Gospel Story Finder

I first saw Hannah* at a Mutual activity. No one really talked with her. She just sat by herself looking miserable. I had already made several good friends in the ward, so at first I didn’t see any reason to talk with her. I thought it would be a burden to leave my friends and be with someone who seemed so unhappy.
Then I thought, “I used to be left out. I’ve been there before.” I remembered a time when I was watching everyone happily talking with each other but not with me. I felt bad thinking that Hannah might come away from Mutual feeling like that.
So I went up to her, smiled, and said hi.
She nodded in return.
I asked what her name was and what school she went to.
I got two one-word answers in a row.
As a naturally talkative person, I felt awkward. But I didn’t want to just get up and leave her alone, so I sat next to her until it was time to split up for our different activities. I mustered another smile and said, “It was nice to meet you. Will you come again next week?” She nodded.
She came back to Mutual over the next several weeks. Her dark hair was never combed, and she always seemed to be wearing the same black clothing. I talked with her whenever she came, even though it was hard. But, from the bits and pieces that she spoke, I got to know her better and found out that she likes drawing and art. After a while, I started to see her as one of my friends.
I soon found myself hoping she would keep coming to activities and especially to church. But I still didn’t know much about her circumstances or if she even wanted to come to church.
I went to her house a few times to drop off activity announcements. Later, I dropped off a card and a treat on her birthday. In spite of my efforts, she was never home and never answered the phone.
She only came to Mutual, so I kept on talking with her there and including her during the combined activities.
Then one Sunday it happened—she came to church! Although she only attended occasionally, I made sure to sit by her during lessons on Sundays whenever she came.
Later on that year we both took the same art class. I had never taken high school art before, and I was the one who needed help. I would ask her about how to use the different tools and for advice on creating art.
“Hey, Hannah, what does this white pencil do?” I asked.
“It’s a blending tool. It makes your pencil drawings look smoother. Cool, huh?”
“Wow! I didn’t know that. Thanks!”
She smiled.
At the end of the semester, we gave each other small sketches and drawings we had created in class.
When I graduated from high school about five months later, Hannah was wearing colorful clothes, looked happier, and had attended church several times. And she was actually smiling!
This experience confirmed to me that sometimes it’s hard to make righteous choices, but it’s those choices that make us stronger. I also learned to never underestimate the influence of small actions and decisions. Who knew that I would be the one needing Hannah’s help in the end?
I didn’t know it then, but as I look back on the experience, I also realize that being nice to Hannah and trying to be her friend was a part of keeping my covenants. Of course, at that first Mutual activity, I didn’t go up to Hannah thinking, “OK, I’m going to keep my covenants by befriending her.” I just saw that she looked lonely, and I didn’t want her to feel alone during Mutual. And that small act made a big difference in my life.

It was an early morning in 2008 when my mother woke me up to go to school. I was really happy that morning, but I didn’t know that it would turn into the worst day of my life or the last time I would be with her. I didn’t finish all my classes that day because a friend of our family had to pick me up and tell me that my mom had killed herself. I was only 12 years old.

I thought, “How can I live without my mother?” She was my best friend.

I cried for months. I didn’t like going to school because the other children treated me differently and felt sorry for me. I had no clue what I was supposed to do; I only knew I had to be strong for everyone else.

One day, five or six months after my mom’s death, I was alone in my room by the window, crying, trying to understand what I was here for. Suddenly I heard a voice in my head: “You are my daughter; I won’t let you suffer.” I knew it was God. But it surprised me because I didn’t believe in Him anymore, especially since I felt that it was God who had taken my mother from me. Even though I didn’t know what He meant, I felt safe.

Irma Piñeros of the Banderas Ward, Kénnedy stake, teaches sewing in Relief Society. “One sister needed a way to earn money working at home,” she says. “So I gave her a sewing machine. Now she can support herself and her family.”

Bright, hot, red-orange flames leap and lash out in the clear dark night. Grandpa drops a big pine log on the fire, sending a shower of sparks into the air. It needs to burn just a little longer, and then the coals will be ready to cook on. The season is initiated once again by our Memorial Day bonfire.
Memorial Day is the opening of a new season of ranch life. The excitement throughout the family is intense. Each age group anticipates the season in a different way, and each group has its own tradition for bonfire night.
As grandma scuttles around the kitchen gathering food and utensils on trays for the dinner, she gives out instructions for the rest of us. “Ed, go cut the willows and take some of the kids with you. Boys, go with Tom to gather more wood. Oh, and be careful with that saw. Someone take the little kids away from the kitchen. Find them something to do until dinner. Mitzi, could you please wash off the picnic table? You know how dirty it always is after a winter like this.” And so the day proceeds, each member doing something to get ready for the picnic and evening around the bonfire.
The bonfire pit is right in the center of the yard. It has been there as long as I can remember. I suppose grandpa built it when we first acquired the ranch, since he is generally building something for others to enjoy. It is quite a large pit and has big rocks encircling it. On one side of the pit lies the fish pond with an arched bridge over it. On another side is the house, surrounded by a big lawn and several swing sets. On the other side is the patio, where we eat. Across the pond grandpa and the children attack the willows. Each grandchild gets to hold a willow, bigger than himself, as it is lopped off the bush. The children each proudly carry their sticks across the bridge and to the table, where the fight over who gets to whittle begins.
Soon everyone starts to gather at the patio. As if from nowhere, children appear and grab hot dogs and sticks. Unlike other days, at the picnic you don’t have to eat food you don’t like, and if you want to eat one thing now and another later, it’s okay.
This Memorial Day holiday brings all my mother’s brothers and sisters and their families together. The mothers bustle around batting flies away, pouring mustard and catsup, cutting up hot dogs, serving salad, and warning everyone not to spill the pop. Fathers mention how good it is to have potato salad again, even if it must be eaten with hot dogs.
With dinner over, the family slowly assembles around the fire. Even the children are quiet, as if in awe, as grandpa pokes the fire back to life and throws on another log. This peace and tranquility lasts about ten minutes while everyone reflects on the fun times ahead. Children are thinking of horseback riding and rafting in the pond, playing hide-and-seek and chase games. Parents think of quiet evenings after the children are asleep, walks along the river, and conversations with each other.
One by one the kids become restless and leave the fire to swing, ride the tractor, feed the fish, or just run. Mothers disappear into the house and reappear laden with jackets. The older kids, forced into jackets, slowly disperse to meet later on the big back lawn for a game of “ditch.” This is a game quite similar to hide-and-seek, except that it must be played in the dark and there is no free place to run to. The adults sit around the fire and talk.
As the evening slowly fades away, the attendance around the fire diminishes. Three generations remain at the fire to the end: Grandpa, Uncle Tom, and I. We sit, enjoying one another’s company until our eyes meet; then the three of us race for the hose to put the fire out. Whoever gets to the hose first gets the pleasure of making the first big sizzle and puff of smoke. The other two tote buckets of water from the pond until all that is left of our fire is clouds of smoke.
Putting out the fire signifies the lighting of many more throughout the summer. Each bonfire proceeds in much the same way. Grandma fixes the food and gives instructions, grandpa cuts willows, the children play the same games each time, and the feeling of togetherness is ever present.

On another Sunday, Roslyn had written, “Yesterday when Shelly and I finished our morning chores, we fixed sack lunches and went exploring on the cliff by our house. Chips went with us. It was kind of scary because Chips kept running between us and the cliff. He’s a very protective dog. I said a silent prayer that we would be safe—I didn’t want to fall into all those spiky trees and bushes below us! My prayer was answered, and Chips helped Shelly and me eat our picnic lunch as we sat on our hillside ’thrones’ (the big ‘chairs’ we carved in the dirt).”

We receive many prominent visitors in the office of the First Presidency. They include heads of state and ambassadors of nations. A few weeks ago we entertained the mayor of one of the great cities of the world. We have likewise recently entertained the vice president and the ambassador of Ecuador, the ambassador from Lithuania, the ambassador from Belarus, and others. In our conversations, not one of these visitors mentioned the great pioneer journey of our forebears. But each of them, independently, spoke in high praise of our welfare program and our humanitarian efforts.

Dave Speer, 12, of the Second Ward, told a similar story. “We did a mile. Then they told us to go ahead and do another mile, because someone didn’t show up. So we went back and did another mile. It was cloudless almost, and it was so hot out there. After a while, we sat down on one of the railings by the side of the road, and as the semi trucks came by they would blow wind on you and cool you down. You knew you’d worked hard, but it felt good.”

This past spring I spent a day in Siberia. As I walked into a rented hall to meet with the sisters there, the Spirit absolutely overwhelmed me. I knew that I was in the presence of women who were beloved of the Lord—our sister pioneers in Russia. I wondered if that is what it would have felt like to be with Emma and Eliza in Nauvoo. I wasn’t the only one who felt it. Near the meeting’s end, Sister Efimov, the mission president’s wife, leaned over and, in what few English words she knew, whispered, “Very Holy Ghost.” Very Holy Ghost indeed! The Spirit simply cannot be restrained among righteous women who are doing their best.

I come from goodly parents and from faithful ancestors who responded to the light of Jesus Christ and His gospel, and it blessed their lives and the generations that have followed with spiritual resilience. My dad often talked about his father, Milo T Dyches, and shared how his faith in God was a light to him day and night. Grandpa was a forest ranger and often rode alone in the mountains, entrusting his life without question to God’s direction and care.
Late one fall, Grandpa was alone in the high mountains. Winter had already shown its face when he saddled one of his favorite horses, old Prince, and rode to a sawmill to scale and measure logs before they could be sawed into lumber.
At dusk, he finished his work and climbed back into the saddle. By then, the temperature had plummeted, and a fierce winter snowstorm was engulfing the mountain. With neither light nor path to guide him, he turned Prince in a direction he thought would lead them back to the ranger station.
After traveling miles in the dark, Prince slowed, then stopped. Grandpa repeatedly urged Prince forward, but the horse refused. With blinding snow swirling around them, Grandpa realized he needed God’s help. As he had done throughout his life, he humbly “ask[ed] in faith, nothing wavering.” A still, small voice answered, “Milo, give Prince his head.” Grandpa obeyed, and as he lightened his hold on the reins, Prince swung around and plodded off in a different direction. Hours later, Prince again halted and lowered his head. Through the driving snow, Grandpa saw that they had safely arrived at the gate of the ranger station.
With the morning sun, Grandpa retraced the faint tracks of Prince in the snow. He drew a deep breath when he found where he had given Prince his head: it was the very brink of a lofty mountain cliff, where a single step forward would have plunged both horse and rider to their deaths in the rugged rocks below.
Based on that experience and many others, Grandpa counseled, “The best and greatest partner you will ever have is your Father in Heaven.” When my dad would relate Grandpa’s story, I remember that he would quote from the scriptures:
“Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding.
“In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.”

I used to skip to the Extra Smile to read the cartoons when the New Era came. As I stopped to read some of the stories, I knew I got something even better than just funny LDS cartoons in the mail. I got inspirational messages, including some from teenagers like me that I can relate to. I especially like it when conference messages are included in the magazine. I love to refresh my memory of the rousing messages shared by the leaders of our Church.
Benjamin D., Idaho

As we consider these sobering words of the Savior, we realize that there is something very peculiar about the state of mind or “heart” of the person who deliberately commits sin in the expectation that he or she will speedily and comfortably repent and continue as a servant of God, preaching repentance and asking others to come unto Christ. I will illustrate the peculiarity of this attitude with an analogy.
The mother of a large family is burdened almost past the point of endurance. Every waking hour is spent serving the needs of her large family: meals, mending, transporting, counseling, caring for those who are sick, comforting those who mourn, and administering to every other need a mother can understand. She has committed herself to do everything within her power to serve the needs of her children.
She is giving her life for them. The children know she will attempt to carry whatever load is placed upon her. Most of them are considerate and do all they can to minimize her burden. But some, knowing of her willingness to serve, heedlessly pile more and more tasks on the weary mother. “Don’t worry about it” is their attitude; “she’ll carry it. She said she would. Let Mom do it, and we’ll just have a good time.”
In this analogy, I am obviously likening the heedless children to those who sin in the expectation that someone else will bear the burden of suffering. The one who bears the burden is our Savior.

One evening as night was falling, I was driving with my children when I noticed a boy walking along a lonely road. After passing him, I had a distinct impression I should go back and help him. But worried it could frighten him to have a stranger pull up beside him at night, I continued driving. The strong impression came again with the words in my mind: “Go help that boy!”
I drove back to him and asked, “Do you need some help? I had a feeling I should help you.”
He turned toward us and with tears streaming down his cheeks said, “Would you? I’ve been praying someone would help me.”
His prayer for help was answered with the inspiration that came to me. This experience of receiving such clear direction from the Spirit left an unforgettable imprint that is still in my heart.
And now after 25 years and through a tender mercy, I connected again with this boy for the first time just a few months ago. I discovered that the experience isn’t just my story—it is his story too. Deric Nance is now a father with a family of his own. He too has never forgotten this experience. It helped us lay a foundation of faith that God hears and answers our prayers. Both of us have used it to teach our children that God is watching over us. We are not alone.
On that night, Deric had stayed after school for an activity and had missed the last bus. As a young teenager, he felt confident he could make it home, so he started walking.
An hour and a half had passed as he walked the lonely road. Still miles from home and with no houses in sight, he was scared. In despair, he walked behind a pile of gravel, got on his knees, and asked Heavenly Father for help. Just minutes after Deric returned to the road, I stopped to provide the help he prayed for.
And now these many years later, Deric reflects: “The Lord was mindful of me, a skinny, shortsighted boy. And despite everything else going on in the world, He was aware of my situation and loved me enough to send help. The Lord has answered my prayers many times since that abandoned roadside. His answers aren’t always as immediate and clear, but His awareness of me is just as evident today as it was that lonely night. Whenever the dark shadows of life blanket my world, I know He always has a plan to see me safely home again.”

A young woman told of her volunteer work, where a group of students spent an evening serving dinner to the homeless. This was a wonderful night of associations with teachers, classmates, and the less fortunate.

The empty sound of the ringing on the other end of the telephone line repeated itself over and over, and I puffed out a small breath of air—half sigh, half-confused laugh. So what do I expect Sister Randolf to do—sit home waiting for a call from me? She has better things to do with her life.
I rubbed my hand over my face and turned because the digital clock on my radio had just clicked a number change. It was 8:16 now. Rick would be over in less than 15 minutes, and the panicky feeling swept through me again. “She’s just got to be home,” I said aloud. But the ringing persisted, and after three more rings I pushed the disconnect button.
“Nobody is ever there when I need them,” I mumbled to myself. “Nobody cares about me.” But even as I said the words, I knew they just weren’t valid. Sister Randolf did care about me, and there were others who met in the old brown chapel just a few blocks from my home who cared about me too.
The quietness of the house seemed strange, and I wandered into the living room where at least the ticking of the grandfather clock could keep me company. The steady ticking had often comforted me as a child when I was upset about something. But even listening to the quiet rhythm didn’t subdue my present turmoil.
Slipping into the recliner where dad liked to relax and smoke his pipe didn’t help my confusion either. It just reminded me of what dad had said as he and mom were leaving. “Well, you and Rick will have the house all to yourselves, huh?” he had said with a chuckle. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” Dad expected Rick and me to take advantage of being alone in the house!
Mom had just laughed and had scolded him with mock concern. “Honestly, Stuart.” But she hadn’t mentioned the matter later, and when I thought about it, she had never really said how she felt about a lot of things. But then, neither of my parents had ever been religious and they had always believed in letting my brother, Tom, and me do our own thing. Well, now Tom was in California, mom and dad were at their convention in Chicago, and I was alone—all alone in our three-bedroom rambler. But I wouldn’t be alone long. Rick was coming, and that was just the problem.
I reached for the living room phone next to me on the end table and placed it on the armrest of dad’s chair. Again I dialed the number—the number that I had called so often because I had needed to talk to Sister Randolf about so many things. She was one of the best things that had ever happened to me. She and, of course, Rick. But they wanted such different things for me.
“Rick.” I said his name aloud, sighed, and started tingling inside as I thought of him—the way he looked, his light brown hair, his gentle smile, and the way he acted, his cute sense of humor, and the pleasant way he treated people. When I thought of him, I always felt warm inside, and when I was with him—oh, the feelings! But hadn’t Sister Randolf told us that?
“Girls,” she had said, “don’t think you won’t have those feelings because you will. They’re natural. They’re a part of your physical and emotional makeup, and they’re important to have because they’re part of the beautiful plan. It’s what we do with those precious feelings that makes the difference, because if we don’t control them, they will control us.”
She had held up two rings then—one a diamond, the other a rhinestone. “Don’t ever let the spurious or artificial get mixed up with the real thing,” she had added. “Please don’t settle for the counterfeit. Don’t sell yourselves short.” And she had written the word spurious on the board and then the word genuine. Then she had told us about the beautiful life that she knew was ahead for each one of us. “It’s out there,” she said. “It’s just ahead of you, and that life is meant to be yours. If you could see into the future, you wouldn’t settle for anything less because you wouldn’t be satisfied with anything less. I have tasted a little of that life,” she continued. “It’s filled with love and with children. Oh, sure, there are frustrations sometimes, and my children can be little characters, but …” Tears came into her eyes. “There is nothing,” she had said with emphasis, “nothing sweeter or more beautiful than knowing your love is an eternal commitment. There is such security and peace in knowing that you are living life our Heavenly Father’s way and that your love is something special and sacred between you and your partner. Something so special and sacred that you waited for it because you didn’t want to cheapen it.”
I couldn’t remember the rest of what she said, but she had made it sound so beautiful and so right. I had wanted that kind of life more than anything.
Then Sister Randolf had added with a chuckle, “I know that here in the building in our Young Women classroom it sounds easy. ‘It’s a cinch,’ you’re thinking. ‘Of course that’s what I want. I want the genuine.’
“But out in the field,” she said, “well, fieldwork is often more challenging than classroom work, isn’t it?” We had laughed. Then she turned serious again. “It may be difficult for you at times. But you can do it. And I want you to know that if you need to call me at any time, I’ll be anxious to talk to you and help you.”
I swallowed as I finished dialing the number, and I glanced at the clock again. It was 8:20 now. “I’ll be over at 8:30,” Rick had said.
“Why are you doing this to me, Rick?” I whispered as the telephone rang again. “Why are you making me feel all mixed up?” Fieldwork difficult? It was difficult all right. That’s putting it mildly, Sister Randolf, I thought. Very mildly.
“Now where are you?” I called out in exasperation as if she could hear me. “Help me, Sister Randolf! Answer your phone!” But I wondered what I would say if she did answer. I wondered how I would put into words what I was feeling. How could I explain to her that life isn’t simple. That the feelings I had for Rick were genuine and not artificial. That he needed me. And that that was why I was so mixed up now. My present turmoil was symbolic of the tug-of-war of my entire last year. One side of me thirsted for and pulled me toward the gospel’s eternal values. The other side of me pulled toward the world and its “anything goes” attitude.
I remembered how Rick had reacted when I had told him that mom and dad had gone to Chicago. “Sarah, why didn’t you tell me?” he had whispered. “Just think, the house all to ourselves! No one to bother us.” His breath brushed my cheek, and there was a tenseness in his voice unusual for Rick. I began getting nervous about what he was thinking. “We love each other,” he had said then.
“Yes, but, Rick …”
He laughed a little, and the old Rick returned as he lifted my chin. “Hey don’t look so horrified. What am I, some kind of an ogre?”
I laughed. “Believe me,” I said, gulping, “you’re hardly an ogre. You’re, well, you’re … That’s just it. If you come over, I’m just afraid of what …”
He put his hand over my mouth. “Everything will be okay,” he said, his voice cracking slightly with tenseness again. “Hey, I know what’s best for us, don’t I?”
Do you, Rick? I thought. Do you? Rick was a member of the Church and had attended until his mother died of leukemia when he was only ten. After he moved in with inactive relatives, his life had changed drastically. But now Rick wasn’t ten anymore. He was a college man, and he liked to pretend he was tough and wise, but I knew better. I had seen his vulnerable side—the side of him that he rarely lets others see. We were close, and I knew Rick had been deeply hurt by what life had meted out to him. More than anything I wanted to make him happy because I loved him. I didn’t ever want him to be hurt again. Rick needed me. He loved me and needed me.
Thinking of Rick made me pull myself to the edge of dad’s chair. Maybe I was silly to worry about my feelings. On television the networks showed bed scenes now, and the movies—well even Superman, the great hero, hadn’t been so perfect. According to the screen, making love out of wedlock was expected and accepted in today’s world. And hadn’t Rick said it would be okay? He loved me and I loved him. We’d get married in a year or two after he had a little more schooling behind him. I wasn’t worried that he would be a good husband because he was a good person—better than he knew. We’d have kids and he would make a good father. It would be all right because we’d make it all right. We would!
I put my head in my hands and pressed them hard against my face because I knew it wasn’t all right and it was 8:25.
Oh, Sister Randolf, please come home immediately! I need to hear your voice right now! I decided to try her number one last time. This is it, I thought. If she isn’t home this time … well … It rang 14 times before I slammed down the receiver. The phone slipped with a thud to the floor, and I hit the armrest where it had been. “Well, I tried!” I said. But a hollowness filled the pit of my stomach, my lips twisted, and the roof of my mouth felt dry.
“I tried, Sister Randolf,” I said. “I wish you had been home, but you weren’t, and I can’t help that.” But I sighed as I thought of Rick’s arms around me and how I always felt whenever he held me close. Maybe I’m glad you weren’t home, Sister Randolf, I thought. My breathing became jerky as the grandfather clock’s hand hit the six mark. It was 8:30. I stood up quickly, stretched my neck, and took a deep breath as I walked to my room to brush my hair. I looked into the gold-framed mirror at the girl in the reflection. I pulled my hair back and then let it fall around my face. There was no emotion in my eyes, and I felt like an empty form.
“I said I tried,” I repeated again to myself. “Can I help it if she wasn’t home?”
Pushing my mascara wand against my lashes, I concentrated on my eyes. At first they were just eyes, and then I looked closer. Rick always said he liked my eyes. I looked even closer, as if I were trying to look inside myself, but all I could see were the little gold flecks and my own reflection in the dark pupils. “Hey, you in there,” I whispered, “who are you?”
I pushed the wand against my lashes again. “It’s too bad Sister Randolf wasn’t home to tell me what I believe, but that’s just the way it is,” I said. “It’s not my fault.” The words seemed to echo through the room. “It’s too bad Sister Randolf wasn’t home to tell me what I believe?” The person I was looking at in the mirror was me. Those were my arms, my torso, my hair, and my face. And behind the face, behind the eyes, was a mind—my mind. Nobody else’s—mine. “To tell me what I believe?”
I thought of what my dad always said. “You’ve got to stand on your own two feet in this world.” Sister Randolf had said something similar in a lesson on free agency. I had to admit to myself that whatever I decided would be my decision. My choice. Nobody else’s. And I knew. I knew very well what the right choice was. I had felt the Spirit of truth before, and I was only kidding myself if I tried to pretend I didn’t know. But that was not the problem really. That was not why I was kidding myself. The problem was whether I could be strong enough. Could I be firm with Rick when he had a way of melting my bones just by looking at me?
Could I?
I looked back into my eyes and tried to remember the quote that always made me feel strong inside. “Choose you this day.” Oh, yes, that was it. “Choose you this day whom ye will serve; … but as for me and my house, we will serve the Lord” (Josh. 24:15). I stood straighter and did feel stronger. “Choose you this day, Sarah Beckstead!”
“Rick will just have to realize that I’m my own person and make my own decisions and that I have to be accountable for those decisions and actions and … well, he’ll just have to understand.” I picked up my brush again and began brushing my hair with firm, swift strokes. But suddenly the strokes weakened, and I looked back into my pupils with panic because I had heard a car drive up and a car door shut.
Rick. My stomach hurt and I put down the brush. But what about Rick? Rick’s footsteps were sounding on our driveway. I could picture him climbing our steps. I pictured the way he held his head when he smiled at me. I thought of how hurt he had been in his life. He’ll think I don’t love him and I do, so much, I thought.
The doorbell rang and I began trembling. What am I going to do? I changed my plea to a prayer. “Oh, Father in Heaven, I love Rick. I care about him, and I don’t—” I stopped talking. “I care about him,” I repeated. I guess it struck me then. I tried to continue my prayer, but I had my answer. “I care about him.” I opened my eyes. You silly girl, I said to myself, don’t you see? If you care about Rick, you want the best for him. Of course, I thought. Of course! I don’t just want what’s best for me; I want what’s best for him too. I don’t want him to blow it. I want to help him. It was so clear now that I couldn’t believe I hadn’t seen it before. Rick needed me all right.
Then something else struck me. I had never shared with Rick the feelings about the gospel that I had had in the old brown chapel. I had never told him, the person I love most, about the kind of life that is possible for him—for us. I had never told him how important he is in our Father in Heaven’s eyes—that we are both too important, too precious, to cheapen ourselves. That our love is genuine, something sacred and worth waiting for. I had never told him that I believe—that I know—that we can share that love forever. As close as we were, I had never ever even told him.
I began trembling again, but this time I was trembling with a desire to tell Rick.
Hurrying to the door, I grabbed my jacket just as Rick was beginning to tap loudly, probably wondering what was wrong with the bell. “Rick,” I said, slipping through the doorway and closing the door behind me, “I’ve got so much to tell you. We need to have a talk right now.”
“Where are we going?” he asked with confusion as I pulled him down the steps.
“For a walk!”
“Oh, great! Right now?” Rick looked back at our front door. “I was thinking—”
“I know what you were thinking, but you don’t want to be thinking that right now.”
“I don’t?”
“No. Come on.” I pulled him down the driveway to where it meets the sidewalk.
“Hey, whoa!” He pulled me to a halt, turned me around, and placed his hands gently on my shoulders. “Now,” he said, “what’s the hurry? Is it that important?” His soft blue eyes looked into mine, but I returned his gaze without flinching.
“It is, Rick,” I answered firmly. “It really is.”
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“I’m sure,” I said.
Rick continued looking into my eyes until at last he sighed. “Well, if you’re that sure.” He looked up at the sky, sighed, and looked down at me again. This time he had a small smile on his face, and as he began chuckling, he lifted my chin. “You’re really something, Beckstead. You know that, don’t you?” To my surprise, there was admiration in his voice. And I was almost sure there was something else—relief. Rick was relieved! Deep down he knew.
“So, which way do we go?” he asked with mock disgruntlement as he looked up and down the sidewalk.
I grinned happily, welling over inside, feeling as if I would burst as I slipped my hand in his and turned in the direction of the old brown chapel. “How about this way?” I said softly.

When I went to my brother’s basketball game, I made some new friends. They wanted me to play under the bleachers. I asked my mom if it was OK. She told me she didn’t think it was safe. So we didn’t play there, and we stayed safe. I’m glad that I have parents to help me be safe when I obey.

Many years ago, my friend and her husband were doing leadership training in rural Ghana, and a woman came up to her afterward and said very emotionally, “This is a woman’s church.” My friend asked the woman what she meant. She said, in essence, “We have the glorious Relief Society, which teaches us about spiritual things and everyday things that bless our families and us. And at the same time your husband is in the next room teaching our husbands that they must treat their wives and children with kindness and gentleness. We have the temple, so my children who are dead will be mine forever. Everything I want I find in this church. This is a woman’s church.”

Two young women stood before the audience at a youth conference in Santiago, Chile. One, Beatriz Aravena, had been fellowshipped by her Mutual class years earlier and had returned to full activity in the Church. The other, Brenda Acevedo, had been the president of the class that encouraged Beatriz to return to Church.
“One day about five years ago,” said Beatriz, “a group of girls came to my house. I was surprised to see them because it was such a cold day. They brought me a basket of cookies and a letter. I’ve kept that letter ever since. This is what it says:
“‘Dear Beatriz,
“‘We would like to tell you that we are Beehives and we have a special mission to fulfill—to be young women who look for the truth, try to live it, and help others know about it.
“‘In our class, you will make new friends you will learn to like. Remember that you were chosen by Heavenly Father to live in these times and in this place.
“‘We hope you have enjoyed our message. We hope to see you in Mutual where you will learn and have fun and good times. We meet on Wednesdays at 7:30 P.M. and on Sundays at 9:30 A.M.
“‘Sincerely,
“‘The Beehive class
“‘ Brenda Acevedo, Yendery de la Barra, Macarena Tello, and Sister Patricia Grandón’”
“That was a special day for me,” continued Beatriz, “because I was waiting and hoping for someone to be concerned about me and to come looking for me. Because of those girls and their letter, I am here today.” Turning to Brenda, she said, “Thank you for coming to look for me. Thanks to you, I have learned that I am a special daughter of Heavenly Father and that I need to endure to the end.”
Then Brenda addressed the group, telling her side of the story:
“In 1994 I was president of the Beehive class in our ward. We had a class meeting and decided to go find the girls who were not attending church. We made a list and thought about giving these girls some cookies. We went to work and made the cookies at my house and put them in baskets we had made ourselves. Then we made a card for each girl and went out to find them. It was a very cold winter day, but we were filled with courage and love.
“The girls we visited were very pleased to see us and made us welcome. One of them said, ‘Thank you, but I am not interested in coming back to church.’ So we went on our way.
“But one girl, Beatriz Aravena, was very happy to see us; we could see in her eyes the gratitude she felt for our visit. We invited her to Mutual, and she didn’t say no. We were happy because we felt the Lord was blessing us.
“For a few times, we went to get Beatriz and took her with us to our meetings and activities. Soon she began to feel strong enough to come on her own. Since then, she has been active in the Church. She is participating in seminary and is a very faithful girl. She started a great work, and now—thanks to her perseverance—she has brought the gospel to her parents and to all her family. Her brother is now serving a full-time mission in Osorno, Chile.
“Thanks to the help of Heavenly Father and to a little time and dedication, today we are enjoying the harvest—the fruit of this simple activity.”

Andrea makes it clear that Church attendance is important to her. Although she stays with her father on weekends, she goes home on Sunday mornings in order to attend her home ward.

Joseph Knight arose early the morning of September 22, 1827. As he went outside to check on his animals, he noticed that his horse and wagon were gone. He was a guest in the home of the Joseph Smith family in Manchester, New York, and Joseph and Emma had borrowed his horse and wagon in the predawn to go to the Hill Cumorah.
Brother Knight was a dear friend of the Prophet and was among the first to hear Joseph describe the sacred experience of being visited by the angel Moroni. The angel had appeared to Joseph Smith once a year for the three previous years, and this morning was to be the fourth and last visitation. During this visit the angel Moroni had promised to let the Prophet take the gold plates if Joseph had been faithful.
When Joseph and Emma returned from the Hill Cumorah, the Prophet told Brother Knight something of his glorious experience. He told him of the size of the plates and described the glasses, or Urim and Thummim, which he (Joseph) had been given to help translate the Book of Mormon.

My family prayed for weeks that turned into months for a cherished brother-in-law who eventually succumbed to COVID-19. His passing seemed cruel and unjust. He was the father of four children, some of whom were struggling with mental health concerns. He left behind a wife who has her own chronic health issues and now must deal with life’s challenges as a single parent. He was the bishop of his ward, providing help to many. We trust that his untimely passing was God’s will. But does trust in God’s will settle all the questions, solve all the problems, or completely lighten the load that comes in the aftermath? If it did, there would be no need to “bear one another’s burdens” or “mourn with those that mourn” (Mosiah 18:8–9). Elder Dale G. Renlund of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles reminds us that “mortal life is inherently unfair.”1 While trusting God does not necessarily take away all our pains, it can give us great strength and hope to endure them well. We trust that over time, whether in this life or the next, the injustices of life will be compensated by a merciful God. In accepting God’s will, we often simply need to trust that He knows more than we do (see Isaiah 55:8–9) and that He is both just and merciful (see Alma 42:15). Even Job had no inside information for why he was singled out for seemingly undeserved suffering, yet he placed his trust in God.

Although a brother-in-law’s mortal journey is over at a younger age than any of us expected, his wife and family’s is not. They are left to work things out without a father and husband, but not without a Savior. This process of working things out after heartbreak is often long and challenging, and life is forever different.