Gospel Story Finder

When Thomas Marsh came back to the Church after his disaffection, he explained what happened:
“I must have lost the Spirit of the Lord out of my heart. …
“I became jealous of the Prophet … and overlooked everything that was right, and spent all my time in looking for the evil; … I thought I saw a beam in Brother Joseph’s eye, but it was nothing but a mote, and my own eye was filled with the beam; … I got mad and I wanted everybody else to be mad. I talked with Brother Brigham Young and Brother Heber C. Kimball, and I wanted them to be mad like myself; and I saw they were not mad, and I got madder still because they were not. Brother Brigham Young, with a cautious look, said, ‘Are you the leader of the Church, Brother Thomas?’ I answered ‘No.’ ‘Well then,’ said he, ‘why do you not let that alone?’”

George Albert Smith was born during the week of April general conference, 1870. Many people came to Temple Square that week to see the balcony that had just been added to the Tabernacle.
A boy: Two thousand extra seats, and it’s still crowded in here!
As a young man, George Albert often went to visit Lucy Woodruff, who lived just across the street from the almost-finished Salt Lake Temple.
Lucy: George Albert, look at that beautiful hot air balloon.
George: I think it’s going to hit the Tabernacle!
George Albert ran to call the fire department from the nearest telephone. But when the firefighters got to Temple Square, they discovered that the gates were locked and that the night watchman didn’t have a key.
George: We have to break in fast!
Fire man: Line up, men. We’ll charge the gate on the count of three.
Working together, the men and firefighters put out the blaze. The Tabernacle was saved!
Lucy: George Albert, you’re a hero!
Later, after marrying Lucy and serving a mission, Elder George Albert Smith gave many sermons in the Tabernacle as member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles.
He also became the first president of the Church to give a general conference talk on television. Many people saw on TV the Tabernacle that, years before, George Albert Smith had helped protect from fire.

Not all marital unhappiness stems from obvious bad habits. Some problems develop silently, almost imperceptibly, as we are involved in taxing schedules and multiple demands. Consider the couple who had spent all their married years in devotion to Church and children. The children were now grown and had left home; church callings were less demanding; and unexpectedly, they who had spent years helping others resolve difficulties, faced problems of their own. Preoccupied with serving their children, they had forgotten to serve each other. Quick to lavish affection on those about them, they had neglected sharing simple expressions of love and concern with one another. Now, in the time when they might enjoy the richness of their experiences together, they found their relationship strained. Each felt a sense of falling short which easily led to criticism and complaint. Their years of church activity, however, had taught them a better way. They had experienced the light of the gospel and longed for it now.
They found that by taking a fresh view of gospel principles, this time as a means of solving their own problems, they could relearn how to serve one another. They realized that expressing their affection in those mellowing years together brought a sweetness and satisfaction that was especially rewarding. They selected some projects on which they worked together around their home; they found meaningful church activity, prepared family records and histories, and learned how to preserve other valuable documents. Already, in the gospel, they had the principles they needed, and found them more than adequate as they brought them to bear on their own problems.

Let me tell you a little about my childhood and the way I was raised. My parents were second-generation owners of a grocery and general merchandise store in Teton Valley, Idaho. In addition to the grocery store, my father also farmed and we raised sheep. So, as you can guess, there was no shortage of work for me and my siblings when I was growing up as a kid. It seemed like I was always either in school or at work, and I never knew what it was like to have a day off. At the age of ten, I also worked for my uncles on their farm in the summer time, usually driving either a tractor or truck as they loaded hay bales in the field. I started working for $1.00 per day, and by the end of the first summer, I had made some money. My parents set me up a savings account, and then at the age of twelve, they helped me set up a checking account so that I had control of my own money. That was long before the day of credit and debit cards. They did require that I put at least half of my earning into savings for a future mission and college. One of my earliest jobs in the grocery store was stocking shelves on freight day, and I was paid 5 cents for each case of product that I could mark with the correct price and put neatly on the shelf. If I worked hard, I could earn $1.00 from the time I got to the store after school and until it closed. Now, I am telling you all of this to help you understand why being organized is so important to me. I had to be organized to go to school, hold a part time job from about the age of eight, and keep up with my homework in school. As I got into high school, I was involved in football and wrestling after school, and then I still went to the grocery store until closing and then home to do my homework. From time to time, I would also have to be at the grocery store early in the morning before school to help out in the meat department, and I became a meat cutter in the process. I had to organize every aspect of my life so that I could do well in school, participate in scouting, and have a little time to go with my friends and have a date for the Saturday night dance. Since this was all back in the '60s, there were no computers, and until I could take a typing class in high school, my mother had to type all of my term papers and book reports.

I can’t pass by President Hafen without mentioning his delightful sense of humor. I have to confess that sometimes I didn’t get the point of his puns, but I nevertheless chortled for days—after all, he was the President. I do remember the telling of one joke which I thought captured his rather unique sense of humor. One day we were walking across campus in the late winter. It had been a particularly brutal winter, even by Rexburg standards, and the snow was flying at us driven by a forty mile an hour wind. As we struggled to make our way, President Hafen turned to me and said, “Mike, Ricks College is a special place.” “How so,” I cautiously responded as bits of ice and snow stung my face. “Well,” he continued above the howl of the wind, “In the Church, many are called, but few are frozen.” His humor warmed me up on a cold and blustery day.

Ashley and Sara gazed at the display case. The light seemed to dance on the silver, heart-shaped locket. “It sparkles like a star,” Sara said as she admired the treasure.
“When I get my allowance on Saturday, I’ll finally have enough money to buy it,” Ashley said, not taking her eyes off the locket. She had been saving her allowance all summer to buy it.
The bell hanging on the door of the shop jangled as the two girls left to begin their walk home. As they walked, Ashley’s mind was still on the locket. “I can’t wait to wear it to church next Sunday!”
“It’s the most beautiful locket I’ve ever seen,” Sara added, wishing deep down that she had seen it first. Her mind wandered to that hot June afternoon when they had ridden their bikes downtown. They’d gone inside the shop to cool off. As the cool breeze of the air conditioner gently washed over them, they looked at hair ribbons and jewelry. Sara was looking at some gold earrings on a counter display when Ashley spotted the locket in the display case below.
“Look at that!” she said in an almost-whisper, as if she did not want anyone else to hear her. “It’s beautiful! I just have to buy it! I’ll have to save up, of course, but I just have to have that locket.”
Why didn’t I see it first? Sara thought angrily. I love that locket! Now I can’t buy it because Ashley wants it. I even have enough money to buy it now! She hoped that Ashley would forget about the locket and she could buy it herself, but Ashley hadn’t.
The blaring horn of a passing car jerked Sara’s thoughts back into the present. Now I’ll never have the locket, she told herself.
Saturday morning, Ashley anxiously waited for her allowance. “Thanks, Mom. Is it all right if I go downtown to buy my necklace now?”
“Why don’t you wait a few minutes and let me drive you? I need to run a few errands anyway.”
“That would be great! I can hardly wait!”
They arrived at the shop and hurried inside. Ashley ran to the display case and searched the shelf. “It’s not here!”
“Don’t panic,” Mom said calmly. “Let’s ask the clerk if she knows anything about it.”
A friendly lady greeted them, “How may I help you ladies?”
“Could you please tell us what happened to the silver heart-shaped locket that used to be in this display case?” Mom asked.
“I’m sorry—it was sold yesterday. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“No, thank you very much.” Mom gently guided Ashley toward the door.
Ashley didn’t say anything on the ride home. She just stared out the car window. My locket is gone! It isn’t fair!It just isn’t fair!
On Sunday, Ashley stood in front of the mirror in her bedroom. She wore her favorite dress—the bright green one—but it didn’t cheer her up. She gazed into the mirror and imagined how pretty the locket would have looked with it.
At church she looked for Sara. She wanted to tell her how sad she was about the locket. Finally she saw Sara in the corner talking excitedly with some girls in their class. As she joined them, Ashley saw the locket—her locket—around Sara’s neck. “How could you?” she cried. “You stole my locket!”
“It wasn’t your locket,” Sara snapped back. “And I didn’t steal it.”
“But you knew that I wanted it.”
“Well, I wanted it, too, and I had enough money to buy it, so I did!”
“I’ll never forgive you for this, Sara,” Ashley cried. All through Primary she glared at Sara, who just sat quietly and stared at the floor.
After church, Ashley stormed into the house, ran to her bedroom, and slammed the door. Soon Mom knocked on the door. “Ashley, Sara’s here to see you.”
“Tell her to go away! I never want to see her again!”
“She seems really upset. I think that you ought to talk with her.”
Ashley slowly walked to the front door, where Sara stood waiting on the porch. “What do you want?”
“I came to apologize. I’m sorry that I bought the locket that you wanted. It’s just so pretty! But I want you to have it. You don’t even have to buy it from me.” The necklace sparkled in the sunlight as Sara held it in her outstretched hand. “I’m really sorry. Can you forgive me?”
“No, I can’t. And I don’t want the locket now. It’s ruined—you’ve worn it!” Ashley slammed the door in Sara’s face, then stomped back to her bedroom. I’ll never forgive her for this, she told herself. Never!
Soon Mom appeared in the doorway. “What happened?”
Ashley told her how Sara had known that she had been saving up to buy the locket and had bought it, anyway. “She came here to apologize, but she’s too late!”
“So you won’t forgive her?”
Ashley shook her head.
“I think Sara is very sorry,” Mom said. “Don’t you think you should try?”
“I don’t care if she’s sorry. She knew it was wrong, but she did it anyway.”
“Ashley, how would you feel if Heavenly Father wouldn’t forgive you for the things that you’ve done wrong?”
Ashley was quiet for a minute. “I would feel terrible,” she answered softly.
“Would you want Him to tell you that you couldn’t be forgiven because you knew that what you did was wrong but did it anyway?”
“No.”
“The Savior said that in order for Heavenly Father to forgive us for our mistakes, we must forgive other people.” Mom patted her on the shoulder and left her.
Kneeling by her bed, Ashley began to pray. “Heavenly Father, please help me to forgive Sara. …”
At recess the next day, Ashley found Sara sitting on the swings alone. “Hi, Sara,” she said timidly. Sara just stared at the ground and drew circles in the dirt with her foot.
“Please let me talk to you,” Ashley pleaded.
“OK,” Sara said at last.
“I’m sorry that I didn’t accept your apology yesterday. I don’t care about the locket anymore. You’re more important to me than any locket ever could be. Can you forgive me for being so mean to you?”
Sara finally looked up. “Of course I can. Ashley, I really am sorry that I bought the locket.”
“Thank you for saying so—it means a lot to me for us to be best friends again.” Ashley climbed into the swing next to Sara’s. As she began to swing higher and higher, she thought about how free she felt without a heart full of anger and resentment. She looked up at the sky and silently thanked Heavenly Father.

As I came into the kitchen, my big brother Matt was saying to Mom, “I think just you, Dad, me, and Abby should be in on it. I don’t think he can keep a secret.” He was talking about me! “I can too keep a secret!” I said.
Mom smiled. “On Monday nights, the Family Night Phantom secretly leaves treats on people’s doorsteps. How would you like us to become the Phantom?”
“What a great idea!” I wanted to go right then, but Mom said that we had to wait until Monday.
Tonight we decided to deliver cookies and notes from the “Phantom” to two new families in our ward, the Kennedys and the Jensens. With Mom at the wheel to make a quick getaway, Dad and Abby did the ringing and running at the Kennedys’. Then it was my turn. Matt and I walked quietly up to the Jensens’ porch, laid the cookies down, rang the doorbell, and ran. The Phantom was a success!
For this week’s adventure, Mom said, “Why don’t you each choose a family?” I wanted to phantom my best friend, Kyle Stephens.
During the family home evening lesson, Abby talked about how Jesus helps lonely people. That made me think.
“Mom, do you think Sister Hart would like chocolate cupcakes?” She was an older lady in the ward who lived alone.
“I’m sure that she would, Jeremy. Why?”
“I changed my mind. Let’s leave the treat at her house instead.”
We had a great time phantoming. Sister Hart almost caught me! I was at the edge of her driveway when I heard the door open, so I dove behind the hedge. I heard her say, “How nice! What a wonderful treat.”
Later that week, Matt said that his friends thought that the Phantom was the Bennetts.
“Well,” Dad said, “I think that puts the Bennetts on the top of our list to phantom next week!”
I came home from school on Monday to the wonderful smell of homemade bread, our Phantom treat for the week. “Who should we phantom tonight, besides the Bennetts?” Mom asked me.
I had been thinking about it all day. “The Barneses are moving and are probably busy packing. And Sister Bradley has been sick, so her family could use a treat.”
Mom gave me a kiss and said, “You’re really something. Tonight it’ll be bread for the three Bs!”
A few days later, Dad came home from a meeting at church. He had seen a note on the ward bulletin board marked FAMILY NIGHT PHANTOM. It read: “Thanks for the bread. We didn’t have a family home evening dessert planned, so it came in handy. Keep up the good work. From the Barneses.” Mom said that we had to secretly remove the note and put it in our family scrapbook.
During dinner on Sunday, Mom told us that after church Sister Simpson and Sister Bennett had discussed the Phantom. They wanted to get “revenge,” but on whom?
On Monday, I had news of my own. “Tyler Bennett asked me who I thought the Phantom was. It was hard not to smile! Then he said his family is going out tonight armed with 10 loaves of banana bread.”
“We can’t match that, but I do think it’s time to phantom ourselves,” Mom said.
“Great idea,” Matt agreed. “If the Phantom visits us, no one will suspect us!”
That night I delivered popcorn balls to my own door. We were sitting in the kitchen munching away when the doorbell rang. Matt opened the door to find a plate of cookies on the porch and not a person in sight! “Are you sure Tyler said that his family was delivering banana bread?” Mom asked.
We decided to hurry and finish phantoming before we ran into other Phantoms. We chose Bishop Stephens’s family (including Kyle!) and the Garcias.
Back at home, we began our family home evening lesson. Mom asked us to name activities that draw a family closer. Dad said, “Family prayer.” Abby thought of scripture reading. Matt mentioned camping together during the summer. “Don’t forget the Family Night Phantom,” I said. “That has brought us closer.”
“I think you’re right, Jeremy,” Dad agreed.
“So serving together brings a family closer,” Mom concluded.
Our night wasn’t over. When we were almost settled into bed, the doorbell rang—for the third time! We all ran for the door. On the porch was a loaf of banana bread. What a night!
No one has accused us of being the Phantom, so I think our secret is still safe. Tonight we have brownies, ready for delivery to three more unsuspecting ward families. The Family Night Phantom rides again!
“Loving service anonymously given may be unknown to man—but the gift and the giver are known to God.”President Thomas S. Monson, First Counselor in the First Presidency, “‘Anonymous,’” Ensign, May 1983, 57.

During my mission in North Carolina, USA, we visited a man who seemed nice at first but then became adamant that the Book of Mormon was false. He also expressed other negative views about the Church. Our lesson just wasn’t a good one. We said a closing prayer and left.
For a time, I harbored some not-very-missionary-like feelings for this man, but eventually I forgot about him. At least until Christmas arrived.
For Christmas, some Church members had given us two large tubs of flavored popcorn. We opened the first one and started eating, but then we began thinking about the man we had visited.
As we glanced at our second tub, we remembered that this man lived by himself. We thought he might like some popcorn too, but we remembered how negative he had been. He was probably off visiting family anyway, and he wouldn’t want to see us even if he were home. Besides, this was our popcorn.
That first impression, however, wouldn’t go away. We pushed aside the excuses and decided to give him our second tub of popcorn.
After church that Sunday, we pulled up to his house and knocked on the door. I started having second thoughts, but then the door opened.
“Merry Christmas!” we said. The biggest grin came across his face, and he welcomed us inside.
“Brother, we have a gift for you,” we said. Then we gave him the large tub of popcorn. He smiled even bigger and asked us to sit on his couch. As we talked, I realized I’d rarely seen someone so happy before.
We learned that he didn’t have family nearby. He had planned to spend Christmas alone. The wrapped presents I saw under his small Christmas tree turned out to be only empty boxes wrapped for decoration.
“I didn’t think anyone cared about me,” he said. “I didn’t think I would get a present this year.”
As we left, I felt so much joy that I didn’t know how to contain it. I didn’t even like this man, but now I felt genuine love for him.

Tara was seven years old when her father moved out. She and her brother grew up with their mother. Staying active in the Church, she says, has brought tremendous blessings to her family.
Home teachers have given priesthood blessings and made special efforts to help around the house. One Church member even finished a bedroom in the basement for Tara’s family.
But the greatest blessing has been Tara’s spiritual growth. Through daily prayer, she has regained peace of mind. “I do have a testimony of the gospel. I know for a fact that I have a Heavenly Father who cares about me and answers my prayers,” she said.

The week before Christmas, my mom’s friend found out that she was very sick and had to stay in the hospital for a long time. She would be in the hospital at Christmas and away from her family. My mom asked me how I felt about letting her friend borrow my little pink Christmas tree that I keep in my room. Even though I knew I would miss my tree, I wanted to give a special gift to our friend so she wouldn’t feel lonely on Christmas. I wanted to be like Jesus.

It was not much longer in my own life, having seen the burden that my father carried so joyfully, until I too found the thrill and joy of gospel service. In fact, when I returned to the States after completing my assignment in Japan with the occupation troops after World War II, I discovered that one month before I was due to return my name had been presented in stake conference and I had been called to be a counselor in the stake MIA. This was a great blessing to me, for in this position, as I presided at one of the stake meetings one night, I saw a beautiful lady in the congregation who later became my wife.

I learned this lesson while working and studying chemical engineering in college. I was asked to be the activities planner for a singles ward. This was my nightmare calling. Still, I accepted, and at first it was drudgery. Then at one activity a beautiful girl was smitten by the way I served the ice cream. She returned three times, hoping to catch my attention. We fell in love, and she proposed to me just two weeks later. Well, maybe it wasn’t quite that fast, and I was the one who proposed, but the truth is this: I shudder to think of missing out on Heidi had I said no to that calling.

It was Thanksgiving Day morning, and Elizabeth was looking out the window and wishing that the snow would stop. No longer could she see the mountains that rose behind her uncle’s farm. The snow swirled about and drifted against fences.
“Don’t worry,” said her cousin William. “Your parents will probably stay at the trading post until the storm stops. I don’t think anyone will try to get through Craggy Pass in this weather.”
“But if they left on time, they’ll be ahead of the storm,” countered Elizabeth, hopefully. “Father said that they would be back for Thanksgiving.”
Elizabeth turned to the window and flattened her nose against the glass, staring out at the dancing snowflakes.
William felt sorry for his cousin. Elizabeth and her parents had recently moved from Massachusetts, near Plymouth, and the girl was still homesick. She also missed her parents, who had been away for several days buying supplies and looking at land to purchase.
Elizabeth had told William about her old home and the small rolling hills and stone walls that defined the pastures. Her favorite spot had been on a high knoll where the pastureland overlooked the bay at Plymouth. She also spoke about the Pilgrims who had settled there. She made it sound so exciting that William almost felt as if he had been there himself. William had studied about Governor William Bradford, but it was more interesting to listen to Elizabeth tell about the feast at Plymouth in late July of 1621 when the Pilgrims had invited Chief Massasoit. He had come with a number of his Indian braves and had joined in the feasting and games of skill.
Elizabeth had described how pretty it must have been then—the clear blue waters of the bay and, on shore, splashes of colorful wildflowers—and how in this new land the Indians and Pilgrims had formed a fellowship.
“Tell me, Elizabeth, do you have snow back in Massachusetts at Thanksgiving time?” asked William, hoping to get her mind off her parents.
Elizabeth turned from the window. “Sometimes we do,” she said. “It looks strange when it falls on the beach.”
“I’ve never seen the ocean,” said William. “I hope that someday I will.”
“It’s lovely, like your mountains, but different,” said Elizabeth.
“Come on, Elizabeth, we better help my mother get the big dinner ready. It’s a tradition in our family to set a large table for our many friends who come. And each year Mother puts out her best hand-dipped candles.”
“I’ll be happy to help you,” said Elizabeth. “The snowflakes are making me dizzy.” But she couldn’t help remembering her own family tradition that had always been an important part of their Thanksgiving meal. And for the first time she would miss this annual custom.
Elizabeth and William set the table, and the candles looked lovely. “I like the special candles you use for Thanksgiving, Aunt Emily,” said Elizabeth.
“Thank you, Elizabeth,” answered Aunt Emily. She looked at the sadness in the girl’s face. “Perhaps there is a family tradition you have that you can share with us?”
“Oh, there is,” said Elizabeth, “but Mother and Father are not here.”
“All the more reason for you to carry on your custom,” Aunt Emily gently encouraged.
“Oh, I’d like that,” said Elizabeth. “But I’ll need—”
“Hush!” said Aunt Emily with a smile. “Why don’t you surprise us with your family tradition?”
The idea delighted Elizabeth and she disappeared from the room. William and his mother were happy to see Elizabeth forget her troubles. But the storm still worried them. The wide open spaces of their western land could be very hard on travelers, especially newcomers such as Elizabeth’s parents.
Meanwhile Elizabeth was very busy. She took a clean sock and stepped into the pantry for a minute. When she came out she was smiling. “Before we sit down and say the blessing, I want to go to the table,” she explained. “And nobody may peek,” she added. Then she took from the sock a handful of corn and carefully placed five kernels by each plate.
In a short while, friends who lived nearby arrived. They came in, stamping snow off their feet and bringing dishes of hot food. Before he started to carve the turkey, her uncle said, “Well, Elizabeth, I’ve never seen kernels of corn at my place like this before. They must be part of the tradition that you wish to share with us.
“Yes, Uncle John,” said Elizabeth. “My father usually tells the story of the corn, but I’ll do it since he isn’t here.”
“Many years ago,” she began, “during one of the early winters, the Pilgrims had very little food. Because their corn supply was almost gone, each Pilgrim was given only five grains of corn to plant. The following years they had more corn. But the Pilgrims wanted their children to always remember the sacrifices and the hardships that made the survival of their small settlement possible. So each year when they celebrated Thanksgiving, they placed five grains of corn by each plate. My family still does it so we won’t forget those brave days either.”
“That’s a wonderful tradition you’ve shared with us,” Aunt Emily said, hugging Elizabeth. “I think we should all carry it on. It will give us strength for the days to come.”
Just then there was a banging on the door, and in burst Elizabeth’s parents covered with snow. Elizabeth raced into their arms. “I didn’t think you’d come!” she said. “But I prayed and prayed that you would.”
“Not be here for Thanksgiving!” exclaimed her father. “It would take more than a snowstorm to stop us.”
He strode to the table. His hand reached into the pocket of his coat and he started to take something out. But he put it back when he saw the grains of corn at each plate. His eyes met Elizabeth’s and a smile lighted up his face. “Elizabeth, you remembered. You did this, didn’t you!” he said.
“Yes, Father, just like we always did back home,” she replied softly.

For my eighth birthday, my dad decided to take me to general conference. He tried really hard to get tickets, but he couldn’t find any. We decided to just try and get tickets the day of conference before it started. It was pouring rain. We were asking people if they had any extra tickets, but no one did. My dad asked a man if he had any extras. He said he didn’t, then he turned around and said, “Actually, I do have one extra ticket,” and he gave it to us. Then another kind woman gave us a ticket. During conference, I felt a good feeling inside. Afterward, my dad and I said a prayer thanking Heavenly Father for all the special things He did for us that day.

Many years later, in pursuit of my business career, I was invited by a client to provide insurance coverage for a new venture he was launching. When I arrived at the location, I learned that it was to be a nightclub.
As we passed through reception, entering the main area, I was impressed by the decor. The furnishings and fittings, curtains and carpeting were well coordinated, providing a most pleasing setting. This was not what I had expected to find after having been told the purpose for which the venue was to be used. As I sat with the proprietor, noting the necessary information, an employee approached and asked if he could test the systems.
My client gave his approval. Suddenly the serene setting was transformed as the room lighting faded to be replaced by flashing lights of multiple colors and excessively loud music. The scene of tranquility was immediately shattered.
It was impossible to communicate under such circumstances, so we walked back to the reception area. Following further discussion and because of what I had ex-perienced, I did not feel comfortable to proceed, so I referred my client to a specialist in this field of insurance. To this day I vividly recall the dramatic transformation that occurred with shafts of light and the pulsating beat of loud music penetrating the darkened room.

By the time I was old enough to understand what alcohol was, I knew my mom had a problem with it. Family members tried to hide her issue from my sister and me, but they could only conceal the early-morning binges and hangovers for so long.
Our mom was an alcoholic—and no excuse or elaborate story could change that.
As a young girl, I believed that addiction was a choice. I felt burned then each time my mom walked through our door with the scent of liquor on her breath after promising to let it go. It was like she didn’t want to change. But years of her painful tears, failed attempts, and crashing withdrawals taught me otherwise.
When I was in middle school, I began to realize that my mom’s addiction wouldn’t “go gentle into that good night,” as poet Dylan Thomas once wrote1—and not because she didn’t want to change. It wasn’t about the lack of willpower on her part or that she was choosing alcohol over her family. She was trapped in her addiction.
As President Russell M. Nelson explained: “Addiction surrenders later freedom to choose. Through chemical means, one can literally become disconnected from his or her own will!”2 Finding recovery would be a fight between her body and spirit for years to come.
After she had achieved six months of sobriety, I started to recognize my mom again—the one who used to dance in the car and write beautiful poetry and tell embarrassing jokes to all of my friends. It was as if someone behind the scenes suddenly switched back on the light in her eyes and was working overtime to keep it on. She hadn’t been sober for that long in years, and it felt good to have her back.
But it didn’t last. One night, before she had the chance to speak, my sister and I knew. Her glazed eyes and blushed cheeks said it all: after six months and four days, she had relapsed. For a moment, we considered walking out of the door, away from the worry and fear, but we knew that she wanted to change. We couldn’t do it for her, but we could support her as she walked the road to recovery.
Over the next few months, my sister and I looked for ways to help my mom keep pushing forward toward long-term sobriety. It wouldn’t be easy, but she had done it once, and we knew she could do it again.
Having witnessed my mom go through withdrawals before, we knew what to expect, so we gathered all of the liquor and wine bottles that we could find and dumped them down the drain. Then we stocked up on Gatorade at the grocery store and deep-cleaned the house; it was our best attempt to remove my mom from the environment that she was in when she relapsed.
After a few days, my mom was well enough to go back to work, but we knew the fight wasn’t over. Up until that point, the depth of her addiction was hidden from most of our family and friends. Over the years, it had become somewhat of a secret—a source of shame, something that social science researcher Brené Brown explains “derives its power from being unspeakable.”3 If we wanted her to stay sober, we needed to break the silence.
Deciding to open up to our family and some trusted friends was hard, but it was also liberating. Shame “corrodes the very part of us that believes we can change and do better,”4 so the very act of talking about her addiction gave my mom (and me!) hope again. We weren’t alone, and for the first time in years, we started to picture a life unruled by her addiction.
I’m not going to try to sugarcoat it: maintaining hope isn’t always easy. For years I supported my mom as she tried to get sober, but I would be lying if I said I didn’t experience sadness, disappointment, and frustration along the way. Speaking of the difficult journey one faces to overcome addiction, President Nelson explained: “Each one who resolves to climb that steep road to recovery must gird up for the fight of a lifetime. But a lifetime is a prize well worth the price.”5
Throughout my life, my mom has fallen down more times than I can count, but I’m proud to say that it’s been six years since she took a drink. Though it has taken me years of learning and relearning how to best support her, watching her recover has taught me that no one is ever too far gone. No matter how many times the person you love relapses, keep going—keep trying to support them in whatever way you can. Recovery is a lifelong commitment—a journey filled with tears, victories, failures, and triumphs—and it’s worth fighting for.

My wife and I had been serving as full-time missionaries in the Caribbean Area for a few months and enjoyed the opportunity to labor there. We loved the Latter-day Saints we had met and were lifted by their faith and friendliness. Neither one of us knew Spanish before our assignment and had worked hard to understand and communicate in this new language. Despite these efforts, we continued to struggle to with Spanish.
As I was asking myself why I was assigned to an area where I could not communicate with others, I remembered something about the temple we served at near our home. In this temple there is a small chapel next to the baptismal font and at the front of it are several large glass panes that extend from the floor to the ceiling, allowing people to watch as ordinances are being performed. One day I noticed an imperfection in one of the panes of glass and wondered why this imperfect pane of glass was still there. I could not detect any flaws in the other panes and wondered why this one was allowed to remain.
As I reflected on this, the thought came to my mind that even though it had an imperfection, the pane of glass was still performing the function it was asked to do, allow people to view ordinances. People in the chapel would look past the imperfection and be grateful that the pane of glass was doing what it had been asked to do, even though it was not perfect.
In 1995, President Russell M. Nelson taught us about being perfect. While he confirmed the Lord’s commandment to be perfect 1 , he reminded us that to become perfect as Christ is perfect is not something that will come easily, quickly, or even in this life. He encouraged us to “do the best we can and try to improve each day. When our imperfections appear, we can keep trying to correct them. We can be more forgiving of flaws in ourselves and among those we love.” 2
These thoughts encourage me to keep trying, despite the inability to communicate. Perhaps, like the pane of glass, people that I serve will see past my imperfections and be helped by the service provided.

During the first three years after my mission, I took and passed three entrance examinations, but I wasn’t readmitted to medical school. During those same three years, I couldn’t find a job. I was tempted to believe that some of my friends and family members might have been right and that it was a mistake to have forfeited my admission to medical school.
On my mission I learned to cast my burden on the Lord, so I let Him direct my life according to His will. As soon as I did, things started working out for me—but not as I had planned.
One fast Sunday I decided to fast and intently pray for the Lord’s help. That evening a knock came at the door. When I opened the door, I was astonished to see an acquaintance I had met during security training I had attended six months before. He told me that an opportunity for a security operative had opened in a company his elder brother worked for and that the company urgently needed to fill the position. I was the only person who came to his mind.
The next day the company hired me. That singular experience confirmed to me that Heavenly Father had not abandoned me and that I needed to trust in Him. The job proved to be a springboard to other jobs.

Layna Cahone ran lightly up the front steps of the house and into the living room. “Dad,” she called, “are you home?”
“In the kitchen.”
She went to the kitchen doorway. Her father stood by the stove, stirring something in a small pan. “I knew that you’d be too busy again to fix supper,” he said, “so I opened a can of soup.”
Layna felt a quick stab of guilt. She had thought having just herself and her father home would be rather enjoyable. Charles was in the service, and Mother had gone to help Anne with her first baby. Layna had promised that she’d see to it that her father had adequate meals and clean clothes, but she realized now that she’d been pretty lax.
“I’m sorry I didn’t get here earlier, Dad,” she told him, “but I was talking to Debbie and forgot the time. You want toast with your soup?”
“Never mind, dear, but it would be nice if you would—”
“Oh, good grief,” she cried, “just look how late it is! I’m supposed to be at a meeting—decorating committee for the dance. May I take the car?”
He inclined his head slightly toward the hook behind the door where the car keys hung. Hurrying out, Layna thought briefly that her father must have had an especially tiring day. The lines around his mouth appeared deeper than usual, and his skin looked gray.
For a moment Layna paused with her hand on the car door. She really should go back and at least fix him dessert; but then, remembering the confusion in the school auditorium—decorations half finished, no decision made on the music—she climbed into the car and drove away.
Darkness had fallen before she reached home again. All the windows were dark. Wondering where her father could have gone, Layna turned on the kitchen lights. His soup, uneaten, was on the kitchen table. A cold chill went through her.
“Dad?” She flipped on a lamp in the living room. Her father lay on the couch. His hands, clenched into fists, were on his chest and his eyes were closed. Layna ran to him and bent down, realizing at once that he was fighting desperately to breathe.
“Oh, Daddy,” she cried, “what is it? What’s the matter?”
His eyes opened. “Heart,” he gasped hoarsely. “Doctor—”
Layna rushed to the phone, grateful that emergency numbers were written down, because her fingers shook so badly she had trouble dialing the doctor’s home number. She breathed a silent prayer of thanksgiving when Dr. Shannon, answering, said, “An ambulance will be there in just a few minutes. I’ll meet you at the hospital.”
But even though she knew that little more than fifteen minutes had passed before she and her father were speeding toward the hospital, Layna hadn’t known a stretch of time could be so agonizingly long. She looked at her father, lying half conscious on a stretcher, telling herself over and over, “I wouldn’t know what to do if my father died.” What would life be like without the good, quiet man whose gentle strength had supported her every day of her life? She knew that a world without him would be not only empty but frightening.
At the hospital her father was wheeled down a long, busy corridor. After she could no longer see him, Layna stood, not knowing what to do, until a nurse came to ask if she could register for her father at the front desk.
In the office a woman asked, “Does your father carry insurance?” and Layna remembered the card he carried in his wallet.
“I’ll have the orderly get it and bring it to you,” the lady said.
The sight of the wallet, handed to her a few moments later by a young man in a white coat, made Layna intensely aware of the seriousness of her father’s condition. She took the wallet, feeling the soft leather, worn smooth, and after giving the woman the necessary information, she went to call her mother, who assured her that she’d be there by morning. Then she sat in the waiting room, holding the wallet tightly, as though she could gain comfort from something that was his.
Thinking of how many important things the wallet held, Layna remembered a picture that she knew her father had carried for a while—a snapshot of herself and Charles and Anne taken in the mountains one summer. Wondering whether the picture was still there, she opened the wallet. As she did so, a tightly folded piece of paper fell out.
Absently she unfolded it. As she read the brief paragraph, she knew with a stabbing sense of her own failure that a letter she had seen in a newspaper the week before, one that had touched her, had also been seen and saved by her father.
She read the clipping again: “I have lived nearly fifty-five years and have worked hard to care for my family. My children have all they need. Why can’t they see me as a person who loves them and needs their affection? I’d gladly give every cent I have if my son or one of my daughters would only take my hand and say, ‘I love you, Dad.’”
Layna folded the clipping carefully as tears streamed down her cheeks. Oh, Daddy, she thought, don’t die. I want a chance to say what I’ve been too thoughtless to say to you all these years.
Slowly the hours passed. Layna rested, eyes closed, remembering many little things about her father, such as the day when she was in her early years at school and had complained because he absentmindedly took steps that were too long, and then how, smiling, he had shortened his stride to fit hers. She thought about one of her birthdays; he had come home from work looking a little sheepish because the stuffed tiger he’d bought for her was too big to wrap.
She remembered big things, too, like the time she’d had her appendix out and had awakened to see her father sitting beside her bed. She had known immediately that she’d be all right. She thought of the nights when she’d gone on dates and he had told her, “I know we can trust you.”
Just then Dr. Shannon came into the room. Jumping up, Layna ran to him. He put his hand on her arm.
“Everything’s fine, Layna,” he assured her gently. “Your father’s resting.”
After drawing a shaky breath, Layna asked, “Can I see him?”
The doctor nodded. “Yes, but just for a minute.”
Slowly, feeling almost shy, Layna entered the room where her father lay on a high, narrow bed. How strange, she thought, to see him so quiet, this big man who was always busy and interested. His face was white, but the worry lines on his forehead seemed eased, his eyes composed.
Pulling a chair close to the bed, Layna sat down. She looked at her father and smiled, then covered his strong, work-worn hand with hers.
“Daddy,” she said softly, “I love you.”