Gospel Story Finder

Lindsey M. suffered from epilepsy. “Every morning, I would beg my Heavenly Father to take the seizures away,” Lindsey says. But they didn’t go away. While Lindsey waited to be healed, she received priesthood blessings, which brought her peace. And that peace was a miracle itself. “When we turn to our Heavenly Father, He will undoubtedly be there for us, spreading miracles and offering comfort,” she says. Lindsey eventually received a surgery that helped with her seizures.

My sister and I felt an emptiness because we had no idea who our Laurunen forebears were. All we knew is that they had come from Finland to America in 1901. So in August 2004, my sister Janice and cousin Sandy joined my husband, Charlie, and me on a trip to discover our ancestors.

In the process of researching for our trip, Sandy discovered a two-page report on the Laurunen Homestead, built in 1605. The earliest mention of our family was in 1569 in the town of Kauhajoki.

Once in Finland, we rented a car and left early the next morning for the long drive to Kauhajoki. We had a hard time finding it and were about to give up when Charlie caught sight of a small airport. We drove there to ask for help. Sandy showed a young man our report, and he kindly offered to take us to the town library. I am sure we would never have found Kauhajoki by ourselves since it is well hidden down a forested highway. It seemed the Lord was leading us in our journey.

At the library a young woman gave us a map, circling the Lutheran church and cemetery. We found the church easily. After two hours of research, with the help of the pastor and several clerks, one of them called our Laurunen relatives and told them they had visitors from America. They came immediately with family genealogies dating back to the year 1550.

With the church bookkeeper as our interpreter, we walked through the beautifully manicured cemetery. Sandy stood at her grandfather’s grave for the first time. Later, she saw a picture of him and held his violin. We were all deeply touched as the void we had felt before was being filled.

Then our Finnish cousins drove us to the family homestead, which was pictured on our two-page report. They told us that our family had owned as much land as the eye could see. The house on the family homestead was enormous and had housed Laurunen families as far back as 1550. When the Russian military came into Kauhajoki, they used the homestead for military headquarters. They burned down the church and all other homes in the area. Everyone, including our family, fled to the woods for safety. After the Russians left, our grandfather led the building of the new church that we had seen earlier. Eventually the land around the homestead was divided and sold.

In 2005 Janice, Sandy, and I returned to Kauhajoki for another visit with our newly found cousins and more research. In 2006 we had our first Laurunen family reunion in America, and 15 of our Finnish cousins joined us. Eighty-nine family members celebrated the lives of our grandparents.

What a joy it has been to discover such a rich, fascinating family history and know more about who I am and where I came from. Family history is the work of the Lord.

One of those Scouts, Sid Payne, found something fascinating before he even got here. He and his cousin were in the car on the way here when Sid’s dad, Ed, handed the boys several sheets of paper and said, “Read this.”
What they read was so interesting that when they reached the campsite, they stayed in the car to finish the last two pages instead of jumping out of the car and into the fun. They had discovered a little-known group of real western heroes.
At first, Sid didn’t want to read that journal account on the way here. “I thought it was going to be some long, boring thing. But after a few pages, I liked it a lot.” What Sid learned from his reading was that his great-great-great grandfather, Abraham Hunsaker, had marched through this same wild desert nearly 150 years ago. “I never knew he was in the Mormon Battalion. I was really impressed with what he did.”

A great example comes from President Gordon B. Hinckley, who wrote about his early discouraging days as a missionary in England. He said:
I was not well when I arrived. Those first few weeks, because of illness and the opposition which we felt, I was discouraged. I wrote a letter home to my good father and said that I felt I was wasting my time and his money. He was my father and my stake president, and he was a wise and inspired man. He wrote a very short letter to me which said, “Dear Gordon, I have your recent letter. I have only one suggestion: forget yourself and go to work.”
President Hinckley continues,
Earlier that morning in our scripture class my companion and I had read these words of the Lord: “Whosoever will save his life shall lose it; but whosoever shall lose his life for my sake and the gospel’s, the same shall save it.”
Those words of the Master, followed by my father’s letter with his counsel to forget myself and go to work, went into my very being. With my father’s letter in hand, I went into our bedroom in the house at 15 Wadham Road, where we lived, and got on my knees and made a pledge with the Lord. I covenanted that I would try to forget myself and lose myself in His service. [11]
The Lord has promised “whosoever will lose his life for my sake shall find it.” [12] At one time in my life, I took that phrase as being quite literally about life and death. Then as a missionary, I can remember thinking that by setting aside my own plans and serving a mission, I had lost my life in a way and the promise of finding my life meant being granted the righteous desires of my heart after my mission. In my 30s, still single, and aching for my life to mean something beyond myself, I discovered a new way to lose and find my life. It was doing just what President Hinckley learned to do: forget myself and get to work loving and serving others. And oh, what a soul-satisfying purpose was heaped back upon me. I not only found my life but my belonging as well.
I mentioned earlier some of my thoughts on losing and finding my life. My understanding of this promise has expanded with time as I’ve experienced its fulfillment. At first, I had a very literal interpretation concerning life and death. My understanding shifted during my missionary service to a fulfillment of righteous desires for having served the Lord. And later I discovered my sense of purpose and belonging in service to family and others. I assumed that I had at last arrived at the life I was promised. It wasn’t the life I had planned, hoped, or prayed for. But oh, it was good—rich and rewarding. And then. Then the Lord’s timetable revealed a surprise. It was time—the Lord’s time—for the arrival of some long-awaited blessings.
I could not have predicted the wonderful experience of courting and becoming engaged to a good man. I did not anticipate that the blessings of marriage and children would come to me at this time. But they have, and gratefully I find that the Lord has prepared me to be equal to the opportunity and responsibility. All of these years spent waiting—long enough that sometimes I forgot I was waiting! I was just living and doing the best I could. And thanks to our loving Heavenly Father and His Son, that time of waiting was fruitful both in the moment and as a cumulative preparation for my future.

An acquaintance of mine grew up not far from here. By the time he was 14 years old, he was over six feet tall and very uncoordinated. He said, “One afternoon when I was in a 10th-grade seminary class, the Spirit really touched me. I came to know that the gospel literally was true. I made up my mind that day that I wanted to serve the Lord in any way I could.”
By his senior year, he was well over six feet tall and much more coordinated. Many universities offered him scholarships to play basketball. After his first year playing at a university, he told his coach that he would like to be excused for two years to go on a mission. The coach said, “If you leave, you can be sure of one thing: you will never again wear one of our basketball uniforms!” Many thought that his “mission” ought to be playing basketball. Even some family members, including his parents, tried to convince him not to serve a mission. But he was totally committed. He was willing to give everything to the Lord—the scholarship, the applause of the fans, and the excitement of playing. He knew what the Lord was counting on him to do. He was called, and he served an honorable mission.
When he returned two years later, he was even taller and about 35 pounds heavier. His coach decided to repent. He was permitted to wear one of those basketball uniforms again, and in his senior year, his team not only won the conference championship but went on to the finals in national competition.

Late in 1827, Emma learned she was pregnant and wrote to her parents. It had been almost a year since she and Joseph had married, and her father and mother were still unhappy. But the Haleses agreed to let the young couple return to Harmony so Emma could give birth near her family.
Although it would take him away from his own parents and siblings, Joseph was eager to go. People in New York were still trying to steal the plates, and moving to a new place could provide the peace and privacy he needed to do the Lord’s work. Unfortunately, he was in debt and had no money to make the move.5
Hoping to get his finances in order, Joseph went to town to settle some of his debts. While he was in a store making a payment, Martin Harris strode up to him. “Here, Mr. Smith, is fifty dollars,” he said. “I give it to you to do the Lord’s work.”
Joseph was nervous about accepting the money and promised to repay it, but Martin said not to worry about it. The money was a gift, and he called on everyone in the room to witness that he had given it freely.6
Soon after, Joseph paid his debts and loaded his wagon. He and Emma then left for Harmony with the gold plates hidden in a barrel of beans.7
The couple arrived at the Haleses’ spacious home about a week later.8 Before long, Emma’s father demanded to see the gold plates, but Joseph said he could only show him the box where he kept them. Annoyed, Isaac picked up the lockbox and felt its weight, yet he remained skeptical. He said Joseph could not keep it in the house unless he showed him what was inside.9
With Emma’s father around, translating would not be easy, but Joseph tried his best. Assisted by Emma, he copied many of the strange characters from the plates to paper.10 Then, for several weeks, he tried to translate them with the Urim and Thummim. The process required him to do more than look into the interpreters. He had to be humble and exercise faith as he studied the characters.11
A few months later, Martin came to Harmony. He said he felt called by the Lord to travel as far as New York City to consult experts in ancient languages. He hoped they could translate the characters.12
Joseph copied several more characters from the plates, wrote down his translation, and handed the paper to Martin. He and Emma then watched as their friend headed east to consult with distinguished scholars.13
Facsimile of characters from the Book of Mormon plates.
When Martin arrived in New York City, he went to see Charles Anthon, a professor of Latin and Greek at Columbia College. Professor Anthon was a young man—about 15 years younger than Martin—and was best known for publishing a popular encyclopedia on Greek and Roman culture. He had also begun collecting stories about American Indians.14
Anthon was a rigid scholar who resented interruptions, but he welcomed Martin and studied the characters and translation Joseph had provided.15 Although the professor did not know Egyptian, he had read some studies on the language and knew what it looked like. Looking at the characters, he saw some similarities with Egyptian and told Martin the translation was correct.
Martin showed him more characters, and Anthon examined them. He said they contained characters from many ancient languages and gave Martin a certificate verifying their authenticity. He also recommended that he show the characters to another scholar named Samuel Mitchill, who used to teach at Columbia.16
“He is very learned in these ancient languages,” Anthon said, “and I have no doubt he will be able to give you some satisfaction.”17
Martin placed the certificate in his pocket, but just as he was leaving, Anthon called him back. He wanted to know how Joseph found the gold plates.
“An angel of God,” Martin said, “revealed it unto him.” He testified that the translation of the plates would change the world and save it from destruction. And now that he had proof of their authenticity, he intended to sell his farm and donate money to get the translation published.
“Let me see that certificate,” Anthon said.
Martin reached into his pocket and gave it to him. Anthon tore it to pieces and said there was no such thing as ministering angels. If Joseph wanted the plates translated, he could bring them to Columbia and let a scholar translate them.
Martin explained that part of the plates were sealed and that Joseph was not allowed to show them to anyone.
“I cannot read a sealed book,” said Anthon. He warned Martin that Joseph was probably cheating him. “Beware of rogues,” he said.18
Martin left Professor Anthon and called on Samuel Mitchill. He received Martin politely, listened to his story, and looked at the characters and translation. He could not make sense of them, but he said they reminded him of Egyptian hieroglyphics and were the writings of an extinct nation.19
Martin left the city a short time later and returned to Harmony, more convinced than ever that Joseph had ancient gold plates and the power to translate them. He told Joseph about his interviews with the professors and reasoned that if some of the most educated men in America could not translate the book, Joseph had to do it.
“I cannot,” Joseph said, overwhelmed by the task, “for I am not learned.” But he knew the Lord had prepared the interpreters so he could translate the plates.20
Martin agreed. He planned to go back to Palmyra, set his business in order, and return as soon as possible to serve as Joseph’s scribe.21
Joseph and Emma Smith’s home in Harmony, Pennsylvania.
In April 1828, Emma and Joseph were living in a home along the Susquehanna River, not far from her parents’ house.22 Now well along in her pregnancy, Emma often acted as Joseph’s scribe after he began translating the record. One day, while he translated, Joseph suddenly grew pale. “Emma, did Jerusalem have a wall around it?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, recalling descriptions of it in the Bible.
“Oh,” Joseph said with relief, “I was afraid I had been deceived.”23
Emma marveled that her husband’s lack of knowledge in history and scripture did not hinder the translation. Joseph could hardly write a coherent letter. Yet hour after hour she sat close beside him while he dictated the record without the aid of any book or manuscript. She knew only God could inspire him to translate as he did.24
In time, Martin returned from Palmyra and took over as scribe, giving Emma a chance to rest before the baby came.25 But rest did not come easy. Martin’s wife, Lucy, had insisted on coming with him to Harmony, and both Harrises had strong personalities.26 Lucy was suspicious of Martin’s desire to support Joseph financially and was angry that he had gone to New York City without her. When he told her he was going to Harmony to help with translation, she had invited herself along, determined to see the plates.
Lucy was losing her hearing, and when she could not understand what people were saying, she sometimes thought they were criticizing her. She also had little sense of privacy. After Joseph refused to show her the plates, she started searching the house, rifling through the family’s chests, cupboards, and trunks. Joseph had little choice but to hide the plates in the woods.27
Lucy soon left the house and lodged with a neighbor. Emma had her chests and cupboards to herself again, but now Lucy was telling the neighbors that Joseph was out to get Martin’s money. After weeks of causing trouble, Lucy went home to Palmyra.
With peace restored, Joseph and Martin translated quickly. Joseph was growing into his divine role as a seer and revelator. Looking into the interpreters or another seer stone, he was able to translate whether the plates were in front of him or wrapped in one of Emma’s linen cloths on the table.28
Throughout April, May, and early June, Emma listened to the rhythm of Joseph dictating the record.29 He spoke slowly but clearly, pausing occasionally to wait for Martin to say “written” after he had caught up to what Joseph had said.30 Emma also took turns as scribe and was amazed how after interruptions and breaks, Joseph always picked up where he left off without any prompting.31
Soon it was time for Emma’s baby to be born. The pile of manuscript pages had grown thick, and Martin had become convinced that if he could let his wife read the translation, she would see its value and stop interfering with their work.32 He also hoped Lucy would be pleased with how he had spent his time and money to help bring forth God’s word.
One day, Martin asked Joseph for permission to take the manuscript to Palmyra for a few weeks.33 Remembering how Lucy Harris had acted when she visited the house, Joseph was wary of the idea. Yet he wanted to please Martin, who had believed him when so many others had doubted his word.34
Unsure what to do, Joseph prayed for guidance, and the Lord told him not to let Martin take the pages.35 But Martin was sure showing them to his wife would change things, and he begged Joseph to ask again. Joseph did so, but the answer was the same. Martin pressed him to ask a third time, however, and this time God allowed them to do as they pleased.
Joseph told Martin he could take the pages for two weeks if he covenanted to keep them locked up and show them only to certain family members. Martin made the promise and returned to Palmyra, manuscript in hand.36
After Martin left, Moroni appeared to Joseph and took the interpreters from him.37
The day after Martin’s departure, Emma endured an agonizing labor and gave birth to a boy. The baby was frail and sickly and did not live long. The ordeal left Emma physically drained and emotionally devastated, and for a time it seemed she might die too. Joseph tended to her constantly, never leaving her side for long.38
After two weeks, Emma’s health began to improve, and her thoughts turned to Martin and the manuscript. “I feel so uneasy,” she told Joseph, “that I cannot rest and shall not be at ease until I know something about what Mr. Harris is doing with it.”
She urged Joseph to find Martin, but Joseph did not want to leave her. “Send for my mother,” she said, “and she shall stay with me while you are gone.”39
Joseph took a stagecoach north. He ate and slept little during the journey, afraid that he had offended the Lord by not listening when He said not to let Martin take the manuscript.40
The sun was rising when he arrived at his parents’ home in Manchester. The Smiths were preparing breakfast and sent Martin an invitation to join them. By eight o’clock, the meal was on the table but Martin had not come. Joseph and the family started to grow uneasy as they waited for him.
Finally, after more than four hours had passed, Martin appeared in the distance, walking slowly toward the house, his eyes fixed on the ground in front of him.41 At the gate he paused, sat on the fence, and pulled his hat down over his eyes. He then came inside and sat down to eat in silence.
The family watched as Martin picked up his utensils, as if ready to eat, then dropped them. “I have lost my soul!” he cried, pressing his hands on his temples. “I have lost my soul.”
Joseph jumped up. “Martin, have you lost that manuscript?”
“Yes,” Martin said. “It is gone, and I know not where.”
“Oh, my God, my God,” Joseph groaned, clenching his fists. “All is lost!”
He started pacing the floor. He did not know what to do. “Go back,” he ordered Martin. “Search again.”
“It is all in vain,” Martin cried. “I have looked every place in the house. I have even ripped open beds and pillows, and I know it is not there.”
“Must I return to my wife with such a tale?” Joseph feared the news would kill her. “And how shall I appear before the Lord?”
His mother tried to comfort him. She said maybe the Lord would forgive him if he repented humbly. But Joseph was sobbing now, furious at himself for not obeying the Lord the first time. He could barely eat for the rest of the day. He stayed the night and left the next morning for Harmony.42
As his mother, Lucy, watched him go, her heart was heavy. It seemed everything they had hoped for as a family—everything that had brought them joy over the last few years—had fled in a moment.43

The third key relationship we have is with our fellowman. We build this relationship one person at a time—by being sensitive to the needs of others, serving them, and giving of our time and talents. I was deeply impressed by one sister who was burdened with the challenges of age and illness but decided that although she couldn’t do much, she could listen. And so each week she watched for people who looked troubled or discouraged, and she spent time with them, listening. What a blessing she was in the lives of so many people.

Tyler loved tomatoes. He loved their bright red color and smooth skin. He loved the way their seeds spurted out when he bit into them. He loved to dip tiny tomatoes into salt, and he loved the big ones sliced thin in sandwiches.
“Let’s grow some tomatoes in our yard,” Tyler’s dad suggested one day.
“Could we?” Tyler was surprised. He’d never thought of growing tomatoes at home. He thought it would be wonderful to have his very own supply of tasty tomatoes ready to pick whenever he felt like it.
Tyler and his dad chose a sunny spot to plant the tomatoes. Then they dug and prepared the soil until it was loose and fine. While they were working, Mr. Bradley leaned over the back fence. “Going to have some pretty flowers?” he asked.
“Oh, no, Mr. Bradley. This is for my tomatoes,” Tyler told him.
“Humph!” Mr. Bradley growled, frowning. “I’ve never had any luck growing tomatoes here.”
“Dad says we can,” Tyler answered, and he kept raking the ground to make it smooth.
The next morning Tyler and his dad planted six tiny green tomato plants. Tyler watered them carefully. In just a few days they looked bigger. “See, Mr. Bradley,” Tyler said, pointing proudly to his plants, “they’re growing.”
“Just wait, Tyler, just wait,” Mr. Bradley replied smugly.
In several weeks Tyler’s tomato plants blossomed with dozens of star-shaped yellow flowers. “I’m going to have hundreds of tomatoes,” he predicted.
“Don’t count your chickens before they hatch,” Mr. Bradley told him.
Soon tiny, hard green tomatoes replaced the yellow blossoms. Tyler’s mouth watered as he watched them grow into large tomatoes. Morning and night he checked the plants, hoping to find a ripe tomato. One morning he thought one of the plants seemed smaller. The next day he was sure it had lost some leaves. And the following day it looked scraggly and thin. Tyler noticed some small black droppings under the plant too.
He knelt on the ground and examined all of his plants, leaf by leaf. He studied the shriveled one very carefully. Suddenly he jumped up and hollered, “Wow! Dad, Dad, come quick! There’s a dragon out here.”
A large green worm the size of a thick, round pea pod was greedily munching the leaves of Tyler’s wilted tomato plant. It really did look like a miniature dragon as it inched its fat, segmented body along the stem of the plant, waving the little “horns” on the top of its head from side to side as it moved. It seemed to eat as much as a dragon, too, devouring every leaf in its path.
“How did you ever find it, Tyler?” Dad asked. “That worm is so well camouflaged that it looks just like part of the stem. Only really sharp eyes could have seen it.”
Mr. Bradley leaned over the fence to see what all the excitement was about. “Better spray,” he advised. “The pests get all the prizes, I always say. Give ’em a shot of bug spray—that’s what they deserve.”
“I think we’ll try the old-fashioned method first,” Dad said. He carefully picked the worm off the tomato plant. “Now, Tyler, you check the plants every day, and if you notice any other worms, take them off and kill them. They should be easier to spot now that you know what to look for. Be careful, though—their bite might not be dangerous, but it could sure hurt.”
“Found any more dragons?” Mr. Bradley asked the next time Tyler was out watering.
“Nope,” Tyler answered, “but the tomatoes are finally turning red. Look!” The plants sagged under the weight of the plump tomatoes—some still green, some pale yellow, and some a promising orange.
Finally the day came. “This one is ready, isn’t it, Dad?” Tyler asked as they inspected a big red tomato.
“You bet, and it’s all yours. You grew it, and you get to eat it.”
Tyler gently twisted the tomato from its stem and washed it carefully with water from the hose. Then he sat down on the lawn and took a big bite. Still warm from the sun, the tomato burst in his mouth, spurting juice and seeds down his chin and onto his jeans. Tyler grinned with pleasure.
“Ummm! It’s so good!” he exclaimed, wiping his chin between bites. “Next week, after I eat a few more myself, I’ll pick some for Mr. Bradley. Maybe next year he’ll want to grow tomatoes too.”

That night Sabrina found a pass-along card with a picture of Jesus on the front. She tucked it in her backpack.
The next day when it was time for recess, Sabrina remembered the card. She pulled it out and went to find her friend Carla. “Here, Carla, this is for you,” Sabrina said.
Carla held the card close. “Thank you! I love pictures of Jesus.”
Sabrina showed Carla the website on the back. “You can learn more about Jesus’s Church here.”
“What church is that?” Carla asked.
“The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints,” Sabrina said. “Going to church and learning about Jesus makes me happy.”
Carla put the card in her pocket. “I’ll show this card to my mom.”
A few weeks later, Carla ran up to Sabrina before class. “I have something to tell you!” she said. She had a big smile on her face.
Sabrina was excited. What could it be? Carla smiled. “My family went to your church! And it was like you said—I felt happy there.”
“I knew you would feel the Holy Ghost!” Sabrina said.
“And I think we’re going to get baptized soon!”
Sabrina jumped up and hugged Carla. Now they could share their testimony treasures together!

My heart is breaking. Today my best friend slapped my face. I had finished helping Mrs. Thompson prepare the sewing circle, so I ran outside to be with the other girls. Rowena, Hattie, and my dearest friend, Sally, were hemming sheets under the maple. I had snatched glimpses of them while I worked, sharing some delicious secret, and I could scarcely wait to hear it.
The girls stood when they saw me coming. Then Sally stepped forward and slapped me across the cheek. “Hazel Alice Williams,” she said in an awful voice, “henceforth and forever you are banned from the Gainesville Junior Sewing Circle!”
“What have I done?” I asked.
“Are you a Mormon?” Sally demanded.
The question surprised me. What did that have to do with this?
“Were you and your father baptized by those Mormon missionaries?” Sally demanded again.
When I nodded, she hissed, “Then you are an infidel and a devil!”
She shoved me, and I turned and ran. Is this what being a Mormon means?
I know I was excited about moving, but I really miss my friends. Today before science class began, a girl two rows over called out, “Trisha, are you a Mormon?”
Suddenly the chatter stopped. All eyes turned to me. I said yes.
One of the boys asked, “What’s a Norman?”
The girl said, “Not Norman, Gregg. Mormon. It’s a church.”
“They don’t believe in Jesus Christ,” someone piped up.
“Yes, we do,” I protested, but the bell rang and drowned out my words.
I heard someone across the room say, “My dad says Mormons are really weird.”
I’m the only Mormon in this whole school. Will I ever have any friends?
Today I asked Father to teach me to chop and split wood. He replied that Mother would not have wanted me to do a man’s work. That is true. Mother always wanted me to be a lady. But Father has too much to do. He can get no man to help with the farm and no woman to help in the house because we are Mormons. I explained that I keep running out of wood for the range, and if we want hot meals, I must learn to handle an ax.
So he taught me. It is harder than it appears, and tonight my hands are blistered badly. I intend to wear my second-best Sunday gloves tomorrow when I chop.
Tonight I asked Mom to teach me how to cook from scratch, like she used to before Dad died and she had to go to work. I’m tired of watching her worry about bills, and I know that cooking from scratch would save money and be healthier.
“It would take a lot of your time,” she said. I said I figured it was time for me to pull my share of the load. Mom hugged me tight. “OK,” she laughed. “Lesson one …”
Father and I are ready to leave in the morning to join the Saints. Uncle Samuel came today all the way from Avery to persuade Father to give up Mormonism. My dearest cousin, Lydia, came with him. I haven’t seen Lydia since Mother’s funeral. Lydia told me that I needn’t go with Father. I could live with her family. She said Father had been deluded and led astray by the Mormons.
I told Lydia that I also believed the Mormon church is the only true church on earth.
She said, “But that Joseph Smith is dead now. Father said he was possessed by devils!”
My heart hurt when I heard those words. “No,” I told her, “Joseph Smith was a prophet just like the prophets in the Bible. I know this is true!”
Lydia stared at me. “I feel sorry for you. I guess we’ll never see each other again.”
Am I going to be without friends for the rest of my life?
They changed our basketball game from Tuesday to Monday. Because it’s a really important game, Coach said we would have a practice on Sunday afternoon.
“I can’t practice on Sunday,” I told him.
“I know that you’re a Mormon,” he replied, “but this is really important. I’ll talk to your mother.”
“It won’t make any difference,” I told him. “I still won’t be able to come.”
All the girls were staring. “Are you going to be in church?” one asked.
“No,” I answered. “My church is in the morning.”
“Well, where are you going in the afternoon?”
“Nowhere, I guess,” I said. “Just home.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“It’s the Sabbath,” I mumbled. After a lot of exchanged looks and rolled eyes, they went into the locker room, leaving me sitting alone on the bench.
I wish I had a close friend.
Friends. Why can’t we all be friends? Today I was walking about Winter Quarters with Mariah Jewett and Leticia Harwood. Oh, how I have wanted to be Mariah’s friend! She is pretty and clever, and she plans dances for which her father plays the fiddle. I love to dance. She promised to invite me to the next one.
While walking, we saw a family arrive in an overflowing open wagon. I love to see more Saints joining us. Tucked in among the household goods was a girl who looked to be about our age. “How exciting! Let’s go welcome her,” I said.
“Wait,” Mariah said. “Don’t go near her. She’s probably got vermin. Look at her dress. Did you ever see anything so ugly?”
I was anxious about the vermin, so I stared impolitely. Her dress wasn’t ugly, only very plain. Just then the girl saw us watching, and she smiled shyly. Was she feeling as I had felt when we finally joined the other Saints? Was she heartsick at losing friends, and hoping to find new ones?
“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “Let’s go be friendly.”
“Hazel!” Mariah’s voice stopped me. “If you mingle with that riffraff, I shall be forced to exclude you from my list of associates.”
I am ashamed that I hesitated, thinking of having fun with Mariah at the dance. Then I remembered the great and spacious building in the Book of Mormon, and I knew where I wanted to be.
“So be it, Mariah,” I said, and I left her. Even in the midst of the Saints, life has trials.
It must be my destiny to be a loner. I was walking to an assembly with Melinda and Denise, who are on the basketball team too. We passed a girl just standing there, looking lost. She also looked like a total nerd. Besides her clothes being all wrong, her hair was like my grandma’s. She was obviously new, and my heart ached for her. I knew just how she felt.
I said, “Are you going to the assembly?” When she nodded, I said, “It’s this way.” Melinda and Denise looked at me like, “You know her?”
She began following us, and Melinda muttered, “Get rid of her.”
But I couldn’t. She needed a friend. She followed us up the bleachers and sat down next to me. Melinda and Denise gave me a disgusted look and moved over to the next section.
Good-bye, Melinda and Denise.
All week long I have looked forward to the dance tonight. Life on the trail is so dreary, just plodding along day after day. I don’t think I ever fixed supper faster or cleaned up more quickly than I did tonight. I called over to Sister Fuller in the next wagon to see if she needed help getting ready. She has two small children and a grandfather who has been ill. She replied that she wasn’t going to the dance. Her grandfather was feeling very ill, and someone had to stay with him.
Poor Sister Fuller. She loves to dance and sing and was probably looking forward to it even more than I. “I will watch your grandfather,” I told her. “I can come get you if he turns worse.”
“But you don’t want to miss the dance,” she protested.
“There are plenty of dances ahead of me. Go with your husband and enjoy yourself.”
Her smile lit up her entire face, and she hugged me. “God bless you, Hazel,” she whispered, and she hurried to freshen up.
So I spent the evening taking care of the grandfather and watching the sleeping babies. I heard the music and the happy voices all evening, and missed it dreadfully. But I was not sorry I stayed so that Sister Fuller could go. If I don’t feel happiness in my soul tonight, at least I feel peace.
Talk about anticipation! Thinking about the ward social Friday night was what kept me going all week. Other girls in the ward were sure to be there, and Church is the only place I can relax and not feel different.
Mom and I left early to pick up Sister Grogan. We found her balancing her crying three-year-old on one knee while feeding the baby in his high chair. Her house was a mess, and she was too.
“I guess I’m not going,” she told Mom. “The babies are fussy, and I can’t handle that tonight.”
Mom picked up the crying toddler. “You need this night out,” she told Sister Grogan. “I’ll stay with your children, and you drive on to the social with Trisha.”
Sister Grogan brightened up. “I can’t let you do that,” she protested weakly.
Mom said “Nonsense,” and started to push her toward the bedroom.
I looked at Mom, and she looked as tired as Sister Grogan did. They both needed this night out.
I took the toddler from Mom. “You’re going to the ward social, too,” I said. “I’m staying with the children.”
“I can’t let you do that.” But she looked as hopeful as Sister Grogan had.
“No problem,” I said. “Go have fun.”
I may not have had fun tonight, but I sure feel good inside!

One day my father, who was bishop of our ward, left my brother and me to do some work. We thought he would be gone for some time doing his church work. But he returned sooner than we had expected and found us riding calves.
When he called us over, I will never forget how he looked at me and said, “My boy, I thought I could depend on you!”
That was a great lesson, a severe punishment, to me. I made up my mind then that neither he nor anyone else would ever have reason to say that again to me as long as I lived.

Now after all these years, we find that many of the medical profession and others agree that numerous diseases are the result of the use of these things. I remember standing by a hospital bed of a good friend of mine, and I watched him die of cancer. His physicians said it was caused by the use of tobacco. I have helped bury people who have been killed by the demon alcohol, and many other innocent people died because someone was driving who had been drinking.

The S¶o Paulo Tabo¶o Stake chose the theme of “Changing the World” for their youth conference during Carnaval. As they cleaned the square of a local public building, they had opportunities to introduce several people who passed by to the Church. They also knelt in prayer before giving copies of the Book of Mormon to many of their neighbors, none of whom refused the gift.
“These were the most wonderful days of my life. I learned how to help and serve my fellowmen. I am very happy to be a member of the Church. I want to serve a mission and help the people of the world to be as happy as I am.”
Debora, Second Ward, Bosque

On Pierrefond Avenue, Eddy Shackelford had what we called a hockey player’s name.
I told him that if he ever got to the National Hockey League I’d pick him right out on the ice because there’d be no room for a number on his sweater, just the letters of his last name.
But we all agreed, it was a hockey player’s name if there ever was one.
And we all agreed Eddy was bound for great things. Of the dozen kids my age who met daily to play ice or street hockey, Eddy was without doubt the best player. He was taller and stronger than the rest of us, but it was more than that—he was a leader. And he was my best friend.
During one game Eddy told me he would not go if another team, other than the “Habs,” drafted him out of junior hockey. (The “Habs” was a nickname for the Montreal Canadiens, a French abbreviation for “Inhabitants.”) If we had grown up in Philadelphia, or in New York, or anyplace else in the world, it would have been different, but when you’re 12 and living in Montreal, your dream is to play for the “Habs.”
“I wouldn’t go to Buffalo,” I replied one day. “Or Chicago. I might go to Toronto or Detroit though. They need help and I’d get to play a lot.”
I knew Eddy thought I was a traitor to even suggest such a thing, but he muttered only, “Not me.”
Each day, before sides were picked, we knew Eddy’s team would be the “Habs.”
“You can be Boston,” Eddy might say if the Bruins were having a good season. And he got away with it. On a street in the heart of Montreal, with an inbred passion burning in each of us for the “home” team, there was never an argument.
In winter Eddy’s dad would flood a vacant lot and let us play until it was too dark to see the black puck against the ice. The games would last through bitter cold and through heavy snow that teemed by the streetlights and built up in piles outside our playing area. In summer we moved our games to the middle of the street, batting a tennis ball into flimsy nylon netting. Windows would break and ankles would twist, but otherwise little changed the flow of events on Pierrefond Avenue.
What did eventually happen left most of us wondering for some time. Only lately have I come to fully understand what Eddy went through the summer he turned 13.
“I don’t know what you’ve heard, but I’m not going to be no Mormon,” Eddy said to me one Saturday as we sat on the bank of the St. Lawrence River.
“Why would you have to be a Mormon?” I was stunned. We all knew about the Mormons—I had seen them knocking on doors in our neighborhood. My vicar told us they were an abomination and to not answer the door. My dad said they had many wives and were simply misled. On Pierrefond Avenue, we all knew about the Mormons.
“I thought everyone had heard. My Mum let them in the other day,” said Eddy. “Now she wants me and my dad to go to their church. I told her no way. My dad said no and he said if he sees those Mormon guys he’ll run them off. My mum still says she’s going tomorrow though.”
“You think she’ll go?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I just know I’m not going.”
Eddy’s dad was as strong willed as his son. Mr. Shackelford served in the military for many years before going to work for the Canadian Pacific Railroad as a brakeman. Most adults on our avenue looked up to the senior Shackelford, a tall, dark man with high, heavy shoulders and not a trace of a belly. I didn’t know him very well, but I feared him.
I didn’t know a lot about Eddy’s mum either. She was just a regular mum. She was born into a French family and married Eddy’s dad when she was still quite young. His mum liked to sing a lot and was nice to me when I went around.
“Bonjour Monsieur,” she would sing to me as I came in the door of their house.
“Bonjour Madam,” I would say back, grinning from ear to ear with embarrassment.
“Just tell her to stop it,” Eddy would say. “She’s teasing us because she thinks we act too old for our ages.”
After Eddy’s news I left him on the banks of the river. Later, my dad told me he saw two guys in suits going up the Shackelford’s walk that day. “Those Mormons are in for a rude surprise,” he said, adding that Mr. Shackelford was home.
I didn’t see Eddy on Sunday. But, being summer break, he was out again for street hockey on Monday morning. Within minutes our sticks were clicking on the concrete road as we battled out the previous years’ Stanley Cup matchup. But something was wrong. No one would pass to Eddy.
“Can Mormons still play hockey?” one of the boys playing goal finally called out. Eddy took it, even though the others laughed and added comments of their own. “Sure they can,” the boy called again. “They just have to pray before every period.” Eddy threw down his stick and charged the goalie.
We let them fight it out, but it was no contest. Eddy was the toughest kid on the street.
After a few moments I pulled Eddy off the sprawling goalie. I don’t know if the others had been jealous of Eddy all along, or if Eddy had hurt them by doing something that was against the grain of our quiet street. All that was clear to me at the time was Eddy would never again hold as high a place on Pierrefond.
“You went to their church, didn’t you?” I asked Eddy.
He didn’t answer. For a long time he looked around the group, then without speaking walked off toward his house.
I visited Eddy that night and Mr. Shackelford answered the door. He looked down at me and smiled. “I’m glad you came,” he said letting me in.
“Glad to be here,” I said. A dumb thing to say. My nerves got the best of me. He just laughed.
“Ed, one of those kids is here,” he called upstairs. “Want me to beat him up for you?” He looked at me menacingly for what seemed like an hour. My eyes widened and I began to sweat. Then he laughed again, winked at me, and went into the other room.
“I thought your dad was mad at me,” I said to Eddy as he came down the stairs. “He was just kidding though. He’s all right.”
“Yeah, he’s okay sometimes.” There was an awkward silence, and I watched as Eddy rocked from leg to leg. “You come to give me a hard time?”
“No.” Then I started rocking with Eddy. “So you a Mormon now?”
“No,” said Eddy. “We just went to church, that’s all.”
“We still gonna be friends?”
“Sure. I’d be your friend even if I was a Mormon. That’s for good.”
“We were sure your dad would scare those guys off yesterday,” I said.
“He was going to, but since my mum let them in my dad gave them five minutes to talk. It was a lot longer than five minutes, but Dad just sat there not saying a word until they were done. Then this one missionary, that’s what they’re called, asked if there were any questions and my dad started to get up but he couldn’t or something.” Eddy fell quiet for a time, looking down at his feet.
“Well, what happened?” I asked.
“My dad cried.”
“He cried?”
“Yep. You won’t tell anyone will you?”
“No way. Who’d believe me?” I said.
“Then my dad asked if he could go to church too, just to see what it was like. So I asked if I could go as well.
“And the missionaries started to cry, but it’s not like they’re wimps though. Then one of them said a prayer and it was real … you know, peaceful. And they said that was the Spirit.”
Eddy and I talked for some a time about the missionaries and his time at church. I could feel the excitement in his voice, an excitement that in the following years led me and many others to investigate the LDS faith. Like Eddy, I felt the Spirit testify of its truth and was baptized.
But outside, on the street, Eddy had become “The Mormon kid,” a title he could not seem to shake. The boys on the avenue no longer looked up to Eddy as their hero. Even though he was still a leader and a great hockey player, he had taken a path they did not understand.
It’s been six years since Eddy’s mum first invited the missionaries into their home. A few nights ago Eddy and I sat together as a bus carried us from a game in Sherbrooke. It was the last game of our junior hockey season. For Eddy it was the last game for two years. This morning he left on a mission.
As I sat on the bus I thought about the choice Eddy had made when he was 13 and the choice he just made. In the weeks following his baptism he endured the scorn and ridicule of the Pierrefond gang, but he never faltered in his conviction to the truth. One day this spring our coach said Eddy had a chance to be invited to the “Habs” camp, but Eddy just smiled and said a polite, “Not me.”
As we traveled in the darkness I looked over at Eddy. He was lost in thought. Though I did not know what to say to him, I knew we were friends. Outside the world was waiting for Eddy, but at that moment I was happy he was next to me—I was sitting beside Eddy Shackelford, and he was still my hero.

I remember not long ago I was touring a mission in a foreign country and while we were there I asked the president, “Are there any particular problems in the mission?”
He said, “Well, we have one missionary that wants to go home. The only reason he hasn’t gone home is that I still have his passport.” You brethren who have been out know what that is like. “But,” he said, “I think I’m going to have to let him go.”
I said, “Can I talk to him? Would I be able to help you in any way?”
He said, “I don’t really think so. I think we’ve done all the talking we can.”
I met him before the meeting—I was shaking hands with a group of missionaries and I shook hands with this one young man and did not know who he was, except I felt a little different spirit with him, and afterwards I asked the president who that young man was and he said, “He’s the one that wants to go home.”
I said, “Do you mind asking him after the meeting if he would come up and let me visit with him?”
He said, “That’s fine.”
So after the meeting, the elder came up to the stand and I shook hands with him and said, “I appreciate your coming up. I wonder if you’d mind if I visited with you?”
And he kind of shrugged his shoulders and said, “I don’t care. It’s up to you.” You know, as if to say, “It’s your nickel; spend it how you want it.”
So we went over to the side, and in this particular meeting room in this chapel we were in there was a large stained glass window on one side. I have talked with missionaries before about not going home before they were supposed to go home, so I had a really good talk prepared on that subject—at least I thought it was. And as I talked to him he kept looking out the stained glass window. Never did I get his eye. I kept giving my speech. I was right in the very key part of it where I thought, “If anything will turn him this will.”
Then he said to me, “Bishop Peterson, if you look out the window very carefully you’ll see it’s snowing.”
I heaved a sigh and thought, “Oh, boy. He doesn’t even know I’m here, except he wants me to see the snow. He hasn’t heard a thing I’ve said.” I looked out with him and said, “You’re right, elder. It’s snowing.”
We finished the talk like that, and for the next two days I was around and with him in different meetings. As I was speaking in one meeting he was sitting over at the side reading a newspaper. That unnerved me just a bit. You can see what his attitude was and how I was developing an attitude toward him.
The last evening we were together in a meeting. After the meeting was over, I was down in front shaking hands with some young people and saw him just a few feet away out of the corner of my eye. Then something happened to me that I had not yet experienced. I had been asking for help; I had been praying about some way to help this young man. And then for a fleeting moment something happened to me that I had not experienced up to that point as it related to this young man. I had a feeling about this young man come over me that almost consumed me. I excused myself from talking to the other folks and went over to him and took hold of his hand, and as he was about three or four inches taller than I was I looked up into his eyes and said, “Elder, I’ve enjoyed getting acquainted with you. I want you to know that I love you. I really do.” And I left him and did not say any more. And he did not say anything.
I walked to the back door, and as I was about to go out, there he was again. I went up to him, put my arm around him, and said, “What I said up in front a few minutes ago is true; I really love you.”
And then he held onto my hand a minute and he said, “Bishop Peterson, that’s the first time in my life anyone has ever told me they loved me.” Now, you see, I could understand why he was discouraged, why he was confused, why he wanted to go home, why he did not know what to do. Remember the principle, brothers and sisters: “We love him, because he first loved us.” That is the second secret.

First let me share with you what I experienced overseas as I listened to a modest, gentle, manly father wearing the uniform of his country, leading and doing a job of importance while he gave great service to the Kingdom and his fellowmen. He told me of his work among many other officers in the prosecution arm of the United States Army—men who were not like him, who were not living the kind of life he was living. They had not been very much interested in the fact that he was a Mormon leader, or that he had a strong sense of loyalty to his wife and children and to God, or that he had control of his tongue and a way of speaking different from their own. None of that impressed them very much. He and his wife found themselves leaving required social events early quite frequently because the activities of the evening were not wholesome. As such an evening would progress, other guests occasionally became ugly as they imbibed additional spirits, lost their normal restraints, and sometimes acted less like men and women than like animals. He was not one to judge lightly or readily, and he was not expressing harsh judgments against them; he was simply presenting a setting for an incident that I shall not forget.

He said that they went to a Christmas party, more happily this time because the host family was a fine family who had little children of the same general age as their own. The children came in their pajamas by invitation and, joining the host family children, played together in another room while the adults ate their dinner. Periodically the children came out and interrupted proceedings with childish playing or questioning until finally the Mormon father, his sense of humor tried a little bit, said, “Now, look—you kids go on in the other room and stay there and don’t come out again or else.”

They sat at dinner in peace for a time; then the bedroom door opened and a little line of children filed out, the two-year-old in the vanguard. (They were sure daddy would not do too much violence to him.) The older brother had him by the shoulders and was egging him on. As the father, disturbed and feeling that he had to do something because he had said he would, began to push back his chair, the two-year-old said, “Daddy, you and mama forgot family prayer.”

Instead of expressing embarrassment, the mother said, “Honey, we did forget.” She pushed her chair back, he rose from his, and they excused themselves and quietly took their children and the other children into the bedroom where they performed this simple act of family unity and faith. Then they quietly came back to the table, seated themselves, and went on with the dinner.

“It was a different night,” he said to me, “and it’s been a different office. That party didn’t end like all the rest. And at the office things are different now.”

To be and not to seem brings great blessings.

Recently Sister Nelson and I were in Denmark during the commemoration of the 150th anniversary of the Church in Scandinavia. Between meetings, we took a few hours to search for villages where two of my father’s grandparents were born. They were among the early converts to the Church in Denmark.
Thanks to a good driver and a superb map, we found each town on our list and obtained treasured information. During the entire journey, my hands were riveted to that valuable map so essential to achieve our goals.
In contrast, many people travel through life without good guidance, lacking knowledge of a desired destination or how to get there. But if rapt attention is paid to a road map for a day’s journey, isn’t it also wise to pay attention to authoritative guidance on our journey through life?
The ultimate objective in our mortal journey has been revealed by our Creator, who said, “If you keep my commandments and endure to the end you shall have eternal life, which gift is the greatest of all the gifts of God” (D&C 14:7).
His gift of eternal life is subject to conditions established by Him (see D&C 130:21). Those conditions constitute a plan, or a spiritual road map. And when trouble comes, guidance is needed most. In our journey in Denmark, we met an unexpected detour that led us astray. In order to get back on course, we stopped the car. We studied the map with great care. Then we made the necessary course correction.
What if you are lost and have no map? Suppose you are alone. You do not know where you are. What can you do? You call for help. You call home. Call the Church. Pray. When connected with your help line, you learn that you need to make a climb here or a turn there to get back on course. Or you may have to go back to the beginning in order to be certain that you can get where you want to go.
We turn to Him who knows us best—our Creator. He allowed us to come to earth with freedom to choose our own course. In His great love, He did not leave us alone. He provided a guide—a spiritual road map—to help us achieve success in our journey. We call that guide the standard works, so named because they—the Holy Bible, the Book of Mormon, the Doctrine and Covenants, and the Pearl of Great Price—constitute the standard by which we should live. They serve as a standard of reference, as are standards of time, weights, and measures that are kept in national bureaus of standards.
To reach our objective of eternal life, we need to follow teachings in the standard works and other revelations received from prophets of God (see D&C 1:38). Our loving Lord foresaw our need for guidance: “For strait is the gate,” He said, “and narrow the way that leadeth unto the exaltation and continuation of the lives, and few there be that find it” (D&C 132:22).
Few find the way because they ignore the divine road map provided by the Lord. An even more serious mistake is to ignore the Maker of the map. God declared in the first of His Ten Commandments, “Thou shalt have no other gods before me” (Ex. 20:3). Yet carnal man tends to let his loyalty drift toward idols.
We marvel at computers and the Internet that enable transmission of data with remarkable speed. We are truly grateful for these electronic servants. But if we let them take over our time, pervert our potential, or poison our minds with pornography, they cease being servants and become instead false gods.
False gods can only lead to dead ends. We need to follow divine direction. The Lord said, “Look unto me in every thought; doubt not, fear not” (D&C 6:36). And the Psalmist wrote, “Thy word is a lamp unto my feet, and a light unto my path” (Ps. 119:105).
Following such counsel demands not only conviction but conversion and often repentance. That would please the Lord, who said, “Repent, and turn yourselves from your idols; and turn … from all your abominations” (Ezek. 14:6).
In your journey through life, you meet many obstacles and make some mistakes. Scriptural guidance helps you recognize error and make the necessary correction. You stop going in the wrong direction. You carefully study the scriptural road map. Then you proceed with repentance and restitution required to get on the “strait and narrow path which leads to eternal life” (2 Ne. 31:18).
Our busy lives force us to focus on things we do from day to day. But the development of character comes only as we focus on who we really are. To establish and accomplish those greater goals, we do need heavenly help.
How can we truly live, not “by bread alone, but by every word that proceedeth out of the mouth of God”? (Matt. 4:4).
We begin with a determination to “liken all scriptures unto us, … for our profit and learning” (1 Ne. 19:23). If we “press forward, feasting upon the word of Christ, and endure to the end, … [we] shall have eternal life” (2 Ne. 31:20).
To feast means more than to taste. To feast means to savor. We savor the scriptures by studying them in a spirit of delightful discovery and faithful obedience. When we feast upon the words of Christ, they are embedded “in fleshy tables of the heart” (2 Cor. 3:3). They become an integral part of our nature.
As you ponder and pray about doctrinal principles, the Holy Ghost will speak to your mind and your heart (see D&C 8:2). From events portrayed in the scriptures, new insights will come and principles relevant to your situation will distill upon your heart.
You cultivate such revelatory experiences by living according to the light already given you and by searching the scriptures with pure motives. As you do so, your confidence will “wax strong in the presence of God,” and the Holy Ghost will be your constant companion (see D&C 121:45–46).
We all need guidance through life. We obtain it best from the standard works and teachings of the prophets of God. With diligent effort, we can achieve that guidance and thus qualify for all of the blessings that God has in store for His faithful children.

Then, months later, I began to feel guilty. I had made a promise to God, and I had not kept it. My brother was home, life had stabilized, and I had still not looked for a church to attend.
Then, I met a girl.
One night in April 2012, I met a girl who, from the moment I saw her, I felt I would marry. We met at a party, and after some effort on my part, she finally gave me her number. We went on our first date a few days later, and after that we were inseparable. We were together every day.
Eventually, I met her parents. They welcomed me into their home and treated me like family. I knew they were members of the Church, but at that point I did not know enough to have an opinion. What I did know was that they were kind, loving, genuine people. They taught me more by example than by formal lessons.
Later that summer, my future father-in-law asked me to help him build a shed in his yard. One day, while we were working, I saw two young men walk through the gate looking like they were ready to help. As you can probably guess, they were missionaries. Were they good construction workers? Not really. But they were the right missionaries for me. They were exactly who I needed to teach me. I remember one of them asking me as I drove nails, “What do you know about Jesus Christ?” We had my first lesson as we worked on that shed.
After months of missionary lessons, church attendance, home teaching visits, young single adult activities, and even watching general conference, I was baptized and confirmed a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints on December 22, 2012.
Looking back, I can clearly see the hand of God in my life. I can now clearly see that He heard desperate prayers. I can clearly see that He was guiding me long before I fully understood it. And I see that my baptism was not the end of my conversion story. It was just the beginning.

José Humberto González Garza, 69, a member of the Campestre Ward, serves as patriarch in the Monterrey México Roma Stake and has seen patriarchal blessings change lives. He remembers an older woman who was promised she would be able to serve in the temple. She thought it could not happen because of her age and the distance to a temple. But a temple was later built nearby, and she found joy in serving.

“I feel so satisfied doing my duty,” Brother González says. Because he is partially blind, he uses a cane to help him get around. He also uses a hearing aid. And at times he feels he can’t do as much as he used to. But, he says, “when my children ask me, ‘Are you giving blessings, Dad?’ I tell them, ‘No, I’m receiving blessings.’”

“When I was about thirteen years old, my mother had prepared a delicious Thanksgiving dinner. Before she could get the table set, an emergency call came, and my mother and father had to go to be with my brother, who was very ill. After my parents left, I went to a friend who didn’t have a mother and whose father wasn’t well. I knew that he wouldn’t have a Thanksgiving dinner, so I invited him to our home for dinner. I got out Mother’s best linen, crystal, and silverware, and I set a table that was fit for a king. After our dinner together, I sent some food home for my friend’s father. I was trying to follow my parents’ example to serve others.