Gospel Story Finder

Sophia and Allie were twins, and they were best friends. They liked different things, but that made it more fun! They loved to play together.
One day at school, Sophia checked out a book about dinosaurs from the library. She was excited to show it to Allie.
“You can’t read that,” said Timmy, a boy in her class.
“Why not?” Sophia asked.
“It’s a boy book,” he said. “Dinosaurs are for boys.”
Sophia frowned. Why couldn’t she like dinosaurs too? She put the book in her backpack. She was going to read it anyway.
All day, Sophia thought about what Timmy had said. She still felt upset when she got home from school.
“What’s wrong?” Mom asked.
“Timmy said I couldn’t read a book about dinosaurs,” Sophia said. “He said dinosaurs are just for boys. That’s not true, is it?”
“Of course it’s not,” Mom said.
Sophia looked down. “Then why did Timmy say that?”
“Maybe he doesn’t know any other girls who like dinosaurs,” Mom said. “But Heavenly Father didn’t make us all the same. And He wants us to be kind to each other.”
Mom gave Sophia a hug. “I’m sorry Timmy treated you like that. But Heavenly Father loves you. And so do I.”
“Thanks, Mom,” Sophia said. She felt a lot better now.
“I’m going to talk to your teacher about this, OK?” Mom said.
Sophia nodded. “OK.”
Sophia went to play with Allie. They made up a game called Super Princess Racer, where Allie’s dolls were race-car drivers. It was a close call, but Princess Lightning Cheetah was the winner! Sophia and Allie cheered.
“Want to see the dinosaur book I got today?” Sophia asked.
“Sure!” Allie said.
Sophia smiled. She was glad she always had fun with Allie.
The next day, Sophia’s teacher had an announcement. “Class,” she said, “there’s something I want to tell you. It’s OK to like different things. All of our books and toys are for everyone.”
Sophia was so excited! At reading time, she took the dinosaur book out of her backpack.
Timmy came her desk. “I’m sorry I said you couldn’t read that book,” he said. “I like dinosaurs too.”
“It’s OK,” Sophia said. “Do you want to read with me?”
“Sure!” Timmy sat down by her. “Thanks.”
Sophia opened the book. She and Timmy were different, but it was nice to share with a new friend.
This story took place in the USA.

While I was serving as a bishop, our stake president asked the bishops in our stake to set an example for their ward members by making the sacrifice to be sealed in the temple. At that time, Bolivia was going through a severe economic crisis. Because of hyperinflation, goods would cost one price in the morning and then a higher price in the afternoon.

“How can we afford to go to the temple when we barely have enough to eat?” I asked my wife, Alicia.

“I don’t know,” she replied, “but the Lord’s promise is that He will provide” (see Doctrine and Covenants 118:3).

Despite our financial situation, we both felt an urgency to go to the temple. It was as if the Spirit were telling us, “Hurry, hurry!”

In December 1981, the São Paulo Brazil Temple—nearly 2,000 miles (3,220 km) away—was the only temple in South America. To pay for the weeklong trip, I took out a loan of $1,000. That was a lot of money, but we knew that the sacrifice would be worth it.

After a long bus ride to the border of Brazil, we caught a train to São Paulo. The train had no open seats, so we had to sit in an aisle with our two small children. We ran low on food, but strangers shared with us. When we reached São Paulo, our little son almost got lost on the metro.

After these and other challenges, we finally reached the metro station near the temple. As we exited, we could see in the distance the statue of the angel Moroni on the temple. We fell to our knees and thanked Heavenly Father. When we arrived a few minutes later, the temple president lovingly greeted us.

Early the next day we received our ordinances and were sealed as a couple and family. That evening, unbeknownst to us beforehand, the temple closed for the rest of the year for maintenance.

Had we waited to go to the temple, our trip would have cost more than we borrowed. Had we arrived the following week, the temple would have been closed. We are grateful that the Lord inspired us to hurry to the temple.

Ashlyn read the story “Giving Our Best” in the September 2006 Friend about a family who gave food from their pantry to the local food bank. Ashlyn came up to me and said, “Mom, I want to do this.” I called our local food bank to find out what donations they would accept, and I talked to Ashlyn about the list. She picked out some bags to use and gave one to her little brother Cooper. They went to our pantry and picked out some things. Then we went to the store and bought baby cereal and other things. Ashlyn really enjoyed picking them out. Then we went to the food bank and gave the bags to the people working there. As we were leaving, Ashlyn said, “I feel warm inside. I feel happy. I did a good thing.”
Ashlyn R., age 7, Arizona

When I was a teenager in the 1960s, the Vietnam War was raging. John F. Kennedy had been assassinated, as had Martin Luther King Jr. and Robert Kennedy. I rebelled against my parents and all the traditions and institutions of the day. I didn’t want to get married or bring children into a world that was so violent, dishonest, and dysfunctional.
I dropped out of high school my junior year, moved to the Haight Ashbury District of San Francisco, California, USA, and lived the life of a hippie from 1969 to 1972. I stayed in communes, took whatever jobs I could find, and embraced an idealist and hedonist lifestyle, including drug abuse.
When Randy was a teenager, he thought his life had no happy future. “I rebelled against my parents and all the traditions and institutions of the day,” he says.
At the same time, I was seeking faith, love, and spiritual truth. I meditated and studied different religions, extracting from them anything that struck me as true or valuable. All my searching, however, ended in frustration. My brother, John, knowing about my search, sent me a Book of Mormon.
“You’ve got to read this,” wrote John, who had joined the Church earlier.
When I got fired for reading the Book of Mormon at my job at a gas station, I thought, “This can’t be good.” I threw the book away.
Not long afterward, John told me he was coming to the San Francisco Bay Area with a singing group from Brigham Young University.
“I’d love to see you,” he said, suggesting we meet at the California Oakland Temple.
Driving around the Bay Area at night, I would often see the temple. It appealed to me spiritually, so I read about it and wanted to go inside. John and I met early one morning on the temple grounds. After our visit, he said it was time for his group to enter the temple.
“Randy, you won’t be able to enter the temple,” John told me.
“I know, I’m a hippie,” I replied, “but I’ve studied Eastern religions, I’m a vegetarian, I live in a commune where we share everything, and I have $20. How much could admission be?”
“Far more than that,” John answered. “You’re not good enough.”
At the time, I considered myself intellectually, philosophically, and spiritually advanced. How could I not be good enough?
For several years, my parents didn’t know where I was. They were good people who tried to give me the best education possible and were understandably disappointed by my choices. When my father became ill, my mother persuaded me to return home to Washington, D.C. When I arrived, John found me a job on a crew building the Washington D.C. Temple.
I didn’t know it, but he had arranged for me to work with a crew of returned missionaries. I was stunned that John Howell, the lead foreman, would ask a crew member to pray at the start of each day’s work—something I had never seen with crews I had worked with previously.
One day at work, several of us were mounting one of the temple’s heavy front doors when it fell and smashed my finger as thin as a dime. John hurried over, looked at my finger, called for some consecrated oil, and gave me a blessing. My finger healed so quickly that I didn’t need to see a doctor.
On another occasion, I was given a razor blade and told to scrape bits of debris off the concrete floors.
“Why?” I asked one of our crew members. “Aren’t they putting carpet down?”
“Randy, you don’t know whose house this is, do you?” he responded. “We’re perfecting it for the Perfect One.”
The world was drowning in cynicism, bitterness, hatred, and fear, but the example and teachings of the young men I worked with filled me with hope. As crew members shared their beliefs with me, I knew they were being honest and authentic. They had given two years of their lives to serve others, and they were intelligently optimistic. I wanted their teachings to be true. I felt I was gaining the enlightenment I had been seeking and that the Lord was preparing me spiritually.
John Howell suggested I meet with the full-time missionaries. Instead, I opted to have my brother and one of his friends, another returned missionary, teach me. As they taught me, I wanted external, incontrovertible evidence that what I was learning was true. Without that proof, I didn’t want any further discussions.
When I asked how they knew the truth, they replied, “We have read and prayed and felt a witness from the Holy Ghost.” They told me I needed that same witness.
That night I went into a grove of trees near my neighborhood. I don’t know how long I prayed, but I did so with absolute intent. I repeatedly asked God the same four questions: “Is the Book of Mormon the word of God? Did You and Your Son appear to Joseph Smith? Is this the true Church of Jesus Christ? Am I good enough to be a member?”
The answer to each question came in a whisper to my soul—“Yes”—four times. Those whispers were accompanied by serene and sublime feelings.
With my head bowed, kneeling in prayer and drenched with tears, I exclaimed: “If this is the answer You will give to me, then I accept it and will commit my life fully to You and this gospel as You reveal it to me.” Words cannot express the thoughts, feelings, and truths that enveloped me.
The witness I received that night was incontrovertible, and it’s as strong now as it was then. Since that prayer, God has proved those answers to me in thousands of miraculous and practical ways.
“The Church is a miracle,” says Randy, pictured here a month after his baptism. “And my life in the Church has been miraculous.”
Soon after I was baptized in 1974, I attended my first general conference in Salt Lake City with my brother, John. I was surprised when Elder Boyd K. Packer (1924–2015) of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, who had met my aunt in New York City three weeks before that conference, referred to John and me during his Sunday morning talk.
Quoting my aunt, Elder Packer said: “Two of my nephews have joined your Church. I can hardly believe the change that it’s made in their lives.”
Because of that profound change (see Alma 5:14), a fire burned inside me that I wanted to share. Soon, I found myself in Idaho as a full-time missionary. Halfway through my mission, my father, who was my greatest hero and best friend, passed away. My mother called my mission president and asked that I come home to give a eulogy. When my mission president left the decision up to me whether to leave, I told him I wanted to pray and fast for 24 hours before deciding.
That night I had a dream. My father appeared to me. In the midst of sublime and meaningful discussions with him, he told me, “Son, stay on your mission.”
I followed Dad’s counsel and stayed.
Because of the profound change that followed his conversion, “a fire burned inside” Randy that he wanted to share as a full-time missionary.
Six months after my mission, I held my mother’s hand as she took her last breath. Decades later, my wife, Lisa, found a letter from my parents in an old box. Dad had written it to me during my mission but died before sending it.
“Our hearts were and are and always will be full of love for you. I realize that things have not always been perfect, but that is life. … Christ did not say, ‘Follow me and it will be easy.’ He said, ‘Take up [your] cross, and follow me’ [Matthew 16:24]. He carried the cross, but we all have our splinters. Perhaps our place in heaven will depend upon how we handle ours. Son, we love you very much.”
Growing up, I was rough on my parents, but I never doubted their love. Since finding the Church, I have worked hard to thank them and honor them.
On February 17, 2018, two weeks before the Washington D.C. Temple closed for renovation, I was sealed to my father and mother, 42 years after they had passed through the veil into eternity. My oldest son, Randall, acted as proxy for my father, and Lisa acted as proxy for my mother. I felt that my parents, who had been sealed to each other earlier, were both there in spirit.
In the temple we find cords that bind us forever to our loved ones. I am certain of that.
When I was young, I didn’t want to get married or have children. But today my wife, children, and grandchildren are my greatest treasures. The Church is a miracle, and my life in the Church has been miraculous. With Joseph Smith, I say, “If I had not experienced what I have, I would not have believed it myself.”
Fifty years ago, I was a construction worker on the Washington D.C. Temple. I was convinced that my life had no happy future. Today I am an ordinance worker in that same temple, having accepted the Lord’s invitation to follow Him, receive His healing, embrace His ordinances, and strive to become like Him.
Randy and his wife, Lisa, serve in the Washington D.C. Temple, which he helped build 50 years ago.
Photograph by Leslie Nilsson
The restored Church is not a theory, a philosophy, or merely a community or culture. It is the true Church of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.
I thought I would find what I was looking for in San Francisco. I didn’t. I found it in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and in the house of the Lord, “the crowning jewel of the Restoration.”

A young man once pleaded with me for help. He had become addicted to pornography, which he accessed via his home computer. It burdened him with such guilt that he could not feel good about attending church or participating in priesthood assignments. It adversely affected his social life. He was powerfully drawn to spend hour upon hour alone in front of the computer viewing that which he acknowledged brought only frustration and despair. It was as if he were chained by a master whose only purpose was to make him miserable.
He did not decide at once to become a slave to the computer screen. Rather, he decided at some earlier time that viewing destructive images “just this once” would not hurt and would satisfy a “curiosity.” Once became twice, and twice became several times, until a powerful addiction had lessened his power of choice. Only after he was enchained by his addiction did he recognize that he had willingly submitted to captivity.

Lenae Crandall and her family didn’t realize how much the temple blessed their lives until their mom died.
“You don’t really think about being sealed until someone you love is gone,” says Lenae, 17. “But it’s okay my mom died, because we’ll be together again, thanks to the temple.”
Now Lenae, Brandallyn, Bethany, and Seth go to the Jordan River Utah Temple with their father almost every Friday—just like their mother did.
“After my mom died, we started doing baptisms for the dead,” says Lenae. “It’s nice. My mom taught us by example how going to the temple can bless your life.”

In March 2008 two of my former students, Mike and Taylor, invited my family to go spelunking in Spanish Moss Cave. We were all excited to accept the invitation, though we were not experienced rock climbers. Mike started us out early on the appointed morning to do a little training at an indoor gym, after which we hiked five miles into Rock Canyon and up to the cave entrance.

Upon arrival, Mike and Taylor took a few minutes to unlock the metal gate and arrange the ropes we would use to rappel into the cave. Taylor entered first, and then it was my turn.

The initial descent is into a corkscrew-shaped crack in the rocks that twists downward for fifteen to twenty feet before it finally opens into the domed roof of the cave. Once through the crack, we each rappelled approximately fifty feet down to a sloped floor that continued into the belly of the cave.

We spent a couple of hours exploring, marveling at the oddly shaped formations along the way. As we picked our way through the loosely marked trail, our only light source, beyond the occasional flash from my husband’s camera, was the light produced by our headlamps. I could see only a small circular area directly in front of me that quickly faded into blackness. Limited by the darkness and the unfamiliar terrain, the progress was slow.

At the bottom of the cave, just before we turned around, Taylor took a picture of my family—my daughter Shamae, Spencer, and my son Riley. I like recalling this part of the journey because I remember feeling charged with the exhilaration of a great adventure with my family. It captures the pinnacle of my experience. I felt triumphant, like I had accomplished something different, something unique and special. But I would not carry that same feeling with me out of the cave.

The return trip was harder than the descent, largely due to the lack of light. I look back at the photos we took and wonder why I was trying to scramble over rocks when there seemed to be a clear path just a few feet to the side. I can see those pathways now with the benefit of flash photography, but at the time I was not able to see the route with any clarity.

We clambered back up to the domed room, but the real challenge remained: we still had to negotiate the rope that hung from the ceiling and disappeared into the winding rock exit above. And this time we would be climbing up with the assistance of ascenders instead of dropping effortlessly down.

Mike ascended first and secured himself above with a second rope, ready to assist us. When it was my turn to exit, Taylor stabilized the bottom of the rope and Mike positioned himself in the corkscrew to coach me through the process. I had only learned to use the ascenders that morning, and although it had seemed simple in the climbing gym, I struggled to get my arms and legs to work together now.

I managed to inch about halfway up the rope before I had to stop, slumping down in the climbing harness to rest my legs. But fear would not let me rest my arms. I clung tightly to the ascenders, refusing to let go and unable to relax. I spent several minutes dangling twenty-five feet above the ground, mustering the necessary strength to keep climbing.

I gathered myself and continued up the remaining visible length of rope until the top ascender would move no further. I had reached the rock above and needed to let go of the ascenders. This was the only way I could find handholds and ­continue climbing.

Again, fear took hold of me, and I had neither the strength nor the fortitude to let go. Every muscle in my body shook, and I began to contemplate what living in a cave might be like. In this panic-stricken state, I heard Mike talking above me. He was telling me to relax and to stay calm, giving me instructions on where to reach.

I pointed my headlamp upward to shed light on my path, but I could not see any suitable holds, so I told Mike, “I cannot do this.”

I looked up again hoping to see him, but because of the curvature of the rock I could only hear his voice. He tried different instructions, but there was no way I was letting go of those ascenders. I didn’t trust the rock, I didn’t trust myself, and I didn’t trust my ability to leave the perceived safety of the gear to which I clung. I remember hearing some movement above me and then ­nothing. Then Mike told me to take his hand.

This time when I looked up, I could see Mike’s forearm, with his hand open wide. I laughed out loud. “You are just going to pull me up one-handed?” I asked.

“Sure!” he said confidently. We argued the relative merits of this idea for a time, me telling Mike that it was impossible for him to just yank me up there with no leverage while harnessed to a rope and cramped in a crevice and Mike insisting that he could do it. Given that I am telling you this story from the Marriott Center and not from inside Spanish Moss Cave, you can guess who won that argument.

Looking up again, I was seized with the realization that I really didn’t want to stay in the cave forever. I wanted to go home. This awareness gave me the courage to trust Mike and reach for his hand. One moment I was dangling from the dome and the next I was wedged into the crevice, still clinging to one ascender with my free hand. I could finally relax my arms.

Then Mike’s steady and confident voice guided me farther up the twisting exit: “Move one hand up. Reach your foot farther to the left. Switch hands in that hold. Use your legs. Stretch a little farther.”

Mike kept me moving in the right direction until we encountered one last challenge: I was too short to reach the next hold and too timid to make a swing for it. Mike suggested that he try to pass me in the crevice, get beneath me, and then boost me up to the hold. I was not sure the maneuver would work, but by this point I was humbled enough to listen to his advice. Mike managed to find a way around me and secure himself against the wall just below me. When he told me to use his back as a step stool to reach the next hold, I had visions of me standing on his back, his hands slipping against the rock under my weight, and his body falling through the hole in the cave ceiling. We again argued over the merits of his crazy idea—I am a stubborn one—but I finally gave in and stepped on Mike, who held firm so that I could reach the hold I needed. From there it was a relatively easy climb to the open air, and I soon found myself alone with my thoughts while Mike returned to assist the others.

Sitting on top of that hill looking out over the valley, I couldn’t suppress a nagging feeling of defeat that contrasted starkly with my proud moment at the bottom of the cave. I replayed everything that had just happened. Did Mike really pull me up from the top of a fifty-foot drop? Did I really step on him? Was I really that needy? Yes, yes, and yes.

In the last several months we have had the privilege of helping a lovely young mother come into the restored gospel of Jesus Christ. She was looking for truth. She was looking for direction and she was looking for inner peace. In the mission field we know that the good people of the world are looking for the truth. That description of our new friend fit. Until she began a daily habit of reading the words of the Lord she felt confused, even frightened.
Before her baptism she found the church distribution center, which was at some distance from her home, and purchased her own leather bound scriptures. My husband and I will never forget the confidence and the light she brought into our home as she proudly carried her own inscribed burgundy scriptures. She told us each time she read, she felt a sense of calm, a sense of peace. She and the prepared sister missionaries rejoiced together as the restored gospel of Jesus Christ was taught by the Spirit of truth, the Holy Ghost.
“Wherefore, he that preacheth and he that receiveth, understand one another, and both are edified and rejoice together.”
The change in Christina was her reception of the light of truth through the Holy Ghost. We could see it grow each time we were together.
“That which is of God is light and he that receiveth light, and continueth in God, receiveth more light brighter until the perfect day.”[12]
“And all thy children [and Christina was certainly one of them] shall be taught of the Lord; and great shall be the peace of thy children.”[13]

Ephraim Hanks was one of those early pioneers, but his pioneering continued long after his arrival in the valley. On a fall morning in 1848, President Brigham Young drove to where Ephraim was building an adobe house inside the old fort in Salt Lake City. Looking over the completed foundation, Brigham quizzed Ephraim concerning the thickness of the rock wall.

“Eight inches,” replied Brother Hanks.

“Tear it down and build it twice that thick,” Brigham declared and then promptly drove away before Ephraim could respond. To do as President Young requested would mean hauling in more rock and doing twice as much work as Ephraim thought necessary. Nevertheless, Ephraim widened the foundation to 16 inches, as the prophet had suggested. A month later a heavy rainstorm caused widespread flooding in the valley, resulting in considerable damage. Hanks’ reinforced foundation and walls, however, stood firm against this deluge, preventing a possible collapse of the entire structure. Many other homes in the valley were not so fortunate. From this experience Ephraim learned that when the prophet spoke, he would listen.

Not long after this incident, Ephraim once again received unsolicited counsel from President Young. At a dance in Salt Lake City, Brother Brigham saw Ephraim and told him to go home and shave his face. Ephraim, like most of the men of his day, had worn a beard virtually his entire adult life. His beard extended almost down to his waist. Somewhat puzzled by this strange request, he left the social and rode home, where he shaved off his beard. Ephraim returned to the dance wearing a newly trimmed moustache. When Brigham saw him, he brushed his hand across Ephraim’s face and said he had meant a clean shave. Excusing himself a second time, Brother Hanks complied with the prophet’s strange command and shaved off the moustache as well. It was perhaps this type of obedience to counsel that prompted President Brigham Young to later say of Ephraim Hanks, “Here was a man always ready to lay down his life for the authorities of the Church as well as for the cause of Zion and her people.”

I had the blessing of growing up in a small branch. Because our numbers were few, the youth were called upon to actively participate in all aspects of the branch. I was very busy and loved feeling useful. On Sundays I officiated at the sacrament table, served in my priesthood quorum, and functioned in various other callings. During the week I often accompanied my father and other adult priesthood holders as we home taught members, comforted the sick and afflicted, and helped those in need. No one seemed to think I was too young to serve or even to lead. For me, it all seemed normal and natural.
The service I rendered during those teenage years helped me build my testimony and anchor my life in the gospel. I was surrounded by good and compassionate men who were committed to using their priesthood to bless the lives of others. I wanted to be like them. In serving with them, much more than I realized at the time, I learned to be a leader in the Church and also in the world.

When I was 17, my friend July invited me to go to seminary in her ward in Lima, Peru. I had a passing interest in the Old Testament, so I agreed to go.
My friend’s aunt, Sister Rosa de Arriaga, was the seminary teacher, and each day she started class by asking someone to pray. As I kept attending I not only gained a greater love for the scriptures, but I also learned to pray. Then one day Sister Rosa asked me to lead the class in prayer. The experience was unbelievable. My bosom began to burn, and a feeling of warmth radiated throughout my whole body. I felt like crying.
One Saturday I decided to attend a youth conference. I met a lot of young people and had a great time at the activity. When I showed up for a meeting later that afternoon in jeans and sneakers, I was surprised to see others wearing suits and ties. I felt uncomfortable, but one of the men smiled and signaled for me to come in. As I listened during the meeting, everything seemed very familiar to me.
Afterward, I went to Sister Rosa’s house to tell her what had happened. Sister Rosa’s son told me with a smile, “You won’t be able to dress like that tomorrow at the Sunday session.”
The next day, I walked into the meeting wearing a tie for the first time in my life. I was impressed by the orderliness of the meeting and the friendliness others showed me. Once again I felt that warm feeling in my chest, and the feeling continued throughout the entire meeting. When the choir sang I felt like crying. It was such a wonderful feeling that I wanted to have it all the time.
One month after my first seminary class, the missionaries began teaching me the discussions, and on 28 April 1996 I was baptized into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. My mom and sisters were baptized six months later and my dad one month after that. On 31 January 1998 my whole family was sealed in the Lima Peru Temple.
Later I served full time in the Perú Lima North Mission. After my mission I taught in the Perú Missionary Training Center for three years. Wearing a tie—which had once seemed so unusual—became an everyday occurrence.
I will always be grateful to my friend July and to my seminary teacher, Sister Rosa, for their role in helping this chain of blessings come to me and my family.

Hey, Uncle Oscar! Hey, Maria!
Are you excited to be baptized tomorrow?
Yes! Do you want to be witnesses for my baptism?
Of course!
Wait, what does that even mean?
We need two people who have been baptized to watch and make sure Maria goes all the way under the water.
Well, we are good at watching things! We love watching cartoons.
Ha, perfect! Thanks for helping.
I know Jesus is proud of you for making this good choice.
Illustrations by Katie McDee

On an early morning in January, my husband and I drove to the hospital for the birth of our fifth child, Charlotte. I had been anxious during my pregnancy, and now I fretted to my husband, “What if our baby isn’t all right?”
“Then we’ll love her just the same,” he answered consolingly.
When my daughter finally lay beside me in the delivery room, I examined her. She looked perfect. But when she was whisked away, I asked in alarm, “What’s the matter? Is my baby all right?”
“The doctor will talk to you,” the nurse responded. My stomach knotted, and my worst fears began to surface.
The doctor soon told us that our baby had Down syndrome. Sorrow, disbelief, anger, and guilt boiled up.
“Why us? Why Charlotte?” I questioned. My world seemed to have changed forever, and I didn’t know how to handle it.
Charlotte’s birth was the beginning of the hard times. A short time later my mother-in-law had a stroke; two of our cars broke down; our business struggled; Charlotte required surgery on her eyes, ears, and heart; and the medical bills flooded in.
One particularly overwhelming day, I took Charlotte to our bedroom and said a discouraged prayer. “Heavenly Father, this is more than I can bear. Please help me.” Slowly I got to my feet and turned on the television news, looking for a distraction.
The top story described a plane crash that killed all the passengers. For the first time, I listened to the news in a different way. “Someone’s husband was killed in that crash,” I reflected. “If I had the power to trade places, would I rather be a widow?”
The next story told of a young man arrested for selling drugs. I thought, “That is someone’s son. Would I rather be his mother?” Dawning understanding brought a simple but important realization: we all face trials to help us progress.
I looked over at Charlotte, and some words came clearly to mind: “Why are you so sad when Heavenly Father has sent you a sweet little baby to love?” That was my answer. No plane crashes or drugs—I got to love little Charlotte. Rather than deserting me, Heavenly Father was entrusting me with a child who needed extra care. Realizing the confidence He had placed in me, I felt my bitterness slip away.
Charlotte has taught us peace and appreciation. Although frustrating times come, she is an integral part of our family. She is a little piece of heaven sent to us to love.

I remember holding my daughter Nikki in my arms for the first time. She looked beautiful and perfect. My heart and mind filled with loving dreams of nurturing her. I looked forward to sharing my love of books, music, and art. I would spare no effort to support her in developing her talents and abilities.
I could not have imagined at that time that she would never be able to read above a fourth-grade level; calculate beyond simple, single-digit arithmetic problems; or learn to drive a car. It was only after six difficult years of fears, frustrations, medical evaluation, and psychological testing that I learned Nikki was intellectually impaired.
Adjusting to having a child with a disability is a process, not an event. Ten percent of all children have a disability or a long-term chronic illness. Although it is a reasonably common experience, most parents are not prepared to hear, “Your child has a serious disability.” It takes some time to learn how to deal with the confusion, physical demands, behavioral challenges, extra expenses, and feelings of embarrassment and loneliness. If you have experienced or are still going through this process of adjustment, it is important for you to know that many of your responses and reactions are normal.
You may find it very difficult at first to assimilate the information that your child has a disability. You may need some time to understand what the diagnosis means. We all have images and stereotypes of children with intellectual impairment or mental illness. These diagnoses may not match what we see in our child, particularly if the child looks normal. It is helpful to learn about the disability. Find out as much as you can about your child’s diagnosis. Seek information from reliable sources, such as professional organizations that focus on the specific disability.
Denial is a psychological defense mechanism we utilize when we feel overwhelmed and unable to cope. In a way, denial can be a gift that allows us to accept the truth a little at a time and make it more bearable. Denial often comes from fear—fear due to uncertainty about the future or concern about the impact this child will have on other family members. Denial can lead to a frantic search for a cure. Parents may believe if they can only find the right doctor, the right medicine, the right program, or the right learning approach, then the child will be made “normal.” This process of searching is useful in the sense that it can help you locate resources that might help your child, yourself, and your family. Sooner or later, however, you have to confront the child’s limitations and accept your own inability to undo the disability. You must also release other people from that responsibility.
Acknowledging the reality of the disability may lead to feeling anxious. Anxiety is the body’s way of responding to fear and mobilizing resources. If a great beast were to come into your room, you would probably have an anxiety response. Your body would release adrenaline, and you would be prepared to fight, flee, or freeze. These are common responses when people are threatened in some way. As you begin to realize this child needs special care and protection, that anxious energy can mobilize your resources. Get information. Talk with other parents. Pray and talk with priesthood leaders. Seek help from professionals. Activity that reduces the feeling of powerlessness is a good way to use that energy. Self-care is also important in managing anxiety. Get adequate sleep, eat right, and take time for activities that help you relax and enjoy life. Parents need occasional respite from the heavy responsibility of caring for a child with a disability.
Belief in a just world sometimes produces unwarranted guilt. We want to believe that our world is predictable and controllable. This belief protects us from our fears. We convince ourselves that bad things happen to bad people and good things happen to good people. This seems just. The downside of this belief is that when something does hurt us, we tend to feel we are somehow to blame. Comments by well-meaning but insensitive people can trigger these feelings. Comments such as “You must have needed this particular experience for your salvation” or can lead parents to have painful and unwarranted guilt. They start asking, “Why me? Am I so bad that I needed something this severe to shape me up? I wanted only to be a good parent.” Questions may also come from people who believe they can protect themselves from this same experience if they can only discover what you did “wrong.”
You will need to find your own spiritual meaning concerning painful events and not allow others to impose their answers as to why these things happened. It takes years to fully understand, and sometimes the answer doesn’t come in this life. Trust that Heavenly Father is a God of love and does not delight in punishing you. That way, you will be able to find more accurate meaning in the adversities you face.
Strong emotions result from losses. If you have a child with a disability, you may feel the loss of the child you thought you would be raising. You may also feel grief over the loss of what you may have envisioned as an ideal family. Indeed, you may have to reframe your definition of an ideal family.
When I was a young mother with four children, my husband was serving as a bishop. It felt wonderful to be part of my idea of an ideal Latter-day Saint family. But my husband died of cancer, and I was left to raise my children alone. I had to return to school, finish a degree, and work. I had to reframe what I perceived an ideal Latter-day Saint family to be. I later married a man with six children, and we became a blended family with ten children. Once again I had to reframe what I thought an ideal LDS family was.
Learning how to grieve and then go on with your life can build strength. When you can acknowledge and work through painful feelings, you develop emotional, spiritual, and psychological skills that can help you in other areas of your life. Your capacity for empathy can grow through a personal acquaintance with grief.
We need to make sense of what we perceive as injustice. Raising a child with a disability can give you a close view of the cruel side of life. Creating a new definition of what is fair and just, however, can reduce anger. For example, when my daughter was 10 years old, she attended a Sunday School party. She came home scraped and bleeding. One of the boys in the class had called her a “stupid retard” and pushed her down. I felt angry that my child was hurt. Angry feelings can be a message that something needs to be done. Anger can alert us to dangers, problems, and offenses that may need some correcting. We can make decisions, however, about how we act on those feelings. We can deal with anger in a constructive way.
My husband and I visited the boy’s family. We sat with the boy and his parents and calmly talked about what the word retarded meant. We asked the boy how he would feel if he were unable to do the things he enjoyed. This boy became one of our daughter’s strongest allies. That experience ultimately helped another person to grow. This seemed “fair.” Retaliation would not have produced justice. Although anger may come from experiences with injustice, we can turn them into good experiences for ourselves and others.
Children with disabilities have a harder time mastering routine behaviors and activities. Learning emotional skills is even more difficult. They experience more frustration than other children. If the disability affects brain functioning, the child will find it harder to think through problems rationally. My husband refers to behavior resulting from this difficulty as “the law of the universe”: If you cannot talk it out, you are going to act it out. In other words, what cannot be verbally expressed will be acted out in some way, even if it is just through having a stomachache. Often the child’s misbehavior is simply an attempt to cope with some other problem.
For example, when my daughter was 18, she would not go to bed and insisted on leaving her light on all night. She would get very angry and say, “I don’t want to go to bed because there are missionaries hiding in my dresser drawer.” I recognized this as clearly delusional.
Rather than being angry, I tried to understand. What would cause her to be so frightened? As I thought about it, I realized that many of her friends were getting married. She had attended bridal parties where they had received beautiful things they would put in their dresser drawers. They were getting married, leaving her, and were no longer available as her friends. She also longed to have those same experiences and had expressed concerns: “Will I ever marry? Will anyone ever love me? Will anyone ever give me a bridal party and beautiful things?” Her friends had married returned missionaries. She could see that returned missionaries were great husbands. Somehow, all of this went together. She was also poignantly and painfully aware that she lacked the skills and the ability to manage the demands of a marriage. She was unable to verbally express those conflicts or even fully understand them, so all we heard was a delusion about missionaries hiding in the drawer. Once I began to understand her inner experience, I was able to talk it through with her. We worked together to verbalize her conflicts and grieve the sorrow of not being able to marry. The problem behavior stopped, and she was able to sleep peacefully.
Parents sometimes find it difficult to identify the source of a disabled child’s misbehavior. Disabilities differ in the kinds of challenges they create. Children’s natural dispositions, strengths, and weaknesses vary. The circumstances surrounding incidents of misbehavior are unique to each family. These factors make it difficult, but if you can determine the meaning of the misbehavior, it becomes easier to know which problems need to be solved. Becoming angry and frustrated with the child is counterproductive because these reactions generally prevent parents from identifying the real source of the misbehavior.
One fairly common source of misbehavior is attention seeking. The child may be trying to get your attention because he or she is hungry, tired, scared, overstimulated, bored, frustrated, sick, or having an allergic response to food or the environment. If a child doesn’t have the skill to talk it out, he or she will act it out. This is particularly true for children who have disorders that compromise brain functioning, such as attention deficit disorder, intellectual impairment, bipolar mood disorder, or schizophrenia. The child may feel overwhelmed and may not be able to verbalize the distress. Parents need to be alert to what is going on in the child’s life that may cause him or her to seek attention.
Strategies that do not work in managing misbehavior include (1) making discipline rules and not enforcing them; (2) yelling—the child learns not to listen unless somebody yells; (3) insulting and name calling, which only shame the child; (4) withdrawing privileges that have no relationship to the misbehavior; and (5) physically or verbally abusing the child. These strategies usually increase misbehavior rather than help the child learn how to manage difficult situations and emotions.
Many blessings come from raising a child with a disability. I realize the important role Nikki has played in my personal and spiritual growth. The experience has brought me to my knees on many occasions because I needed further instruction from a wise Heavenly Father. It has opened my heart to truths I had desired to better understand. I do not yet have all the answers to “Why me?” or “Why her?” I do, however, have an increased understanding of many principles—an understanding that is priceless to me.
One of the most beautiful realizations is the knowledge that my child’s spirit is not disabled. I have become aware that she experiences a rich spiritual life. She is often the first in the family to feel the presence of the Holy Ghost on sacred occasions. She frequently shares spiritual insights that her limited intellectual abilities could not have generated.
When Nikki received her patriarchal blessing, she was told she had been given this special experience in mortality because of the greatness of her soul. She helps others learn compassion and understanding. I am grateful for all the good she has done for our family as well as for many others. Nikki teaches us that love, kindness, and charity are not just for the swift or the strong, but they are also for those who struggle. I have the firm hope of an eternal relationship with Nikki. I know that when she is finally healed of her disability, I will learn yet more from the greatness of her soul.

Sometimes, when we fake our efforts, we tend to have a negative effect on the project at hand. I often think of the story of two missionaries on a bicycle built for two. They were going up a steep hill. It was a difficult climb, and at the top the two stopped to rest.
The young missionary up front, dripping with perspiration, remarked, “Boy, that was a steep hill. I didn’t think we’d make it.”
The other companion, with total composure, looked down the steep grade and said, “I’m sure we’d have gone backwards if I hadn’t had the brake on all the way up.”

Ricky Maxfield can walk through Reno and see the fruits of his Eagle Scout project—cantaloupe, watermelon, squash, carrots, beans, corn, and peas. Fourteen-year-old Ricky, of the Mount Rose Fourth Ward, Reno Nevada Stake, received a pickup load of garden seeds for his Eagle project from the American Indian Services at Brigham Young University. With the help of nine Scouts in his troop and his brother Dale and sister Carrie, he raised $5,500 from selling the seeds and donated the money to American Indian Services. A tractor was bought with the money and delivered to the Hualapai tribe of northern Arizona.

Whenever anyone said something nice to Dan, he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—accept it. A typical conversation went something like this one with his teachers quorum adviser:
“Hey, Dan, glad you came! We can really use your help on the ward basketball team.”
“I’m no good at basketball. The only reason I came was because the other guys kept calling me.”
“Well, get warmed up. We need your outside shot.”
“I don’t have an outside shot. I don’t even have an inside shot.”
“So … what do you do in a game?”
“Mainly try to get the other team to feel sorry for me,” Dan said glumly.

Let’s take another look at Dan, this time with a more positive light in his life:
“Hey, Dan, glad you came. We can really use your help on the ward basketball team.”
“I’m glad to be here.”
“Well, get warmed up. We need your outside shot.”
“Okay. Maybe I can work with Steve a little. He’s good at passing, and that, along with what I can do, should be a good combination. You know, I feel a little sorry for the other team.”

The twenty-third of December is an important birth date to remember, for it was on that day in 1805 that the Prophet Joseph Smith was born.
The Prophet loved children and they loved him. He would often go out of his way to speak to a child. One boy recalled that when families drove from their farms into Kirtland to attend church meetings, the Prophet would go from wagon to wagon, seeking out the children to whom he gave special greetings.
They called the Prophet “Brother Joseph,” and he always had a smile for them. Once a group of children were playing in a home where the Prophet was hiding from wicked men who wanted to kill him. They overheard the older people tell of the Prophet’s danger, and one seven-year-old girl said, “I know what we can do. We can pray and ask our Father in heaven to keep Brother Joseph safe from harm.”
A few minutes later the Prophet went past a bedroom door in time to see the children kneeling together and to hear their simple prayer for his safety. Tears filled his eyes and then rolled down his cheeks. As the children rose from their knees, one of them said, “Now I know Brother Joseph will be safe.”
Then the Prophet returned to the room where his older friends had come to guard him through the night. He told them that they could go to their own homes, for he knew that prayers of children are heard and answered and that he could sleep in peace that night. And he did!
Here is what some of the children who knew and loved Brother Joseph wrote about him:
The Prophet Joseph Smith was our neighbor. We lived next to him on the corner of Main and Parley streets. He came to our house quite often for short visits.
One day my older brother, Wallace, and I were on our way to school. It had been raining the previous day and the ground was very muddy, especially along the street on which the building known as Joseph’s brick store was. Wallace and I both got stuck fast in the mud and could not get out. And, childlike, we began to cry. Looking up, I beheld the loving friend of children, the Prophet Joseph, coming toward us. He soon had us on higher and drier ground. Then he stooped down and cleaned the mud from our little heavy-laden shoes, took his handkerchief from his pocket, and wiped our tearstained faces. He spoke kind and cheering words to us and sent us on our way to school rejoicing. You can see why Wallace and I loved him.
Years later my husband told me that when he was a child, Brother Joseph went to their home and asked if he could borrow one of his mother’s twin babies. He explained that his wife Emma had been sad and lonely since her own baby had died, and he thought it would comfort her take care of one of the girls. The Prophet picked up the baby in the morning and brought her back each night.
One evening when the baby was not home at the usual time, Mother Burgess went to see what was the matter. There was the Prophet rocking the little baby by the fire. He had her wrapped in a silk quilt, and he was singing to get her quiet.

I did tell this young man of an experience I had as a youth in an environment where inappropriate language was often used. It seemed that whenever I heard any type of profanity, those words would take hold in my mind more easily than the good thoughts I wanted to have. A wonderful priesthood leader told me that the mind was like a miraculous storage device and that we could remove inappropriate thoughts by quickly overwriting them with things that were praiseworthy.
A friend and I decided to do just that. We memorized two hymns, “I Need Thee Every Hour” (Hymns, no. 98) and “More Holiness Give Me” (Hymns, no. 131), and the thirteenth article of faith. We agreed that if either of us said something inappropriate, we would immediately sing one of the hymns or quote the article of faith.
We quickly realized we did not want to sing the hymns aloud in certain places. We were too embarrassed! So we quoted the thirteenth article of faith, emphasizing the part, “If there is anything virtuous, lovely, or of good report or praiseworthy, we seek after these things.” It worked! We discovered that when we would repeat it, the inappropriate thoughts would disappear. By changing one word, we also created a simple motto: “We speak after these things!” When either of us said this phrase, we would think, “Are my words true, chaste, benevolent, virtuous, lovely, or of good report or praiseworthy?” (see Articles of Faith 1:13). If they were not, we knew we had work to do.

When the sunshine tickled my nose, I woke up. I pulled my quilt a little higher and started to roll over. Then I remembered! It was March 17—the day my family had been waiting for had finally arrived. I jumped out of bed and skipped down the hall, humming, “I Love to See the Temple”* to myself.
After breakfast Mom helped me into my favorite blue dress. Then I helped her dress my baby brother, Curtis, in his Sunday clothes. Today was not Sunday, but it felt just as special. Six months ago my parents had adopted my little brother. He was so cute. His cheeks were really chubby, and when he smiled at me without any teeth, he made me laugh.
Because my parents had been sealed in the temple, I knew that I was born in the covenant. That meant I was sealed to them. But because my brother was adopted, he wasn’t born in the covenant. Today we were going to the Logan Utah Temple to have him sealed to us so our whole family could be together forever someday if we live righteously.
When we arrived at the temple, Mom carried Curtis, and I held her hand. Dad carried three small suitcases. The grass was starting to turn green, and a few birds were singing in the bare branches of the trees. Right in front of the temple were some pretty yellow and purple flowers.
We walked through the front doors, and I felt a warm hug without anyone touching me. A man looked at the recommends my parents showed him. A nice lady led us down a hall to the nursery. My parents gave my brother and me a hug, and Dad handed my little red suitcase to the lady. Then my parents went to another part of the temple. The nice lady let me color a picture, and she rolled a ball to Curtis. He laughed. He loves balls.
After a while, the lady helped me change into my new white dress. Then we changed Curtis’s diaper and put his new white clothes on him. The lady said, “The temple is Heavenly Father’s house, and we should be reverent when we walk through the halls.”
“I don’t know if Curtis knows what reverent means,” I said.
She smiled and said, “Heavenly Father loves little children very much, and He’ll understand if Curtis is a little bit noisy.”
As we walked down the halls, I noticed the white carpet. I also saw some pictures of Jesus on the walls. It was easy to be reverent in such a quiet place. We came to a door that was closed. Another lady softly opened the door, and I looked inside. I saw my grandpas and grandmas and my uncles and aunts. They were all smiling at me. Then I saw my mom. She was dressed in white. She looked like an angel. She held out her arms and gave me a hug. Then she reached for Curtis and held him tight, too.
A man dressed in a white suit, called the sealer, greeted us. He talked about the blessings and promises we could receive through temple ordinances if we live worthily. The sealer then told us what to do. He blessed us by the power of the priesthood, and Curtis was sealed to our family. I looked up at my dad. There were tears on his cheeks. He took Curtis in his arms and held him tightly. Mom had tears in her eyes, too. She squeezed my hand, and I felt her love.
When we stood up, the sealer knelt down so he was just my height and asked me, “Do you know what forever or eternity looks like?”
I shook my head and said, “No.”
Then he told my family to stand together and look into a mirror. There was another mirror behind us, too. I looked, and I saw my mom holding Curtis and my dad holding me. I was surprised because I could see us again and again and again and we never seemed to stop. Then the sealer whispered to me, “That is what forever looks like.”
Now, whenever I remember that special day, I think about what forever is like. I imagine my family going on and on, always being together and smiling. I like to think about forever. It gives me a warm feeling inside.