Gospel Story Finder

Isabelle squinted up at the deep blue sky. There were no clouds in sight. She licked her dry lips.
Her parents were talking quietly with President Santiago, the stake president. The motor of the boat was so loud that she couldn’t hear them. But she knew what they were talking about. There was no more drinking water.
Isabelle tried to focus on the reason for their journey. They were going to the temple to be sealed as a family! She remembered hearing her parents talk about the beautiful temple in São Paulo ever since she was a little girl. Going there almost seemed like a fairy tale. After all, Isabelle’s family lived in Manaus, deep in the Amazon rainforest, and the temple was more than 2,000 miles (3,219 km) away.
Then President Santiago had planned a six-day trip to get there. More than 100 members had decided to go. “It will be a sacrifice,” Mamãe had told her. “But sacrifice brings blessings.”
At first the trip was exciting. They slept in hammocks on the deck of the boat, sang hymns, and read scriptures.
But then the drinking water had run out, and the river water was too dirty to drink.
Isabelle felt Mamãe touch her arm. “President Santiago is gathering us all together,” she said. “We’re going to pray for rain.”
Isabelle joined the group, and the prayer began. After the prayer ended, she felt cool air tickle her neck. She raced to the side of the boat and gasped. Gray storm clouds were moving toward them. Soon rain began to pour down! She opened her mouth to catch the raindrops on her tongue.
“Quick!” cried Mamãe. “Grab buckets, pans—anything!”
Isabelle grabbed a pan and held it out. She wanted to catch all the water she could. Everyone worked together, laughing and celebrating. Soon they were having a giant soaking party! The storm lasted for 15 minutes. It was long enough for them to get all the water they needed. It was a miracle.

An apostle of the Lord made me a promise. “The Lord God will not leave you alone, nor will he be in debt. This you can count on.”
Those were the comforting words of Elder Richard L. Evans of the Quorum of the Twelve as he spoke at funeral services for my young husband. The “compensation” he spoke of was beyond my comprehension, and the thought remained in my memory for years. I could not see the end from the beginning.
That we are not alone, however, and that a loving Father in Heaven hears our prayers was more tangible. Our five children, ages four through sixteen, understood this. Their father, whose career had been in broadcasting, had often taught that their voices and thoughts are audible to the Lord, that they could reach the Lord through prayer if their lives were tuned in to the right frequency. Little David, the youngest, prayed at his grandmother’s knee on that first lonely night, “Please bless my daddy, so he will be well when I get there.”
We were on a family vacation in Utah when my husband died of a sudden heart attack. Still numb from shock, I faced my first major decision. Our home was three thousand kilometers away in Washington, D.C. “What do we do now?” I wondered. “Do we move back to Utah among family and old friends, or do we stay is Washington where we had established our home?” My ninety-two-year-old grandfather, a wise patriarch of a large family, offered good counsel. “Go back home to Washington for the present,” he said. “It is not wise to uproot your family until you think it through for at least a year.”
It was not a difficult decision to make. Our home, with its familiar surroundings, was a haven, and there was a memory in every room. It would have been more difficult for us to start over somewhere else.
Also, the Church in the Washington D.C. area was strong and growing fast. Members from adults to grade-school children felt a strong sense of identity with the Church. The opportunity to identify oneself as a Latter-day Saint promoted awareness of doctrine and practices and, through commitment to covenants, helped build strong testimonies of the gospel.
There was a feeling of missionary excitement. Our neighborhood is filled with beautiful churches of various Christian denominations. In the months and years after we returned to our home, school friends who were members of those churches invited our children to speak to their youth groups about Mormonism, and the interest and questions of the young people and their religious leaders challenged our children to expand their knowledge and test their faith. Many close friendships and several conversions resulted.
Looking back, I see the wisdom of remaining among supportive neighborhood, school, and Church friends. The great loss we had suffered did not disrupt the stability of our lives.
There was little time for grief that first year. The awesome responsibilities of my new role as sole parent were overwhelming. Ralph had been very much in charge, and I relied heavily on his judgment and leadership. Attempting to establish my authority was of prime importance. The children thought they were very funny when they made birthday and Mother’s Day cards depicting me in a general’s uniform. However, I knew my authority was finally recognized when I overheard one small child say to another, “What are Mother and Daddy going to do when they get together again, now that Mother’s the boss?”
But there was a special presence in our home. Father was considered to be out of reach but not out of touch. I realized this one day when teen-aged Alison said, “Mother, I can always get out of your range, but I can’t get out of Daddy’s.” This was a positive moment that reminded me of Elder Evans’ promise.
Our youngest child insists that he never felt fatherless. His departed father was always a real person to him, and he intuitively understood the eternal nature of the family unit long before he learned about the covenants and promises that can ensure its endurance. This awareness also translated into a desire on the part of our children to prove themselves so as not to disappoint the father they had come to idealize. As for me, I was determined to succeed in my stewardship. I could not fail my eternal partner or my Eternal Father. Our purpose bound us even closer together as a family as we shared our trials and successes.
Temple marriage was a subject of special interest. It was an anchor to which we could hold and a prize that all would one day attain. Our primary motivation was that we might all serve the Lord’s purposes so as to be reunited as a family once again.
A second major problem that had to be resolved soon after Ralph’s death was how to provide for my family. This is probably the most crucial and frightening reality that most newly-widowed mothers face. My options were whether to use our insufficient financial resources until they were gone, and then decide how to support the family, or to find employment in the near future and keep some funds in reserve. I chose the latter. Fortunately, it was possible for me to be away during the day because all the children were in school, and an older daughter was responsible until I arrived home. The children’s acceptance of this new situation and their faith in me was viewed as “God’s in his heaven and Mother will provide.”
I had limited qualifications, having married before completing college. But after a refresher course in business English and typing, I was ready to start at the bottom. I became a receptionist. It was a good beginning. Further training brought additional employment opportunities and added responsibilities. These experiences, along with subsequent years in the field of corporate communications at one of the government banking agencies, have broadened my interests, supplemented my education, developed my skills, strengthened my self-confidence, contributed to my financial independence, and provided for my future security. This is compensation I had never dreamed of.
When I first accepted employment, I came to a decision that accounts in great measure for any success I may have had as a single parent: giving prime time to the children. Prime time meant every evening, with few exceptions. Since I was away all day, I decided that I should be home at night. This was a marked change from former days when my husband’s position as a television network executive involved us both in a busy business and social schedule in and out of town. Time and again as I had appeared to be all attention during a conversation, I had been worrying about the children’s homework or how dinner was progressing at home.
As we had traveled, I had thought about where the children were. At length, after Ralph’s death, I concluded that the next year would be different. I was needed at home more in the evenings when the children were there.
All decisions that shaped our future were not mine alone. The children had choices to make, too. They learned to cook through trial and error and became quite adept at cleaning the house. With their mother at work during the day, they went places by themselves on foot, bicycle, or bus. “Ask not what your mother can do for you, but what you can do for your mother,” became the watchword in our home. All children worked at summer jobs as soon as they were old enough. We even caught the littlest one selling his carefully scrubbed rocks from door to door in the neighborhood. Self-sufficiency, they soon learned, was the way to live.
Although I found myself widowed at a relatively young age, I was blessed with a generous measure of faith and hopefulness. I tried to convey this feeling to my children. The entire family felt a strong sense of opportunity and of the Lord’s hand in our lives.
Friends and family members also contributed their suggestions and ideas for our welfare. There was valuable advice and assistance regarding summer jobs, schools, scholarships, and many other things. Friends were there in times of illness, trouble, and teenage crises. They included us in family activities, fathers and sons’ outings, and other events. Our bishops and priesthood leaders were always available for counsel. Being on the receiving end of so much kindness is often difficult, but it has taught me and my children that blessings from the Lord are not just dropped on our heads. They are brought to pass through the hearts and hands of others.
A woman in the role of single parent, whether widowed or divorced, has a very special calling, and she will be held accountable before the Lord for what she does with her stewardship. Although her spouse is absent, she stands nonetheless commissioned by the Lord to perform the charge he issued to all parents: “And they shall also teach their children to pray, and to walk uprightly before the Lord” (D&C 68:28; see also D&C 68:25–27 and D&C 68:29–32). She may feel at times that she carries a disproportionate share of that responsibility, yet she has the Lord’s assurance that he will prepare a way for her to accomplish her task. (See 1 Ne. 3:7.)
The principal lessons a parent must teach are those of spiritual values. Elder Boyd K. Packer of the Council of the Twelve has suggested that when children are interested or teachable we should immediately take advantage of that moment and teach them. (See Boyd K. Packer, Teach Ye Diligently, Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Co., 1975, page 110.) When they are spiritually hungry, feed them. Without really knowing it, I followed this precept. We discussed gospel concepts freely while preparing the salad, walking to school, or sitting around the dinner table. It was not unusual for us to talk about the Atonement or the Second Coming any more than it was for us to talk about what was happening in the government or in the school classroom.
Through the years, I have proved the following scripture many times: “Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding.
“In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths” (Prov. 3:5–6).
We view eternity through the small window of mortal time: “For now we see through a glass, darkly” (1 Cor. 13:12). The day will come when we shall each see our lives with clear vision and an eternal perspective. We shall then have a full knowledge of what we understand by faith now: That the Lord does not leave us alone when we seek him, that he is never in debt to us, and that he always compensates. By showing us our weaknesses and providing an opportunity to turn them to strengths, he exchanges our dross for gold.

New snow had fallen during the night, and Judi heard the scraping of a snow shovel as she walked to school with her friends Andrea and Sandy. When the girls turned the corner, Judi caught sight of a little old lady working behind a high shrub.
“Good morning, Mrs. Kraus,” Judi called.
The woman looked up and smiled. “A fine morning to you, Judi.”
“How is Mrs. Mueller this morning?” Judi asked.
“Some better, thanks,” Mrs. Kraus answered. “She hasn’t had as much pain in her back these past few days.”
“I’m glad,” Judi added before hurrying to catch up with her friends.
When she finally reached them, Andrea turned and looked strangely at Judi. “Why did you stop?” she asked. “Are those funny old ladies your friends?”
“Brigitte Kraus? And Helga Mueller? Yes, I know them. I often talk to them when I go past their house.”
“I don’t know why,” Andrea grumbled. “They always talk so different and wear old-fashioned clothes!”
“I guess they are a bit old-fashioned,” Judi agreed. “They’re sisters, and when their husbands died, they decided to live together. They don’t have much money, but they work hard to make things look nice. Last summer they had some of the prettiest flowers in our whole neighborhood.”
“Well, I don’t see why you bother,” Andrea insisted. “Everybody thinks they are just funny old women!”
“I heard that one Halloween the boys put a scarecrow on their porch,” Sandy laughed. “And those two old women came flying out the door so upset that they started scolding in German a mile a minute!”
“Now when the boys go past and see one of those old ladies outside,” Andrea went on, “they make noises to sound like they are talking German too.”
Just then the bell rang, and the girls hurried to class. It was the last day of school before Christmas vacation, and Judi was so excited about the program and party that she didn’t think about the two sisters again until she was on her way home.
I’m really glad we’re friends, she thought as she passed their house on her way home from school.
Then she decided she would visit them during the Christmas holidays, and she began to think about some little gift she could take to them.
Last year Grandma had liked the Santa Claus face Judi had made from felt with two small bells sewn on the red ties to fit over her front doorknob. Judi decided to make one of those for Brigitte Kraus. And for Helga Mueller she would make a pincushion shaped like a snowman. She would sew black buttons on for eyes and a bit of red felt for a mouth.
When the gifts were finished and Judi went to see her two neighbors, Brigitte Kraus opened the door.
“It’s the smiling girl,” Brigitte called over her shoulder. “Please come in,” she invited Judi.
“How nice that you would come,” Helga Mueller greeted.
“I wanted to wish you a Merry Christmas,” Judi smiled. “Now that winter has come, I don’t see you outside very often.”
“No, cold days keep old ones beside a fire,” Mrs. Kraus explained.
“I’ve brought something for you, just little things I made,” Judi said shyly, “but—“
“If you’ve cared enough to make, we will like,” Helga Mueller nodded.
Judi explained to Mrs. Kraus how the Santa Claus face should be placed over the doorknob. The two women smiled when they heard the bells. They were both pleased with the pincushion.
Mrs. Kraus looked at her sister for a moment. Then she looked at Judi. Her eyes were shining when she said, “Only today Helga and I were wishing there might be children near us for this time of Christmas, as once there was in our old country. And now a child has come to us to say ‘Be merry for the time of Christmas.’”
Brigitte Kraus put a hand on Judi’s arm. “Could you stay or come again to help two old ones make marzipan in honor of Christmas?”
“What is marzipan?” Judi asked.
“Of course, you wouldn’t know!” Mrs. Kraus shook her head as if laughing at herself. “It’s a treat from Germany. A candy.”
“Candy? That should be fun!” Judi said eagerly.
Judi learned that marzipan was a very special candy. She was glad as her two friends showed her how to form the almond candy into shapes of flowers, leaves, animals, birds, tiny Christmas wreaths, and toys.
“In Germany marzipan is always made for children,” Mrs. Mueller explained. “It goes on the tree.”
“It tastes as good as it looks,” Judi smiled. “Thank you for letting me help.”
When they had finished, Mrs. Kraus looked at the big plate of candy and laughed. “So much we made in the joy of remembering. You must take some candy home with you,” she said. “I’ll fix a box.”
“My family will like that,” Judi told them.
“And your friends?” Mrs. Mueller asked. “The pretty girls who go each day to school with you must also have marzipan for the time of Christmas.”
Judi suddenly remembered how Andrea and Sandy had laughed at the two women. If only Andrea and Sandy could get to know Mrs. Kraus and Mrs. Mueller. But how? Judi wondered. Then an idea came to her.
“Thank you,” Judi said, “but I think they would like it even more if they could visit you and see how marzipan is made. May I bring the girls to your home sometime soon?”
“Oh, yes,” chorused the sisters, “if you think they’ll want to come.”
“I know they will!” Judi answered.
And suddenly she knew that even if it weren’t the time of Christmas, both Andrea and Sandy would like it very much!

When Sister Limsukhon was living in Chiang Mai as a new member of the Church, one of the full-time missionaries was Anan Eldredge. Brother Eldredge’s life has almost spanned the history of the Church in Thailand.
Born Anan Tubtimta, he lived in a small village approximately five hundred kilometers north of Bangkok. When he was eight years old, Anan’s mother died—leaving him with questions about life and death. As he sought the answers to these questions, he also sought educational excellence and became one of the top students at his high school.
“When I was sixteen, I left home and went to Bangkok, where I worked as a busboy in a hotel,” he says. There he became friends with the teenage son of a U.S. State Department official, Louis Eldredge. Louis and his wife, June, were Latter-day Saints. When the Eldredges were assigned to a major military installation in Thailand, they invited Anan along.
“I met two Latter-day Saint servicemen who discussed the gospel with me. Through them, I finally found the answers to the questions I had on life and death. I discovered who I was, where I came from, and where I was going.”
Anan was baptized 24 December 1967, the first Thai male convert in Thailand. The following year, when the first six full-time missionaries were assigned to Thailand, Anan became their constant companion, teaching them the language and helping them translate Church pamphlets.
The Eldredges offered to adopt Anan and send him to college in the United States. Even though it meant giving up his family name, Anan’s father, a respected school principal, encouraged his son to accept the Eldredges’ offer.
But no sooner had Anan arrived in the United States than he was called to serve a mission in Thailand. After a thirty-month mission, Anan returned to the United States and entered college in California. There he met a Brigham Young University graduate named Margaret Brown, a convert from England. The couple was married five months later in the Los Angeles Temple.
“After my graduation in business management, Margaret and I went to Thailand so she could meet my family. During that visit, I was hired to establish the area distribution office for the Church.”
While there, he helped prepare a revised Thai-language version of the Book of Mormon, and he helped with translating and publishing the Thai Doctrine and Covenants and the Pearl of Great Price.
After he had worked for five years with the Church Distribution Center, Anan and Margaret returned to the United States, where he continued with gemology studies he had begun in Thailand. Eventually, he opened a jewelry business in Kansas City, Kansas, and later a store in Anchorage, Alaska.
When asked how a Thai, married to an English woman, decided to live in Alaska, he jokingly says, “I love the fishing there.”
But Anan, Margaret, and their growing family of three sons and two daughters, were to become fishers of men. In 1988, Anan was called to preside over the Thai Mission. (Before he completed his term as mission president in 1991, he greeted a new missionary couple from the United States—Louis and June Eldredge.)
Under President Anan Eldredge’s missionary leadership, Church membership in Thailand showed a steady increase. He constantly emphasized the need for members to fellowship and retain new converts, and to reactivate the less-active. He looks forward to the day when the first stake is created in Thailand.

—The lights were already blazing at the famous Lincoln Center in Manhattan, but their glow was a little brighter when reflected in the eyes of the young women who had been doing service projects in New York that day.
Young women in the Manhattan Spanish Ward spent the day helping at a crafts fair and celebration to benefit a facility that assists women dealing with AIDS. The girls decorated hand towels, handed out fliers, and helped cook lunch. They not only provided service but were educated as well. “Now that we understand about the virus, we will not brush these people off,” says Karina Mora. “We know how to help people and not be afraid.”

6:00 A.M.—Angie sat in the dark room, memorizing smells, colors, and how each trophy seemed to dominate the one next to it. Everything is just the way Mike left it, she thought.
She had come to her brother’s room often in the two months since his death—hit by a car while biking with his friends. He died doing what he loved, her dad had said at the funeral, as if the thought of biking to heaven was supposed to make it all right. She knew her dad was trying to find his own comfort, but it made her angry anyway. The whole family made her angry. How could they just accept it and go on with life? Well, she couldn’t. She buried her head in the pillow and felt the familiar gray feeling swallow her up.
6:15 A.M.—She glanced at the clock, time to get ready for school. She’d better wake Carrie up, too. She rolled off the bed and into the room she shared with her five-year-old sister. Carrie could sleep through, and on, anything, Angie thought, as she emptied a stack of books from Carrie’s bed.
“Quite a pile for someone who’s still trying to figure out how the letter A sounds. Time to get up.”
Carrie flopped over on a magazine. “Read this one to me,” she yawned, pointing to a book.
Angie pretended not to hear the sleepy voice.
“Read to me,” Carrie repeated, nuzzling and wiggling into Angie’s lap.
Angie just couldn’t get into their reading ritual lately. They’d been reading to each other for two years. Rather, she’d read while Carrie invented. At some point, Angie had begun inventing, too. Their additions had lived again each time they read their favorites. But not anymore. Somehow, when Mike had died, the old stories had disappeared.
Okay, just one, Angie thought. She let the New Testament picture book fall open to Christ feeding the multitude.
This’ll do, Angie decided. I can handle bread and fish—just no details.
She absently read the black and white print. Something about John the Baptist. He was dead, beheaded, and friends were trying to tell Christ.
Dead, dead, dead, the word echoed in her mind.
Don’t think, Angie. Read, but don’t think, she warned herself.
“Jesus wanted to be alone. He went to a place above the Sea of Galilee to think about John.”
Carrie grabbed the book and pulled it closer. “He looks sad. Was John one of Jesus’ friends?”
Angie looked at the picture of Christ sitting away from the crowds, his head bowed, his face grief-drawn. “John was Jesus’ cousin,” she said softly.
Carrie’s finger slowly circled the picture. “He feels like us, doesn’t he?” Like us—He feels like us. The thought invaded her gray feeling and echoed in the giant hole her heart had become.
Without waiting for an answer, Carrie rearranged herself—a signal for Angie to go on reading.
“Jesus turned to the people and left the place where he was alone.” She hesitated.
He felt then as you do now, something whispered to her heart.
It wasn’t a question anymore, but an affirmation. And this time the words weren’t from a child. Waves of understanding and warmth broke over her, challenging the deep gray sorrow.
Again it came—He felt then as you do now. Uncontrollable tears welled up in her eyes.
“He teaches and feeds them …” she mumbled, fighting to keep her voice steady, but it was no use.
“Can I finish later?” she asked, running to the bathroom. She locked herself in and let go of the tears. Clutching at the book, she heard her sister banging on the door.
“Hey, how come you didn’t finish?”
“I have to get ready for school, Carrie. Later …” she covered her mouth to keep the sobs from escaping.
“You’re such a meany,” Carrie said with five-year-old frustration and marched back to their room.
Tears splattered on the child’s drawing of Christ. His pain had been so much like her own. Once more it came—I have felt as you—and love enfolded her.
8:15 A.M.—Angie walked to school, torn-out pages from the book tucked inside her coat. I’ll buy a new book, she told herself. These pages are mine.
1:15 P.M.—In algebra, Angie ignored Mr. Bott’s explanation on quadratic equations and laid the two pages across her desk. Angie looked at the red and blue drawings of Christ surrounded with people.
“Shall we send them away?” his disciples questioned.
Christ said no.
The next picture was of Christ teaching, feeding 5,000 individuals long into the night.
Was John forgotten? No.
The assurance, the strength, swept her from the room full of quadratics and out into the hall. “You’ll need a hall pass,” Mr. Bott said.
“Yeah,” she managed, running to the nearest bathroom.
Alone in the bathroom, she let her finger trace the outlines of his face as Carrie had done earlier. New tears of gratitude and understanding wet the pages. Christ had felt the same grief for John that she felt for Mike, but he had continued teaching, loving—and living. She would too, she promised. Peace surrounded her and this time the soul-filling love sank in and completely pushed the gray out.
3:45 P.M.—Angie walked home carrying a detention slip for skipping out of algebra. She came up the back porch and grabbed an apple on the way in the door.
“Carrie—you home?” she yelled, then took a bite of the apple. It tasted good. She took another bite and wandered through the house. She found Carrie playing with a doll.
“Hey, want to read a story?” she asked.
Carrie’s eyes looked up from the doll she was rocking.
“Come on,” Angie coaxed, reaching out a hand. “I have this great story.”
She pulled out the crumpled pictures and sat down next to her sister. “It all started when Jesus’ friends came to him with some news, sad news.”

Her dad used to help run the family grocery store. “Karissa liked to come to the store with me,” he said, “and she always put on a green apron just like mine.” Once a man from the ward came into the store. Even though Karissa didn’t know him, she treated him like a friend. When he left, she stood in front of the door and teased, “You can’t leave until you say the magic word!” The magic word was “pretty please.” “Karissa isn’t scared of anyone,” her parents agree. “Age makes no difference. Everyone is her friend.” Right now she is learning to cook. She likes cracking eggs for a recipe best. She is also learning to play the piano. She can sing her favorite hymn, “I Stand All Amazed,” from memory, and she looks forward to being able to play it all the way through on the piano. “She is the first one to start singing ‘I Love to See the Temple’ whenever we drive past one,” her mom says. When Karissa visited her Grandma and Grandpa Burrup in Richland, Washington, she was able to see the Columbia River Washington Temple being built. The construction workers offered her a piece of granite from the temple walls to take home. Karissa doesn’t give up when problems arise. At a ward Christmas party, she was invited to sing a musical number. As she climbed onto the platform, she slipped and fell. Primary leaders rushed to help her, but before they could, she had already climbed back up. She sang her song the way she lives her life every day—with a smile.

A lovely lady of more than 90 years visited with me one day and unexpectedly recounted several regrets. She mentioned that many years earlier a neighboring farmer, with whom she and her husband had occasionally disagreed, asked if he could take a shortcut across her property to reach his own acreage. She paused in her narrative and, with a tremor in her voice, said, “Tommy, I didn’t let him cross our property but required him to take the long way around—even on foot—to reach his property. I was wrong and I regret it. He’s gone now, but oh, I wish I could say to him, ‘I’m so sorry.’ How I wish I had a second chance.”

One day, during this time, I was tilling a field with a tractor on the family farm and had a profound experience with thoughts. While driving I had let my thoughts drift off to meaningless and worldly things and soon found myself in a depressed mood. I didn’t like the feeling and made a conscious effort to fight off the negative thoughts and replace them with good and uplifting ones. It turned out to be a mental battle for me, but eventually, as good replaced bad, my mood improved and I found myself feeling happy. I was so struck by this powerful experience, that later that same day, I came up with this poem titled “Thoughts.”

When I was a Mia Maid, I noticed a less-active girl in the same class as I was. I sometimes saw her at school in the hallways, at Mutual activities, church, and even at girls’ camp. It seemed no matter how often I would see her, she looked unhappy. I knelt down one night and prayed for the strength to somehow help her.

I remembered that I had once been in the same phase. I would smile with those closest to me, but on my way down the halls of the high school, I would be unaware of the frown on my face. One day a girl in school, who was walking past me, said, “Hi, Sara!” This made all the difference. Now I could greet people in the same manner and felt the desire to always speak to the girl who had helped me. Pondering this gave me a sudden thought. What if I said a pleasant word to the girl in Mia Maids?
The next day, I told myself I would greet her with a friendly “Hello!” But something inside held me back. So I passed her by and said nothing. As the days stretched on, the desire to help her increased. I knew I had to say something to her, and I wanted to do it soon.
I prayed several times in the early morning to gain the courage I needed. As I saw her walking down the hallway one day, I knew I had to act fast! I was afraid if I didn’t say something now, I would not be able to later. With a turn of my head, I faced her and said, “Hi!”
The instant results surprised me. Her face immediately lit up like a candle. I decided that from then on, I would make an honest effort to say kind words to her. Months went by, and I found she became one of my best friends.
I know that Heavenly Father was sending me a message the day I got the courage to go up and say “Hi!” We need to reach out to others and forget ourselves. We can pause for a moment to offer a kind word. We can ask, “How can I help someone smile today?” Heavenly Father will help. Don’t be afraid to ask. He will guide you and direct you in the path you should go.

I sat through the lifeguard training class in despair. Staring out over the pool, I listened as the instructor droned on endlessly, describing one lawsuit after another. “These cases,” she concluded, “have been warning flags for the Red Cross. There is a need to upgrade standards and for guards to meet new criteria in rescue skills. This, of course, includes the timed swimming tests you will all be taking.”
Ugh. I felt my heart sink. Two hundred yards in three and a half minutes—anything but that.
I worked at the pool as a swimming teacher and lifeguard. I’d been hired because I taught well. I’d never competed in high school or even been a fast swimmer, but it hadn’t been a problem, until now.
“Places,” she bellowed, blowing her whistle. We all lined up at the deep end of the pool, ready for a practice 50-yard sprint. The whistle sounded a second time and I dove in, hauling my arms out of the water. I plowed down to the other end of the pool, turned, and surfaced, gagging on what seemed like a gallon of water. I couldn’t breathe, my throat and lungs lost in a fit of self-protective spasms. Choking, I crawled back up the lane and a 60-year-old veteran pulled me in.
“Seventy-five seconds,” announced the instructor loud enough for the entire class to hear, not even a hint of sympathy in her voice.
I drove home in tears. I loved my job. I needed my job. College and a good job weren’t easy to combine. Kneeling by my bed in frustration, I gave way to the anger and tears. “I can’t do this,” I heard myself saying to God over and over again. I don’t know how long this desperate monologue continued, but at some point, into my mind came the words, “With God nothing shall be impossible” (Luke 1:37). It was the scripture my best friend quoted whenever things got tough. She had it plastered all over her bedroom walls.
But I couldn’t accept anything as simple as this. Besides, the scripture had come special delivery to Mary, and Mary didn’t have to swim 200 yards in three and a half minutes. It had nothing to do with me. On I raged, furious, and again the scripture came into my mind. What kind of answer was this?
“No,” I cried, “I can’t do this. Don’t you understand?”
I was tired of humiliation and afraid that no amount of swimming time I put in would help me pass off the tests. But, despite the doubts, the words “With God nothing shall be impossible” returned and sparked a little hope into my heart. I asked Heavenly Father for help in getting my times down enough to make passing a possibility.
Heavenly Father’s help came from the least expected source. At the next class the same seemingly unsympathetic instructor took me aside and told me she wanted to help. “I can take all your times down if you’ll swim with me and follow the workout schedule I give you to the letter.”
Reality dawned. So this was Heavenly Father’s way of helping me pass. Somewhere, in the back of my mind, was the hope that he would just turn me into Janet Evans for a few minutes. I stammered out my thanks and my doubts. “I’m not so sure …” I began.
“It’s not impossible,” she said.
I stared at her in amazement—those very words. “Meet me here at six, starting tonight.”
The next four weeks I forgot about changing places with Janet Evans while I swam, dragged, and pushed my way through the pool. And slowly, every few days, the instructor would scream in genuine delight. “You’ve lost two seconds; you’re cruising. Now, get the lead out! Don’t stop.”
The instructors had postponed the final times test for me as long as they could. The day of judgment arrived, and I sat on the edge of the pool, terrified. A friend who’d passed his tests off a month earlier sat next to me trying to be encouraging. “I’ll follow you,” he said, “and whenever you start to slow down, I’ll tap on your feet.”
“Oh, Randy,” I groaned, “you’re sweet, but tapping isn’t going to do it; you’ll have to push. I’ve worked so hard, but I’m still off on that stupid 200 by three seconds. I just don’t know.”
“You can do it. Come on, she’s ready for you.”
I jumped in the water while the instructor set her stopwatch. Randy did a couple of flip turns and splashed over to my side. “I’m just going along for the ride,” he told her.
“Well, don’t get in the way.” She raised the stopwatch and gave me her ultimatum, “You can and you will do this.” Yeah, I thought, and next week we’re heading for the Olympics. Someone better warn Janet Evans.
I held on to the edge of the gutter, my feet up, ready for the push off. I straightened my goggles, and before I could utter a prayer, the words “With God nothing shall be impossible” found their way into my frenzied heart.
“Ready,” the trainer hollered. “Go!”
Off I went, swimming my heart out, Randy hitting my feet whenever I slowed the pace. The first 50 passed and then the next. The third 50 always hit me hard. With God nothing is impossible, I thought over and over, willing it to be so. I hauled through the last 50 and caught the edge, exhausted.
She screamed, “3:28!” I’d passed.
It’s hard to believe that swimming could become a spiritual experience, but through the power of a simple scripture it did. I found help from Heavenly Father at a time when I really needed it. I felt his love and concern and know that, with him, all things I want to accomplish that are righteous are possible.

A story told by Elder Vaughn J. Featherstone reminds us “that one life is all we have.” The way we live it can influence others endlessly. Let me tell you the story.

At the height of the gangster era in Chicago there was an attorney who was renowned for his ability to keep his mobster clients out of jail. Few have been as adept at manipulating legal procedures to protect their criminal clients. As his reputation grew, so did his wealth, and after a time he had acquired a large estate in the suburbs of Chicago and had married well.

Shortly after his marriage, however, he and his wife had their first child, a son. As this young attorney reflected on the legacy that he would leave his son, he quickly saw that the wealth and reputation as an attorney for the underworld were worth little when compared to a legacy of honor, courage, and truth.

The attorney determined that, although it might cost him his life, he would go to the police and reveal the knowledge that he had of criminal activities of the mob in Chicago. When he approached the police, they cautioned him, saying they could never provide sufficient protection to ensure his safety, but despite their caution he gave them information which led to the convictions of several leading members of the mob.

Less than a year after his testimony the young attorney was gunned down by associates of those he had helped convict. And yet he had left his son the legacy of honor, truth, and courage that he had hoped to leave.

I have snippets from census records, ship manifests, family lore, and film images with which to piece together a story of sacrifice and liberty. In an old photograph of my great-great-grandparents taken in 1905, they are surrounded by their surviving children and the fiancés of the two eldest children. They wear the typical formal clothing for a family portrait taken in 1905, with heavy fabric, high collars, and lace for the girls. The men wear stiff white shirts, collars, and heavy coats. As in most such old photographs, none of them are smiling. However, if you look closely in their eyes, you will see a peace, a hopefulness, and a sense of satisfaction.

The parents are Shulin and Pesse Blumenfeld. Morris is the eldest son with his wife-to-be, Eva. Schaindle is the eldest daughter with her husband-to-be, Morris Schreiber. Schaindle is her Yiddish name. It means “pretty girl.” Schaindle was my great-grandmother. In the picture she is 19 years old with a young face, dark eyes, and thick hair piled high on her head in the mode of the day. The other children are Fanni, Mordche (whose name was Americanized to Max), Chai (whose name was Americanized to Ida), Golda, Mala (Mollie), and Bela (Belle).

Not pictured are Anna and Tobie, who would be born later, and Charlotte and Isadore, who were buried back in Botosani, Rumania.

These people were eastern European Jews who immigrated to the United States. But they did not come all at once. I have no documentation about when the eldest son, Morris, entered the country. I know far more about Schaindle and the others. Schaindle told this story, which I have only partially proven through my research. It is a story of sacrifice bearing the fruit of liberty.

When Schaindle was nine years old, she was sent to live with and work for a tailor threading needles and caring for his children. She sent her wages home. At age 16 she was sent to America with her uncle in a group of nine extended family members to work, send money back to Rumania, and prepare the way for her family to come to America. She said that they were very frightened because they didn’t know if an extended family group like theirs would be allowed to enter the United States. She said she lied about her age and her name to enter. When her uncle was confronted by an immigration official who asked, “Are these all your children,” he pretended not to understand. He said, “Ve are nine people.” The official held them on the ship and continued to ask them questions. The only answer her uncle would give, pretending not to understand, was “Ve are nine people.” Eventually the official grew tired, and, probably not seeing a threat of anarchy in a group of so obviously ignorant immigrants, he let them in. I can hear him in my imagination: “Yes, I know you are nine people. Enough already, just get off the ship. Go stand in that line.” One of these days I’ll ask Schaindle to tell me the whole story because I’m having a tough time documenting and triangulating the details of her entry in America. (It doesn’t help genealogy research when you lie about your name and age on official documents.)

My best estimate at this point is that Schaindle entered America almost exactly 100 years ago on July 5, 1902. Schaindle immediately went to work in a sweatshop sewing clothes. After all, she had begun working for a tailor at age nine. She sent her wages home to her family in Rumania. She said that whenever she had the urge to purchase an apple, she would deny herself, take the coin the apple would have cost, place it in a jar, and add it to her total to send home to Rumania. I have documentation showing that eventually Salomon and the next oldest daughter, Fanni, entered the U.S. on February 15, 1904.

Seven months later, on September 2, 1904, Pesse arrive with Mordche, who, at 10 years old, was her helper to care for Chai (age 8), Golda (age 4), Mala (age 3), and Bela (9 months old). I was thrilled to eventually locate the ship’s manifest. I didn’t know them by their Yiddish names, and it was only through Golda that I eventually found them together as a group. They arrived on the steamship Carpathia, which you will recognize as the first ship to respond to the Titanic.

Imagine Pesse’s 10-day voyage in the steerage of the Carpathia with five children ranging in age from nine months to 10 years old. Imagine Pesse’s anxiety as she sent her eldest children and her husband to America. The baby Bela had just been born when Shulin began his trip to America. Any mishap along the way could have left her alone in Botosani with five mouths to feed and a 10-year-old boy to earn their daily bread. But the promise of liberty was so great that risks had to be taken and sacrifices had to be made.

Eventually they were all united in Chicago in late 1904. In 1905 the portrait was taken. When I look at Shulin and Pesse surrounded by all their surviving children, I sense the greatest relief, peace, hopefulness, and satisfaction. What a travail it must have been! A course of self-sacrifice by many members of the family made it possible for this simple portrait to be taken. I imagine all the ways it could have gone awry through accident, iceberg, persecution, or bigotry. The risks and sacrifices obtained liberty for all of the children and eventually for me. If they hadn’t obtained this liberty, imagine what would have been their course living in eastern Europe as Jews in the first half of the 20th century. But of course that is hypothesis contrary to fact. They did sacrifice and obtain liberty. I inherited this liberty from them, and I am grateful.

Years passed, and I found myself in England. I was in command of a cavalry unit in the Canadian Army. I held the rank of field officer in the British Canadian Army. I was proud of my position. And there was an opportunity for me to become a general. I had taken all the examinations. I had the seniority. The one man between me and the office of general in the British Army became a casualty, and I received a telegram from London. It said: “Be in my office tomorrow morning at 10:00,” signed by General Turner.
I went up to London. I walked smartly into the office of the general, and I saluted him smartly, and he gave me the same kind of a salute a senior officer usually gives—a sort of “Get out of the way, worm!” He said, “Sit down, Brown.” Then he said, “I’m sorry I cannot make the appointment. You are entitled to it. You have passed all the examinations. You have the seniority. You’ve been a good officer, but I can’t make the appointment. You are to return to Canada and become a training officer and a transport officer.” That for which I had been hoping and praying for 10 years suddenly slipped out of my fingers.
Then he went into the other room to answer the telephone, and on his desk, I saw my personal history sheet. Right across the bottom of it was written, “THIS MAN IS A MORMON.” We were not very well liked in those days. When I saw that, I knew why I had not been appointed. He came back and said, “That’s all, Brown.” I saluted him again, but not quite as smartly, and went out.
I got on the train and started back to my town, 120 miles away, with a broken heart, with bitterness in my soul. And every click of the wheels on the rails seemed to say, “You are a failure.” When I got to my tent, I was so bitter that I threw my cap on the cot. I clenched my fists, and I shook them at heaven. I said, “How could you do this to me, God? I have done everything I could do to measure up. There is nothing that I could have done—that I should have done—that I haven’t done. How could you do this to me?” I was as bitter as gall.
And then I heard a voice, and I recognized the tone of this voice. It was my own voice, and the voice said, “I am the gardener here. I know what I want you to do.” The bitterness went out of my soul, and I fell on my knees by the cot to ask forgiveness for my ungratefulness and my bitterness. While kneeling there I heard a song being sung in an adjoining tent. A number of Mormon boys met regularly every Tuesday night. I usually met with them. We would sit on the floor and have Mutual. As I was kneeling there, praying for forgiveness, I heard their singing:
“But if, by a still, small voice he calls
To paths that I do not know,
I’ll answer, dear Lord, with my hand in thine:
I’ll go where you want me to go.”
(Hymns, no. 270)
I arose from my knees a humble man. And now, almost 50 years later, I look up to Him and say, “Thank you, Mr. Gardener, for cutting me down, for loving me enough to hurt me.” I see now that it was wise that I should not become a general at that time, because if I had I would have been senior officer of all western Canada, with a lifelong, handsome salary, a place to live, and a pension, but I would have raised my six daughters and two sons in army barracks. They would no doubt have married out of the Church, and I think I would not have amounted to anything. I haven’t amounted to very much as it is, but I have done better than I would have done if the Lord had let me go the way I wanted to go.

I want to conclude with two stories. The first comes out of the classic South American novel One Hundred Years of Solitude (1967) by the Colombian author Gabriel García Márquez. It’s a fantastic, weird book. I say that as a compliment. García Márquez would be pleased to hear his book described that way. In one chapter of the book he tells the following weird story. There was a small town inflicted by a mysterious ailment, a kind of a contagious Alzheimer’s disease where people lose their memory. They forget. They forget the names of the people around them. They forget the names of everyday objects.

One young man who is unaffected by the disease tries to forestall its effects. He goes around labeling everything. This is a table. This is a window. This is a cow; it has to be milked every day. When he has labeled everything in town, he goes to the town center and puts up two signs. The first sign says, “The name of our village is Micando.” And the second sign says, “There is a God.”

What is García Márquez trying to say in that strange parable? I think he is trying to tell us that as you get older you will forget a lot of things you once knew. It has already started, hasn’t it? You have forgotten your high school trigonometry and American history courses. Over the course of time you will forget the name of the guy who took you to your senior prom. You will forget the phone number of the first house you lived in. García Márquez is saying, “Don’t worry about it. That’s all fine, as long as you don’t forget two things: Never forget the community of which you are a part, because God is found in communities; God is found in the way people relate to each other. And never forget that God exists.”

A mother overheard her son, four, tell his brother, six, “I don’t believe in Jesus.” The brother responded, “You have really hurt my feelings.” Sensing a need, the mother reinforced the younger boy’s understanding of the Savior. She placed a picture of the Redeemer in his room and continued to teach all of her children more about the Master. Sometime later, the younger son commented, “Mom, you’re my best friend—next to Jesus.”

Photographs courtesy of the Lewis family and by Richard M. Romney and Donal Pearce
Blake Lewis, 17, was among the leaders at the Utah 6A state high school cross-country championships, and his best friend and teammate, Sean Rausch, 18, was right behind him. “Our team, Riverton, had never won state before, and we were going for it,” Sean says.
The race was intense, but Riverton was doing well. With only 200 meters (220 yards) left in the three-mile race, the first runners were about to leave the hills and grass behind, make a sharp turn, and enter the stadium where they would sprint to the finish.
Then, Blake fell. Not from a trip or a stumble. He collapsed. The tibia bone in his lower leg had snapped.
“I came around a corner and saw Blake lying on the ground, holding his leg and screaming in pain,” Sean remembers.
Even though Sean was a senior and this was his last chance to race at state, he didn’t hesitate. “I had no thought of leaving Blake and just finishing the race,” he says. “He wanted to finish and so did I, and I was ready to help him the whole way. So, I put him on my back and carried him to the finish line.”
Two hundred meters is a long way to carry somebody that’s your same height and weight. “I wanted to comfort him,” Sean says. “So, I kept reminding him of the years we’d been running together, of the 1,250 miles (2,012 km) we’d run together over the summer.”
In between Blake’s groans, Sean kept repeating, “We’re a team, and we’re a family.” An official rushed up to tell them giving assistance to another runner wasn’t allowed, but Sean said it didn’t matter. “We’re in this together,” he said, “and we’re going to finish it together.” The official disqualified them both, but allowed them to continue.
At the end of their ordeal, Sean gently set Blake down so that he could step—actually, hop—over the finish line. Then Blake, with help, climbed into an ambulance.
The Riverton men’s team took third place as a team, but they didn’t celebrate. Instead, they kneeled and prayed for Blake. And when the women’s team found out about Blake, they did the same.
“I was in the hospital when I heard they had prayed for me,” Blake said. “That was so emotional, that my teammates would do that for me.”
“We prayed that Blake would be all right, and that nothing too serious would result,” Sean says. And he believes the prayer was answered. “The doctor said the injury could have been a lot worse if Blake had tried to finish the race on his own.”
“And the doctor told my mom it was a miracle that it was a clean break, lined up so straight that no surgery was necessary,” Blake says. “Otherwise they would have placed a metal rod in my leg, and running would have become painful.”
Websites, TV stations, and newspapers across the USA featured accounts of Sean carrying Blake to the finish line. A social media video went viral, and the story popped up in Asia, Australia, South America, and Europe.
“I think our story became popular because people like to be reminded there’s still good in the world,” Blake says. Sean agrees: “It’s nice to see that a simple act of kindness can touch so many lives.”
The local community also celebrated Sean’s good deed. At Riverton’s annual Veteran’s Day celebration, which features a 5K and a one-mile run, Sean was recognized as a “local hero,” and Blake was invited to sound the horn to start the race.
In a short speech, Sean said, “I’m not a hero. I was just taking care of my brother.”
Both young men feel their experience reinforced gospel principles to them.
“We all have hardships in our lives,” Blake says. “But just like Sean was there for me, the Savior is there for us. If we let Him, He’ll pick us up and help us finish.”
“If any one of us on the team went down,” Sean says, “the rest of the team would be there for him.” The same is true for his priesthood quorum. “We’re always there as a team, serving together. For Mutual, Church meetings, sacrament, and any service that anybody needs, we’re always trying to help and support each other.”
“When we run, we always set goals, then train to meet those goals,” Blake said. “If you don’t train, you’re not going to get better. Our ultimate eternal goal is to have eternal life and to return to our Heavenly Father. So, we have spiritual goals, and we train through prayer, scripture study, service, staying worthy, repentance—so that we can make it to the spiritual finish line.”

Our six children were young and completely dependent when my husband invited me to accompany him on a business trip. I had never before been far away from my nest of little ones. At first I was delighted, but as my departure drew near I became obsessed with fear. If something happened to me, what would become of them? I worked myself into such a frenzy that the night before I was to leave I spent the night composing a letter of instruction to one I prayed would care for them in case I didn’t return. I listed all the things I felt were essential to their welfare, and then added a PS: “Please put your arms around them often.”
If not my arms, then her arms—for a mother’s arms encircle a child with tender restraint, security, love. They protect against fear, harm, and evil.
As a mother I have made mistakes. Regardless of culture or country, we all make mistakes in our mothering. But through repentance and the atonement of Jesus Christ, and by continually communicating his love, miracles can happen, wrongs can be righted. Never give up. Never let your arms hang down.

It was the year 1975, and I was serving in the Uruguay-Paraguay Mission as a young missionary. During my first month in the mission, the zone leaders held an activity to demonstrate a gospel principle. Each missionary in the zone was blindfolded, and we were told that we were to follow a path leading to the cultural hall. We were to follow the voice of one particular leader, a voice we heard before starting to walk. However, we were warned that during the journey, we would hear several voices that would try to confuse us and get us to stray from the path.
After some minutes of hearing noises, talking, and—in the midst of it all—a voice that said, “Follow me,” I felt confident I was following the right voice. When we arrived at the cultural hall of the chapel, we were asked to take off our blindfolds. When I did so, I realized that there were two groups and that I was in the group that had followed the wrong voice. “It sounded so much like the right one,” I said to myself.
That experience of 39 years ago had a lasting effect on me. I told myself, “Never, ever again follow the wrong voice.” Then I told myself, “Yes, Lord, I will follow Thee.”

John Sonnenberg, a great Regional Representative, related this experience as a young dentist. They had seven children, all young, and only one car. When his wife went to town she had to take the bus. One day she and the seven children were waiting for the bus. When the bus stopped, the children and Sister Sonnenberg boarded. She put her token in and then stood and put one token in the box for each of her seven children. The bus driver was amazed, and he said, “Lady, are these all your children, or is this a picnic?”
She responded, “They are all my children, and it’s no picnic!”