Gospel Story Finder

Stephanie Cole and Tiana Karren have been close friends since they were two years old. Even going to different schools hasn’t gotten in the way of their friendship. This year, the two Laurels from the Saratoga Ward, in the California Saratoga Stake, decided to turn that friendship into good works with a joint Personal Progress project.
One day last fall, Stephanie was talking about how much her younger cousins like to sing and how they wanted to be in a choir. Stephanie, who loves music and has played piano since kindergarten, suggested she might organize a children’s choir. When her mom casually mentioned the conversation to the ward Primary chorister, the chorister jumped at the opportunity and signed Stephanie on in short order.
The children’s choir seemed like the perfect Value Project—until Stephanie counted the children in the Primary. “I knew right away that this was a bigger task than I could handle on my own,” says Stephanie.
Knowing that her friend Tiana loved music, she enlisted her help. “Sometimes it was really challenging to get the children to even listen and pay attention,” says Tiana.
When the day finally arrived for the program, Stephanie accompanied the children on piano, and Tiana directed. The children sang beautifully!
“Our teamwork really paid off,” says Stephanie. “So many people came up after and told us how much they enjoyed the program.”
After 12 hours of work, the Primary program was done. The girls continued to hold practices with the children’s choir to finish the project’s needed hours—and for fun! But they didn’t stop there.
“Ashley, my younger sister, was always trying to talk me into coaching her basketball team,” says Stephanie. “I’ve been playing on a basketball team since fourth grade, and I love the game so I figured, why not?” Once again Tiana responded to Stephanie’s call for help. At first, it looked like another good opportunity for a Personal Progress project. In the end it became a labor of love in which they ended up working beyond their required hours.
“Not only did we get to be involved in something we both love,” says Tiana, “but it was even more fun when we found out that all but three of the girls on the team are members of our ward and the other girls are all their friends.”
Needless to say, coaching the young team has not been without challenges. For starters, Tiana and Stephanie had to make time in their busy schedules for three full months of weekly practices and Saturday games, not to mention time spent making phone calls to keep parents updated.
Tiana laughs when asked about the other challenges they faced, noting that “the players are the best of friends, and sometimes they love talking even more than they love basketball!”
Stephanie says the hardest part of coaching was teaching basketball skills that are second nature to her and Tiana but are new to the team and especially the younger girls who have never played before.
Tiana added that coaching this team has made her think about what it means to be a good example. “We had to be careful to treat each player fairly and impartially even though we both have younger sisters on the team,” she says.
Tiana and Stephanie taught the girls to work together as a unit, just as they had to learn to work together as coaches. On this team, no girl is a stranger, and no girl is left out.
When asked about her coaches, 11-year-old Leah Williams says, “I totally look up to them. Not only are they really good basketball players and my coaches, but they are also my best friends. I know that when they tell me what to do I can trust them.” She added that someday she would like to coach a team herself.
Eleven-year-old Abby Hulme, who had never played on a basketball team before, said she was more comfortable with Stephanie and Tiana than she would have been with a coach she didn’t know.
Linda Williams, the Saratoga Ward Young Women president (and Leah’s mom), commented that she was impressed that Stephanie and Tiana are so willing to share their talents and what they love with others.
A Primary choir. A girls’ basketball team. Who knows what’s next for these two Laurels? One thing is sure, though—they know that when they are in the service of others, they are in the service of their Heavenly Father. Understanding that principle helped them to see that Personal Progress doesn’t have to be an unwelcome chore or extra work.
“Find a way to do the things you are interested in anyway,” suggests Stephanie.
Of course, not all Personal Progress projects are meant to be done as a team. But as Tiana says, “Doing it with a friend makes it more fun.”

I was living up in Canada. I had purchased a farm. It was run-down. I went out one morning and saw a currant bush. It had grown up over six feet (two meters) high. It was going all to wood. There were no blossoms and no currants. I was raised on a fruit farm in Salt Lake before we went to Canada, and I knew what ought to happen to that currant bush. So I got some pruning shears and clipped it back until there was nothing left but stumps. It was just coming daylight, and I thought I saw on top of each of these little stumps what appeared to be a tear, and I thought the currant bush was crying. I was kind of simpleminded (and I haven’t entirely gotten over it), and I looked at it and smiled and said, “What are you crying about?” You know, I thought I heard that currant bush say this:
“How could you do this to me? I was making such wonderful growth. I was almost as big as the shade tree and the fruit tree that are inside the fence, and now you have cut me down. Every plant in the garden will look down on me because I didn’t make what I should have made. How could you do this to me? I thought you were the gardener here.”
That’s what I thought I heard the currant bush say, and I thought it so much that I answered. I said, “Look, little currant bush, I am the gardener here, and I know what I want you to be. I didn’t intend you to be a fruit tree or a shade tree. I want you to be a currant bush, and someday, little currant bush, when you are laden with fruit, you are going to say, ‘Thank you, Mr. Gardener, for loving me enough to cut me down. Thank you, Mr. Gardener.’”

Even during the horror of World War II in the Netherlands—with my husband in hiding, bombs exploding, cold and hunger—the Spirit of our loving Father kept us close to God and close to the Saints. One day when I was serving as Relief Society president, I went with my ten-year-old daughter to visit an older sister who lived alone. When we arrived at Sister Smit’s small home she was reading. She told us she was so hungry that she had decided to read the Bible, because spiritual food could fill her, too.

In those days food was rationed, and in my pocket was a coupon for a loaf of bread for our children. I felt so concerned for this hungry sister that I gave my daughter the coupon and sent her to buy bread for Sister Smit. On the way home, I wondered how I would tell my children that I had given away the bread. I knew I had done the right thing, but now what was I going to feed them.

Upon arriving home, I found the answer. Some family friends in Zwolle had arranged for a letter to be hand-carried to us by their nephew. With the letter were three bread coupons.

Over the years, our Heavenly Father has continued to bless us in miraculous ways. In 1947 our daughter was called to serve a mission. Although we had very little money, and our family would greatly miss the income from her job, we agreed to support her. Never was our family so blessed as during our daughter’s mission. Occasionally someone would tell me that they wished their child could serve a mission, but that they didn’t have the money. I always told them that we didn’t have the money either, but that the Lord blessed us so that somehow we were able to support her each month.

As I look back over my eighty years, I feel that among my greatest privileges in life has been to know that I am a child of God, and that he will guide me through mortality if I will stay close to him. And if I am worthy, he will be waiting to greet me in his “holy courts on high.”

I was 12 years old when Gilbert, a category five hurricane, hit Jamaica.1 I remember being in a church meeting a few months earlier when a message from President Ezra Taft Benson (1899–1994), then prophet of the Church and the beloved prophet of my childhood, invited the Saints to prepare for emergencies through water and food storage, staying out of debt and saving as much as possible. In my family, trying to have food storage seemed impossible, and for a 12-year-old boy, it just did not seem important. Furthermore, at the time the message came, there was no immediate need to heed that counsel.
On the morning the hurricane was expected to arrive, I went to school. It was raining, and when I got to the school gate it was locked with the security guard telling all students to go home. His question to all of us was, “Didn’t you watch the news?” It was my first hurricane experience and one I would never forget.
That night, throughout the turbulence of the hurricane with howling winds and crashing roofs, my family prayed, held each other and cried. I remember we had visitors staying with us from Canada and the woman crying into her husband’s arms asking why they came to Jamaica to die.
The light of the next morning made it clear that Hurricane Gilbert was the worst hurricane Jamaica had experienced in a long time. It wreaked havoc on our country and many households would be without electricity, water and basic food supplies for weeks. In my home, we had made minimal preparations and were among the many wishing we could get bread, ice, meat, or crackers. I longed for a cold drink of water or a nice slice of warm bread. I wondered if we would ever stop eating corned beef and tinned mackerel. We had many dark nights because candles were scarce, and the places to buy lamp oil were like battlefields of war.
I share this story from my childhood because I heard my grandmother and many members of the Church testify in the weeks following this terrible disaster that they remembered hearing the letter from the prophet read in sacrament meeting to prepare, and they all expressed regret that they did not. Even though this was a difficult lesson to learn, it was also testimony building because all in attendance declared their sure knowledge that we were being led by prophets and apostles who knew how to guide us. For a boy of 12 years old who had just experienced something unforgettable, these testimonies entered my heart, and I decided then to heed the warnings of prophets.

Becka stood at the kitchen sink, looking through snow-covered pine trees at the sloping meadow beyond. She was dreaming of using her brother’s old skis.
“Honey, when are you going to gather the eggs?” her mother asked. “I’d like to make some custard pies.”
Becka turned from the window with a sigh. “I’ll get them now,” she replied. “I just wish Tim had shoveled the walk before he decided to go somewhere.”
Mother chuckled. “He didn’t just ‘go somewhere.’ He’s helping your father with the snowplow. They’re both out working in this cold right now. That’s more important than clearing a path to the barn, don’t you agree? First things first.”
Becka shrugged and went onto the sun porch. “I suppose,” she mumbled as she rammed her feet into her fur-lined boots and shoved her arms into the sleeves of her jacket. Wrapping a scarf around her neck, she called, “Need anything else while I’m out there?”
“Potatoes and a cabbage,” Mother called back. “I’ll make a pot of ham, cabbage, and potatoes for later.”
With a sigh, Becka grabbed the egg basket and opened the door. Winter greeted her with a blast as she stepped out onto the drift-filled back steps. Grumbling, she struggled through the snow toward the barn. It wouldn’t have taken Tim very long to clear this snow, she thought as clumps of it fell into her boots.
Becka forgot all about Tim and the cold when she saw fresh tracks leading to the back barn door and disappearing inside! She put her boots next to the tracks and saw that they weren’t much bigger than her own. The wind rose and the door swayed slightly.
Quietly Becka stepped over the worn threshold. The farm equipment stood silent guard by the back doors, and everything seemed in order. Not even the straw on the floor seemed disturbed. Still, Becka knew that someone was in the barn with her. She tiptoed forward past the empty stalls. Hearing potatoes rattling in the bin, she quickly ducked into the last stall and peeked cautiously over its side. Someone with his back to her was taking potatoes. Becka counted one, two, three, as they dropped into a burlap bag. Then the intruder turned toward the apples—it was Scott Halligan!
Scott counted out three apples, then moved on to the carrots. He smoothed the dust from one long tender carrot and bit into it. He chewed thoughtfully, then took a handful of carrots and a handful of beets. Finally he stood upright and threw the bag over his shoulder.
Becka couldn’t believe it—Scott Halligan was stealing food from them! She wanted to say something but waited to see what he would do next. When he stooped and crept through the door of the attached chicken coop, she tiptoed forward and pressed an eye to a knothole.
“Sorry, old girl,” Scott said gently, to a chicken, “but Gramps is sick and we need food. He’d kill me if he knew what I was doing, but you understand, don’t you?” He took an egg from a nest. “Two more and I’ll be gone.” Scott wrapped the eggs in a ragged towel and nestled them gently in the burlap bag.
As he turned to leave the chicken coop, Becka flattened herself against the wall and squeezed behind an old butter churn. She watched him leave the barn, then thought about what she’d seen.
She didn’t know Scott very well. All she knew for sure was that his cranky old grandfather had taken him and his little brother to raise after their parents were killed in an automobile accident late in the fall. Scott sometimes wore ragged clothes to school, but they were always clean.
Now she hurried out of the barn and followed his tracks through the snow to the thicket at the edge of the fence. When she heard Scott ahead, she crouched behind the snow-covered branches. Scott was kneeling in the snow, tying the burlap bag to a sled. That done, he pulled it carefully toward the hill that joined their properties. Becka watched him quietly. Scott hadn’t taken much.
Becka hurried back to the house. She clomped inside the sun porch and stood in the doorway of the kitchen.
Mother looked up and smiled. “Did you get the eggs, cabbage, and potatoes, honey?”
Becka shook her head slowly. “No,” she said in a whisper. “I didn’t.”
“Becka? What’s the matter, honey?” Mother stopped stirring, sat down with the bowl on her lap, and called Becka to her.
Becka’s eyes sparkled with tears. “I just saw Scott Halligan stealing food from our barn,” she said quietly. “And I didn’t stop him.”
Mother’s eyes widened. “What?”
“Scott Halligan. I don’t think you know him—he and his little brother live with their grandfather, Mr. Kelly.”
“You mean Seth Kelly, who lives over the hill?”
Becka nodded. “I’ve only seen Scott at school. He’s real quiet there, but I heard him tell our chickens that his grandfather is sick and they need food. I didn’t stop him, Mom. I know stealing is wrong, but we have so much. …”
Mother pulled her close. “You did the right thing, honey. Now the right thing for me to do is to make a phone call.”
“You won’t report him, Mom!” Becka pleaded.
Mother smiled. “I’m calling the Relief Society president. I don’t think finding out that he took food is nearly as important as finding out that they need it. We’ll get a basket of food ready and pay Mr. Kelly a neighborly visit. He’s never wanted to bother with his neighbors, but it’s time for us to bother with him. I don’t think a custard pie would go to waste there, either,” she added.
Becka grinned. “Thanks, Mom! I hoped you’d feel like that. I’ll get those eggs now.”
“Bring extra potatoes and another cabbage, Becka,” Mother called.
Becka waved and hurried back outside. She looked at the snow-clogged path and smiled. “Then I’ll clear this walk,” she said happily. “First things first.”

The youngest of four children, Robert was born in Idaho Falls, Idaho, on 25 December 1936 to Jack and Blanche Wood. After graduating from high school, he began studies at Stanford University, where he met Dixie Leigh Jones. He then served in the French Mission from 1957 to 1959. When Robert returned to complete his degree in history, he and Dixie began dating. He recalls, “Probably the most significant question she asked after we had been dating for a while was when she looked me straight in the eye and said, ‘Robert, are you going to stay active?’” His answer was clear, and they were married in the Idaho Falls Temple on 27 March 1961.
The Woods are parents of four daughters and have eight grandchildren. “Two things explain our family,” says Elder Wood. “First, Heavenly Father just sent us four terrific kids. And second, their mother … I would never have been able to do anything that I’ve done professionally or in the Church had I not married the right woman who asked the question, ‘Are you going to stay active?’”

It was New Year’s Day, and a snowstorm had just blanketed the small mountain town of Estes Park, Colorado, where I lived. Filled with the excitement of the holiday season, my older brother, Roger, and I had gone outside to play in a field near our home. A little lake where we had played on the ice many times before now lay underneath a fresh mantle of snow, flat and absolutely flawless.
No one worried about the lake being unsafe at that time of year—we lived at such a high altitude that the cold weather generally insured that small lakes would be frozen. But as we were playing, Roger suddenly fell through a soft spot in the ice. I was only six years old, and I didn’t know what to do. I could see no sticks around to pull him out with; everything was covered by snow. His heavy clothing soon pulled him under the water.
I ran all the way home through the deep snow, over a mile, to get my father. We drove back to the lake, and he dove through the ice and somehow found my brother. He tried to revive him, but by that time Roger had drowned.
That experience left me with several feelings. First, I saw the strength of the gospel in my parents’ lives. We were the only members of the Church in our community. Everyone rallied around my parents to give them support and comfort, but I think that the whole community gained more comfort and understanding by watching how a knowledge of the gospel helped my family handle that very difficult situation.
Second, I learned about the purpose of this mortal experience. We come to earth to gain a body. Some of us are going to live on the earth a shorter time than others. When you’re literally side by side with your brother, and he goes through the ice and drowns and you don’t, it gives you a whole different way of thinking about life. It could have just as easily been me that drowned. But I’ve always felt that my brother’s mission here on earth had been completed and that he was just “called home” at an earlier age than most of us. But being the one who was allowed to remain, it was important to live as well as I could so that not only Heavenly Father but also my brother would be pleased with my actions.
Third, I learned a great deal from the courage exhibited by my father. He risked his life to break through that ice and dive underneath it to try to rescue his ten-year-old son. It was an immediate response; he did what he felt he needed to do. He showed great love, courage, and strength of character.

They Care about Helping
Children from the Dartmouth Nova Scotia Stake got together to make warm, soft pillowcases for children in a local hospital. “It helped us think about how they feel,” said Ben S., age 11.
Using stencils, fabric pens, and sewing machines, everyone worked hard designing and decorating their gifts of love. “I feel happy that we are caring about others and not just about ourselves,” said Cora C., age 10.

I will never forget a sauna-hot day in the lush rain forest of southeastern Nigeria. My husband and I had traveled to one of the most remote locations in our mission so he could conduct temple recommend interviews with members in the Ikot Eyo district. Some in this growing district had been Church members less than two years. All the members lived 3,000 miles away from the nearest temple in Johannesburg, South Africa. None had received their temple endowment.
These members knew the appointed day each month we would come to their district, but even we didn’t know the exact hour we would arrive; nor could we call, for telephones were rare in that part of West Africa. So these committed African Saints gathered early in the morning to wait all day if necessary for their temple recommend interviews. When we arrived, I noticed among those waiting in the searing heat were two Relief Society sisters dressed in bold-patterned wrappers, white blouses, and the traditional African head-ties.
Many hours later, after all the interviews were completed, as my husband and I drove back along that sandy jungle trail, we were stunned when we saw these two sisters still walking. We realized they had trekked from their village—a distance of 18 miles round trip—just to obtain a temple recommend they knew they would never have the privilege of using.
These Nigerian Saints believed the counsel of President Howard W. Hunter: “It would please the Lord for every adult member to be worthy of—and to carry—a current temple recommend, even if proximity to a temple does not allow immediate or frequent use of it.” In her hand, carefully wrapped in a clean handkerchief, each sister carried her precious temple recommend. I carry their examples of faith carefully wrapped in my heart.

She stood suddenly and walked into the house. Christian picked up the bundle of food she had brought him and began walking toward the city of Drammen. The elders had told him there were other Mormons there. Light, powder flakes of snow were falling silently on the road.
After several weeks on the road, Christian had used all his money, and he was forced to beg for food. At night he slept against fallen trees in the woods, curled up, pulling his coat tight against the cold. He felt more alone and cold than he ever had in his life. The loneliness bit at his insides even more than his hunger did.
At last he reached Drammen, but he found no success, no work, and no one knew of any Mormons or they were unwilling to help him find them. For days he wandered, knocking on doors, asking for work and direction. A blackness of despair grew inside him.
While he was looking for shelter against a growing snow storm one evening, he saw a small cottage on the edge of the woods just outside of Drammen. He decided to knock on one more door. He told the woman who answered that he was looking for work. She smiled and told Christian that her husband was not home at the moment and that Christian should come back later and talk to him. She offered him slices of bread and cheese. He took them, thanked her, turned, and walked back into the woods. In the fading daylight he found a snow-covered brush pile with a hollow inside and crawled into it. His nose and fingers were numb with the cold, and inside he felt lost, without hope. A complete lassitude came over him.
The woman reminded him of his own mother, and he longed to be home. He remembered how, on cold nights like this one, his father would sit next to the fire, smoking a long-stemmed pipe, telling stories of the old days when Odin and Thor thundered in the heavens and brave men fought the demons of the mist. His thoughts became unclear and dreamy as a drowsiness came over him. He knew it was the cold and that if he went to sleep he would freeze. For a while he accepted the hopelessness and began drifting into a comfortable, warm sleep.
Then he remembered his grandfather’s words.
“There are steps in life that can change your entire future and the future of entire generations. Take those steps carefully, Christian, in the direction you believe to be right, no matter how difficult they appear to be, and God will be with you.”
Christian crawled from under the shelter. The snow was falling heavily.
“Surely,” Christian said aloud, “if God is my Father, he can help me. I know he will.”
Christian knelt in the fresh snow and began praying.
In the darkness a short distance away, a figure watched and listened. When Christian stood from his prayers, the figure approached him.
A tall man, Moen Hotvedtvien, stood looking at the slender boy.
He extended his hand. A tear fell on his rough, carved face and mixed with moisture from melting snowflakes.
“I am Brother Hotvedtvien, and I am also a Mormon,” he said. He led Christian back to the house where the woman had given Christian bread and cheese. The house was warm.
The Hotvedtviens had no children of their own, and they took Christian in as their son. Moen was a carpenter and cabinetmaker; he taught Christian his trade.

I have learned for myself, brothers and sisters, that there is a God and that he loves us and that through the Holy Ghost he answers our prayers when we are sufficiently humble and meek to listen. As a young missionary in Central America, I was the leader over the missionaries in a particular country. We all went on a p-day activity to see the crater of a supposedly extinct volcano. There were two ways to get down into the crater of the volcano. One was to go down some steep ledges into the face of the volcano and the other was to walk through a jungle area around the rim of the volcano and come in on the back side that gently sloped to the crater. Most of the missionaries took the path through the jungle area. Some of us went down the cliffs. We met safely at the bottom and enjoyed seeing the volcano, (which, by the way, erupted a couple of months later). As we prepared to leave, it began to rain. I had not brought my raincoat or umbrella. I was getting soaked as we walked, and said to the others, I’m getting sopping wet and the rest of you have protection, just tell me how to get back through this jungle area, and I will meet you at the bus. I always tried to be an obedient missionary, and I knew I should always be with my companion, but out in the middle of the jungle there was no danger of immorality, so it seemed harmless to go ahead alone. Off I went. I soon came to a little fork in the path, and did what I thought I had been told to do. I continued for sometime through some very dense jungle growth. I wondered why the elders and sisters hadn’t complained about having to go through this. I could hardly see because the rain was now falling in torrents and my glasses were muddy. I tried to go faster but soon realized I was lost. I tried to retrace my steps, but I had left no trail. I began to panic. I ran and pushed through the dense undergrowth. At one point I fell into a big pit that had been covered over by vines and other growth. I managed to crawl out, but it was very obvious to me that I was lost in a jungle, I had no idea where I was or how I was ever going to get out.

Finally I dropped to my knees in the mud and told Heavenly Father I was awfully sorry and that I really needed His help. In my mind I could see the headlines “Missionary Lost in the Jungle” or “Other Missionaries Lost Trying to Find Their Leader,” or “Mission President in Helicopter Looking for Lost Missionaries.” I was absolutely terrified, not only for my own safety, but for fear that others would come looking for me and be placed in jeopardy themselves. After prayer, the only thought that came to me was that I should climb a tree and yell. I had been yelling, so that didn’t seem like much of a prompting, but I climbed a tree. I remember seeing an orchid on the limb that I crawled out on, and began yelling as loud as I could yell. I was really discouraged and frightened. As I recall, there was a brief ray of light that shone through the dark sky and gave me hope. I yelled louder. I thought I heard something so I yelled again and then I climbed down out of the tree and continued to yell, to listen and follow in the direction of what I hoped I was hearing. After what seemed like an eternity, I found my way to the company of two wonderful missionary companions. They told me they had come looking for me, but that they were certain that I had not gone the way I had because it was going exactly opposite of the way I should be going and was heading deeper into the jungle. They told me they had turned around and started back but felt to go just a little further before turning back. As they did so they heard my voice and began calling to me.

I know through this and many other experiences, some as recent as this week, that God hears and answers prayers and that the promptings of the Holy Ghost are real. I had been unwise. I hadn’t committed a great sin, but I had been disobedient. I assure you, my heart and mind were open and eager for inspiration.

Rain poured as a cold wind blew. I saw trees that had been uprooted and lost all their leaves. The power was off in some areas due to damaged electrical lines. The scene before me was now like a haunted place. Everything had been blown away. People were starving for food and longing for shelter.
My heart was filled with the desire to serve. My family and other members of the Church had traveled to a poor community where a typhoon had devastated thousands of homes and taken thousands of lives. We were there to give relief goods to the victims.
When we first arrived, I had seen the mourning in people’s faces. I realized then how blessed we were that our homes hadn’t been destroyed.
It was still raining when we started handing out relief packs at a muddy, roofless gym, but that didn’t matter to us. The relief packs—sets of plastic trays, kettles, plates, spoons, forks, glasses, and flasks—we nicknamed “home-return kits.” As my family and I handed relief packs to the people, they gave us warm smiles and thank-yous.
The priceless gratitude of the people uplifted me, and I felt the influence of the Spirit. Their smiles manifested that there is hope and that Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ will never leave us and will always bring light to our dark days.

When Jacinta Mauafu left her office late one night after completing some urgent and important work, she rushed home to attend to her very sick husband, Maeli Maika Mauafu. Her manager at the time repeatedly counselled Jacinta to put the work of the Lord first, and then she would be blessed. Jacinta believed that if she was doing the Lord’s work, her husband would be okay. So, it came as a huge shock when Maeli died just half an hour after she arrived home.
Unable to reconcile this experience in her heart and in her mind, Jacinta spoke of the deep hurt she felt at the loss of Maeli, and to be frank, she felt betrayed because the Lord had not blessed her, even though she consistently worked many hours to accomplish the translation work for the Church by the deadline. Instead, the Lord took her husband.
Too sad and too angry at the unexpected outcome, Jacinta decided never to return to work—it had cost her dearly. After Maeli’s funeral, people kept calling Jacinta to find out when she would be back in the office. Jacinta’s help to proofread a curriculum manual on the teachings of President Joseph F. Smith (1838–1918) was urgently needed. Eventually, Jacinta told them she wasn’t coming back to work permanently. However, given the nature of that curriculum work, she agreed to return, but only to complete that one project. While editing the text, Jacinta learned of the heartbreak the prophet had experienced. His wife Julina had been desperately ill and although President Smith wanted to stay at her bedside and attend to her, she insisted he leave and go and do the Lord’s work. A short time after, while delivering a talk in a church meeting, someone came into the room and handed President Smith a note—it informed him that his wife had passed away.
Tears spilled down Jacinta’s cheeks as she realised the Lord had not abandoned her! He had given her 30 minutes to be with Maeli before he died. That was her blessing! She’d been given 30 minutes. As heartbreaking as her experience had been, Jacinta mourned for President Smith who didn’t get this same blessing of 30 minutes with his wife.
Today, Jacinta speaks humbly of her relationship with Heavenly Father. She feels He is always there for her—and looking back, she can identify the many ways He supported her and strengthened her.

“My father was a big man, six feet four inches tall. He was probably as fine an athlete as any in the state. He could run, pole-vault, and throw the discus. He played on the team that won the first Church M-Men basketball championship. He was also on the all-state basketball team. He might have had a promising athletic career, but his dad died, and as the oldest of eleven children, he had to leave school to help raise his brothers and sisters. Dad was a great soul, very generous, and he worked in the Scouting program for forty years.
“My mother was only five feet two inches tall. A very capable individual, she had been a schoolteacher before I was born, and she was an elocutionist (one who excels in public speaking). Before I started school, she taught me all the things that are taught in the first, second, and third grades. When my two brothers and two sisters came along, she didn’t have as much time to spend teaching me, and then I was just ordinary in school.
“During the Depression, my grandfather came to live with us. He had crossed the plains eighteen times, bringing people to Utah from Missouri. He would get an assignment to do this just as you might be assigned to work on the welfare farm. I sat at his feet and listened to his stories about hauling rocks for the temple, crossing the plains, and hunting bears. He was a good hunter—he had to be to survive.
“This grandfather was a stake clerk, and he would go around the stake to audit the books. He would travel in a horse and buggy maybe forty miles to a town where a ward was, audit the books, stay overnight, then go twenty-five miles to another town. One time when he was in Oak City, he had a feeling that he should return home that night. He hitched up his horse and buggy and drove twenty-six miles to his home, getting there just as the sun was coming up. He hurried into the house and asked his wife what was wrong. She told him that their youngest daughter was near death. He blessed the little girl, and she was made well.
“My mother’s mother really made an impression on me. When I was nine, she had a stroke and could no longer speak. I remember her lying on a bed in my aunt’s home. The doctor thought that she should have a stimulant, so he had some coffee prepared to give to her. She had never drunk coffee, and I can still see the fire in her eyes as she let the doctor know that she wasn’t going to drink any then, either! He got the message, and she didn’t get the coffee.
“My other grandmother, my dad’s mother, was a visiting teacher to a family during a flu epidemic after World War I. The whole family was sick with the flu; three of them had already died. My grandmother went into their home and took care of them and even dressed the bodies of the dead members in preparation for their funeral. I have always been impressed with what a faithful visiting teacher she was.
“I myself came down with smallpox, a deadly disease in those days. I was isolated in the granary, which had a stove. Pillows were tied on my hands so that I couldn’t scratch the big pox that covered my body. The Lord blessed me so that today I don’t have any pockmarks. I also had diphtheria, another deadly disease, and the Lord spared my life then too.
“I loved school and had some wonderful teachers. One of them was ElRay L. Christiansen, who later became a General Authority. He would tell us about different pieces of music and make them live for us. I still have a great love for opera and classical music.”
Elder Reeve believes that children must be acquainted with Heavenly Father. If He is the center of their lives and they love Him and talk with Him, then He can take them through any trial or problem. It might not all be pleasant, but they can survive.
“God is real. He lives, and He loves you. He loves every child; He doesn’t have favorites. He is as close to you as you will let Him be by how you live, how you mind your parents, and how you keep His commandments.”

We in Relief Society commonly hold focus groups as we travel. These are informal gatherings that allow us to hear from our sisters throughout the world. We generally sit in a circle and let our sisters tell us what is on their minds and in their hearts. One of our single general board members recently reported the following episode. A sister about the same age as our board member said, “These single women. I am convinced they simply do not want the responsibilities of children. They don’t get married because they take all their satisfaction from a paycheck.”
I know well what is in the heart of this board member. No one could want a husband and family more than she. She went up to our sister after the meeting and said, “On behalf of the single women of the Church, I want you to know I’d do anything to have your two children, and I do not take satisfaction from my paycheck.” Giving no response, the other sister turned away and started talking to someone else.
My single friend was wounded and angry. She fumed, “Elaine, what our sister said was so untrue. She must never have talked to a single woman if she thinks that. Why do we make false accusations about each other?”
It’s a good question, isn’t it? In fact, it’s a lot like Alma’s question about the “wickedness and infidelity” of the Zoramites. My friend asked the kind of question that each of us might profitably ask when obvious insensitivity and unkindness inflict pain. Why do we do things like that? I believe that as members of the Church we do not intend to inflict pain on others. I think generally our forays into “them and us” talk and action come because of poor vision.
In some cases we simply are blind to the feelings of brothers and sisters close to us because we do not share their experience. A woman recently wrote me: As a single adult I feel I have been forgotten. Perhaps you are thinking that I should be more
faithful, that by trusting in the Lord I will overcome this feeling of being left out and not being cared about. Deep down inside there is a need in me that is not being filled. When I have spoken with those in leadership positions I am . . . forgotten as soon as I have left the room because they are at a loss. I don’t think it is intentional. I think they are in a quandary.
Sometimes when we’re in a quandary, we don’t know what to say or do, so we turn away. Lots of times that is the most hurtful thing we can do. A friend of mine says, “Disagree with me. Speak to me curtly. But don’t ignore me.” I feel the same way. When I talk with someone else, I can learn. I won’t always fully understand. I may not always completely agree. But I will always learn. Sisters and brothers, let us learn from each other by opening our eyes to other perspectives and people.

On that occasion thousands of curious but earnest people stood in long lines to gain entry to the building. A policeman stationed to direct traffic observed that it was the first time he had ever seen the English eager to get into a church.
Those who inspected the building were asked to defer any questions until they had completed the tour. In the evenings I joined the missionaries in talking with those who had questions. As a young couple came down the front steps of the temple, I inquired whether I could help them in any way. The young woman spoke up and said, “Yes. What about this ‘marriage for eternity’ to which reference was made in one of the rooms?” We sat on a bench under the ancient oak that stood near the gate. The wedding band on her finger indicated that they were married, and the manner in which she gripped her husband’s hand evidenced their affection one for another.
“Now to your question,” I said. “I suppose you were married by the vicar.”
“Yes,” she responded, “just three months ago.”
“Did you realize that when the vicar pronounced your marriage he also decreed your separation?”
“What do you mean?” she quickly retorted.
“You believe that life is eternal, don’t you?”
“Of course,” she replied.
I continued, “Can you conceive of eternal life without eternal love? Can either of you envision eternal happiness without the companionship of one another?”
“Of course not,” came the ready response.
“But what did the vicar say when he pronounced your marriage? If I remember the language correctly, he said, among other things, ‘in sickness and in health, for richer or for poorer, for better or for worse, till death do ye part.’ He went as far as he felt his authority would permit him and that was till death separates you. In fact, I think that if you were to question him, he would emphatically deny the existence of marriage and family beyond the grave.
“But,” I continued, “the Father of us all, who loves His children and wants the best for them, has provided for a continuation, under proper circumstances, of this most sacred and ennobling of all human relationships, the relationships of marriage and family.
“In that great and moving conversation between the Savior and His Apostles, Peter declared, ‘Thou art the Christ, the Son of the living God,’ and the Lord responded, ‘Blessed art thou, Simon Bar-jona: for flesh and blood hath not revealed it unto thee, but my Father which is in heaven.’ The Lord then went on to say to Peter and his associates, ‘And I will give unto thee the keys of the kingdom of heaven: and whatsoever thou shalt bind on earth shall be bound in heaven: and whatsoever thou shalt loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven’ (see Matt. 16:13–19).
“In that marvelous bestowal of authority, the Lord gave to His Apostles the keys of the holy priesthood, whose power reaches beyond life and death into eternity. This same authority has been restored to the earth by those same Apostles who held it anciently, even Peter, James, and John.” I continued by saying that following the dedication of the temple on the following Sunday, those same keys of the holy priesthood would be exercised in behalf of the men and women who come into this sacred house to solemnize their marriage. They will be joined in a union which death cannot dissolve and time cannot destroy.
Such was my testimony to this young couple in England.

Last year I did something I’ve wanted to do for years—I gave my parents a book filled with letters from their friends and family. These letters recalled cherished experiences and expressed love and respect for my parents. As a result, my parents were reminded that there are many people who need them, love them, and look to them for inspiration and as an example.
I wasn’t surprised at the number of people who thought of someone they wanted to honor in this way. But I was surprised that everyone seemed convinced it was too difficult for them to do.
Nothing could be further from the truth. Compiling this book was one of the most exciting and enjoyable things I have ever done. I discovered things about my parents that I had never known before. Some of the letters made me laugh, like the one from an old friend who told me about a live chicken that laid an egg on center stage during my Dad’s big scene in the school play. Other letters told of experiences that filled me with overwhelming love and respect, such as the letter I received from a couple who gave my parents credit for inspiring them to marry in the temple.
Based on my experience, here are some suggestions for creating a book of joy, love, and memories:
1. Compile a list of the names and addresses of all the friends and family members that you can think of. Don’t worry if it isn’t complete at first—you can add to it as you go along.
2. Send a letter such as the one that follows:
Dear___________,
I would like to honor my parents, (insert their names here), this year (at Christmas, on their wedding anniversary, on their birthdays, etc.) with a book filled with highlights from their past. I want include letters, stories, memories, and photographs that will remind them of the joy they are to us and others.
Would you please help me with this project by writing down some of your memories of your relationship with Mom and Dad? If you prefer to tape-record your thoughts, I will transcribe them; or you may call and give me the information over the phone, and I will type it. Whatever you send will be treasured.
You can help me further by sending me the names and addresses of other friends of my parents so that I can ask them to participate in the project as well.
I appreciate you help. I am sure you can understand how much this will mean to my parents.
Sincerely, ____________.
Type the letter and mail copies of it to the people on your list.
3. As the letters come in, check the names off your list. Add any new names and addresses you receive, then mail letters to those people.
4. Compile the incoming letters in a book. A photo album, three-ring binder, or padded notebook all work well. The letters can be arranged in alphabetical order with a table of contents at the beginning so they can be easily located. Or they can be divided into sections representing different times in your parents’ lives.
Before you give the book to your parents, you may want to make copies of it to share with your brothers and sisters.

As I prepared for my daughter’s wedding, my mind was so occupied with wedding plans that I rarely thought of anything besides my checklist. One morning I looked at my long list of tasks. I was making progress, but I still needed to do some deep cleaning. I had been putting off cleaning the kitchen blinds, so I decided to tackle that chore.
As I climbed on the counter with my rags, brushes, and cleaner, I could see that it was going to be a dirty job. While I worked, my mind wandered to the story of Martha and Mary, the sisters who had welcomed the Savior into their home. While Martha “was cumbered about much serving,” Mary “sat at Jesus’ feet, and heard his word.” Martha asked Jesus to tell her sister to help with the chores, but the Savior told her that “Mary hath chosen that good part” (see Luke 10:38–42).
“Today I will just have to be Martha,” I thought. The truth was that I had been Martha for several weeks, “cumbered about” with mundane chores and wedding preparations.
My mind wandered again, and I tried to remember when my blinds had last been cleaned so thoroughly. I thought of the two girls who had come to help me get ready for a gathering at my house two years earlier. Together they had scrubbed my kitchen from floor to ceiling, including the blinds. That memory reminded me of their mother, an old friend I hadn’t talked to in years.
At that moment I picked up the phone and dialed her number to tell her about my daughter’s wedding. I didn’t expect her to answer because she taught school, but I happened to call during her planning hour. We spent the next hour laughing, crying, and sharing. She had recently been through a difficult divorce and had been feeling alone and abandoned. As we talked, our spirits were lifted and our hearts were comforted.
I marveled at the way the Lord was able to work through me even while I was doing something as mundane as cleaning blinds. I marveled even more at the truth that He knows and loves each of us enough to send help at the very hour and moment we need it.
That night I smiled as I put a check mark on my list next to “clean the kitchen blinds.” Though I felt a sense of satisfaction from completing the chore, I felt a greater sense of gratitude knowing I had been an instrument in the Lord’s hands. He had shown me how I could be a Mary who chose the “good part” even as I was a Martha “cumbered about” my chores.

Several years ago I was riding on a train from Edinburgh, Scotland, to Glasgow with a noted British lawyer. We had engaged him to present our claim of discrimination by the city council of Glasgow. We were seeking a building permit, which had been repeatedly denied by the city council at the instigation of an opposing ministerial group as not needed inasmuch as there was an abundance of vacant or unused church buildings. We had been granted a hearing before the secretary of state for Scotland, a member of the prime minister’s cabinet.
As the early morning train sped toward Glasgow, I asked the distinguished counsel if he had any additional questions about our church. I was concerned about his limited understanding of our expansion, of why we were building modern church buildings and why we had hundreds of missionaries in Great Britain. He assured me that he was quite comfortable in representing us and presenting our case that to him appeared to have merit.
As we discussed other aspects of our growing presence in Great Britain, he said, “I hear, but it couldn’t be true, that you baptize for dead people.”
I said, “Yes, it is true—not only true that we do it today, but the eternal principle of vicarious service of baptism for the dead was taught during our Savior’s earthly ministry.”
I explained that all of God’s worthy children of all ages can become heirs of salvation in His kingdom. I briefly reminded the lawyer of Jesus teaching Nicodemus that “except a man be born again, he cannot see the kingdom of God.
“Nicodemus [said] unto him, How can a man be born [again] when he is old? can he enter the second time into his mother’s womb, and be born?
“Jesus answered, Verily, verily, I say unto thee, Except a man be born of water and of the Spirit, he cannot enter into the kingdom of God” (John 3:3–5).
I also made reference to the early Apostles’ teachings regarding Christ’s resurrection and the resurrection of all, including Paul’s great statement: “Else what shall they do which are baptized for the dead, if the dead rise not at all? why are they then baptized for the dead?” (1 Cor. 15:29).
The engaged lawyer seemed comfortable. He presented our case effectively. We won our building permit. The chapel now stands in Glasgow, Scotland.

In that company was a Mrs. Jackson. She said:
“About nine o’clock I retired. Bedding had become very scarce so I did not disrobe. I slept until, as it appeared to me, about midnight. I was extremely cold. The weather was bitter. I listened to hear if my husband breathed, he lay so still. I could not hear him. I became alarmed. I put my hand on his body, when to my horror I discovered that my worst fears were confirmed. My husband was dead. I called for help to the other inmates of the tent. They could render me no aid; and there was no alternative but to remain alone by the side of the corpse till morning. Oh, how the dreary hours drew their tedious length along. When daylight came, some of the male part of the company prepared the body for burial. And oh, such a burial and funeral service. They did not remove his clothing—he had but little. They wrapped him in a blanket and placed him in a pile with thirteen others who had died, and then covered him up with snow. The ground was frozen so hard that they could not dig a grave. He was left there to sleep in peace until the trump of God shall sound, and the dead in Christ shall awake and come forth in the morning of the first resurrection. …
“A few days after the death of my husband … the male members of the company had become reduced in number by death and those who remained were so weak and emaciated by sickness, that on reaching the camping place at night, there were not sufficient men with strength enough to raise the poles and pitch the tents. The result was that we camped out with nothing but the vault of Heaven for a roof and the stars for companions. The snow lay several inches deep upon the ground. The night was bitterly cold. I sat down on a rock with one child in my lap and one on each side of me. In that condition I remained until morning.”3