.

I’m married to a non-Mormon. Though I sincerely want my husband to join the Church, I’ve found that I need not wait until then to have a marriage that is a little bit of heaven on earth. I’m happy at home, and so is my husband. But it certainly didn’t start that way.
For the first seven years Brent and I were married, I nagged him. Not a lot, but my husband certainly knew that he smoked too much, went out with his friends too often, didn’t spend enough time with me and the children, didn’t handle money very well, drank too much alcohol, and didn’t help enough around the house.
I had two things in my favor though. An earlier divorce had made me vow that I would never leave Brent and that he would never leave without knowing I loved him and wanted him to stay. Consequently, although he packed his bags a couple of times, he never walked out of the house with them.
The other point was that we both had loving natures and a deep regard for each other. Sometimes it got hidden by the anger we felt, but it was always there. Still, his lifestyle created frustrations for me. I realized that Brent wasn’t changing, and my frustrations were making our home life unpleasant.
One day in Relief Society we were told that the woman establishes the atmosphere of the home. That made me think, and I began looking for magazine articles and books to help me. I sat down with myself and analyzed what I was doing.
The first thing I realized was that seven years of nagging had produced no results; Brent knew by now what I didn’t like, so I might as well stop repeating myself.
Second, if I couldn’t change him I would have to change me and find ways to live cheerfully with what he was. I needed to work on my perfection, not his.
Third, I could never love him as I should if I was constantly thinking I might someday have to choose between him and the Church.
Fourth, I must let him take his rightful place as head of the family in all things, even decisions involving the Church.
From Relief Society lessons, Sunday School classes, personal scripture study, various books, and much prayer, I developed a plan.
I decided to begin by remaining cheerful when Brent stayed out late. Prayer was the key to this change. The first time Brent came home late to find me in a good mood, his reaction was, “What’s going on here?”
I told him I was wasting too much energy worrying about him and so was asking our Heavenly Father to take care of him because he had more influence on circumstances than I had. I also said that Brent had enough sense to keep himself out of trouble. He laughed, and within two months was phoning me if he planned on being out late. He was also coming home consistently earlier since he had a pleasant wife to come home to. It was hard. I had to discipline myself; when I couldn’t control my anger after he arrived home from drinking late, I learned to leave the house. But the results were worth it: our quarrels over Brent’s drinking were drastically reduced.
Encouraged by the good experience, I sought new ways to eliminate other points of contention.
I quit nagging Brent to take us on outings. Instead, I planned outings and family home evening for us, then invited him to come with us. Sometimes he did come, sometimes he didn’t. We were glad to have him with us, but went ahead without him if he was busy. I also invited myself along if he was going somewhere we would enjoy. If he said no, I didn’t let it bother me.
Even more important, I began finding ways to communicate my love to him. I began thanking him for every chore he had done and every compliment, gift, good turn, considerate action, and show of affection he gave me. I also started complimenting him on the way he dressed, on his sense of humor—on every good point I noticed. Needless to say, I began seeing more and more good things about him. The more I saw, the more my respect grew, and the more I loved him.
Slowly I learned to really think of him as the head of the house. I learned to go to him and ask for his help when I had a problem instead of accusing and blaming whenever I made a mistake. Doors of communication that had been shut for years began opening.
Then, carefully, I started asking his permission to go to church functions or take the children somewhere. At first he said, “Go ahead. You’ll do it even if I say ‘no.’” But by not doing things I knew he objected to, he eventually learned I honored his wishes and he took more interest in what we were doing.
And I worked on improving myself. Brent disliked to come home to unwashed dishes, so I resolved to have the dishes washed no matter what else was left undone. I also resolved to get more sleep so I’d be more pleasant to come home to. That would take more efficiency than I had. I studied, planned my schedule, and then replanned it. My children helped more willingly after I told them I needed their help in making our home a happy place. I lost some weight, dressed more neatly, and let my hair grow a little longer because Brent likes it better that way. I especially worked on forgetting what I wanted Brent to do for me and concentrated on what I could do to make him feel more loved.
It is now four years later and I am still working on all of these areas, but the blessings can’t be counted. Months ago Brent paid me the supreme compliment of saying he would never have had the confidence to recently start his own business without my support. Daily I feel loved and cherished.
A smile over the heads of our children, holding my hand as we walk down the street, his teasing to make me laugh, telephone calls to let me know he misses me, small gifts that say “I love you,” a lunch date without the children—all these things show me he loves me. And when he tells me he wants us to be married forever, I am completely happy.
He has changed greatly. He has quit smoking, he doesn’t drink as much, enjoys spending time with us, and takes one child at a time on a special outing every few weeks. He is a kind, loving husband and father, interested in what we do and think and feel.
Our love for him is possibly helping him move toward baptism. But if he chooses not to join the Church, the love and peace in our home and the growth and development I’ve experienced through trying to apply gospel principles is reward enough.

A few years ago we visited my mom’s friend in Texas. While visiting their family, their youngest child became sick. That night, I knelt down with her sister and explained how to pray. We prayed that her little sister would feel better. The next day she was feeling much better. I’m so glad we prayed for her to get better. My mom said she was proud of me for teaching my friend how I pray to Heavenly Father.

Morning RecessMandy, Mandy, trick or treat. How many treats did Mandy eat? One, two, three, four …
… eight, nine, ten, eleven—out!Ha ha! Mandy’s a klutz. My turn.
… four, five, six—out!Ouch!
Lunch RecessMandy, when I fell, why didn’t you laugh at me?I almost did, but I remembered that Jesus wants me to be kind.
Why should you care what He wants?Because of what He did for me.
What was that?Let’s share desserts and talk about it.

Over the years we have enjoyed some very exciting and fun family vacations. In an effort to add value and excitement to the vacation, we have often made the actual announcement of the vacation an event itself. For example, when we traveled to Florida to visit Disney World, we cut out magazine pictures of things like palm trees, the Everglades, and alligators. Each week during family home evening we would present one of these pictures, and the children would try to guess where we were going. Prior to a family vacation to New York we gave the children “I Love New York” T-shirts and had them put them on while in the dark. Then, on the count of three we turned on the lights to reveal the summer vacation plans. It was a thrill to see the excitement in the faces of our children when they discovered where we were headed.

This summer we decided our vacation would be different. Rather than just take a vacation, we wanted to have an experience. We applied to be in the Hill Cumorah Pageant in Palmyra, New York. As parents, we knew that this would be a wonderful experience for our family and an opportunity for them to feel of the Spirit as they portrayed the sacred stories of the Book of Mormon on the very hill where the gold plates had been buried. We also knew that it might not sound as exciting as Disney World or New York City, so we intentionally decided to just let these vacation plans slip out in casual conversation.

My conversation with my fourteen-year-old son went something like this: “Hey, by the way, your Mom and I are so excited that our family has been accepted to be part of the Hill Cumorah Pageant this summer. We will be spending seventeen days in Palmyra, New York. Isn’t that great?”

I curiously awaited his response. As expected, the plans did not elicit the normal outburst of excitement. All I got was a blank stare.

After a long pause he gave me a thoughtful and respectful response. “Dad, no offense,” he said, “but this kind of reminds me of being in second grade, when the teacher comes into class all excited about a field trip to a museum and we just have to slap a smile on our faces and pretend we’re excited as well.” He finished up the conversation by saying, “Are you sure that you and Mom aren’t just wanting to relive your performing glory days?”

I assured him that was not our intent. Quite the opposite, our hope was that our participation in the pageant would place our children in an environment in which they would have an opportunity to have their very own personal and meaningful spiritual experiences. It would be a way for them to build their own testimony and place a stone in their own monument that they would always remember.

The day we arrived at the pageant was particularly hot and humid. We gathered for instructions on how the event would unfold. Within moments we were alive with the idea of portraying the stories of the Book of Mormon on the Hill Cumorah. The children were excited as they received their roles, tried on costumes, and began rehearsals. Those seventeen days were filled with opportunities to feel of the Spirit as we reenacted scenes from the Book of Mormon, visited the Sacred Grove, and relived details of the restored gospel.

A week ago today we returned from the pageant. My once-skeptical son is now earnestly asking if we could please do this again. As we traveled home we all exchanged our favorite quotes from the now-memorized script and spoke of the memories that we would carry with us. We all felt a renewed commitment to nurture future spiritual experiences. In an effort to follow Moroni’s exhortation “to remember these things,” we took time together as a family to write down in our journals what we had experienced and how we felt. These delicate, precious memories deserved all our efforts to preserve them. After all, it is possible that the very recollection of these moments at a yet undetermined time in the future might provide much-needed strength. This experience certainly served as a very large stone in each of our monuments to remember.

President Lee often told another story of when his mother had saved him from serious injury: Louisa had been making soap one day and had a large pan of lye on a high shelf so that the younger children would not get into it. She asked Harold to help her get the pan down. Suddenly the pan slipped from their grip, and the burning lye spilled over Harold’s face, head, and arms. Louisa grabbed Harold so that he couldn’t run away, then kicked off the lid from a barrel of pickles that she had just made. Scooping up the vinegar in her hand, she washed the lye off her son. The vinegar helped neutralize the lye, thus saving Harold from being badly scarred.