Gospel Story Finder

As youth around the world make the effort to attend seminary, they’re receiving strength in much more than scripture study. Cameron L. of England found that he was blessed in all areas of his life. “Not only does seminary help with the spiritual side of things, but it also helps with school and education,” says Cameron.
He says that “an early start to the day gets your brain into gear. Some of my friends said they were too busy to attend—well, it’s not like you’re going to be reviewing math at 6:00 a.m., are you?” As you study, “the Lord will help you in your exams, and if you go to seminary, He will help you even more,” says Cameron.
Of course, seminary helped Cameron strengthen his testimony as well. He says, “The beginning of my testimony came from the seminary program. At the youthful age of 14, I was really struggling in the gospel. I did not enjoy church, and I got up to things that I shouldn’t have. It was only a matter of months before I would have given up entirely.” But when a friend invited Cameron to attend seminary, he decided to go with her. Then the blessings really began to come.
“I began to feel the Spirit again,” says Cameron. “I started paying more attention in church and attended my Sunday School and priesthood lessons. It became easier, and I started to feel happier. I finally gained a testimony of the gospel for myself.” After two months of seminary, Cameron met with his bishop and was ordained a teacher in the Aaronic Priesthood.
Cameron knows that seminary helps him stand strong against the temptations of the world. “As seminary continued,” he says, “I found it easier to deal with the challenges that the world presents. It’s pretty tough being a youth in the world we live in—sin is surrounding us from all sides. I testify to you that if you attend seminary, you will find the strength to defend yourself against it. Seminary creates a spiritual shield to protect you. Many different trials and temptations have been thrown my way, and seminary has been such a huge help in keeping me on the strait and narrow.”

Some years ago, while visiting the members and missionaries in Australia, I witnessed a sublime example depicting how a treasury of testimony can bless and sanctify a home. The mission president, Horace D. Ensign, and I were traveling by plane the long distance from Sydney to Darwin, where I was to break ground for our first chapel in that city. En route we had a scheduled fueling stop at a remote mining community named Mt. Isaiah As we entered the small airport, a woman and her two young children approached. She said, “I am Judith Louden, a member of the Church, and these are my children. We thought you might be on this flight, so we have come to visit with you during your brief stopover.” She explained that her husband was not a member of the Church and that she and the children were indeed the only members in the entire area. We shared experiences and bore testimony.
Time passed. As we prepared to reboard, Sister Louden looked so forlorn, so alone. She pleaded, “You can’t go yet; I have so missed the Church.” Suddenly, over the loudspeaker there was announced a 30-minute mechanical delay of our flight. Sister Louden whispered, “My prayer has been answered.” She then asked how she might influence her husband to show an interest in the gospel. We counseled her to include him in their home Primary lesson each week and be to him a living testimony of the gospel. I mentioned we would send to her a subscription to the Children’s Friend and additional helps for her family teaching. We urged that she never give up on her husband.
We departed Mt. Isa, a city to which I have never returned. I shall, however, always hold dear in memory that sweet mother and those precious children extending a tear-filled expression and a fond wave of gratitude and good-bye.
Several years later, while speaking at a priesthood leadership meeting in Brisbane, Australia, I emphasized the significance of gospel scholarship in the home and the importance of living the gospel and being examples of the truth. I shared with the men assembled the account of Sister Louden and the impact her faith and determination had had on me. As I concluded, I said, “I suppose I’ll never know if Sister Louden’s husband ever joined the Church, but he couldn’t have found a better model to follow than his wife.”
One of the leaders raised his hand, then stood and declared, “Brother Monson, I am Richard Louden. The woman of whom you speak is my wife. The children [his voice quavered] are our children. We are a forever family now, thanks in part to the persistence and the patience of my dear wife. She did it all.” Not a word was spoken. The silence was broken only by sniffles and marked by the sight of tears.

Every day we make choices. Some aren’t a big deal—what color backpack we carry, for example. Other choices are a big deal—for instance, how we treat other people or whether we obey a commandment. Read the story below and pretend that you are the main character. What choices would you make?
Your mom says that you may invite two friends over after school tomorrow. First you call Julie, who lives a few miles away. She is in your Primary class as well as in your class at school. Her parents say yes! She will walk home with you; her parents will pick her up before supper.
Next you call Tasha, a nonmember who lives just a few houses away. She can come too. Before she hangs up the phone, though, she asks if anyone else is coming. When you tell her that Julie is also coming, Tasha says, “Yuk! Then I don’t want to come, after all.”
If you say, “Julie is my friend too. Why don’t you come and get to know her better?” go to A. If you say, “OK, I’ll tell Julie that something came up with my mom and that I can’t have anybody over,” go to F.
A. Tasha says, “Well, I guess I’ll still come, but don’t expect me to make friends with Julie.” After school, Tasha and Julie walk home with you. When Julie stoops to tie her shoelace, Tasha makes an ugly face at her behind her back.
If you say, “Julie, Tasha’s making faces at you. She didn’t want you to come,” go to J. If you say nothing but give Tasha a look of disappointment, go to E.
E. When you get to your house, punch and cookies are on the table. They turn out to be the favorite treats of both Tasha and Julie. As the afternoon goes on, you see that Tasha is actually being friendly with Julie. Tasha says, “Hey, Julie, I didn’t know you were such fun! You never say anything in school.”
If you suddenly feel jealous and try to discourage their growing friendship, go to B. If you try to help them become better friends, go to I.
I. You suggest that you all play on the tire swing. Tasha has the first turn swinging. As Julie climbs on the tire for her turn, a car full of teenagers zips by. One of them flips a cigarette on the curb. Tasha runs to pick it up. “It’s still lit!” She turns to you and says, “I dare you to try it!”
If you say, “No, I don’t do that kind of stuff, and I hope you don’t either, ‘cause it’s bad for you,” go to D. If you say, “Well, maybe just one puff—but you’d better not tell anyone!” go to H.
H. You put the cigarette to your mouth. You don’t breathe it in deeply, but even so, it tastes yucky. You are still holding it when Tasha’s mom drives by. She stops the car, hollers at Tasha to get in, and says to you, “Don’t expect Tasha to be coming over anymore.”
You feel awful. When your eyes meet Julie’s, you see that she is very disappointed in you. You promise that you’ll never do anything like that again. Julie gives you a weak smile and says, “I believe you, but I don’t think that Tasha’s mom ever will.”
This is your last chance in this story to get on the “right-choice” track. Hurry to D!

Finding the local meetinghouse was the last thing on my mind.
Things like the hot weather, high humidity, and learning Cantonese were much more important.
I was a discouraged, homesick missionary who had just arrived in Hong Kong and I found myself thanking a man for giving me an address I already knew and really didn’t need. And all this because I couldn’t learn Cantonese.
I hadn’t meant for things to happen that way. The missionaries in my district were doing a street display near Hong Kong’s Star Ferry boat just when the commuters were coming home from work. I wanted to get referrals and talk with people—and I tried to—but I was having little success.
My inexperience in speaking Cantonese—the second-most common Chinese dialect was painfully obvious. Speaking to Chinese people seemed impossible, and understanding what people said to me seemed about as easy as walking on water. And because I could neither speak nor understand, I began to think that I was of little worth to the Lord.
I saw Mr. Wong just as he was coming down the steps off of the ferry. He looked like such a nice man. He wore a blue suit and black shoes. His eyeglasses were slipping down his nose. His tie was still tight around his neck—something that looked very out of place in the humid air.
I got up as much self-confidence as I could in the few seconds I had. And I tried to feel confident. With a quick prayer in my heart and a deep breath, I started toward him.
The instructors at the Missionary Training Center had prepared me well for situations like this. I had practiced asking golden questions and getting referrals dozens of times. But all the preparation in the world couldn’t have taught me what I was about to learn.
“Neih hou ma?” I asked. “Good,” he replied in a language I knew was Chinese but bore little resemblance to what I had learned in the MTC.
“I’m a representative of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter day Saints. Have you ever heard of this church before?”
Mr. Wong gave his reply, but—as usual—I couldn’t understand.
“My name is Gong Jeung-louh,” I said. “May I ask your honorable name?”
I didn’t understand much of what he said back to me, but I did understand his last name was Wong. He drew the Chinese Wong character on his hand and raised it to my eyes. His drawings meant nothing to me, but I pretended they did.
“May I tell you a little about our church?” I asked.
“I don’t understand,” he said. That was one of the few things I could understand. I had used that phrase myself several times during the past three weeks.
I showed Mr. Wong my name tag so he could read the name of the Church in Chinese.
“Oh—a church!” he said.
I smiled. “Yes—I am a missionary from this church,” I said, pointing to my name tag. “May I tell you a little about it?”
His reply was long and difficult for a new missionary to understand.
“What is your address?” I asked. I decided I might as well do everything I could and try to get a referral.
“Address? You want address?” he asked.
“Yes. What is your address?” I got my pen and notebook ready to write—or at least to ask him to write—the address down.
“You wait here. I will return in a few minutes,” he said. I barely understood what he was trying to tell me, thanks to his hand gestures.
“You stay right here,” he insisted.
“I will,” I assured him. Off he went, leaving me with no idea of where he was going or why he wanted me to wait.
Mr. Wong reappeared from among the sea of Chinese commuters a full 15 minutes later. He walked briskly—almost at a trot—with a paper in his hand.
He smiled and waved as he approached. I walked to meet him.
“Here,” he said. He handed me a page of an English phone book. The address of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter day Saints was circled.
“Here is your church’s address,” he said.
Now I understood. Mr. Wong had thought I was a lost foreigner looking for my church. I lost my confidence as I thanked him for his trouble.
Mr. Wong offered his hand with a smile of pride and friendliness.
“Thank you very much,” I said.
“No problem,” he replied, and began to walk away.
“See you later,” I said. And then, as an afterthought, “May I give you this?”
I reached into my suit pocket and handed him a Joseph Smith pamphlet. I gave it to him with two hands, and he accepted the gift in the same manner, a Chinese custom.
“At least I learned something in the MTC,” I thought to myself, remembering our classes on cultural customs. Mr. Wong disappeared into the crowd.
I went to sleep that night praying for strength and success. I wanted to preach the gospel with all my heart, but I felt great frustration in learning to speak the language.
The months passed, and as they passed my confidence grew. I was soon transferred out of that area, and new investigators, new companions, new street displays occupied my mind.
A year later I was a zone leader in another part of Hong Kong. One Sunday I was back in my first area taking care of some mission business. Being in that first meetinghouse brought back many good memories. I rejoiced in seeing my old friends from the local ward.
As the meetings ended and people started leaving the building, I watched, hoping to see more of my former friends. Soon my companion and I were the only ones in the foyer.
As we were about to leave, a classroom door opened. My eyes widened as I saw Mr. Wong—the commuter at Star Ferry—emerge from the dark hall!
“Mr. Wong! How are you?” I asked with excitement.
“I’m Brother Wong now, Elder Call,” he said in perfect Mandarin.
“You speak Mandarin? No wonder I couldn’t understand you at the ferry!”
“And you were speaking Cantonese—that is why I couldn’t understand you,” he said.
We sat and talked for several minutes. Brother Wong explained to me that after our encounter at the ferry a year before, he went home and read the Joseph Smith pamphlet. He said he read it out of curiosity more than anything else. The Spirit touched his soul. He telephoned the mission home to ask for more information and two sisters began teaching him the gospel. He gained a testimony and was baptized.
Our reunion was sweet and joyous, even though we had seen each other only once before. My heart was touched and the Spirit bore record to me of the true meaning of Paul’s words to the Corinthians:
“I have planted, Apollos watered; but God gave the increase” (1 Cor. 3:6).

Dianna and I understand this challenge suggested by President Hinckley, as we reflect on our own conversion experience. Dianna was raised in a Catholic home and attended Catholic schools her entire life. I was raised as a Methodist and my grandfather was a Methodist minister. Dianna grew up in the city of Des Moines and I grew up on a farm in NE Iowa! Where we come from, they call that an intercultural marriage!

Six months after we were married, we moved to Virginia where I began working on my doctoral degree. Our understanding of the gospel grew after many, many steps over a period of the next four years.

a. The first step in our journey was that we resolved to attend church together. During that time, we attended several different denominations.

b. The second step was meeting the Litchfords when Bill was enrolled in graduate school. Coming from Utah, they were the first LDS members we had ever known. Through their friendship and examples, several misconceptions about the LDS church were dispelled. We gained an appreciation for their strong values, religious involvement, commitment to family, and their deeper understanding of life. They were not only member missionaries, but also patient friends.

c. This led to the next step. It was during one of our visits in their home that they shared a “Book of Mormon” with us which had their testimony written inside. “We would like to share with you one of things that we value above all others. It looks like a book, yet therein you will find the fullness of the gospel of Jesus Christ and one of the keys to our happiness. Love, Dan and Nancy.”

d. They also introduced us to the missionaries. In fact, for the next two years we met all the missionaries assigned to that community. Finally, upon accepting a position to teach at Utah State University, we felt it was important to hear the missionary discussions. Needless to say, this was a big jump—even a giant leap—several steps forward and upward. The missionaries taught us how to pray as a family and about the plan of salvation. They also taught us about the restoration of the gospel and about feeling the spirit to witness truth.

e. Another significant step occurred during our first year in Virginia where I received my first priesthood blessing, following a car accident which broke some bones in my hand. The doctor scheduled surgery when he learned I played the piano; during one of my final checkups, he commented that he was surprised that I was already playing the piano when another patient of his with a similar injury that occurred at the same time was still in a cast.

f. There were a series of other steps as well, including conversations with some of Bill’s curious and missionary-minded students at Utah State. As a nonmember, I was often asked by my second-graders about my membership in the church and I was invited to attend their baptisms. And we were blessed with supportive friends and neighbors. But when we learned we were expecting our first child, we knew we needed to make a decision—four years after meeting our LDS friends. We had procrastinated our spiritual progress long enough.

g. These final steps included going to Heavenly Father in prayer and fasting, meeting with the bishop in the ward we had been attending, and then, with faith, setting a baptism date. Soon after that huge step, I received the Aaronic priesthood. Six months later, Lindsey, the oldest of our four daughters, was born and I received the Melchizedek priesthood and was ordained an elder so I could give her a name and a blessing.

h. At that point, we both received our patriarchal blessings, outlining some of the plans the Lord had in store for us in this life and the next.

i. One year after our baptism, we prepared to go to the temple, received our endowment and were sealed to each other for time and all eternity. Then Lindsey was sealed to us.

You can see there were a series of many steps—some small ones, some giant leaps—that we needed to take and each occurred ... line upon line ... and each moved us forward and upward in our relationship with Heavenly Father and His Son, Jesus Christ.

When I was sixteen years old my ankle was smashed in a car accident of my own making. The good old doctor in our little town of Cardston was about to retire, but he graciously returned that evening to see what he could do. He worked hard but afterward told my Mother, that although he was able to form it to look almost like an ankle, it was unlikely it would ever bend. Some weeks later, after the cast was off, my dear mother quietly went to work. Many times a day and for many weeks she filled a basin with water, as hot as I could stand, and soaked my ankle. She would then sit in front of me, put my foot on a towel on her lap and unwearyingly try to work the joints. In that little bedroom day after day a miracle began to happen--my ankle began to bend.

“Aw, Dad,” Scott said, picking up a family group sheet. “There’s nothing here except—Hey, I never noticed that!” He pointed, staring at an entry.
“What?” Amanda said, looking over her brother’s shoulder.
“This guy, Jacob Olsen, was born on October fourth, just like me.”
“That ‘guy,’” Mom said, “was your great-grandpa. He was really happy that you were born on his birthday.”
“I don’t remember him,” Scott said.
“He died when you were just a baby,” Dad explained. “He really liked it when we took you to visit him.”
“His family had two boys and two girls in it, just like ours,” Julie noticed. “But look—the last one died the day that she was born.”
“November fifteenth,” Dad said without having to look. “Grandpa told me that his sister was born prematurely and was just too tiny to live. But they always remembered Baby Annie and put a rosebud on her grave every November fifteenth.”
“That must have been a sad day,” Julie said quietly.
“It was,” Dad agreed. “But it was happy too. It reminded them that they had a sister they could see again someday.”
“I wonder,” Amanda said, “if anyone remembers Baby Annie now?”
“We can!” Scott put in. “Can’t we, Mom?”
“I think that that would be nice,” Mom said, smiling. “I’ll just mark November fifteenth on our calendar.”

Stewart woke up with an intense feeling of dread. It was Friday—dodgeball day in gym class. His stomach was already tying itself in knots.
He ate no breakfast, and he was mostly silent while his mom drove him to school.
First period was art class, his favorite. He liked it because it was something he could do well. He also liked it because he didn’t have to compete with anyone. There was no winner, no loser, just everyone doing his very best. That’s fair, he thought.
Second period was English, a class that Stewart would have really enjoyed if it were not right before gym. He loved to read. It was a grand adventure to let his imagination whisk him off to faraway places. But today, just as he got into a story and started enjoying it, he remembered that in less than an hour he would be in his gym shorts and sneakers, waiting for all the other boys to be chosen for teams. Then someone would finally say, “Oh great—I guess we’re stuck with Stewart!” He hated that part even worse than the actual playing of the game. Naturally, the biggest, most athletic boys were chosen first; Stewart understood that, but he didn’t understand why they had to make fun of him just because he didn’t play as well.
Third period came. Stewart walked across the football field to the gymnasium, dreading even the musky smell of the locker room. He and the other boys dressed quickly and took their places on the gym floor; the coaches didn’t like to be kept waiting.
“Line up; it’s dodgeball day,” Coach Warden shouted. “We need some team leaders!”
Stewart kicked at the chipped lines painted on the old gymnasium floor, wishing that the period was over and that he was eating lunch. He was startled when Coach Warden called his name—he had never been called on to choose a team before!
Soon he and three other boys were standing in a line facing the group. Then Coach Warden walked over, “Stewart, you go first.”
Immediately most of the boys began the usual ritual of jumping up and down, waving their hands, and yelling, “Me! Me! Me!” Joe Dan just stood there with his arms folded across his chest. He didn’t have to jump up and down; he was the best athlete in the whole school and was always chosen first. He told Stewart, “Go ahead—pick me and I’ll pick the rest of the team for you.” When Stewart hesitated, Joe Dan looked puzzled. “Pick me—you know I’m the best.”
The entire gymnasium became silent in disbelief when Stewart said, “I choose Craig.”
Craig stepped forward with a look of amazement that turned into a big grin. “I’ve never been first pick before.” He had always been chosen just before Stewart—next to last.
The other team leaders made their first choices. When it was Stewart’s turn again, a pin could have been heard dropping as he called out, “Andy.” Andy had usually been chosen just before Craig.
At each subsequent turn, Stewart went on going up the ladder instead of down, choosing boys who were usually “assigned,” rather than chosen. The other team leaders chose the best athletes, as usual.
For the first time, Stewart enjoyed the game. His team came in last, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that every boy on it felt wanted.
After the game, the boys went to change clothes. Stewart was tying his shoelaces when Joe Dan towered over him and taunted him, “I told you to pick me. But you wouldn’t do it. You’re nothing but a loser.”
“Joe Dan!” It was the authoritative voice of the coach. “Stewart is many things, but a loser certainly isn’t one of them.” Coach Warden made Joe Dan apologize, sent him and the other boys on to class, then turned to Stewart. “I want to thank you.”
“Huh? What for?”
Coach Warden sat down on the bench, motioning Stewart to sit beside him. “For reteaching me a very important lesson. You see, whenever there’s competition, there has to be a winner and a loser. Everyone wants to be a winner, and nobody wants to be a loser. Today the other team leaders were thinking only about winning, so they chose the best athletes. You were more concerned with the boys themselves, with their feelings. It would’ve been very easy for you to have picked Joe Dan and let him put together the winning team for you. But you didn’t. You were brave enough to choose those whom the others considered losers. But you were the real winner today, Stewart, and so were your teammates. I’m very proud of you.”
The coach walked with Stewart to the door, then went into his office and made a list of all of the boys. He cut the names out on individual strips of paper and threw them into a baseball cap, ready for picking the next day’s teams.

Sofía woke up early. Today was very special. She was going to sell lemonade at her aunt and uncle’s garage sale! Mamá made a huge jug of lemonade for her.
Sofía made a sign. She wrote “Lemonade!” in orange and yellow letters. She taped it to a little table. Then she sat down to wait.
Soon a man came by. “May I have a cup?” he asked. He put some pesos in her jar.
“Sure!” Sofía said. She poured him a cup of lemonade
Little by little, people came to look at the garage sale. And little by little they bought the yummy lemonade. The morning passed happily. Soon all of the lemonade was gone.
Sofía shook her jar. The pesos jingled. She had so many!
“Good job!” Papá said.
Sofía had never had so much money before. “I’m going to buy a yo-yo!”
Papá smiled. “Do you know what Mamá and I do when we earn money?”
Sofía shook her head.
“We pay tithing,” Papá said. “Heavenly Father gave us everything. He asks that we give Him a little part back. We pay tithing because we love Him.”
Sofía smiled. She wanted to show Heavenly Father that she loved Him too.
Papá helped Sofía count her pesos. Whenever she counted to 10, she put one peso in an envelope. Papá helped her write numbers on a little white paper. They put the paper in the envelope with the pesos. Then they sealed it shut. Sofía was going to give it to the bishop tomorrow at church.
“How do you feel?” Papá asked Sofia.
“So happy! And I still have money for a yo-yo.” She felt Heavenly Father was happy with her choice.

“Why can’t you keep your half of the room clean?” Alicia complained to her new stepsister. “It looks like a tornado just hit the place!”
“It isn’t that bad,” Megan answered. “Anyway, as soon as softball season ends, I’ll have more time to clean up. I may have to spend some extra time in practice for the next few days.” She folded a pair of jeans and put them into a drawer, threw her baseball mitt onto a chair, and put her pajamas under a pillow. “There—a start!”
Alicia sighed. She was glad to have Megan as a stepsister, but they were about as different as night and day. Megan was tall, slender, and very good at sports—but not very good at cleaning her room. Alicia was short, not-so-slender, and very good at cleaning her room—but her athletic skills were limited to being a substitute umpire in the junior girls softball league.
No wonder, then, that after Megan’s dad married Alicia’s mom, patience was in demand in their new home!
Actually it was a new home only for Alicia and her mom. After the marriage, they had moved into Megan’s dad’s house. “Welcome to my jungle!” Megan had said. “Here, let me push some of my junk out of the way. You can have this half of the room, OK?”
Alicia’s heart sank. Her old room had been as neat as a pin. Here, the clutter was unavoidable! On the floor were magazines, socks, baseball mitts, jeans, shoes, softball trophies, pillows, even orange peelings. Well, Mom told me there would be adjustments, she thought. I guess this is what she meant.
There were two more adjustments Alicia had to make. The first one came that weekend. Alicia’s old ward had been small enough that everyone knew everyone else’s first name. That’s where her dad’s funeral had been held three years ago. That’s where she had been baptized, had learned about Heavenly Father’s love, and had prayed for guidance when her mom said that she was going to remarry.
Her new ward was so big! So many people! After Megan had introduced her friends, she felt a little better. Singing the old familiar hymns was comforting too.
“You’ll get used to our new ward,” her mom told her that first Sunday. “Just remember, the important thing is not the building, but the reason for the building—to worship Heavenly Father and to learn to live the gospel.”
The next adjustment came when Alicia went to her new school. All the kids stared at her in her new classes.
Some of them giggled and whispered behind their hands to each other.
The teachers were all nice. And when Miss Younger found out that Alicia had been a substitute umpire at her old school, she asked her to umpire at the softball game that evening. “Megan’s team is playing for the school championship,” Miss Younger explained. “Our regular umpire is sick today. We could really use someone with your experience.”
Alicia wasn’t sure she was that experienced, but Megan had said, “Oh, come on, Alicia! You can do it! Just call them the way you see them.”
“OK,” Alicia had reluctantly agreed.
Now she reminded Megan as they headed out the door for the ballpark, “Remember that during the game I’m not your stepsister—I’m the umpire!”
“Fair enough!” Megan replied. “And you remember that if we win this game, we go to the city championship game next week.” She grinned. “I hope that won’t affect your decisions, Miss Umpire!”
“Why would it?” Alicia asked.
Megan laughed. “Because that means it would be another week before my half of the room gets cleaned!”
Alicia laughed too. “Well, if you win, I’ll clean your half of the room myself.” She quickly added, “But just for one week. And I don’t do orange peelings!”
* * * * * *
The stands were crowded. Alicia’s heart pounded as she took her place behind the catcher. “Play ball!” she called. She hoped that her voice sounded more confident than she felt.
As the game progressed, Alicia’s self-confidence returned. Finally it was the bottom of the last inning. Megan’s team, one run behind, was at bat.
The first batter flied out to the shortstop. The second batter drew a base on balls. After the next batter struck out swinging, Megan—the cleanup hitter—was up!
“Home run! Home run!” her team’s fans shouted.
“Strike out! Strike out!” the other team’s fans screamed.
“Strike one!” Alicia called as Megan let the first pitch go by without swinging.
Megan turned to look questioningly at Alicia but didn’t say a word. She tightened her grip on the bat, took a practice swing, then stepped back into the batter’s box.
The next pitch was right over the middle of the plate. Megan put all her strength into a smooth, level swing. The crack of the bat against the ball echoed over the field like a rifle shot. The ball arced high, headed for deep center field.
The center fielder took off like a small cyclone, but the ball landed just beyond her outstretched glove. Quickly scrambling after it, she wheeled and threw with all her might toward home plate.
The runner on first pounded around second, then third. The ball and the runner seemed to reach home plate at the same time.
“Out!” shouted Alicia, raising her thumb high in the air.
“What? No way!” Megan’s teammates shouted angrily, crowding around Alicia. Their shouting grew louder and angrier. Butterflies began doing flip-flops in her stomach.
Megan pushed her way through the crowd. “Leave her alone! If she called her out, that’s the way it was.” She led Alicia through the crowd. “Come on, Ump, let’s go home.”
Home! The word sounded like music to Alicia. She had a new ward, a new school, a new home—and a new family. She smiled gratefully at Megan. “You can stop calling me ‘umpire’ now. The game’s over. Now you can call me ‘sister!’” She laughed. “And even though your team didn’t win, I’ll still help you clean your half of the room!”

“Hush, little baby, don’t say a word,” Mama sang to baby Charlie. The harsh wind howled and blew red dirt through the cracks of the one-room log cabin. Rachel’s whole family couldn’t fall asleep that night. The clock hands pointed straight up to midnight as Papa got up to start a fire and Mama gazed at the dark sky out the window. Rachel closed her eyes tight and tried to fall asleep. Then she heard her mother whisper to her father.
“Look at all this dirt. I miss the green grass and pretty flowers at our old home,” she said. “Remember when I used to pin flowers to my dress? I miss that.”
Rachel missed the flowers at their old house too. Their new cabin didn’t have any flowers growing nearby. In fact, Rachel had noticed only a few little white flowers in all of southern Utah! Mama said they were called sego lilies. Maybe I can find one of those little white flowers tomorrow for Mama! she thought, just before falling asleep.
When sun shone through the window near Rachel’s bed, she knew it was time to get up. She pulled on her dress and tied a ribbon in her hair. She swept the kitchen floor without being asked.
“Thank you for your help, Rachel,” Mama said. “What would I do without you?”
While she did her chores that morning, Rachel tried to think of places she could find a flower for Mama. There has to be at least one flower out here, she thought. But I may have to look everywhere to find it.
She had just finished hanging clothes on the clothesline when she saw her friend Sarah walking toward her. Rachel told Sarah about her plan. With their bonnets tied under their chins, they searched everywhere for something beautiful.
They looked under the wagon. Nothing. They searched through the sagebrush. Nothing. They looked near the edge of the stream. Still nothing.
“Maybe we can find something over there.” Rachel pointed to the field her father was plowing.
The girls walked toward the field. Rachel ran her eyes along the edge from one sagebrush bush to the next. Suddenly she spotted a small white flower. It had three white petals and a purple center. Rachel gasped. It was a sego lily! “Look, Sarah!” she said. “Isn’t that pretty?”
Rachel gently picked the little flower from the red dirt and showed it to Sarah.
“It’s perfect!” Sarah said.
“Mama!” Rachel shouted as they ran toward the cabin. “Look what we found!”
Mama looked up from washing clothes, and Rachel gave her the flower. “Now you have a beautiful flower to pin on your dress.”
“Oh, Rachel. It is beautiful!” her mother said. As she admired the delicate sego lily, tears came to her eyes. She pulled Rachel in for a tight hug. “Let’s put it in some water to keep it fresh.”
As she finished her chores, Rachel kept glancing up at the sego lily. She felt happy every time she looked at it.
In her prayer that night, Rachel thanked Heavenly Father for creating the beautiful flower to grow in the desert. She told Him how happy she was that she found it. Then she climbed into bed. When Papa kissed her goodnight, he said, “What a wonderful surprise, Rachel. You made your mother very happy.”
Then Mama smiled and kissed Rachel on the cheek. “Thank you for finding me a beautiful flower. It reminded me that you’re the most precious gift of all.”

One of my favorite times during childhood was Holy Week, even though I didn’t understand its significance and sacredness.
I loved the traditions my beloved mother had established, especially those related to food. My mother, Doña Negra, was a devout Catholic. During Lent (a 40-day period of spiritual preparation for Easter celebrated in the Catholic Church and other Christian churches), we followed certain practices.
During this period, we didn’t eat meat on Wednesdays and Fridays. The menu at my house always included rice, pigeon peas, fried eggs, fried eggplant (torrejas), green salads, and codfish. My mother would also prepare sweet beans. I loved the food my mother made, but it wasn’t until I grew up and was baptized in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints that I began to understand and value the importance and sacredness of this time and why we celebrate Easter.
From one of the Apostles, President Jeffrey R. Holland, I learned that the Passover feast, instituted in ancient Israel, reminded the people that “the Lord brought [them] out from Egypt, from the house of bondage” (Exodus 13:14). Thus, this annual celebration helped the Israelites remember that the Lord had delivered them from death and captivity.
With the Atonement and Resurrection of Jesus Christ, the Lamb of God, the Lord delivered us from physical and spiritual death by providing the opportunity to be cleansed from our sins. Therefore, the ritual of Passover, which involved sacrificing the firstborn of the flock, was replaced by the ordinance of the sacrament. By partaking of it, the “children of the promise have been under covenant to remember Christ’s sacrifice in this newer, higher, more holy and personal way. …
“With so very much at stake, this ordinance commemorating our escape from the angel of darkness should be taken more seriously than it sometimes is. It should be a powerful, reverent, reflective moment. It should encourage spiritual feelings and impressions. …
“… Do we see it as our passover, remembrance of our safety and deliverance and redemption?”
For most people, Easter is just a holiday. It is often used to do many worldly things that take us away from the true spirit of Easter. We should strive to establish practices in our families that promote understanding of the Savior’s Atonement and fill our homes with gratitude for the gift of the Father and the Son.
These words from the Prophet Joseph Smith add additional context to the importance of the events related to Easter: “The fundamental principles of our religion are the testimony of the Apostles and Prophets, concerning Jesus Christ, that He died, was buried, and rose again the third day, and ascended into heaven; and all other things which pertain to our religion are only appendages to it”
In his message “The Greatest Easter Story Ever Told”, Elder Gary E. Stevenson of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles exhorted us: “Perhaps the question we have asked ourselves is one we could all contemplate: How do we model the teaching and celebration of the Resurrection of Jesus Christ, the Easter story, with the same balance, fulness, and rich religious tradition of the birth of Jesus Christ, the Christmas story?”
We are all trying. I see an increasing effort among Latter-day Saints to celebrate Easter in a more Christ-centered way, which includes a greater and more contemplative recognition of Palm Sunday and Good Friday. We could also adopt appropriate, Christ-centered Easter traditions found in the cultures and customs of countries around the world.
N. T. Wright, a New Testament scholar, suggested: “We should take steps to celebrate the Resurrection Easter in new creative ways: with art, literature, children’s games, poetry, music, dance, festivals, bells, special concerts. [. . .] It is our greatest festival. If we removed Christmas, in biblical terms, we would lose two chapters at the beginning of Matthew and Luke, and nothing more. If we removed Easter, the New Testament would disappear; we would have no Christianity.”
President Thomas S. Monson (1927–2018) said:
“No words in Christendom mean more to me than those spoken by the angel to the weeping Mary Magdalene and the other Mary as they approached the tomb to care for the body of their Lord:
“‘Why seek ye the living among the dead?
“‘He is not here, but is risen’ (Luke 24:5–6).
I pray that the Lord will bless us so that we can understand the magnitude of what our Lord Jesus Christ did for us. It is necessary to establish in our hearts and in the hearts of our posterity a greater understanding and gratitude for the Lord’s Atonement and for the celebration of the Passover.
President Monson continued:
“Our Savior lived again. The most glorious, comforting, and reassuring of all events of human history had taken place—the victory over death. The pain and agony of Gethsemane and Calvary had been wiped away. The salvation of mankind had been secured. The Fall of Adam had been reclaimed.
“The empty tomb on that first Easter morning was the answer to Job’s question: ‘If a man die, shall he live again?’ (Job 14:14). To all within the sound of my voice, I declare, If a man die, he shall live again. We know, for we have the light of revealed truth.
“‘For since by man came death, by man [Jesus Christ] came also the resurrection of the dead.
“‘For as in Adam all die, even so in Christ shall all be made alive’ (1 Corinthians 15:21–22). …
“… Two weeks ago, I received a touching letter from a father of seven who wrote about his family and, in particular, his son Jason, who had become ill when 11 years of age. Over the next few years, Jason’s illness recurred several times. This father told of Jason’s positive attitude and sunny disposition, despite his health challenges. Jason received the Aaronic Priesthood at age 12 and ‘always willingly magnified his responsibilities with excellence, whether he felt well or not.’
“Last summer, not long after Jason’s 15th birthday, he was once again admitted to the hospital. On one of his visits to see Jason, his father found him with his eyes closed. Not knowing whether his son was asleep or awake, he began talking softly to him. ‘Jason,’ he said, ‘I know you have been through a lot in your short life and that your current condition is difficult. Even though you have a giant battle ahead, I don’t ever want you to lose your faith in Jesus Christ.’ He said he was startled as Jason immediately opened his eyes and said, ‘Never!’ in a clear, resolute voice. Jason then closed his eyes and said no more.
“His father wrote: ‘In this simple declaration, Jason expressed one of the most powerful, pure testimonies of Jesus Christ that I have ever heard. . . . As his declaration of ‘Never!’ became imprinted on my soul that day, my heart filled with joy that my Heavenly Father had blessed me to be the father of such a tremendous and noble boy. . . . [That] was the last time I heard him declare his testimony of Christ.’
“Although his family was expecting this to be just another routine hospitalization, Jason passed away less than two weeks later. An older brother and sister were serving missions at the time. Another brother, Kyle, had just received his mission call. In fact, the call had come earlier than expected, and on August 5, just a week before Jason’s passing, the family gathered in his hospital room so that Kyle’s mission call could be opened there and shared with the entire family.
“In his letter to me, this father included a photograph of Jason in his hospital bed, with his big brother Kyle standing beside the bed, holding his mission call. The caption was written beneath the photograph: ‘Called to serve their missions together—on both sides of the veil.’
“Jason’s brother and sister already serving missions sent beautiful, comforting letters home to be shared at Jason’s funeral. His sister, serving in the Argentina Buenos Aires West Mission, as part of her letter, wrote: ‘I know that Jesus Christ lives, and because He lives, all of us, including our beloved Jason, will live again. . . . We can take comfort in the sure knowledge we have that we have been sealed together as an eternal family. . . . If we strive our best to obey and be better in this life, we will see [him again].’ She continued: ‘[A] scripture that I have long loved now takes on new significance and importance at this time. . . . [From] Revelation chapter 21, verse 4: ‘And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away.’
“My beloved brothers and sisters, in our hour of deepest sorrow, we can receive profound peace from the words of the angel that first Easter morning: ‘He is not here: for he is risen” (Matthew 28:6).
God lives; He is our beloved Heavenly Father. I am very grateful to now understand a little more of what my Savior willingly did for me. He was wounded, bruised, and chastised. He suffered my pains, afflictions, and illnesses. He is my Savior. And I share this in His sweet name, the name of Jesus Christ, amen.
For ideas on how to celebrate a Christ-centered Easter, see “Making Easter a Time to Remember the Savior” in the April 2023 Liahona.

She spent the next six years in Bath, living with the family of a missionary, Thomas Yates, and spending her small earnings on a fruitless search for her children. “After years of fasting and prayers, and many tears, the Lord opened the way for me to come to Zion,” with the Yates family and their son Thomas, just back from his 6 1/2 year mission.

We do not know what it cost her to leave England. She only says, “I prayed earnestly to God to help me in the long tedious journey that was before me, that I might not murmur on the way, or complain if a lion should be in my path, and he answered my prayers, for I saw nothing to murmur at. My heart was filled with gratitude all the way.”

Her son tells us what she, in the patience of her faith, omitted. She nearly died of seasickness, which lasted the entire voyage. She and Thomas were married on the morning of July 22, 1863, in Florence, Nebraska, and began the trek westward that afternoon. When Elizabeth discovered that there was not room for both her and her trunk in the wagon, she thought of her carefully packed china, the loveliest things she owned, and walked every step of the way, “my heart filled with gratitude.”

“Many shed tears of joy,” she says, “on first beholding the City of the Saints.” She does not say if she was among them, but she must have been.

At 13, I was a brand-new ice-skater with high hopes. Apparently I showed some aptitude, because after I had had a couple of group lessons, the teacher suggested I take private lessons. My parents agreed, and my ice-skating dream began in earnest. This was great!
To begin with, lessons were once a week, but I practiced more often. Soon I became friends with Jacque. She was short like me but with curly red hair and smiling green eyes. She was a good skater and had taken lessons since she was three. She could do figure eights and other complicated precision skating as well as the fancy jumps, hops, and spins for freestyle. I soon realized that I was “old” to be starting competition skating, but I practiced hard to learn my freestyle routine and precision skating.
Freezing-cold fingers and toes, falls on cold ice, and the tedium of performing the same moves over and over were all part of skating, but the effort was worth it. I loved the exhilaration of jumping, twisting in the air, and successfully landing and of gliding across smooth ice on one foot with my arms extended and cold air rushing past my face.
That winter, Jacque and I enthusiastically watched the Olympics, continued to practice, and even went to a competition where I passed off preliminary figures. She and I did a lot of things together that spring and summer. I tried to share the gospel with her once, but she wasn’t interested. All her thoughts were on skating.
Then one day Jacque said something that nearly took my breath away. She didn’t notice and kept chattering while lacing up her skates, but her words struck at my heart. She had said how much fun we would have at our morning practices when school started in the fall. That was the moment when I realized that skating would conflict with early-morning seminary. That had not occurred to me. I would be a freshman that year and would be eligible for seminary, which was held every morning before school. I could continue with my dream of skating, or I could go to early-morning seminary, but I couldn’t do both. I felt sick. What was I to do?
Though it seemed much longer, in reality it took only a few seconds for me to make a choice. I had been taught correct principles my whole life, and God and Church came first.
I gave up my skating and went to early-morning seminary. Jacque and I drifted apart. But I never regretted my decision. I made more friends and gained a testimony of the scriptures. I have wonderful memories of seminary that I wouldn’t trade for any honors I might have received from ice skating.

The girls in the Salt Lake East Millcreek Fourth Ward kept track of their acts of charity in a candy jar. Each week the girls put a piece of candy into the jar for each act of service they had been involved in that week. As the jar filled with the sweets, the girls were reminded of the sweetness of service. When the jar was full, the girls selected a special family and presented the jar to them, explaining what the filled jar meant—each candy represented a charitable act.

On a cool evening in late June, 1987, voices were raised in song outside the Oakland California Temple. Had you been there, you would have recognized the beautiful song, but wondered at the unfamiliar words. The song was: Thov Vaj Tswv Kom Peb Rov Sib Pom Dua, or “God Be with You Till We Meet Again,” sung in Hmong. Hmong is the language of many hill tribes in Laos, Southeast Asia, and the native language of Kua Lo and his brothers Yia Lo and Chong Lee Lo, who had just had their families sealed to them in the temple. It was one of the happiest days of their lives.
The Lo families first attended the Church in a Salt Lake City ward where they met Scott Jenkins, the stake mission president. He, with the assistance of Brian Walker, a returned missionary who spoke Thai, began teaching the Lo families. Brother Walker would give the gospel message in Thai which Kua Lo would then translate in Hmong to his family and friends.
In spite of difficulties in communication, the Lo families enthusiastically received the gospel message, continued to attend church, and became the nucleus of a Hmong-speaking branch. Eventually, the Church’s Translation Division was able to provide Hmong versions of the sacrament prayers, portions of Gospel Principles, and some hymns, and branch members could hold entire meetings in their native language. Later, they received complete copies of Gospel Principles and of Book of Mormon Stories.
Following the Lo families’ baptism, Kua Lo was called to serve as president of the first Asian Branch in Salt Lake City. He now lives in Bakersfield, California, where he serves as president of the Asian Branch there. Constantly sharing the gospel message among his people, Brother Lo has been responsible for at least ninety baptisms.
Brother Lo can testify of the influence of the Holy Ghost in his conversion, an influence that could be felt despite language barriers. But without translated gospel materials in Hmong, the Lo families may have had to wait much longer than they did to receive the blessings of the temple. Perhaps they may never have received them at all.

Even as I lay on my bed staring at the cobweb on the ceiling (my cobweb, because it was my turn to dust), I could think of two reasons why I should be happy. First, it was my birthday. At our house a birthday means a special dinner. The birthday celebrity picks the menu and sits at the head of the table. Dessert is a big homemade cake. Second, in just two and a half hours, my neighbor and good friend Scott would pick me up for the dance. It was my first date with him. For that matter, it was my first date with anybody. So why wasn’t I excited? So why wasn’t I jubilant? The reason was not a good one.
I turned my head and looked at the pictures on my wall. I call it my wall because my two sisters and I have shared the rest of the room in the attic for as long as I can remember. My bed is adjacent to the wall where the ceiling doesn’t slope. There, framed in velvet, are the pictures I have had copied of many of my relatives for generations back. I looked at my favorite, the picture of my grandmother Agatha Robertson, which was larger than the rest. I always like to look at Grandmother Agatha. She’s wearing a lace dress and her hair is piled high. Her eyes seem to be dark brown like mine, and although she isn’t smiling in the picture, I’m sure smiling is something she often did.
I had read her journal many times. Agatha Robertson, my mother’s great-great-grandmother, had been an only child and had been given beautiful things by her wealthy parents. Yet, she had grown lovely and serene and had done many benevolent acts in her lifetime, therefore disproving the theory that all only children of wealthy parents grow up to be selfish and spoiled. Later in life Agatha had married Captain Conrad Robertson, who adored her and brought her gifts from faraway lands. Unlike my pioneer grandmothers, unlike my grandmothers from Scotland and Holland, Agatha had lived a life of luxury. “I get to be Grandma Agatha!” I had often shouted when my sisters and I played dress-ups. Even then her picture had fascinated me.
Now, as I looked at her again, I envied the life she had led—so different from mine. I had to struggle just to buy the fabric to make a dress for myself. It was either sew or wear hand-me-downs, and I wasn’t much of a seamstress yet.
“Oh, Grandmother Agatha,” I said aloud, “you wouldn’t understand this because you always had the best before it wasn’t the best anymore. But, if I have to wear a hand-me-down to the dance tonight, I just won’t go. I won’t! It’s awful to be third girl!” Agatha Robertson’s expression didn’t change. But then, I hadn’t expected it to.
“Honestly, Janet, I wish you’d quit talking to your pictures.” The inside of me jumped. I hadn’t heard Joani climb the stairs, but there she was, standing in the doorway studying herself in the blue dress she was making. She turned sideways, then completely around, always keeping her eyes on the mirror.
“Well, it isn’t as bad as talking to yourself,” I said defending myself, “and I’ve heard you do that before. It’s pretty,” I added in a mumble, looking at her dress. It was beautiful. Joani was an expert. Maybe that was my trouble. I always tried to sew quickly and energetically like she did. Joani took some pins out of her mouth and smiled at me.
“Thanks,” she said, “I’m almost finished. You can have the machine back in just a few minutes.” She began hemming the sleeves with the pins. “Are you about finished with yours?”
“Uh-huh.” I didn’t tell her about the yellow dress because I knew what she would say. She would lecture me on beginning at the beginning and picking easier patterns. I was finished with the dress all right. It wasn’t a lie. It was hanging in my closet with at least four more hours of work to do on it. It didn’t fit right at all. The bodice was all wrong, and the sleeves were crooked. Now there wasn’t time to fix it, not with dinner and everything. That meant that tonight of all nights I’d have to wear a hand-me-down. And there was Joani—quick, clever little Joani—admiring herself in a beautiful creation she’d designed herself. I didn’t want to look at her, so I turned my head. Why should she care? She had her dress. Why should she care that I’d have to wear one of the ancient dresses in the basement? Why should anyone care? Erma, my oldest sister, obviously didn’t. She had taken all her bridesmaid dresses to college with her.
Joani headed back downstairs to the sewing room, a few pins still in her mouth, and I looked at Grandmother Agatha and sighed. Then I pulled myself off my bed and shuffled downstairs as if I were carrying a 300-pound pack on my back. Mother was bustling busily in the kitchen, preparing my birthday dinner. She smiled at me with an “Aren’t you elated it’s your birthday?” look on her face. “Your special dinner will be ready in about five minutes,” she said excitedly. “Go tell everyone.”
“Okay.” I began passing the word around. First, I called out back where Jack and Alex were playing. Then I called into the family-sewing room to Dad and Joani. In ten minutes we were all seated around the dining room table. Dad gave the prayer, and then Jack, Alex, and Joani each passed me a little gift. Alex gave me another bottle of “Forever Yours” cologne. He gave me that every year. Jack had made me a pencil holder out of a cutoff milk carton. Joani gave me a jeweled comb and brush set. I oohed and aahed and tried to act excited as I opened each of the gifts. Then Mom passed me the gift from her and Dad. Maybe I had hoped somewhere in the back of my mind that it would be a dress, a yellow dress, because I felt a tinge of disappointment when the package they sent me was too small. Besides, it rattled.
“Careful,” Mom said.
“Yes, careful,” Joani said. She was smiling widely.
“I wonder what this could be?”
“You might say it’s a hand-me-down from all of us.” Mom laughed.
“Oh?” I took off the yellow ribbon and opened the package carefully. Inside the box was … no, it couldn’t be … “Is this? It is! It’s Grandmother Agatha’s locket! But, Mom, you inherited this from Aunt Louise. She gave it to you!”
“Oh, I never wear falderal like lockets, and—”
“But, Erma’s the oldest. She should have it. Or Joani. I’m only third.” Joani smiled again.
“I asked them if it was all right and they insisted you have it,” Mother answered patiently. “Both said you knew Grandmother Robertson the best and deserved it.”
“But, I …”
The phone rang and Alex jumped up. “I’ll get it! I hate mushy stuff like this.”
“Oh, thank you, thank you so much! I can’t wait to show Scott.” I laid the locket carefully by my plate on the tablecloth where I could look at it more closely. It was gold, with tiny roses, and inside, I knew, was the only picture we had of Captain Robertson. It was too small and faded to have it copied. On the back of the locket were the initials A.R.W.L. I guessed they stood for “Agatha Robertson, with love.”
Everyone had begun eating chicken, mashed potatoes, corn, and rolls, but I wasn’t hungry. I was too happy.
“It’s Erma,” Alex announced. “From Provo. She called to wish you a happy birthday.”
“Erma!” I jumped up and ran to the phone. “Erma, thanks. Thanks for the locket. I’m so excited! But, it should rightfully belong to you. You’re the oldest.”
“It’s yours,” Erma said. “You’re the one who deserves it. We all wanted you to have it. Besides, you can wear it tonight with your new yellow dress. How did it turn out?”
“I won’t be wearing the yellow dress. I didn’t get it finished, but I don’t mind. I’ll wear something from the basement. Anything will look beautiful with this locket.”
Erma was silent for a moment. “Oh, but it’s your first date. You just can’t. Why was I so stupid to take all my bridesmaid dresses with me? I just want to kick myself. If there was only time to drive home I would, I … hey! Wait! I did leave home my velvet skirt. Wear that. It’s in the sewing room and just needs the seam fixed. You’ll probably have to lengthen it, but it shouldn’t take you long. Find a pretty blouse, and you’ll look fantastic.”
“Hooray!” I said. “Thanks, Sis, thanks!”
After chocolate cake with lemon frosting and strawberry sherbet (all my favorites), I hurried to the sewing room and found the skirt in the closet. Joani followed me.
“What are you doing?”
“Erma said I could wear her skirt because I didn’t finish my yellow dress.”
Joani looked confused, then hurt. “You should have told me. Why didn’t you? I would have helped you finish it. We have to stick together, don’t we? It really upsets me you didn’t tell me.” Then she had an idea because her eyes grew wide and her lips parted into a smile. “Then the least you can do is wear my satin and lace blouse.”
I was stunned. “You’re kidding!” I knew the satin and lace blouse was her favorite, her best. She kept it in a special part of her drawer instead of the closet, wrapped in tissue paper. She only wore it on the most special occasions. “I couldn’t.”
“Please.”
“Joani, Joani, you don’t mean it, do you? Your satin and lace blouse? Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
Upstairs, Joani unwrapped her blouse with only the slightest hesitation and handed it to me. Then she went back downstairs.
I put the blouse on and stepped into the skirt even though I hadn’t fixed the seam yet. I wanted to get the effect first.
Even before I put the locket on, I knew the blouse was perfect to set it off. And it was. I looked up to see Grandmother Agatha looking at me with an earnest expression on her face. “Who would have guessed I’d be getting a hand-me-down from you for my birthday,” I said with a laugh. I think Agatha Robertson would have smiled in real life. Her eyes would have sparkled. But the picture’s expression didn’t change. Of course, I hadn’t expected it to.
I looked back at myself in Joani’s blouse and Erma’s skirt and the locket I had inherited because of their generosity and unselfishness, and yes, their love for me. I gulped.
I looked again at my perfectly groomed, elegant, great-great-grandmother who had had beautiful things, the finest clothes and jewels, but who had been an only child.
“Grandmother Agatha, you missed out. You really missed out. You just don’t know how wonderful … oh, you wouldn’t know what I mean.” But, even as I said the words, I guessed she knew what I was trying to say. With one last smile, I hurried downstairs. I had a lot to do before the dance.

“Me? No way. Maybe Mum and Dad, but not me.”

“He’s a good boy, is Stu,” Granddad said.

I didn’t answer. I wanted to tell Granddad about Stu, that I was worried about him, but I couldn’t betray my brother.

“Did you know that I joined the Church when I was about Stu’s age?” Granddad added.

“I guess.”

“My parents had been baptized a few years before, but I didn’t want anything to do with the Mormons. I had a gang of friends, and we liked going to the pubs.”

Just like Stu, I thought. “So why’d you join?”

“My Mum and Dad, and I had a younger brother, Reg. We used to be like you and Stu, fighting a bit, but we really loved each other. Anyway, there was a Mormon wardhouse down in Leeds. And every week Reg would invite me to go. It was about a two-hour trip to get there.”

“Twenty miles in the snow, uphill both ways, right?”

Granddad laughed. “All right, you’ve heard the story. But thinking of Mum and Dad and little Reg having to make that trip alone every week started to gnaw at me. So one Sunday when it was raining and miserable, I helped them harness the horse and went with them.

“And you know, I found a lot of answers.”

“Like what?”

“Oh, I was wondering about life and death and just a lot of things. And after that, whenever I didn’t go, I felt like I was missing out, that I should be in church. That sound daft?”

“No. That’s how I feel when I miss church. Once I pretended to be sick to get out of going. You won’t tell Mum will you?”

“Never.” He winked at me again.

He stood and tucked the bag of mushrooms under his arm.

“When I needed some direction in my life, my brother showed me where to look,” he said slowly. “And if you know someone who is a little lost, well maybe you need to give him a little hint. Nothing pushy, just a nudge.”

I looked at Granddad. It was obvious we were both thinking of Stu, but we never said his name.

Jared was baptized in the Naknek River, which empties into the Bering Sea. The beach along the river is a favorite place for the children to play, and they also catch lots of fish in the river, mostly red, king, pink, and silver salmon. King salmon may be as big as Jared, so just one will feed lots of people!
The day Jared was baptized, a special thing happened. It rains a lot in King Salmon, and it had been pouring for two days. A few minutes before the baptism the rain stopped. As the congregation walked down to the river, the sun peeped out and the usual sounds of aircraft and other noises ceased just long enough for Jared’s father to baptize him!

Our journey in life can throw surprises at us; choices that, at the time, may seem small, but can become major factors in the direction of our lives. My surprise came in the form of a third family that entered my life. After I graduated from the Church College of Western Samoa, I moved to American Samoa to live with my mother’s family, in Vailoa. My mom’s family were members of the La Mo Sa, the London Missionary Society, or Congregational Christian Church in American Samoa. Because Vailoa did not allow Mormons to proselyte, I kept my membership in the Church a secret from my family there and every Sunday, pretending to go to the village church, I would sneak off and attend the Mormon Church in Leone. With the help of some ward members, my family eventually learned of my membership and grew to accept my choice. While attending the community college, I took up a housekeeping job for an American couple who were there managing a small business as jewelers. Bill and Sharon McCarthy were good friends with my older sister and her husband. The McCarthy’s had no children of their own and gained an interest in adopting a child from Samoa. They asked my grandmother if they could adopt my youngest brother, Joe, but she offered for them to adopt me instead.

It seems like a whirlwind to me now, as I think about everything that happened in my life that year. The business the McCarthy’s were managing shut down, so, shortly after the adoption they made plans to move back to Hawaii. Even though the adoption was legal, and I was now known as Ivona McCarthy, they could not sponsor me into the United States because I was too old. My mom, Sharon McCarthy, brought high school and community college transcripts and put in applications at multiple colleges in Hawaii on my behalf, trying to obtain an I-20 for a student visa, but was unsuccessful until she called BYUH, the only school that was willing to accept my application. Not wanting to leave me behind, my new mom visited Nolan Reed, the Director of Admissions for Brigham Young University-Hawaii, and he immediately approved my application and visa for the upcoming semester, and in November 1983, I left Samoa for the first time making the journey to Hawaii.