Gospel Story Finder

Lucy and her older sisters entered an art contest at their school about making the world a better place. Lucy wanted to paint a heart. She said, “The world be a better place if we have love in our hearts.”
When Lucy found out that her painting won the contest, she told her sister Ruby, “Yours is so good. I wish you would have won instead of me.” Then Lucy couldn’t believe it when she found out her painting won the contest for the whole United States too!

My parents investigated the Church in Germany during World War I, even though no missionaries were allowed in the country at that time. My mother first heard about the gospel from a cousin of mine, older than I, who was disowned by her family because she had joined the Church. Father permitted mother to attend meetings, taking my brother and me with her, but he would have nothing to do with Church himself. Then a fellow worker gave him a Book of Mormon and told him about the Church. Father read the book, studied the gospel, and began attending church with us.
When the branch president suggested baptism to my mother, she told him that she and the children were ready, but she wanted to wait for her husband. Father said, “I am ready, too.” But mother told him he wasn’t ready because he still smoked a pipe. Father broke his pipe into three pieces and threw it into the fire. As a jeweler and watchmaker he had been accustomed to working at a high table, smoking a long pipe that reached to the floor, so it really was an effort for him to give it up.
Since baptisms were illegal at the time, we arranged to meet some Saints at a street car depot at night and go to the river for the baptismal ceremony. On the appointed day, I came home from school so ill I could not eat my supper. When the time came to leave, I felt worse, and mother said I should wait and be baptized later. I insisted that I wanted baptism now and would not wait any longer. We rode the street car for about an hour to get to the Chemitz River, then walked through the park to where the baptism would take place.
By the time we got off the street car I was feeling so bad that I could not talk or walk. My father and some of the brethren took turns carrying me. When we arrived, we found a policeman on guard, but he was sitting against a tree, asleep. Barbed wire was strung across the path leading to the river, but some of the brethren held the wire apart while we crept through. We found the river frozen over, but the brethren broke the ice, and then I was asked if I still wanted to be baptized that night. It was about midnight. I nodded, for I still couldn’t talk, and I was the first of eleven people (three children and eight adults) to be baptized. It must have been the impact of the cold water, but when I was immersed, I felt as if a thick shell was being peeled off me. I was able to climb up the embankment by myself and I felt well again. Mother and some sisters helped me dry and dress. Afterward, I sat on a little folding stool to be confirmed.
Following the baptisms, we returned as we had come, along the narrow path and through the barbed wire fence, past the policeman who was still asleep. A big bright moon made the night seem almost day, and as we walked back to the street car depot we sang hymns of praise to our Father in Heaven.
Sometime after the war was over, the missionaries returned to Germany, and one Sunday morning a new missionary from America who couldn’t speak our language came to our home for dinner. My parents spoke some English, since they had lived in Liverpool, England, for four years. In the evening we all went to sacrament meeting, and the new elder was asked to speak. I remember feeling sorry for him, knowing that he knew no German, and I wondered what be would say. He didn’t have time to copy a talk from one of the other elders who had been there awhile.
But he spoke for over an hour. He told the Saints to go to America because another world war would come which would be worse than the one we had just been through. This was a terrible thing to hear, because the suffering of the recent war was still vivid in our memories. On the way home from the meeting I asked my parents what language the missionary spoke. I knew it wasn’t German and I knew it wasn’t English, although I didn’t understand English; yet I understood every word he said. My father said I should never forget that experience for I probably would never hear anything like that again. This elder had spoken in tongues.
From that day my parents spoke of little else but plans for emigrating to America. My father went first, and about a year later he sent for my mother, my brother, and me. My mother was at first denied permission to leave Germany, because she had heart trouble, but she insisted my brother and I go; six months later she was permitted to join us.
Everything the missionary had predicted came to pass. My sister, who did not accept the gospel and who still lives in Germany, told us about the events there that transpired as the elder had prophesied.

From his earliest days of singing “I Hope They Call Me on a Mission,” Jared Cassity planned on serving as a full-time missionary. He had read the scriptures and was familiar with all the missionary discussions. Most importantly, he was worthy and desired to go on a mission.

But he couldn’t go. Jared’s mental disabilities and some physical problems meant he could not serve a proselyting mission. “It took courage for me to accept that,” he says.

That was more than three years ago. Now, Elder Jared Cassity—that’s right, Elder—has been serving for three years. Elder Cassity was called on a stake mission. He is an assistant in the North Ogden Utah Stake’s missionary preparation class, helping other young men who are planning to go on missions become more prepared. “It took a lot of praying, but I know this is the right thing for me to be doing,” he says.

Elder Cassity shares his responsibilities in the class with Elder Paul Hansen, who has also been serving for three years. Elder Hansen also has mental and physical disabilities, but he manages to make it to class to set up chairs and distribute hymnbooks long before anyone else gets there. His mom, Janeen, says, “He felt really bad, because he’s always wanted to go on a mission, but it wasn’t right, and this was right.” Alma Harris, who teaches the class, says that as the time approached for Elders Cassity and Hansen to be released from their two-year missions, they wanted to remain in their callings, and he still needed their help.

Elders Hansen and Cassity have various responsibilities each week in the class, including bringing refreshments, setting up chairs, and giving an occasional talk. But their most important duty is preparing their stake’s future missionaries.

“I love the change that comes upon these wonderful boys when they serve missions,” Elder Cassity says, nearly crying. “I love seeing what the Spirit can do. … Sometimes I cry when I hear their wonderful testimonies, because I feel like I was one who helped that person.”

As I reflected on this visit, I remembered that it was just five years ago when my wife and I were here in Hawaii in a very different capacity. I was presenting academic research on innovation and change at an conference in Honolulu. Remarkably, we were with President and Sister Wheelwright at the same event. Both of our families then lived in Boston, and we had very different professional and personal responsibilities than either of us do today. I am sure neither of our families could have imagined the changes that would soon take place in each of our lives.

Since that time, Christine and I have completely changed our plans and circumstances to follow a different path, a better path, that the Lord would take us on. Our first move was from Boston to Rexburg, Idaho. At the time we had four children, an expanding career and a comfortable life in New England. When we were invited to join the administration at BYU-Idaho, we had to uproot our family, reinvest in a new community, and learn a whole new set of administrative and professional skills. We grew to love the community and the mission of the university. But less than three years after our transition to BYU-Idaho, we were again invited to redirect our plans. In the fall of 2009, I was asked to lead several initiatives for the Church-owned media companies in Salt Lake City, Utah. The changes from Boston to Rexburg, and from Rexburg to Salt Lake City were dramatic for our family. Both transitions were disruptive to comfortable patterns and removed us from places where we felt a deep sense of identity. But in both cases, we knew the changes were the will of the Lord. We also knew that changes happening in these institutions were so dynamic that they would offer unprecedented opportunities to learn and grow.

As with many new challenges, I was able to embrace some aspects of each change, while others were more difficult. This was true for me personally as well as for the institutions that were undergoing a dramatic reinvention of their culture and mission. During my university transition, I learned a lesson that has impacted me forever. I was going through a period where I had to significantly rethink the skills and models that were most familiar to me. In a large setting, much like this, university President Kim B. Clark taught me a lesson I will never forget. At the conclusion of a discussion about changes happening at the university, he made the following statement: If you want to know the Savior, go to the frontier because that is where you will see him in action. It is at the frontier where he does His work. Suddenly, all of the personal changes and sacrifices seemed less of a burden because I realized the opportunity I had been given. The Savior was inviting me to be part of His work, but I would have to go places I had never been. I would have to go to the frontier.

Patience is an important part of missionary work. Both Cindy, 15, and her sister Tina Doxstater, 14, were involved in Church activities for two years before they were baptized. Cindy explained that she was impressed by the closeness of Mormon families and by the Church activities that her friends took her to. But she wasn’t ready or sure about making a commitment.

“The members of the Church accepted us for what we were,” she said. “They didn’t push, and that helped.” Cindy’s friends didn’t give up on her. When one of them said, “Why don’t you take the missionary discussion?” She said, “Yes.” With the encouragement of their friends and a science teacher at school, Cindy and Tina were baptized this year. The science teacher, Larry Anderson, baptized them.

Illustration by Alex Nabaum
My father is a good man. But when you’re 12 and you find pornography hidden in a remote file folder on your father’s computer, your emotions get sliced open. I felt like it would be difficult to see him in the same way again.
Two years later, when I was 14, I was looking through the computer’s history files and again stumbled upon a few websites he had viewed and was forced to admit that maybe my father had a problem. I knew I had to talk to my mother.
She and I were driving together in the car when I blurted it out.
To my astonishment, she was not surprised.
She sighed. “Your father’s been struggling with this for a while now,” she said. “He’d told me he’d stopped, but I guess not.”
When we got home, I watched as she typed a letter to my father explaining what I had told her. After that, I tried to put it out of my mind again.
My father and I argued bitterly during my early teen years. I didn’t trust him, I didn’t like him, I didn’t respect him. I mistakenly thought, “Nobody else’s dad looks at pictures like that. He must be a bad person.”
It escalated when I was 15. Sometimes I would come into the room and glance at his computer screen and see that a pornography site was minimized to the task bar. He would pretend to have been playing a game of solitaire. I watched as my father didn’t take the sacrament, and I listened as my mother explained how my father had finally been convinced to go to the bishop. I felt burdened by humiliation.
What I didn’t realize at first, of course, was that these were incredibly wonderful steps on the path to full repentance. I later stumbled once or twice upon my father deep in fervent, aching prayer. This image is burned into my brain just as deeply as that file I’d found when I was 12.
At 16, the problem had not gone away. Once, I was doing homework late at night and overheard my mother sobbing and shouting at my father.
I crept back to my room, knowing from my father’s silence that he was suffering. I felt his remorse radiate through the house, as well as his sense of helplessness.
My brother and sister knew nothing about it, and I wanted it to stay that way. The only thing they knew was that sometimes, especially when Mommy wasn’t home, Daddy would come out of his room in an awful mood.
My father was trying. The bishop sent him to a support group for men with problems like his. I had learned to respect him again, learned how, on the good weeks when we read scriptures as a family every morning and he whistled hymns, to like and even love him again. I saw that there was much more to him than simply this ugly problem. I learned to let him ask me about school without turning it into an argument. I learned to pray for him.
Good men can do wrong things. My father gives a generous fast offering, he’s always willing to lend a helping hand, he serves in his Church calling readily, he never swears or speaks vulgarly, but most of all he wants to be better. He knows that what he’s done is wrong, and he is hopeful that he will change.
To anyone else in my situation: Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and He will carry you through. He will carry you through not only if you’re the one who struggles under the burden of sin, but also if you are the one who stands by, watching as the one you love fights for salvation.

Elizabeth touched the pine chest lovingly. Her fingers sought and found the tiny initials carved into the corner of it: “J.B.” For Joseph Buck. Her father.
“Why can’t we take the chest?” she asked her mother one more time. “It wouldn’t take up much room in the wagon. Papa made it for me. I can’t leave it. I can’t.”
She pretended not to notice the tears that gathered in Mama’s eyes as she continued packing, choosing what to take and what to leave behind.
Elizabeth felt a sudden rush of guilt at her selfishness. But how could she leave such an important part of her father behind? It was the only thing she had to remember him by. “I won’t take anything else, if I can take the chest,” she promised.
“Elizabeth,” Mama began in a tired voice, “it’s not my decision. The Burtons were kind enough to let us travel with them. There’s just no room for the chest.”
Elizabeth knew her mother was right. The Burtons had four small children. Their covered wagon was already filled, with barely room for a few of Elizabeth’s and her mother’s belongings. They would all have to walk by the wagon during the day and sleep under it at nights.
“Do you remember what your father said before … before he died?” Mama asked.
Elizabeth nodded. Just before he died of a fever the month before, he had whispered to her, “Be true to the gospel, child. It will sustain you.”
She’d been eight when she and her parents were baptized three years ago—she could still remember the special glow she felt when she emerged from the water. But what did that have to do with leaving behind the chest? “Did Papa want us to follow President Young’s counsel to go to a place so far away?” she asked.
“Yes, he did,” Mama said, adding gently, “I know that you don’t want to leave the chest behind, but remember that all of us are leaving things we treasure.”
Elizabeth followed her mother’s gaze around their home. It was small but clean and welcoming with its homespun curtains and Papa’s handcarved furniture. “I know, Mama,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry to be leaving our home, too, but there is something even more precious that we are leaving behind.” Her mother led Elizabeth to the window and pointed outside.
Elizabeth saw the roses and petunias first. Though she knew it hurt Mama to leave the flowers she had so painstakingly nurtured, she also knew that Mama was pointing higher, at the Nauvoo Temple.
Elizabeth remembered how Mama had sold her piano and given the money to help raise the walls of the temple that now gleamed softly in the late afternoon sunlight. When Elizabeth had asked Mama how she could sacrifice her beautiful piano, Mama smiled. “It’s no sacrifice, Elizabeth, to give up something precious for something even more precious.”
“What could be more precious than your piano?” Elizabeth had asked. “You loved that piano, Mama.”
“The temple,” Mama had said simply. “I loved that piano especially because my mother gave it to me. But I love the Lord’s house much, much more.”
“Why did we build a temple when we have to leave it so soon?”
“The Lord commanded us to build a temple because it’s an important part of the gospel,” Mama said. “Without it, we couldn’t be sealed together for eternity.”
Elizabeth thought about that as they continued packing. Before she was baptized, she’d asked her father how he knew the Church was true.
He’d taken his time in answering. “I knew that we had found the true church when I learned of the temple.” He’d paused then, and tears had filled his eyes. “And I knew because I felt it here,” he said, touching his heart. “I still do.”
A warmth settled around Elizabeth’s own heart at the memory.
At last they were done. The pile of belongings to take with them to their new home was pitifully small. The house looked empty, forlorn, even though much of the furniture remained. Elizabeth’s pine chest sat in the corner. She trailed her fingers over the design in the pine, her fingers coming to rest again on the initials. After tracing the smooth grain of the wood one last time, she stood. She carried with her something far more precious that her papa had left her. The memory of his testimony, strong and sure, wrapped itself around her heart as she followed her mother out the door.

As I earlier stated, I learned to observe the Sabbath day from my parents. I grew up on a large farm where we had animals to feed and care for, cows to milk, and vegetables to pick, harvest, and market. It would have been very easy for our family to break the Sabbath day. Although we attended to the essential chores—such as feeding the animals and milking the cows, taking the water turns when they came, and preparing our large trucks with harvested and packed fresh fruits and vegetables for a 4:00 a.m. Monday departure for market—we never did other farm work on Sunday. Our tractors were turned off, and no plowing, planting, or cultivating was done on the Sabbath. We never hauled in the hay before a coming storm. My parents had a very simple philosophy: “The day we violate the Sabbath day and have to miss our Sunday meetings to care for the farm is the day we sell the farm.” As I grew up, married, and had a family of my own, my wife and I taught these same principles to our children.

C. Terry Warner, a dear friend and emeritus professor of philosophy at BYU-Provo, tells the story of two brethren in the same ward that had been at odds with one another for years. They both had offended each other in un-Christ like ways. Their critical spirit towards each other caused a “repelling force” that had also affected each of their families. Their differences seemed beyond repair. Finally, one of these brothers needed to relocate to another state. Feeling uncomfortable with himself about the state of things, just before his move, he saw the other brother in the church parking lot. When he saw him, he stopped what he was doing. He ran over to him, grabbed his arm from behind and turned him around. As the two stared at each other, the one who grabbed the arm apologized for all he had done and asked for forgiveness. The other said, “Why?” telling him he had nothing to be sorry for. The one brother then said, “I have loved you less. That is my sin. I have loved you less” (C. Terry Warner, BYU Speeches, 1995-1996).

On July 24, 2002, my son Steven Jackson and his nephew Taylor Miller were playing in the Pacific Ocean when they were sucked out by a riptide. Both were nine years old. Neither boy could swim, but Steven had strong legs and could dog-paddle. Taylor was having trouble staying above water, so Steven pulled him up and paddled for both of them. They were constantly being pulled under the water, but Steven kept encouraging Taylor not to give up, because help was coming.
In October 2003, the National Court of Honor of the Boy Scouts of America honored Steven for unusual heroism for saving Taylor’s life at considerable risk to himself.

It was a dark and stormy night.
Well, okay, maybe it was a sunny afternoon.
Whenever it was, somebody sneaked up outside the window of James B. Young’s dormitory room on the Ricks College campus. They pulled out a roll of masking tape. Then cautiously, they formed letters—backwards—on the window, so that when Jamie opened the curtains in the morning, he would read the words the right way. This was their message:
“We Love U.”
All of which brings us back to the masked message taped on Jamie’s window one dark and stormy night.
“We Love U,” it said.
If James Brigham Young has anything to say about it, that may well become the official nickname for Ricks College.

Years ago, I was studying and wasn’t doing well. For context, imagine taking the same exam over and over again every day for more than six months and failing every time. Day after day I worked on this project, and I thought I was doing well. Day after day I received feedback that my work was really poor. It became very discouraging. It seemed everything I tried wasn’t up to par, and I began to believe that I was not cut out for this work. I considered changing careers, and I wondered if I should quit.

Seeing this, my wife asked me if I would like to receive a priesthood blessing from our ministering brothers. As I sat for the blessing, an unexpected thing occurred. I didn’t hear what I wanted to hear. Instead, I knew the Lord was teaching me through the blessing. I remember two things from the blessing. First, I was told that I was blessed to have someone providing me with helpful, difficult, and experienced feedback so that I could learn and progress. Second, through His servant, the Lord admonished me to repeatedly and frequently thank my boss for helping me learn.

Brothers and sisters, I think it is often easier to see solutions that require others to change, but in this case I was being asked to change. I was being asked to develop the Christlike attributes of meekness and gratitude and to cultivate a heart that was willing to change.

The following day I walked into the office and received a disheartening evaluation of what I had done. At the end of the discussion, I decided to act in faith and express gratitude. I told my supervisor, “Thank you.” And I meant it, even though it was more difficult to say the words than I had hoped. I told him that I knew it was taking me a long time to learn this and that it must not be easy for him when others he had worked with had learned much more quickly. I told him that I would keep working at it, that I would learn it, and that I was grateful for his help.

I still remember him sitting in his chair looking at me and saying, “Yeah, sure,” and then turning back to his computer as if nothing had happened. But something significant had happened to me. I started to see my relationship with my boss differently. I felt strength and the hope that if I listened carefully, I could improve and learn well what I needed to do.

Eventually, with time and lots of practice, I gradually learned what I needed to. This impacted my life in incredible ways. Our work eventually received recognition, and it opened doors for important experiences that would happen later in my career.

Through this experience I learned how striving to develop meekness gave me the strength to persist. Reflecting on that point in my life, I realize that I was in the steep part of my learning curve. For many important things that we will do in this life, we must persist in order to get through the steep part of our learning curve.

A number of years ago, our son, who was four years old at the time, was involved in a serious road accident away from home. After a week or so in hospital, he was able to be transferred the 200 miles (320 kilometres) to our local hospital. When we arrived home, there was a note from a loving and caring ministering sister with details of who would collect our other four children from school, who would provide meals and who would do our laundry. During the subsequent five weeks our son remained in hospital, my wife gave birth to our youngest son. With a son in one end of the hospital, a wife and new baby in the other end, four children to care for, and a full-time job to fit in, we would not have coped without the significant help given to us by our fellow ward members. How grateful we were for their selfless ministering. We know that the common question “Can we do anything to help?” is always sincerely offered, but this wonderful, thoughtful sister went the extra mile, anticipated our needs and ministered accordingly.

My mind raced back to my early adult years, when I struggled to get through school. It was during this time that I met Sister Gerard. We were working in Washington, DC, where we spent thirty-eight years of our lives. We completed our courtship, from introduction to marriage, in seven short months and felt strong spiritual promptings to move our lives forward. When we commenced our lives together, we committed to each other to make the gospel of Jesus Christ and its attendant responsibilities our top priority. We immediately started our family, and I worked full-time while attending school at night. Six straight years in night school allowed me to complete both an undergraduate degree and a law degree. By the time we were finished, we were expecting our third child, had taught early-­morning seminary, had served in a bishopric, and, quite frankly, were exhausted.

It was during this time that we received an anonymous letter—I assume from a well-­intentioned individual—that criticized our approach to life and suggested that we were making serious mistakes by working hard, trying to complete school, having a family, and serving in the Church. The writer indicated that our priorities were all wrong. This was a particularly vulnerable time for us because we had very few resources and no real ability to relieve the pressure unless we ignored the impressions we had felt, adjusted our commitments, and gave up on our priorities. But even more troubling was the realization that someone near to us was so observant and critical. Today you may not receive an anonymous letter—that is more for my generation—but your equivalent experience may be a public social media post that, while not specifically sent just to you, makes you feel it is directed at you.

While we experienced moments of joy in our journey, the anonymous letter contributed to our anxious moments when we questioned ourselves and the decisions we had made and wondered how we were ever going to make it through—­perhaps not dissimilar to feelings you have experienced on occasion. As difficult as it was for our young family, we now look back in humble amazement, as we could never have imagined how it was all possible. While in the crucible of the moment, our path was not always clear. We were not certain that our efforts would pay off. We wondered aloud if it was all worth it. Every day seemed to be an act of faith as we tried to stay true to our commitment while wading through the murky waters of life. Now that the experience is over, we reflect on those days fondly and can see the hand of the Lord guiding us every step of the way.

When my wife was a little girl, she often prayed for the mother of the man she would someday marry. She prayed that his mother would teach him the gospel and prepare him to be a righteous husband. I think her prayers were answered! My mother was a great influence in my life. For 25 years, she was the editor of the Children’s Friend, as it was called in those days. I used to watch her edit the articles. Sometimes I went with her to the Primary offices and sat in a corner, reading a book, while she held a meeting. As I watched her serve, I came to understand that the Church is true. She worked harder for no pay than most people work to earn a living. Her testimony showed through her actions and efforts.

When I was eleven years old, I worked all summer herding cows along a ditch bank. At the end of the summer, my employer gave me a choice of receiving either twenty dollars or a calf for my work. I chose the calf because I thought it would contribute to the family’s food supply.
On the day of the first frost of that year, I came home from school and saw my summer’s work flat on its back with its four legs sticking up—dead. I learned that the first frost tends to cause bloating in animals. It was a great personal sadness to me, and I was discouraged for a time, but I took it as a lesson of life—that I needed to be more careful.

When I was 16, most of my friends at school weren’t members, but they knew that I was a member of the Church. They started to smoke and do other things I wouldn’t do. So things began to change between us; our types of conversation were very different, and our thinking and activities weren’t compatible.
One day my father asked me, “Why aren’t you thinking about your friends’ effect on you?” He counseled me to be careful and think about the necessity of changing my friends.
When I started at the university, I became very busy and didn’t spend a lot of time with my friends, but one time when we were together, they decided to do something bad. We were in a car, and they drove really fast. A policeman pulled us over, and I was scared. I remembered the words of my father about taking care of the future. That experience helped me make a decision about the kinds of friends I wanted to have.
I became very involved in Church activities. Attending Mutual was wonderful because I decided to have those kinds of friends. I learned that my father was right—that I should take care of my relationship with good friends. I needed friends who would help me prepare for a mission.

May I relate to you my first journey along a personal Jericho Road. In about my tenth year, as Christmas approached, I yearned for an electric train. My desire was not to receive the economical and everywhere-to-be-found windup model train, but rather one that operated through the miracle of electricity.
The times were those of economic depression, yet Mother and Dad, through some sacrifice, presented to me on Christmas morning a beautiful electric train. For hours I operated the transformer, watching the engine first pull its cars forward, then push them backward around the track.
Mother entered the living room and said to me that she had purchased a windup train for Widow Hansen’s boy, Mark, who lived down the lane. I asked if I could see the train. The engine was short and blocky—not long and sleek like the expensive model I had received.
However, I did take notice of an oil tanker car which was part of his inexpensive set. My train had no such car, and pangs of envy began to be felt. I put up such a fuss that Mother succumbed to my pleadings and handed me the oil tanker car. She said, “If you need it more than Mark, you take it.” I put it with my train set and felt pleased with the result.
Mother and I took the remaining cars and the engine down to Mark Hansen. The young boy was a year or two older than I. He had never anticipated such a gift and was thrilled beyond words. He wound the key in his engine, it not being electric like mine, and was overjoyed as the engine and two cars, plus a caboose, went around the track.
Mother wisely asked, “What do you think of Mark’s train, Tommy?”
I felt a keen sense of guilt and became very much aware of my selfishness. I said to Mother, “Wait just a moment—I’ll be right back.”
As swiftly as my legs could carry me, I ran to our home, picked up the oil tanker car plus an additional car of my own, ran back down the lane to the Hansen home, and said joyfully to Mark, “We forgot to bring two cars that belong to your train.”
Mark coupled the two extra cars to his set. I watched the engine make its labored way around the track and felt a supreme joy difficult to describe and impossible to forget.
Mother and I left the Hansen home and slowly walked up the street. She took me by the hand, and together we returned homeward by way of our private Jericho Road.

To my brethren, the fathers in this Church, I say, I know you wish you were a more perfect father. I know I wish I were. Even so, despite our limitations, let us press on. Let us lay aside the exaggerated notions of individualism and autonomy in today’s culture and think first of the happiness and well-being of others. Surely, despite our inadequacies, our Heavenly Father will magnify us and cause our simple efforts to bear fruit. I am encouraged by a story that appeared in the New Era some years ago. The author recounted the following:
“When I was young, our little family lived in a one-bedroom apartment on the second floor. I slept on the couch in the living room. …
“My dad, a steelworker, left home very early for work each day. Every morning he would … tuck the covers around me and stop for a minute. I would be half-dreaming when I could sense my dad standing beside the couch, looking at me. As I slowly awoke, I became embarrassed to have him there. I tried to pretend I was still asleep. … I became aware that as he stood beside my bed he was praying with all his attention, energy, and focus—for me.
“Each morning my dad prayed for me. He prayed that I would have a good day, that I would be safe, that I would learn and prepare for the future. And since he could not be with me until evening, he prayed for the teachers and my friends that I would be with that day. …
“At first, I didn’t really understand what my dad was doing those mornings when he prayed for me. But as I got older, I came to sense his love and interest in me and everything I was doing. It is one of my favorite memories. It wasn’t until years later, after I was married, had children of my own, and would go into their rooms while they were asleep and pray for them that I understood completely how my father felt about me.”

Qualicum Bay, British Columbia—
Jessica and Sandra Stüssi know all about family togetherness. They live across the street from the beach in a tiny town called Qualicum Bay, in British Columbia, where their parents own and operate a resort. With the waves lapping softly on the shore, the sun setting in a crimson burst, and the family sitting outside quietly enjoying ice cream cones together, it seems like heaven on earth.
But what about the days when Jessica and Sandra are helping their mom do the resort’s laundry? What about days when they seem to be moving in several directions at once to sports practices and school activities?
Of course the Stüssis aren’t perfect, but they know that keeping their home heavenly—even when they’re doing something that’s not particularly pleasant—is partly their responsibility. And they know that living the gospel will help them create love at home. Getting up at the crack of dawn every day with their mom (she’s the seminary teacher) is an important part of their success.
“Sometimes it’s hard to have your mom as a teacher because it’s hard to have lessons from her. But it’s good too because we sort of know what to expect and she knows what we need,” says Jessica. “Also, she’s wide awake when the rest of us aren’t.”
After seminary every morning, Jessica and Sandra head to a different secondary school than the other youth in their branch, making them the only Church members there.
“Going to our school can be sort of hard,” says Sandra. “Sometimes people ask me questions [about the Church] and I don’t always know how to answer them. I just try to take things one at a time.”
It’s a tough job, being the only Latter-day Saints in the whole school, but Jessica and Sandra both say that it forces them to stick to their standards—and to stick together.
“We have to back each other up,” says Sandra.
Soon Jessica will graduate and Sandra will be on her own. But their family ties will stay strong as Jessica travels to Switzerland to live with relatives for a year.
“None of the people on my mom’s side of the family are members, so hopefully I’ll be able to teach them and bring some of them into the gospel while I’m there,” she says.