Gospel Story Finder

It was 1888 and winter in Colonia Juarez, Mexico, and the Romneys were near starvation. Miles, Catherine’s husband, had been gone for several months, trying to find work elsewhere; and despite Catherine’s care and thrift, their food was almost gone. Prayerfully she considered her alternatives and then sent her twelve-year-old son, Thomas, and her fourteen-year-old son, George, hunting. Neither boy had ever fired a gun, and sending them alone into the mountain wilderness placed them in some jeopardy, but starvation was a reality. They took the family’s .44 Winchester rifle and enthusiastically went up Spring Creek.
About 1 1/2 kilometers up the creek they suddenly saw a large buck standing broadside about 70 meters away. Excitedly, George aimed and fired. Curiously, the buck turned his head and looked at them, apparently puzzled by the noise. The second shot struck him exactly between the eyes, even though George had aimed at the deer’s middle.
After their excitement subsided, they realized that they had no knife and no way of getting the buck home. George ran home for a knife while Thomas stood guard—not an easy task since he was barefoot and had to keep running and walking so that his feet would not freeze.
It was snowing by the time George returned with their two younger brothers, ages ten and eleven, all barefooted. They weren’t strong enough to cut up the animal, so they started dragging it home, six kilometers away. They had to rest every few meters; and even when Catherine joined them a little later, their progress was still slow. It was with real gratitude that they looked up to see a neighbor, Helaman Pratt, riding towards them with a pack mule. He had heard the shot and had come to help.
At the evening meal they feasted on the sweetest venison any had ever eaten.
This story became cherished by the family, told and retold to the children and grandchildren—among them grandchild Camilla Eyring, who would one day marry Spencer W. Kimball.

Four years later, in 2002, my father and one of my sisters died just a week apart. I carried on, serving as a district missionary until I received my full-time mission call in July 2004 to serve in the South Africa Durban Mission. I was in the mission field just a few months when my brother called my mission president, informing him that my mother had died and had already been buried. Can you picture how it feels to lose such a mother? Four months later another sister died.
As a missionary, I had been teaching people about the restored gospel. Because of my testimony, I never worried about my losses. I had peace of mind and hope that in due time I would see my parents and sisters again. On the way home from my mission in July 2006, I went to the Johannesburg South Africa Temple and was baptized on behalf of my male family members who had passed on, and I had baptisms performed for my sisters who had died.

On my dad’s side, my paternal grandfather suffered verbal abuse from his father (who also struggled with substance abuse), so he was prone to anger and violence. My grandfather was also a single parent for a time, which led to my dad being displaced in foster homes as a child. Ultimately, my dad struggled for a long time to build a good relationship with my grandpa and to communicate his emotions effectively.
Why am I telling you these difficult family stories? Well, I recently learned it’s helpful to acknowledge difficulties that occurred in our family’s history. It’s helpful because the effects of challenges in our ancestors’ lives can influence how our current families function in mortality.
Our ancestors may have suffered many types of traumatic events, such as grief, war, abuse, crimes, financial instability, natural disasters, etc. And the effects can show up in later generations of families through common issues:
Communication problems
Unhealthy coping mechanisms
Attachment issues
Or more serious issues, including:
Mental health issues
Abuse
Addiction
When the negative psychological effects of traumatic experiences are transferred from one generation to another, experts call this phenomenon “generational trauma.”1 The purpose of identifying generational trauma isn’t to place blame on an ancestor for your issues. But becoming aware of generational trauma can help us understand some of the influences behind our own unhelpful habits, create new healthy behaviors, and invite peace into our homes.
Elder Gerrit W. Gong of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles taught:
“Just as joys come in families, so can sorrows. No individual is perfect, nor is any family … Yet, with heaven’s help, we can come to understand our family and make peace with each other.
“… The promise … always is that, in and through Jesus Christ, we can become our best story and our families can become happy and forever.”2
Here are a few ways I was able to heal my own heart and family relationships after learning about the generational trauma that affected my family:
Strive to become aware of negative habits in your life. Seek guidance from Heavenly Father. He wants us to rise above the conflicts in our lives, and He is more than ready to help us become “new creature[s]” (see 2 Corinthians 5:17). Attend the temple, search the scriptures, and consider counseling with Heavenly Father about working with a mental health professional or finding and reading self-help books that can offer helpful perspectives.
In my case, I denied that I had communication problems until I hit a dark point in my life and realized I needed help addressing some of my behavioral and thinking patterns.
So, after seeking guidance from Heavenly Father, I felt prompted to start meeting with a therapist. We put pieces of the puzzle of my heart together and discovered that the sources of many of my behaviors like masking pain with humor, burying emotions, and struggling to communicate effectively could possibly be traced back to a few generations before mine.
At first, I was scared by what this discovery meant for me. How could I possibly change habits that had been ingrained in me and my family? I even started to fear for my future family. Would I pass my issues on to them?
With these thoughts weighing on my mind, I didn’t think I could muster the effort to face these feelings and change these behavior cycles. But the Lord has counseled us to “be not afraid, only believe” (Mark 5:36).
As I prayed, God showed me that if I had a willing heart, He could change my heart and help me alter the behaviors that were preventing me from having healthy relationships and from growing emotionally and spiritually.
Through trials, we are given a choice to come unto Christ for hope, growth, and healing—whatever that healing may entail.
Ultimately, my healing involved the Savior. With Him, I was able to have difficult yet healing conversations with my family members, to take steps forward, to love more deeply and build greater relationships, to take uncomfortable steps forward, to forgive, and to find hope in the future. Believing in what Jesus Christ could do for me was the first step toward inviting His healing balm into my life through temple worship, prayer, and exercising faith.
As I combined these powerful spiritual tools with therapy and self-help books that helped me develop my communication skills, learn to feel and process my emotions, and understand the underlying reasons behind my behaviors, I have been able to see miraculous results of involving the Savior and Heavenly Father in this journey.
Some of us may struggle with serious repercussions from our family’s past like abuse, addiction, or other traumatic challenges, which can take time, faith, and professional help to heal. But as Elder Patrick Kearon of the Seventy taught, “Courage, patience, and faithful focus on [the Savior]” will help you “let go of your pain and leave it at His feet.”3 Through Him, we can mend bonds, set boundaries, break negative cycles, and build beautiful, charity-filled homes and relationships.
Elder Gong also counseled:
“Genetics and family patterns influence but do not determine us.
“... Learn and acknowledge with gratitude and honesty your family heritage. Celebrate and become the positive and, where needed, humbly do everything possible not to pass on the negative. Let good things begin with you.”4
I am still a work in progress, but I am so grateful for my resilient ancestors and family members who inspire me. I am awed by Heavenly Father and our Savior, who can help us build up the relationships we cherish and endure and grow. Truly, it is through Him that I can help spread goodness in my family and fill our homes with joy.

In the listening audience today are Jeff and Joyce Underwood of Pocatello, Idaho. They are parents of Jeralee and their other five children. Jeff works on a building maintenance team that cares for some of our chapels in Pocatello, Idaho. Joyce is a mother and homemaker. One day last July, their daughter Jeralee, age eleven, was going door to door collecting money for her newspaper route. Jeralee never returned home—not that day, nor the next day, nor the next, nor ever.

Two thousand people from the area had gone out day after day to search for her. Other churches sent support and food for the searchers. It was learned that Jeralee had been abducted and brutally murdered by an evil man. When her body was found, the whole city was horrified and shocked. All segments of the community reached out to Joyce and Jeff in love and sympathy. Some became angry and wanted to take vengeance.

After Jeralee’s body was found, Jeff and Joyce appeared with great composure before the television cameras and other media to publicly express their profound thanks to all who had helped in the search and who had extended sympathy and love. Joyce said, “I know our Heavenly Father has heard and answered our prayers, and he has brought our daughter back to us.” Jeff said, “We no longer have doubt about where she is.” Joyce continued, “I have learned a lot about love this week, and I also know there is a lot of hate. I have looked at the love and want to feel that love, and not the hate. We can forgive.”

Elder Joe J. Christensen and I, representing the General Authorities, were among the thousands privileged to attend Jeralee’s funeral service. The Holy Spirit blessed that gathering in a remarkable way and spoke peace to the souls of all who attended. Later, President Kert W. Howard, Jeralee’s stake president, wrote, “The Underwoods have received letters from people both in and out of the Church stating that they prayed for Jeralee, and they hadn’t prayed in years, and because of this, they had a renewed desire to return to the Church.” President Howard continued, “We will never know the extent of activation and rededication this single event has caused. Who knows the far-reaching effects Jeralee’s life will have for generations untold?” Many have come into the Church because they wanted to know what kind of a religion could give the Underwoods their spiritual strength.

I mention the good coming from this tragic event with Jeralee’s parents’ full approval and encouragement. Their sweet daughter was like the lad who had only five barley loaves and two small fishes to give to the cause of the Savior, but by the power of God, countless thousands have been spiritually fed.

In another stake, in a Sunday morning Primary meeting of that stake conference, I met two beautiful daughters of a faithful young Latter-day Saint physician and his devoted wife. The older child was in a wheelchair, and the younger child moved with great effort. Both of these children suffer from a degenerative disease of genetic origin thought to be progressive and incurable. According to medical wisdom, their time in this life is extremely limited. Their eyes were beautiful and clear—full of faith and love of their Savior, whose presence had been made real in their lives by loving parents and grandparents and devoted Church teachers.
To fulfill a deep desire for more children, their devoted parents have adopted two other beautiful daughters from another country. Instead of cursing God as Job was encouraged by his associates to do in the face of other faith-testing burdens, this couple has reached out to these two beautiful additional daughters, who now feel the blessing of being reared in a household of faith with love from parents whose hearts and lives demonstrate the pure love of Christ.

But Arthur’s Seat has been the site of some lesser-known important events. On May 3, 1840, Orson Pratt arrived in Scotland as a missionary for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. He organized the first Scottish branch of the Church in Paisley. Then, after laboring in several other cities, Elder Pratt made his way to Edinburgh, where he found it very difficult to get the people to listen to the message of the restored gospel.
Sometimes when things seemed difficult, he would climb to the top of Arthur’s Seat. There, looking out across the city of Edinburgh, he could see the high peaks of mountains on the horizon and the Firth of Forth stretching to join the North Sea. Below, the tracks of one of Scotland’s first railroad lines ran through one of the earliest railroad tunnels. The echo of rifle practice may have risen up to greet Elder Pratt from Hunter’s Bog, while the ruins of St. Anthony’s chapel silently blended into the background on a lower ridge where sheep grazed. Holyrood Palace, the royal residence, lay at the foot of the hill, and across the way Edinburgh Castle guarded the top of another hill. On top of Arthur’s Seat, Elder Pratt prayed that the people would be receptive to the gospel. He then went down into the city and preached for endless hours, trying to establish the gospel in this important city of Edinburgh.
In one of his prayers, Elder Pratt pleaded with the Lord to help him find two hundred converts. After working very hard for ten months, Elder Pratt left Edinburgh having seen more than two hundred people enter into the covenant of baptism.

Study the scriptures. One spring day I came home in a cheerful mood, only to be met by my tearful wife. I quickly asked her what had happened. She explained that my father, who had disowned me some years earlier as a result of my activity in the Church, had called. He had tried to convince her of my failings as a husband. Feelings of anger stirred in my heart that he would upset my wife to the point of tears.
I wanted to call my father to retaliate. However, I decided to wait and calm down first. For the next two days I remained angry and bitter. At the end of the second day, my wife and I knelt to pray. Since I did not feel in the right frame of mind to pray, I asked her if she would offer the prayer.
She took my arm and said, “Before we pray, I want you to read a scripture.” She turned to 3 Nephi and read, “Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them who despitefully use you and persecute you” (3 Ne. 12:44).
My heart began to pound. I felt suddenly as if the Savior were speaking directly to me because his words penetrated the deepest portion of my heart. Then I began to cry as I felt my angry heart soften.
When I looked at my wife, she said something I will never forget: “Do you know why I shared that scripture? I want you to be the best person you can be.”
I was overwhelmed. My sweet wife had opened a scriptural door that let the light of gospel principles shine through to my heart, and I was able to forgive my father. I came to appreciate my good wife even more. The gospel has given us a solid foundation in our marriage as we continue to help each other be the best we can be.—Name withheld

One of my good friends was reading the Book of Mormon in class in her spare time one day. People began to tease her. She stood up for Heavenly Father and told them that this is her religion and they shouldn’t be saying anything about it. The kids stopped teasing her. That was a very good example for me. I recommend that you stick up for the Church. If this guy knows how you really feel, then he will stop teasing you.
Tia T., 13, Utah

A year ago last winter, a modern jetliner faltered after takeoff and plunged into the icy Potomac River. Acts of bravery and feats of heroism were in evidence that day, the most dramatic of which was one witnessed by the pilot of a rescue helicopter. The rescue rope was lowered to a struggling survivor. Rather than grasping the lifeline to safety, the man tied the line to another, who was then lifted to safety. The rope was lowered again, and yet another was saved. Five were rescued from the icy waters. Among them was not found the anonymous hero. Unknown by name, “he left the vivid air signed with his honor.” (Stephen Spender, “I think continually of those—” in Masterpieces of Religious Verse, ed. James Dalton Morrison, New York: Harper and Brothers Publishers, p. 291.)

One of the fundamental things my parents taught me was the importance of prayer. They taught me that if there was ever anything wrong in my life or if I ever needed help, I should always pray. One of the first times I remember following their advice was when I was about six years old.

That year for Christmas I had been thrilled to find a toy bow and arrow under the Christmas tree. This toy was exactly what I had wanted. I spent many hours aiming the arrow straight up into the air and seeing how high I could get it to fly.

One day I shot the arrow into the air, then lost sight of it. I had no idea where it landed. I spent a very long time looking for it, but I couldn’t find it anywhere. I remember how bad I felt. I thought at the time that this was one of the saddest things that had ever happened to me.

Remembering what my parents had taught me, I decided to ask Heavenly Father for help. I knelt by the trunk of an apple tree and told Him what had happened. I asked Him for help in finding the arrow. When I opened my eyes, the arrow was next to me, sticking in the ground. That made a great impression on me, and I have relied heavily since then on the power of prayer.

I was getting mad! Another spit wad had hit the back of my neck. I tried to ignore it and just get the last question done because it was almost time for Jennifer and me to go to student council meeting.
Then Jennifer got hit by another spit wad. She spun around in her seat and barked, “Knock it off, Todd! I know it’s you, so don’t try to act innocent!”
“You and Rebecca are the ones who always try to act innocent,” Todd retorted. “Teacher’s pets!”
“Just because we do all the assignments doesn’t make us teacher’s pets,” I shot back. “Besides, Mrs. Groves is a good teacher. You shouldn’t cause so many problems for her.”
Actually, it wasn’t just Todd who was causing problems. The whole class was noisy and playing around. Usually everyone was pretty good, but now that there were only four days of school left before summer vacation, some of the kids were getting pretty wild, especially Todd, Ryan, and Mike.
Suddenly Ryan chased Mike across the front of the room, and they knocked some papers off Mrs. Groves’s desk. They didn’t stop to pick up the papers, so I did.
“You guys, settle down!” I said. “Mrs. Groves is going to be back any minute, and she’s not going to like what’s going on!”
Nobody seemed to listen.
“Hey, Rebecca,” Todd called, “get that garbage can while you’re up there. You and Jennifer have to clean up all those little pieces of paper by your desks. You two are real litterbugs.” He pointed to the spit wads scattered on the floor and laughed and laughed.
“It’s not funny, Todd,” Jennifer said.
“Can’t everyone just please be quiet?” I pleaded.
Then Ryan started chasing Mike again, and Mike tripped over Chuck’s foot and fell against the bookcase that the aquarium was on. I watched helplessly as the bookcase tipped over and the aquarium crashed to the floor. Broken glass, water, fish, seaweed, rocks, and sand went all over the floor, and all the books from the bookcase were getting soaked.
“Quick!” Todd yelled. “Somebody get some cups of water so that we can save the fish!”
Just then the door opened, and Mrs. Groves walked in.
Up until that day, Mrs. Groves had been my favorite teacher. She was smart, and she made learning fun. She would show us several different ways to learn things and patiently wait while we did. But that day she just stood there for a minute, looking appalled. She told Todd to take the flowers out of the vase on her desk and put the fish in the vase. She told me to go find the custodian and ask him to come to our room right away. Then she marched the rest of the class to the library.
Mrs. Groves told us how disappointed she was that we couldn’t behave without supervision. She lectured us for twenty-two minutes about growing up, about responsibility, and about good fun and harmful fun. She said that she was sorry that any innocent students had to suffer with the guilty, but since she had no way of determining who the guilty were, everyone in the class lost all privileges for the rest of the year, and the class party was canceled. Then Mrs. Groves had us sit in silence and think about what we had done wrong and about how we should have been acting.
Jennifer leaned over to me and whispered, “It’s not fair! We tried to stop them.”
Mrs. Groves heard the whispering and was over by us in an instant. “When I said ‘total silence,’ that’s what I meant, young ladies!”
So we just sat there until the custodian came and told Mrs. Groves that our room was ready.
We marched through the halls like we were going to a funeral, and as we passed the other classrooms, the kids looked out at us and giggled. They already knew what had happened.
Jennifer pulled me out of the line and up to where Mrs. Groves was leading the class. “You ask her,” Jennifer whispered into my ear.
I didn’t want to ask her, but Jennifer pushed me in front. “Mrs. Groves,” I said, “Jennifer and I have to go to student council meeting now. May we please be excused?”
It was the last student council meeting of the year. We had work to do to get ready for the awards assembly. After that we were going to have a swimming party and a barbecue.
“I’m sorry, girls,” she said, “but as I explained before, I can’t make any exceptions. You two are part of this class, and this class has lost all privileges, including participation in student council.”
“But can’t we do extra work?” I pleaded. “Or help you before or after school tomorrow?”
“The answer has to be no! Now please get back into line.”
I was really angry then. I had tried to get the others to quit fooling around. Besides, I’d worked hard on student council, and I thought that I deserved to go to the party.
The classroom was clean and neat when we returned. But the bookcase was empty, and there was a strong odor of pine cleaner. We sat silently working on a writing assignment: “How Students Earn Privileges.”
Mr. Burton, the student council adviser, came into the room and talked to Mrs. Groves. We couldn’t hear what they said, but when he looked at Jennifer and me, we knew that he was talking about us. Jennifer smiled at me and crossed her fingers for good luck. We were sure that he’d get us out of class. But he didn’t. We stayed and worked and watched the clock.
Mrs. Groves kept the class after school for twenty minutes. When she finally dismissed us, she called Jennifer and me up to her desk. She said that Mr. Burton had left an envelope for us to pick up at the front office. I knew what was in the envelope: the ballots Jennifer and I would have counted at the student council meeting!
At the end of every school year there is an awards assembly for students who have done well in sports, music, art, science, and other subjects. There is also a Teacher-of-the-Year Award for the teacher who had done the most for the students and the school that year. The teacher winning the award has his or her name inscribed on a plaque displayed by the front office. Two teachers are nominated by the PTA; then the students, teachers, and parents vote on them.
This year the PTA nominated Miss Eaton, who is young and pretty and always happy—and Mrs. Groves!
When Jennifer and I opened the envelope and counted the votes, Miss Eaton and Mrs. Groves had the same number of votes. We counted them again to make sure that we hadn’t made a mistake, but we hadn’t. Jennifer said that our job was to come up with a winner, and since it was a tie, it was up to us to choose one of them. We grinned at each other conspiratorially. She wrote a name on a card and sealed it up in the small envelope provided for it. I didn’t see what she’d written, but I knew which name she had put down.
The next day at the awards assembly, I got an award for perfect attendance, with a sticker on it for never being tardy. Todd got an award for physical fitness. When Mr. Burton got up to announce the Teacher-of-the-Year Award, Jennifer poked me. We tried not to grin at each other, but it was hard—till we heard Mr. Burton say, “Rather than announcing the winner myself, I’d like to have one of the student council members do that. Rebecca, would you please come up?”
I sat there stunned until Jennifer pushed me. Then I found myself walking up to Mr. Burton. He handed me a small envelope—the same envelope that we had given to him earlier.
I took it and walked up to the microphone. Everyone was looking at me. Miss Eaton was smiling. I didn’t look at Mrs. Groves, but I knew that the award was very important to her and that she had worked very hard to deserve it. I wondered if she would feel as bad as Jennifer and I had felt the day before, when we had been punished for something we hadn’t done and when we had had to miss the student council party.
I looked into the envelope. Jennifer had written the name I thought she had—all I had to do was read that name! It seemed like justice.
Justice! The word started my thoughts in another direction: If I announce what’s written on the card, I’ll be the one who’s unfair. Mrs. Groves had won also, and after all, she had only done what she thought was right. Most of the kids did deserve to be punished …
I took the card out of the envelope and pretended to read it to the waiting audience. “There are two winners of the Teacher-of-the-Year Award this year,” I said into the microphone. “The voting ended in a tie.”
There was a gasp from the audience. Then I said, “Both Miss Eaton and Mrs. Groves will receive the award.”
Mrs. Groves looked surprised, then pleased. Miss Eaton smiled. And Jennifer squeezed my hand.
After the assembly, Mrs. Groves told Jennifer and me that she had been proud of us for speaking up when the class was misbehaving, and she said she was sorry we had missed the student council meeting because of the punishment. When she learned that we had made the awards announcement, she smiled and said that she thought we had done the right thing.
Jennifer and I still didn’t think the punishment was fair, but we had learned that sometimes doing the right thing means being fair even when you are angry.

As a college student, Marion G. Romney (1897–1988) had decided he could not serve a mission because of his family’s financial situation. On one occasion, however, he heard Elder Melvin J. Ballard (1873–1939) speak. A biography notes, “Little did [Marion] know that the course of his life, in one very short moment, was about to be completely changed.”

The story continues: “For the first time Marion … fully understood what it was [like] to be under the influence of inspiration. A piercing, tingling sensation filled his soul. He … never had been so touched as he was now, listening to the words of this newest of the Apostles. …

“… The glow of the Apostle’s countenance and the sincerity of [his] testimony filled him with an irresistible desire to go on a mission. … He knew that his plans for further education must be postponed.”4

Soon, Marion was on his way to Australia, where he served faithfully. Later he became a mighty Apostle and a member of the First Presidency.

In September 1977, I was nineteen years old and studying in Quetzaltenango, Guatemala, to become a school teacher. One afternoon while walking home, I noticed a little stream of rain water running down the street toward my apartment. It was carrying a piece of paper. Just to entertain myself, I decided to keep pace with that piece of paper. When I got to my apartment, I picked it up.
It was a pamphlet. I will never forget its title: The Church as Organized by Jesus Christ. At one time I had been very interested in finding the church that Jesus Christ had set up. I had investigated many churches, but I had joined none. I had finally given up my search. But now as I read the title on the pamphlet, somehow I knew I had found the true church. On the back of the pamphlet was a name—The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I determined to find that church.
School resumed in January, and I went back to Quetzaltenango. Although I had lived in that city for three years, I had never seen a Latter-day Saint church there. One Sunday I decided that if one existed, I was going to find it. I got up early and began asking everyone I met if they knew the location of the church. At first, no one did. Others sent me in the wrong direction. But after three hours, I finally located the meetinghouse and literally ran toward it.
The building was beautiful. I wondered if this was a church just for the rich. Because I am a shy person, I quietly took a seat in the back of the chapel. I knew no one there, and nobody spoke to me, but I loved the meeting. There was a feeling in my heart that I had never felt in any other place on earth.
The next Sunday I returned, thinking that if the preacher asked people to come up front and accept Christ, I would be the first to go. But nobody called us to go up. Three members shared short messages. How different this church is! I thought. But I liked it. Unfortunately, the members still did not notice me, and I decided I would go back only one more week. I couldn’t keep attending if I had no one to talk to. At least I would have a beautiful memory to cherish.
The meetings were equally pleasing on the third Sunday. When they were over, everyone began leaving, talking happily. I sat on a bench in the entryway, almost in tears at the idea of not coming back. Then a well-dressed young man with blond hair sat down next to me. In broken Spanish, he asked how long I had been a member of the Church.
“I’m not a member,” I said, “only visiting.” He instantly took out a little book and asked for my address.
“Why do you need my address?”
“We would like to get to know you and teach you more about the Church,” he explained.
With great pleasure I accepted his invitation, and the missionaries began teaching me the gospel. I asked a great many questions, which they could not always answer, but they always came back with the answers the next day. People at school ridiculed me when they learned what I was doing, and family members who belonged to other churches kept trying to argue with me. But I kept learning, and in time I was baptized.

In 1981, my father, two close friends, and I went on an adventure in Alaska. We were to land on a remote lake and climb to some beautiful high country. In order to reduce the load we would have to personally carry, we wrapped our supplies in boxes, covered them with foam, attached large colored streamers, and threw them out the window of our bush plane at our intended destination.
After arriving, we searched and searched, but to our dismay, we could not find any of the boxes. Eventually we found one. It contained a small gas stove, a tarp, some candy, and a couple packages of Hamburger Helper—but no hamburger. We had no way to communicate with the outside world, and our scheduled pickup was a week later.
I learned two valuable lessons from this experience: One, do not throw your food out the window. Two, sometimes we have to face hard things.
Years before, during our misadventure in Alaska, I had quickly learned that blaming our circumstances on others—the pilot launching the food out in fading light—was not a solution. However, as we experienced physical exhaustion, lack of food, sickness, and sleeping on the ground during a major storm with only a tarp to cover us, I learned that “with God nothing shall be impossible.”

When I was preparing to serve a mission, my bishop called me to teach the Sunbeams. I had never before learned to love others more than myself until I had served those children in such a simple assignment. With time and patience I learned how to keep those seven children in their seats and listening to a simple lesson.
One day I invited Mike* to come to church and visit my class. Mike was my age but had stopped attending church completely by the time he was 12. We had remained friends over the years as I had served as the deacons quorum president, the teachers quorum president, and first assistant to the bishop in the priests quorum. He had been the topic of many fellowshipping discussions and was often part of my prayers. Once in a while Mike would accept my invitations to come to an activity. It always surprised me when he did, so I kept inviting him.
I don’t remember when I invited him to my Primary class, but one day he showed up. At that time, Mike had long, black hair and a beard.
“Class, I would like to introduce you to my friend Mike,” I said to begin my lesson. “He is visiting us today.”
Mike sat next to me in front. The children sat in a semicircle around us with their eyes fixed on Mike. They were much quieter than usual. I was about five or six minutes into the lesson when one little boy got up from his chair and walked across the room and stood directly in front of my friend. He paused for a moment and then climbed onto Mike’s lap. I watched the two of them as I continued with the lesson.
The boy stared into Mike’s face. Mike was quite uncomfortable but did not interrupt the lesson or turn the boy away. The other children watched the two of them for a few minutes.
Then one of the girls climbed off her seat and approached Mike. I was intently interested in seeing how Mike would react, so I did not ask the two children to return to their seats. The girl stood with her hand on Mike’s knee looking into his face.
Then it happened. The boy on Mike’s lap reached up with both hands and turned Mike’s face directly to his. I stopped my lesson to see what was about to unfold.
With the innocence of a child, he said to Mike, “Are you Jesus?”
The look on Mike’s face was total surprise. It seemed, as I glanced at the children’s faces, they all had the same question on their minds.
Mike looked at me as if to ask, Help, what do I say?
I stepped in. “No, this is not Jesus. This is His brother.”
Mike looked at me in shock.
Then without hesitation the boy on Mike’s lap reached up and wrapped his arms around Mike’s neck. “I can tell,” he said as he hugged Mike.
The rest of the children smiled and nodded in agreement as their question was answered. Mike blinked back tears in response to the love he felt from this small Sunbeam. The lesson went on, but that day the teacher who taught the most was a three-year-old child.
Mike spent more than a year getting ready to serve a full-time mission. It thrilled me to learn he left for the mission field a few months before I returned. When I think of those Sunbeams, I think of the scripture in Matthew 18:5: “And whoso shall receive one such little child in my name receiveth me.”

My son Dallin has always loved reptiles. I, on the other hand, have never liked them. He was allowed to own a reptile on the condition that whatever he chose was able to fit in the hose of a vacuum, just in case it got out of its cage while he was at school. We went through several options, from frogs to iguanas, before settling on two velvety leopard geckos named Fuzz and Diane.

Dallin’s new buddies joined our family when he was seven years old. One aspect of owning geckos that I did not anticipate was the need to feed them crickets—live crickets—once a week. For years Dallin and I made “cricket runs.” They were rarely convenient, usually happening late at night while trying to beat the clock before the pet store closed.

Diane only lived for three years, but Fuzz lived for many years, healthy and happy. Toward the end of Dallin’s senior year in high school, he was assigned to give a demonstration for his public speaking class. He prodded my husband and me for ideas. We suggested he discuss leopard geckos because he already knew so much about them and could bring Fuzz in as a prop. Dallin then told us that Fuzz had died.

“Are you serious? When did he die?” I asked in disbelief.

Dallin told us that Fuzz had died a week before.

“He’s in my room, but don’t worry. He won’t stink. He’s double-bagged.”

After seeing our astonishment, Dallin explained, “I’m doing an experiment—I want to watch him decay.”

Dallin’s experiment turned out to be more than watching him decay. He would stall the process by putting Fuzz in the freezer for a couple of weeks and then bring him out to thaw and decay some more.

A year later, when Dallin was on his mission, I was cleaning out the freezer and found Fuzz, still double-bagged, in the back. Since I was preparing a package to send to Dallin, I thought it would be funny to pass on his little experiment. I carefully put Fuzz in a box, wrapped it in beautiful black and white polka-dot paper, and tucked it neatly into Dallin’s care package with a note that read, “There is a surprise in your package.” Then I anxiously waited for his response.

“I’ve thought about that gecko since getting it back,” he wrote. “Not so much about the actual gecko, but about all of the time spent on car rides every week to get crickets and run other errands, listening to your ideas, stories, and your testimony while in the car. It was a good excuse to have to go and get to talk to you (not that I talked much, but I did listen).”

Buying crickets. Who knew? As parents we can’t always plan the timing of our influence. It often just happens. It may be when we are tucking our kids in bed at night, riding a ski lift together, or just running errands in the car. We have to take time to be with our children.

When he was a boy, it was often Spencer’s duty to ride atop the hay wagon, tramping down the hay as his older brothers pitched the hay up. It was hot, dusty, scratchy work, but he did it—except when the church bell rang to signal the beginning of Primary, which at that time was held during the week. He had a perfect attendance record and was not going to miss. His brothers had other ideas and began pitching the hay onto the wagon even faster. When they noticed the hay was piling up, Spencer was halfway to Primary. Spencer W. Kimball went on to serve as a missionary, a bishop, and a stake president before his call to the apostleship in 1943. His work ethic was legendary, despite a number of serious illnesses that included a heart attack and throat cancer. He urged Church members to lengthen their stride, and his personal motto was simply “Do it.” Because of his health, some thought Spencer W. Kimball’s administration as President of the Church might be brief. But he presided over the Church for 12 years, during which time the number of operating temples doubled, the number of missionaries increased 50 percent, and the priesthood was extended to all worthy male members.

During my early teenage years in Glendale, California, my father, Wayne M. P. Hancock, was not a member of the Church, had habits contrary to the Word of Wisdom, and was a traveling salesman frequently gone from home. Harry V. Brooks, bishop of the Glendale West Ward, took a special interest in the youth of his ward and became my personal role model, counselor, and friend. I would do nothing that would disappoint him or bring him sorrow.
When it was announced that there would be a centennial Scout encampment at Salt Lake City in 1947 as part of the centennial celebration, Bishop Brooks determined that his Scout troop would participate. He readily saw in my nonmember father a man with organizational skills and a salesman’s boldness. Dad was called by him to be finance committee chairman. The close association that developed between Bishop Brooks and my father led to Dad’s joining the Church when I was 16 years old.

Rita Jeppeson and her visiting teacher have become good friends as they meet and share gospel conversations. But their visits also include playing word games together, which helps Rita’s aging mind stay sharp. Because her visiting teacher has learned what Rita needs and enjoys, they both look forward to each visit. Rita knows that they are friends and that the visit is not just an obligation. There are so many things sisters can do during a visit, such as taking a walk together or helping a sister with her chores.

When President Gordon B. Hinckley (1910–2008) was a young man, he and his family lived on a farm during the summer. He had this experience there:
“There was a dead tree I wished to pull. I fastened one end of a chain to the tractor and the other end to the tree. As the tractor began to move, the tree shook a little, and then the chain broke.
“I looked at that broken link and wondered how it could have given way. I went to the hardware store and bought a repair link. I put it together again, but it was an awkward and ugly connection. The chain was never, never the same.”1