Gospel Story Finder

Soon after I was called to be a stake president, our stake presidency received training from an Area Seventy. During the training, I asked a question to which he responded, “That is a good question. Let’s turn to the Church Handbook of Instructions for the answer.” We then went to the handbook, and there was the answer to my question. A little later in our training, I asked another question. Once again he responded, “Good question. Let’s turn to the handbook.” I did not venture to ask any more questions. I thought it best to read the handbook.

In 1982, because of my continued alcohol abuse, my wife, who had never failed in her faith, filed for divorce. At the time my family was living in Oklahoma, USA, but I had returned to Illinois, USA, where I had been raised. I had reached the point where I was about to lose the only thing that truly mattered to me: my family.
I began praying on my knees morning and evening to a God who I was no longer sure existed or, if He did, I figured He had long ago forgotten me. Yet for three months I prayed faithfully. Early one morning, while I was deep in prayer, a feeling of great relief came upon me and I knew that God lived, that He knew me, and that He loved me. I also knew I would never touch another drop of alcohol.
That very evening I received a call from my wife to let me know she was going to mail me the divorce papers to sign. During that conversation she suddenly said, “There is something very different about you. I don’t believe you are ever going to drink again, and I am going to tear up these papers.” We reunited, and two years later she gave birth to our third son.

“One of our favorite family activities,” Sister Cannon recalled, “was to go for a ride in our car. We would drive through the countryside and enjoy its beauty together.
“My family really enjoyed holidays. We could hardly wait for a holiday because it meant that we would go somewhere special. We would travel to the canyons, to the lakes, or to a resort such as Como Springs. These places were usually quiet and not very busy.
“Christmas was extremely special too. We weren’t allowed to go into the living room to see what Santa Claus had brought until Dad had gone in and made a fire and got things ready. Then we’d all go in together. It was a Christmas Day tradition in our neighborhood to go from one house to another to visit each other after family gifts had been opened. We spent most of the day visiting.
“Music has been important to us as a family. My father’s father was Ebenezer Beesley, who composed the music for ‘High on the Mountain Top,’ ‘Let Us Oft Speak Kind Words,’ ‘Sing We Now at Parting,’ ‘Tis Sweet to Sing the Matchless Love’ and other hymns in the Church hymnal. Although Grandfather Beesley died before I was born, I have always been very proud of him.
My mother’s parents lived about two blocks down the hill from us, and we visited often. I felt close to them. They were both musicians and sang in the Tabernacle Choir. My grandmother was a soloist. My mother was also a fine singer; she sang for performances in the Salt Lake Theater.
“I took piano lessons for many years. It has always been a blessing in my life to be able to play the hymns and Primary songs.”
Sister Cannon, who has served as a counselor in the General Primary Presidency for the past four years, previously served on the general board for many years. She remembers very well attending Primary as a child. “Of course, Primary was on a weekday then,” she said, “and I remember being a Zion’s Girl, a Lark, a Bluebird, and a Seagull. I had loving teachers, and I enjoyed going to Primary.
“I remember a teacher telling us about the Book of Mormon. She wanted us to understand it thoroughly, so she had us act out the time when Nephi and his brothers went back to Jerusalem for the brass plates. We learned a lot by reenacting such events. Of course, music always stands out—I will remember those Primary songs forever.
“My father was the greatest influence on me. He was such an example of one who quietly serves! He would sit back and listen to everybody’s opinion and then make a wise judgment. One day I decided I didn’t want go to sacrament meeting. My father wasn’t alarmed. He only said, ‘Just remember that when you don’t go once, it’s easier not to go the next time. That’s how we can fall into bad habits. I would suggest that you go every time, and then you won’t have to keep remaking that choice.’ That’s all it took. I didn’t argue with him, and I didn’t feel unhappy about going to church that day—or any other day. And l’ve always remembered that advice when I’ve been tempted.
“My message to children is to see the great blessings that come from service in the Church. If you try to obey your parents, it will be easier to answer the calls that come from Church leaders when you are older. By doing so, you will receive opportunities for growth that you can’t get any other way. I know how many times I have felt that the things I’ve been asked to do were way beyond my ability, and yet, when I tried to do them, l’ve succeeded. The Lord teaches us and helps us to grow. As we serve, we are blessed.”

At a very young age I realized my father and mother loved each other very much. It became evident in the symbols that represented their bond. Their anniversary was an event marked with great celebration. At other times of the year, outward symbols served to renew their marital commitment. The look on my mother’s face when my father presented her with a dozen red roses is indelibly painted in my mind. The symbol was powerful in my life, and my parents renewed the event many times as I grew older.

On my own wedding day, we also selected roses to represent our special occasion. Thus we continued a tradition that symbolized commitment, a symbol I had loved to witness in my parents.

A trip I took from my home in Arizona to New Zealand with some close friends was a great experience in every way. But the lasting impact of one particular moment strengthened my testimony of the importance not only of being honest, but of repenting in this life.
We were to return home from New Zealand in three days when I drove my rented car into another vehicle in our hotel parking lot. There was very little damage; a tiny piece of paint scraped off the other car. But my heart grew heavy as I thought of my responsibility and of the four dollars I had left in my purse.
No one except a friend accompanying me had seen the accident, as it was late at night. A series of thoughts went through my mind as I walked to my room:
“This sort of thing happens all the time, and no one ever worries about it. No real damage was done to the car. No one could possibly know who had done it. I don’t have any money. What if this person tries to take advantage of the situation and charges me hundreds of dollars to have his whole car painted?”
I entered my room and immediately got down on my knees, intending to ask Heavenly Father to let me know that not doing anything about the situation would be all right. But the second I closed my eyes, I knew I couldn’t ask Heavenly Father to approve that which was wrong. Instead, I quickly asked him to help me do what was right.
Without even waiting for the answer I had known all along, I immediately got up from my knees and wrote a quick note explaining what I had done and where the damage was. I included my hotel room number and asked the owner to please contact me. Then I went out to the parking lot and put the note on the damaged car. I slept well that night, realizing that the result didn’t matter: somehow I would be able to take the appropriate actions.
The next morning, a very nice-looking man knocked on my door holding the note in his hand. He quickly let me know that the damage was nothing to be concerned about and that he was surprised and pleased that anyone would have bothered to leave a note.
“Are you sure?” I asked, explaining that I wanted to do what was right. He reassured me that I need not worry about it, and left.
What would have happened had I not taken these steps? I never would have been able to make amends to that man. One month later while watching a similar accident on television with my family, I received another reward besides that of peace of mind.
“That’s what I did in New Zealand,” I said to my husband, who was already familiar with the incident.
When my oldest daughter asked what I had done about it, I seriously explained that it was late at night and that, since no one had seen me, I went to my room.
“Mother,” she said, looking me straight in the eye, “I know you, and you would never do that!”
Her faith in my made me eternally grateful I had repented of my error while in New Zealand. Perhaps it’s like repentance in this life instead of the next: restitution for my actions was fast and physically easy because the man and car were right there. I could simply ask him what I needed to do—and do it.
Had I tried to repent later, the process would have been longer and more difficult because I never could have made restitution, but would have had to find another way through much prayer and deliberation. I am grateful that I repented quickly of my error and didn’t disappoint myself or my daughter.

One day I was working around our yard with my electric hedge clippers and long extension cord. I had done this often, each time reminding myself to be careful and avoid cutting things that I shouldn’t.
Suddenly the blades became jammed. Because I had not seen the power cord in the thicket where I was trimming, I had cut into the source of the electrical power that made the hedge clippers work.
Isn’t that one of life’s great lessons? I thought. Power, if misused, can cut into the very source of that power.

It wasn’t long ago that I found myself asking the same question. I wasn’t getting good grades, and I rarely made it to class. High school just wasn’t for me, so I thought.
I soon realized, however, that there weren’t many opportunities for a dropout. The doors were closed, and the key was a diploma. I also knew that one day I wanted a wife and children. Minimum wage was not enough to support a family. It would barely support myself. I knew I had to stick it out.
I know people who did drop out so they could have their freedom. Today, they are still at the same jobs, not making much more than minimum wage. They are just now realizing that even freedom has its price.
David John Romrell, 20Rexburg, Idaho

Missionaries of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints knocked on the door of Richard Marson in May 2023, and he abruptly told them he didn’t have time for them and to go away. After returning inside his home, he recalled that he had a powerful impression conveyed to his heart- “you are making one of the biggest mistakes of your life.” He went back outside and called to the missionaries, apologized, and asked them to come in. He then began his journey to learn more about the gospel of Jesus Christ.
He said “Not long ago, I was praying and felt the presence of our Saviour Jesus Christ saying simply, ‘You have come back to me’– it was overwhelmingly clear and powerful. I think this is because as a boy I always had firm belief in Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ but drifted from them around the age of 13/14”.
Marson came from a broken home and spent his formative years in boarding school, but always had a belief in Jesus Christ. He said, “Faith was always there but it wasn’t as integral as I now think it should have been– there was a very British reserve about discussing or celebrating it outside of services and church occasions. Nonetheless, as a boy I read about Jesus and quickly grew to love Him and what he represents.”
As a teenager he got away from religion but found a new passion- “About this time, my father (who was a lawyer) was doing some work for one of the big TV stations in London and he took me to their studios. I’ve never forgotten how exciting I found the atmosphere– a mix of paint, electricity and sheer adrenaline! I resolved there and then that I wanted to work in TV, preferably as a director and doing ‘live’ shows.”
He stayed on that path, graduating from Durham University and began a career at the BBC in London. He said, “I worked my way up from the most junior production job on the studio floor to become a director, then a producer and eventually an executive producer. I found the work vocational– early on, I decided to focus on children’s programmes as I believe so strongly they need the right kind of quality content to challenge, stretch and inspire them. ‘Blue Peter’ was the best and most popular of them all and it gave me so many opportunities– travel all over the world, incredible experiences and encounters. And the shows were live, which was always exciting.”
In his personal life, Richard met his wife in 1988 and eventually had a daughter and a son, whom he described as “the joys of their lives”. Then tragedy struck, as his son “died in the summer of 2008. He was only fourteen. We have no idea why he took his own life– he had shown no signs of depression– his many friends were utterly bewildered and distraught. Suicide is like a bomb going off in a family and the effects are felt forever afterwards. You have to learn to live in a different way.”
He continued, “I was lost and angry and self-destructive. We did have an incredible therapist who had been a Franciscan monk as a young man. He was rightly tough with me and strongly suggested I needed to turn my energies to helping others. I doubted at first but eventually agreed to his suggestion of training to be a local mentor to young men struggling with a range of issues. I did this for a couple of years before returning to my TV career. I learnt that focusing on others in your time of greatest need can be restorative and healing. “
His contact with the missionaries in May also changed the direction of his life, and he was baptised four months later. He said, “What is extraordinary to me is the revelation that this is the true church. I might easily have been promoted to re-embrace my (former) Christian faith after the initial contact with the missionaries but as I studied and got to know more and more about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, I just found it to be right and true– the testimony of Joseph Smith and the early prophets, the glorious nature of the Book of Mormon– and the blessing of our living prophet. I love the accountability which comes with the covenants we are asked to make, the focus on service, self-discipline, and sacrifice.”
Richard Marson is currently living in Huddersfield, West Yorkshire and is working with the young men in his ward. He is still enthusiastic about life and love for others and is grateful for the experiences that have shaped his life. He looks forward to being able to serve in any capacity he is asked.

There are other times when you might wonder if he is ever going to answer our prayers. About twenty-two years ago our fourth daughter was born. After she was born, the doctor told my wife that she shouldn’t have any more children. We talked about it, and she said. “I feel that there is another child for us.” So we decided, of course, that we were going to have another baby.

Well, a year went by, and the baby didn’t come; and two years went by. Finally, after eight years of praying, my wife said, “Guess what? We’re going to have a baby.” Prayers, you see, are sometimes answered quickly, but other times you pray a long, long time before you get what you want.

One night Ernestine had to go across the lake with her family in the middle of the night because a forest fire threatened their home. At 1:30 A.M. her mother woke her up, and they all climbed into their boat and went across the lake. She felt frightened, and she worried about their house. “We saw flames from clear across the lake!” she remembers.
She spent that night on the boat with her mother and her sisters, Loralee, age 18, and Danielle. Her father, a police officer, patrolled the lake, rescuing people. As the fire burned a black path through the area, Ernestine and her family lived out of their car the next night, then went to a friend’s house for two days. They went to the church meetinghouse to get clothes and supplies. When they were finally able to return to their house, she felt very thankful to Heavenly Father that it had not been burned and that almost all of the ward members’ houses were untouched by the fire.

Almost anyone has a hard time pinning Kenneth Marsh down.

Ken represented Colorado and Nebraska in international wrestling meets held in Turkey. He grappled in the 143-pound class with a 3–2–0 record. Two of his wins were over Turkish national champions.

En route home Ken participated in the U.S. AAU Junior Nationals in Chicago. He competed there in both free-style and Greco-Roman wrestling, placing fourth in Greco-Roman.

The Littleton, Colorado, priest also compiled an impressive record in school athletics. He was chosen team captain and placed first in a 10-district meet.

Ken’s school wrestling career started in the seventh grade when he was the only member of his class to make the varsity team, competing in the 68-pound division.

Six years and some 75 pounds later, Ken was seeded first in the 10-district championship that he won.

Ken is a member of the Littleton Colorado Second Ward.

Several years ago, two Latter-day Saint missionaries visited me in Marshall, Texas. But I politely told them I wasn’t interested. I was afraid that I didn’t know enough about the Bible to be able to judge what they were telling me, and I had a great fear that they would ask me to pray. They left a Book of Mormon with me. But when I opened it and saw names that I had never heard before—such as Lehi, Nephi, and Alma—I immediately closed it, put it on a shelf in the closet, and forgot all about it.
As the years went by, I hardly gave religion or spiritual matters a thought. But one night I became troubled with the way I was living my life. “If there really is a God,” I thought, “I want to know it.” I decided to make an honest effort to find out and felt the best place to start was the scriptures.
I started studying the New Testament and attending a Protestant church. I enjoyed what I learned there, but something bothered me. In Ephesians 4:5 [Eph. 4:5], we read of one Lord, one faith, and one baptism—yet I had friends of various faiths who seemed content with their different beliefs. I wondered how they could all be right. When I mentioned this to them, they just laughed. “It doesn’t matter what you believe,” they said, “as long as you accept Christ as your personal Savior.”
I didn’t feel comfortable with that concept and tried to find the answer in the scriptures. But I wasn’t getting any answers, and I became upset. Why didn’t the Bible just say which church was right? Next I went to the encyclopedia to see if I could find the answer there. If I learned when different churches were organized, I reasoned, maybe that would help. Again, I was disappointed.
Then one day I found the book I had put on the closet shelf years before. And I began to read it. This time I found it interesting—so interesting that I began to tell my friends at work about it. Whether I was at home, at work, or at a movie, I couldn’t get it off my mind.
When I reached the point where I had to know if the book was really of God or of the devil, I considered praying about it but was afraid of being deceived. Then I read the scripture in Moroni 10:4–5 [Moro. 10:4–5]where we’re told to pray about what we have read in the Book of Mormon. I was still afraid the answer might come from Satan, but then a biblical scripture came to mind that alleviated that worry:
“What man is there of you, whom if his son ask bread, will he give him a stone?
“Or if he ask a fish, will he give him a serpent?” (Matt. 7:9–10). I know that the answer that later came was indeed from God.
After having read and studied for a good while, I thought, “I wonder if my minister would like to hear about this book.” I was sure he didn’t know about it because he had never mentioned it. To my surprise, he wasn’t interested. “Clifford,” he said, “evidently you don’t feel as if you’ve ever been saved.” So we knelt in his office and prayed. When we arose from our knees, he looked at me as if to say, “Now everything is okay.”
I said, “I don’t feel any differently now than I did when we knelt.”
“Don’t you believe in the scriptures that say that whosoever shall call on the name of the Lord Jesus Christ shall be saved?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said, “but I can’t help how I feel.” I left, miserable. I felt I had failed because I couldn’t make him understand what I was feeling about the Book of Mormon.
I continued to read and study. Sometimes I’d have to stop. I can’t describe the mental anguish I suffered during those days. I had to know if this book was true. I would go to the Bible, then to the Book of Mormon—back and forth, study and compare.
I decided to talk to my minister again. At one point during the lengthy discussion, I asked him what happens to people who die without ever hearing the gospel of Jesus Christ. He looked me straight in the eye and said, “Clifford, they die and go to hell.” Again, I was very depressed when I left him.
Then one day I remembered that the missionaries who had given me the Book of Mormon had told me that the local Latter-day Saint branch president owned a business in town and that if I ever had any questions, I could go to him. I visited President Murray Conley, asked some questions, and was pleased with his answers.
Later, some members of my church visited me and informed me that I was being misled. The next night, the minister and his wife came to visit. But when I asked him to explain Malachi 4:5–6 [Mal. 4:5–6], he got angry and told me I had been brainwashed by the Mormons and there was nothing more he could do.
One night I read 3 Nephi 14:13–14: “Enter ye in at the strait gate; for wide is the gate, and broad is the way, which leadeth to destruction, and many there be who go in thereat;
“Because strait is the gate, and narrow the way, which leadeth unto life, and few there be that find it.” [3 Ne. 14:13–14]
I got up from my chair and walked outside. Alone in the darkness, I could see myself standing at that narrow scriptural gate, pacing back and forth, afraid to go in. I realized at that moment that I had found the way. The Lord spoke to me that night, not as we speak to one another, but with a still, small voice that said, “What are you going to do about it?”
I went back to tell President Conley I wanted to be baptized. But he was in Salt Lake City. Thinking that only the branch president had the authority to baptize, I left, intending to return a week later.
During that week, Satan placed another stumbling block in my path—more doubts. “Do I have to start all over again?” I wondered. After struggling with my doubts for three days, I started reading a book President Conley had given me—Truth Restored, by President Gordon B. Hinckley. As I did, the Spirit, which had borne witness to me of the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon, also bore witness to me that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was the Lord’s true church.
When President Conley returned from Salt Lake City, I told him I wanted to be baptized. As we drove to Gilmer, Texas, for my baptism on 19 October 1970, I asked him, “Do I understand correctly from what I have read in the scriptures that just because I’m being baptized, I’m not saved, but that I have to endure to the end?”
He said, “That’s exactly right.”
I cried all the way to my baptism. I felt very strongly that the Church was true. After baptism, I felt it ten times more strongly.
Many times after, I wondered, “Why me? Why do I know the truth while many good Christian people don’t?” And a scripture always came to my mind, “Seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you” (Luke 11:9).
Several weeks after I was baptized, I had the privilege of receiving a witness of the Holy Ghost once again, stronger than before. One morning at about 3:00 A.M., I sat up in bed with tears streaming down my face. The Holy Ghost was bearing such a powerful witness to me of the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon and of the Church that I felt like saying, “Please, Lord, no more, no more. I know it’s true.”
I do know with all my heart and soul that the Book of Mormon is true. It led me to the living God, to his Son Jesus Christ, and to his church guided by a living prophet.

This was an issue with my great-great-grandfather Phineas Wolcott Cook. He was born in 1820 in Connecticut. In his diary he notes that he had made a covenant with the Lord to serve Him if he could find the right way. He attended many churches and at one was asked to “testify [and] join the church [and] be a Christian.” His response was he “could not tell which one to join, there were so many.” He continued to investigate several churches. One doctrine was of particular significance to him. He explained: “Sometimes they found fault with me because I wanted a more liberal salvation for the family of man. I could not believe the Lord had made a part to be saved and a great part to be damned to all eternity.”13 Because of this doctrine, he allowed his name to be taken off the records of one Protestant religion. When the LDS missionaries taught him the true doctrine of the plan of salvation in 1844, he was baptized.

This summer I injured a shoulder and lost the use of an arm for weeks. I hadn’t realized how much one arm depends upon the other for balance, or how much less I could lift with one arm than two, or that there were some things I couldn’t do at all. This disability not only renewed my respect for those who deal so well with a physical limitation, but helped me realize how much more two arms working together can do.

An old Jewish legend tells of two brothers, Abram and Zimri, who owned a field and worked it together. They agreed to divide both the labor and the harvest equally. One night as the harvest came to a close, Zimri could not sleep, for it didn’t seem right that Abram, who had a wife and seven sons to feed, should receive only half of the harvest, while he, with only himself to support, had so much.
So Zimri dressed and quietly went into the field, where he took a third of his harvest and put it in his brother’s pile. He then returned to his bed, satisfied that he had done the right thing.
Meanwhile, Abram could not sleep either. He thought of his poor brother, Zimri, who was all alone and had no sons to help him with the work. It did not seem right that Zimri, who worked so hard by himself, should get only half of the harvest. Surely this was not pleasing to God. And so Abram quietly went to the fields, where he took a third of his harvest and placed it in the pile of his beloved brother.
The next morning, the brothers went to the field and were both astonished that the piles still looked to be the same size. That night both brothers slipped out of their houses to repeat their efforts of the previous night. But this time they discovered each other, and when they did, they wept and embraced. Neither could speak, for their hearts were overcome with love and gratitude.8

Although I was baptized as an infant in one church and attended another on and off during my childhood, religion was never a huge part of my life. As I grew older, my family moved a lot, and we stopped attending worship services. I believed in God, but I did not think about Him or religion very often.
That all changed in 2006, when I was 14. My uncle Billy died; he was only in his mid-30s. His premature death made me realize how much I loved him and caused me to start asking questions internally. Where did he go when he died? Did he continue to live and have a future? What would become of his children and other family members left behind? What did his life mean? What did my life mean?
These thoughts ran through my mind for the next several months. One evening in September 2007, my mother, my three younger siblings, and I were leaving a deli in my hometown of Haverhill, Massachusetts, USA, and stopped to sit on a bench. Two young men in black suits, white shirts, and ties approached us. One of them said, “I know it may seem a little bit awkward to talk to two people you don’t know, but could we share a message with you?”
We agreed. I knew they were going to talk to us about religion, and I was impressed that they didn’t just thrust a card or pamphlet at us and walk off. Rather, these young men genuinely seemed interested in us and excited about their message. At the conclusion of their message, they asked if they could visit our family. My mother agreed and set up a time, so I have her to thank for what became a great change for good in my life.
We started learning the gospel. After a while Mom became busy with different things and didn’t continue to meet with the missionaries, but I did.
I connected easily with Elder Kelsey and Elder Hancock. Perhaps part of the reason was that they weren’t that much older than I was. I felt great love from them and for them. Soon I felt that same love from ward members and from other youth in my stake.
The missionaries taught me the plan of salvation, which answered the questions I had about my uncle and about my own purpose in life. The elders also introduced me to the Book of Mormon. I remember reading in Alma 32 about the seed of faith developing and tasting good (see verse 28). That description was exactly how the Book of Mormon seemed to me. What I was reading and what the missionaries were teaching me rang true, felt right, and tasted good.
My mom teased me about what she called my “hermit crab stage” because I would retreat to my bedroom and spend several hours reading the Book of Mormon. Although I didn’t recognize my feelings as the Holy Ghost at that time, I felt that this path was right.
When the missionaries asked me to be baptized, they encouraged me to pray about the decision. When I prayed to know if joining The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was what I was supposed to do, I received a very direct answer, to the point that it shocked me. The direction was clear: go forward with baptism.
I remember vividly the day I was baptized—December 15, 2007. As I stood in the cold water with Elder Kelsey and he raised his hand to the square, the Spirit just filled me up; it seemed to take over my whole frame. I could say that I was also grinning from ear to ear, but that description doesn’t even come close to describing what I felt.
After my baptism I continued to feel the Spirit. I felt sanctified. I knew that my sins had been remitted. I felt the approval of Heavenly Father that this was, indeed, the path I was supposed to take.
Occasionally, when little doubts pop up, I go back to that experience and remember how I felt that day. Remembering what I felt then helps me dispel any doubt I may encounter.
Even though we don’t reenter the waters of baptism to have those powerful feelings again, we can remember that feeling when we renew our covenants through repentance and the sacrament. Each time I repent, I can find that feeling again—one of being cleansed and of being loved.
Feeling that love helps me identify with what Joseph Smith taught: “A man filled with the love of God, is not content with blessing his family alone, but ranges through the whole world, anxious to bless the whole human race.”1 Knowing the worth of a soul helps me be excited about opportunities to go teaching with the missionaries in my area. I also look forward to the day when I can serve a full-time mission and share how happy the gospel of Jesus Christ has made me.

Sister Meredith and I were recently on a Church assignment getting acquainted with the stake presidency. One of the counselors mentioned that he was a baseball fan and was particularly passionate about the LA Dodgers.
He told us that he recorded every Dodgers game but did not watch the games while they were being played. Once a game concluded, he checked the score. If the Dodgers won, he watched the recording of the game. However, if the Dodgers lost, he deleted the recording. Then he said, “So if the Dodgers give up a three-run home run in the fourth inning, I don’t fret, because I know that in the end, they win all the games that I watch.”
You are going to have some difficult innings in life. That is part of the test of mortality. But Christ suffered pains and afflictions and temptations of every kind so that He could succor us in our time of infirmity, even in our most desperate and hopeless times. [13] In those times, you may feel that life, or part of it anyway, is unfair.

Then Christine thought of another day, just last October. It was overcast, gray, cool. The heavy air smelled of rain. Papa and Clément were up early, as usual on a Monday. The big diesel engine was already throbbing, mildly vibrating the entire house.
Clément stuffed the compartment behind the cab with blankets, canned pudding, instant soup, snack food. He ran inside to get some tapes, his earphones, and a tape player.
Then he thought again, and laid them aside. This was his last trip to Mechanicsburg for two years. He and father would be talking all the way there, talking about his mission.
The stairs were steep at the south end of the terrasse, but Christine took them easily. Hours of volleyball practice had conditioned her to run, and her lungs pulled in air that was crisp and pure. She reached a narrower boardwalk, the Promenade des Gouverneurs, which stretches along the cliffs to reach the Plains of Abraham.
The French love to tell of a great struggle here, when the Chevalier de Lévis, battling to reclaim Quebec, lured the British far from the city and beat them. But those assigned to cut off the retreat failed, and the rest of the army, too tired to pursue, let the enemy escape. British reinforcements arrived soon, and what should have been a French victory turned to defeat.
Christine breathed deeply and let the air out slowly. It surprised her when she thought of a scripture: “Look unto me, and endure to the end, and ye shall live” (3 Ne. 15:9).
“Endure,” she said aloud. “Sometimes you just have to endure.” And then she was remembering again.
It was a routine, the same routine Marie Claude had followed every morning for years. Get up early and care for the animals. Feed Daisy, Belle, and Lady, the horses. Feed Fido, the bull in the barn. Feed three pigs, three sheep, two dogs, four ducks, and any other animals calling the farm home at the moment.
From upstairs, Christine heard Marie Claude come in the house and bolt the back door against the wind. She could imagine her hanging her flannel coat on the peg in the kitchen. Then she heard her pull a chair across the floor and put breakfast dishes on the table.
For as long as Christine could remember, Marie Claude got up early to take care of the animals. But today the routine was different—the movements slower, the pauses longer, the sighs heavy and audible.
And Christine knew why. Last night, Marie Claude had finally told her boyfriend good-bye. He was a decent fellow, a nice man. But he didn’t understand. He’d had the missionary discussions, even been to church a time or two. But all this religion, meetings every Sunday, marriage in a temple—for him it just wouldn’t do.
And now Marie Claude, who loved him and had dated him for a couple of years, who had argued with him before, had sent him away. She sat at the breakfast table, numb, almost crying, wrenching solace from the everyday routine.
At the end of the promenade, there’s a gazebo. To get there, Christine had to mount steps again. Quickly she bounded up them, the end of her run in sight. And as she ran, her mind flashed ahead, like a video on fast forward.
Here was Marie Claude again, but this time she was smiling. Dressed in embroidered chiffon, she sat by a cheery window in a friend’s house, holding hands with an amiable young man in a blue sweater.
It was amazing. When they laughed, it was the same laugh. The smile was the same smile. They looked like each other, they talked like each other. They both had kind eyes. You’d think they were brother and sister, not fiances.
Yet there on the table was their wedding announcement, and it really did seem like a dream come true—“C’est avec joie que nous vous annonçons notre mariage qui aura lieu au Temple de Washington, D.C., mercredi le six mai.” (It is with joy that we announce our marriage in the Washington, D.C. Temple on May 6, 1987.)
André and Marie Claude. They met at church, and fell in love quickly. But after years of struggling to feel right about something that was wrong, it was easy for Marie Claude to do something that felt so true.
At the gazebo, Christine stopped.
She thought about the family. She pictured her mother, joking with the visiting teachers, happily discussing her hobby of decorating cakes. She saw Father, smiling broadly, the proudest sacrament meeting usher the Branche de Québec has as ever had. She imagined Clément, Elder Ferland, teaching missionary lessons in broken English. And she pictured Marie Claude, in her own home as a newlywed, so happy she was almost dancing.
Then she thought of spires of white, rising from a green woodland, and she cherished the promises of eternity.
Christine looked across the ancient battlefields. The rolling hills seemed to be resting, calm now as she was calm. In the distance, a calèche, a carriage, bobbed along the folds of green. From so far away, it seemed to be in slow motion. But in the evening air, she could hear the clip-clop, clip-clop of the horse’s hooves.
She turned and looked again at the river. It was shining still, but it was no longer silver. The setting sun had turned it to gold. And the sailboat, still a silhouette, pulled up to its moorings.
Dusk was past. The time for returning was here.

My best friend last year had a back injury that was creating severe pain. She had surgery scheduled but it was four weeks away and she was almost incoherent from the pain. Her faithful home teacher Ron Barney came and gave her a beautiful blessing that she would be pain free. But as days and then weeks went by, I believed the blessing was not coming to pass. "Nothing" happened between the blessing and her already scheduled appointment on December 31. I wanted relief for her that very night. I wanted a doctor to have a cancelation in his schedule and operate immediately. However a month from that blessing, after the surgery had been performed at its scheduled time, she called me up to say she had sat through ward council that day pain free and feeling great. She returned to her regular work and her back continues to heal from the very competent surgery that was performed by a very fine surgeon.
She also tells me that this was the best Christmas she has had in a very long time. She had time to really ponder the life of Jesus and also to think about other people who are dealing with physical and emotional pain. So I see that I am a spiritual panicker and yet how tenderly the Lord says, "Sharon, give me a month or two, or give me a year, or give me 10, or give me until your next life. I see the long view and I will never leave you comfortless."

At last it was the day before Christmas. Manuel’s mother smiled as she took the little box of Christmas money down from the shelf. “Do you know how much we have saved, Manuel?” she asked.
“Enough to buy a big fish for two people, I hope,” Manuel replied.
Manuel’s mother smiled, but then the smile quickly faded. “We have enough money to buy a big fish for four people,” she said softly. And Manuel knew she was thinking of his father, who was dead, and of his brother Tomás, who had been away in the army for many months.
Mamá smiled again as she wrapped all the coins in a handkerchief. “Manuel, my son,” she said, “since we only need a fish for two, there will also be enough pesos (money) to buy yourself a Christmas present. You have been wanting a pocketknife, no?”
Manuel’s heart soared at her words. He felt as he did when he chased the gulls in the sunny foam along the beach. “Thank you! Thank you, Mamá!” he shouted. “Feliz Navidad” (Merry Christmas)!”
“Feliz Navidad!” added a familiar voice behind him.
Manuel and his mother both jumped in surprise. “Tomás! Tomás!” shouted Manuel. And he ran to hug his brother.
“How did you manage to come home, mi hijo (my son)?” asked Mamá, her black eyes shining with sudden tears of happiness.
“I have been ill,” answered Tomás. “So I was given a little rest holiday. I have three more days.”
“Manuel, hurry!” said Mamá. “Go down to the central market and bring back our Christmas fish. This is truly a time to be joyful.”
Manuel took the knotted handkerchief from the table and ran down the cool dark hall to the door. Outside, his sandals smacked on the stones—slippety-slap, slippety-slap! Then suddenly Manuel stopped, for all at once he thought, If I buy a fish big enough for three people, there will not be enough pesos left for a knife. And I cannot buy a fish too little, or Tomás will not feel properly welcomed. What am I going to do?
When Manuel got to the marketplace, he had not yet decided. Silently, miserably, he drifted amid the cheerful crowd. He watched people buy bananas at the fruit seller’s, peppers at the vegetable stand, cookies at the bakery stall, and ribbons at the cloth vendor’s shop.
Finally he wandered down a narrow aisle and stood staring into the case where Señor Fernandez kept his pocketknives.
“Hola (hello), Manuel, are you thinking of buying that knife for Christmas?” asked Señor Fernandez. The shopkeeper knew just which one Manuel wanted because he had often let him hold it.
“I don’t know,” replied Manuel. Then he turned to look at the fish seller’s stall that was not far away. An old man was piling gleaming fish of all shapes and sizes in big tubs filled with ice. And as Manuel watched, the old man picked up a big fish from the basket he was unloading.
“Aayy!” he exclaimed in distress. “What kind of a fish is this? It looks like somebody stepped on the tail of this beautiful fish and now it is ruined. Some of its tail is gone. How can I sell a fish like this?”
Manuel knew what he could do. The fish had a good flavor, and it was a much bigger fish than he or his mother had ever planned to buy.
“Señor!” Manuel called as he ran to the fish vendor’s stall. “Señor, do not feed that fish to los gatos (the cats). I will buy it from you. I will give you ten pesos.”
“Ten pesos!” shouted the man. “Why this fish is worth three times that amount!”
“But you just said that it does not have all its tail,” replied Manuel. “And it is getting late. How many people will want a fish with only part of its tail on Christmas Eve?”
“Very well, very well,” grumbled the old man and he pushed the fish into Manuel’s bag.
After buying the fish, Manuel visited other stands in the market, where he bought several more fine things to eat. For once he had made up his mind to spend all the money on a real Christmas feast, he did not stop until it was gone.
The evening breeze had started to come in off the sea by the time he hurried up the sandy lane to his house.
“Manuel!” exclaimed his mother when he came inside. “Where have you been? I was getting worried.”
“Shopping, Mamá,” explained Manuel. “I had to get us a Christmas fish.”
“But what are all these other packages?” asked Tomás.
“You must open them and see,” answered Manuel. Then he watched while Tomás and Mamá, with much laughter and contentment, unwrapped his purchases. And Manuel felt his heart swell within him, like the times he watched the sun sink into the sea.
“Feliz Navidad,” he said softly, to no one in particular. “It is so good to be happy at Christmastime.”