Gospel Story Finder

Stan, a dear friend of mine, was stricken by cancer. He had been robust in health, athletic in build, and active in many pursuits. Now he was unable to walk or to stand. His wheelchair was his home. The finest of physicians had cared for him, and the prayers of family and friends had been offered in a spirit of hope and trust. Yet Stan continued to lie in the confinement of his bed at University Hospital.
Late one afternoon I was swimming at Deseret Gym, gazing at the ceiling while backstroking width after width. Silently, but ever so clearly, there came to my mind the thought, “Here you swim almost effortlessly, while your friend Stan is unable to move.” I felt the prompting, “Get to the hospital and give him a blessing.”
I ceased my swimming, dressed, and hurried to Stan’s room at the hospital. His bed was empty. A nurse said he was in his wheelchair at the swimming pool, preparing for therapy. I hurried to the area, and there was Stan, all alone, at the edge of the deeper portion of the pool. We greeted each other and returned to his room, where a priesthood blessing was provided.
Slowly but surely, strength and movement returned to Stan’s legs. First he could stand on faltering feet. Then he learned once again to walk, step by step. One would not know that Stan had lain so close to death and with no hope of recovery.
Subsequently Stan spoke in church meetings and told of the goodness of the Lord to him. To some he revealed the dark thoughts of depression that engulfed him that afternoon as he sat in his wheelchair at the edge of the pool, sentenced, it seemed, to a life of despair. He told how he pondered the alternative. It would be so easy to propel the hated wheelchair into the silent water of the deep pool. Life would then be over. But at that precise moment he saw me, his friend. That day Stan learned literally that we do not walk alone. I, too, learned a lesson that day: never, never, never postpone a prompting.
Later, as Stan’s youngest son was married for all eternity and the family had assembled in the sacred temple of the Lord, we paused and remembered the miracle we had witnessed. Words did not come easily from emotion-filled hearts, but a silent chorus of gratitude spoke the feelings that words were inadequate to express.

When I was a child, my parents sang in our ward choir. Mother especially loved to sing at Christmastime. Every Christmas Eve our family reenacted the Nativity story and sang Christmas songs. We always finished with mother’s favorite, “Silent Night.”
In her early 60s, my mother developed asthma. Years of coughing and struggling with the illness eventually ravaged her voice. She also lost hearing in one ear and suffered diminished hearing in the other ear. She still attempted to sing but often just read and thought about a song’s lyrics.
One Sunday while I visited my parents during the Christmas season, we attended sacrament meeting. The program centered on the birth and mission of Jesus Christ.
“I won’t have asthma in the hereafter, will I?” my mother asked me before the meeting started.
“Of course not,” I replied.
Then we talked about other physical ailments she would no longer have after the Resurrection.
“I’ll be able to sing again,” she said.
“With the choirs of heaven,” I added.
As we sang the opening hymn, “Away in a Manger,” Mother could not hear the piano accompaniment. She started singing the Primary version of the song instead of the Hymns version, which has a different melody. I tried to correct her, but she had difficulty hearing me. During the sacrament hymn, she continued to struggle. She really wanted to sing, but her pitch was all over the place.
As the sacrament meeting progressed, I felt the warmth of the Spirit and the sweet innocence of the children who bore their testimonies of the Savior in song. Then, as the congregation began to sing the closing song, “Silent Night,” so did my mother.
Listening to her struggle, I wished with all my heart that she could again sing Christmas songs the way she used to. As she sang, however, I felt the quiet warmth of the Spirit speak to my mind and heart: “Her offering is acceptable to me.”
At that moment, my mother’s voice took on a new beauty, blessed and sanctified by a loving Savior who looked on her heart. And, as He did when the widow cast in two mites (see Luke 21:1–4), He rejoiced in her sincerity and offering.

In our family, we have always been taught to keep the Sabbath day holy. We attend church and try to do other things on Sunday that we think will help us think about Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. We write in our journals and read stories from the Friend. Other things, like going to the park or playing sports, we avoid on Sundays.
I was excited to get an invitation to my friend Gordon’s birthday party last year. But when I opened it up, I saw that the party was being held on Sunday. I showed it to my parents but didn’t even ask if I could go. I said, “I can’t go to his party because it’s on Sunday.” I was disappointed to miss it but knew I was making the right choice.
My mom phoned Gordon’s mom to tell her that I couldn’t come. Gordon’s mom apologized for having the party on a Sunday. The very next day she wanted to talk to Mom while they were waiting to pick us up from school. She said they used to go to their church and that she believed in prayer. This led to lots of opportunities to share the gospel with Gordon’s family. They haven’t joined the Church, but they still show some interest in it and understand more about what we believe. My mom said that if I had not made the right choice about keeping the Sabbath day holy, we probably never would have been able to talk to them so much about the gospel. They respect our values, and this year they had Gordon’s birthday party on a Saturday rather than a Sunday.

By the time he was 14 years old, an acquaintance of mine was more than six feet tall and very uncoordinated. He said, “One afternoon when I was in a 10th-grade seminary class, the Spirit really touched me. I came to know that the gospel literally was true. I made up my mind that day that I wanted to serve the Lord in any way I could.”
By his senior year, he was taller and much more coordinated. Many universities offered him scholarships to play basketball. After his first year playing at a university, he told his coach that he would like to be excused for two years to go on a mission. The coach said, “If you leave, you can be sure of one thing: you will never again wear one of our basketball uniforms!” Many thought that his “mission” ought to be playing basketball. Even some family members, including his parents, tried to convince him not to serve a mission. But he was totally committed. He was willing to give everything to the Lord—the scholarship, the applause of the fans, and the excitement of playing. He knew what the Lord was counting on him to do. He was called, and he served an honorable mission.
When he returned two years later, he was even taller and about 35 pounds heavier. His coach decided to repent. He was permitted to wear one of those basketball uniforms again, and in his senior year, his team not only won the conference championship but went on to the finals in national competition.

My siblings and I grew up believing in God, but our family wasn’t religious. We did our own thing and didn’t bother to learn about our purpose on earth.
When a few relatives died, I wondered if I would ever see them again. I remembered my grandfather warning us not to sleep too much because when we die, we sleep forever, and it got me curious. Was death just a dark place of eternal sleep?
As my soul searched for the answer to what happens after death, a neighbour—a former bishop for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints—sent missionaries to us. They taught my sister, Fiasili, and me the restored gospel of Jesus Christ and introduced us to the plan of salvation, which finally answered all my questions about death.
Fiasili and I were soon baptised. She was 13 years old and I was 12.
Our parents were happy for us to join the Church, but they wanted no part of it. My sister and I tried our best to regularly attend church meetings, but it wasn’t easy, especially with competing influences in our home. For example, we often had to choose between going to sacrament meeting and spending Sunday at the beach with our family.
But Fiasili and I worked to strengthen each other’s testimonies. We thought that if our parents could just accept the gospel, we wouldn’t have to live in two worlds. So, we invited the missionaries to teach them. In the process, our younger brother—and many of our cousins who lived with us—joined the Church.
It took a little longer for my parents. My sister was serving a full-time mission in Suva, Fiji, when our mother finally got baptised. Our father had actually been a less active member for many years, and it was such a joy to see them both start coming to church with us.
In 2019 I was called to the Philippines Quezon City Mission. Serving there was like living a dream—I’d always loved the Filipino culture and really wanted to learn Tagalog. But my missionary experience also taught me the true nature of our heavenly parents, and when I returned home to Samoa last year, I felt a strong desire to see my family sealed to each other for time and all eternity.
We have some work to do before we can achieve that goal. My parents are still new to the gospel and continue to learn. My brother is still finding his path, exploring if a mission is in his future. Fiasili and I continue to persevere. We are determined to “press forward with a steadfastness in Christ, having a perfect brightness of hope, and a love of God and of all men” (2 Nephi 31:20), as we strive to help deepen our family’s conversion.
I sometimes wonder how my siblings and I found the gospel and have stayed committed all these years, especially without our parents. I now realise that our Heavenly Father has been guiding us all along. Even through our challenges, we have felt His hand in each of our lives, and I know that—just as He did for the Jaredites in Ether 2:7—He will not rest before we have reached the beautiful shores of that promised land prepared for us.

From Oregon:
“I set a date of just under two months and proceeded to ask for divine guidance in all of my daily prayers, and to fast for strength not to lose sight of my goal.
“My date came and went, with a few pangs of guilt. However, I received a message one week later that an old friend of mine that I had gone to school with wanted me to call. I gave him a call and invited him over that night. My friend went with me to pick up some pizza. As we drove into town, I told him that I was a member of the LDS church. He was interested, so I related some of the many blessings I had received. I then asked him to attend church with me that next Sunday, which he did.
“From the beginning, he accepted it all. We invited him to be baptized. He said he didn’t want to be rushed into anything. At this time, I was impressed to read to him from the Book of Mormon, using the words that Alma used at the waters of Mormon. As I read those verses from Mosiah 18 to him, I paused at each question that Alma asked and asked him if he were willing to do it also. He said yes to all of it. Then I read him verse 10 and asked him, ‘What have you against being baptized?’
“He looked at me and said, ‘You’re right, I have nothing to wait for.’ So the date was set, and I baptized and confirmed him a member of the Church.”

Two days after Ryan’s accident, my brother Clay became a marathon runner. He started tugging on his gym shoes without a word to anyone and disappeared for hours. Each time he returned, his T-shirt was soaked through, and his hair was in wet spikes.
I think he ran to try to outrun the pain.
I stayed home and cried, reliving the accident as though it had been caught in a series of snapshots, frame by frame. First I saw Dad’s white face on the phone. Then we were driving to the hospital silently, and I could only stare at the armrest on the car door. I was afraid to look outside at the dark road, afraid I might see Ryan’s mangled bike still lying there.
At the hospital, I memorized every brand of candy bar and potato chip in the vending machine. They said when they found Ryan, he was lying in the road by a torn sack, with loaves of bread and grapes scattered around him.
The news that hurt so much was that they also found an Almond Joy (Mom’s favorite), a bag of peanut M&M’s (Clay’s favorite), a packet of sunflower seeds (Dad’s favorite), and a Snickers bar (my favorite). We knew he had spent his own money on the treats because he had a couple of pennies in one pocket and a folded receipt and six dollars and some change in the other pocket.
Ryan was in surgery when we arrived, and I remember staring at the TV screen in the waiting area, watching a pretty girl on a soap opera pout and plan to get her boyfriend back. She acted like it was the most important thing in the world. Eons later, we were allowed into intensive care. Ryan was difficult to recognize under the bandages. The doctor rattled off his injuries like a grocery list: a broken patella, femur, clavicle, and spine, a ruptured spleen, and a lacerated liver.
A broken this, a low that, a positive test for something else. All the news was negative. I was impatient, wanting to say, “Just tell us what isn’t broken.”
Ryan wore a metal brace, a halo, around his head, which kept it perfectly still, though he never moved. The only thing that moved was the ventilator, filling the air with a hiss. The IV kept up a quiet, steady drip. The heart monitor blipped ceremoniously.
Ryan would have liked the sounds, the rhythm of the IV and the steady beeping of the heart monitor. He used to sit at the table with a fork and spoon, tapping out a rhythm. He found patterns of rhythm in everything—the only person I know who appreciated a flat tire because it went “ga-WHUMP, ga-WHUMP, ga-WHUMP.”
I remember when he got excited as we watched rain fall one day on a long trip to Yellowstone. “Katie,” he said, “hear that?” He noticed little things, like the way raindrops hitting the windshield looked like miniature cat paw prints. Even though he was 15, he still had playing cards clipped to his bike spokes.
We were all there when the monitor stopped, the drumbeat fading to one long beep without rhythm or motion; Mom with red eyes, clutching a shredded tissue, Dad clenching his teeth; and Clay sitting near the bed, his head in his hands.
So Clay ran. And ran. I never saw him cry, but I think he must have done it during his runs. He was running miles and miles every day. Mom and Dad were quiet. No teasing or laughing or even music was heard in our house. Mom cried and cried when the drum set she’d ordered for Christmas came. I signed for it, and the delivery man went back to his truck, bewildered and apologetic.
I started to cringe whenever the doorbell rang. Who would be the next to blunder into our grief? A life insurance man? A boy Ryan’s age selling candy bars to finance a band trip?
Clay was out running the day the two young men, not much older than me, knocked on our door. I was surprised to see them in serious-looking suits because I couldn’t see a car. Instead, I saw two bicycles leaning against the porch. They wore nametags: Elder Martin and Elder Weiss.
Mom was in the kitchen cutting up vegetables for dinner. I didn’t call to her, and I had the two guys sit on the front porch in lawn chairs. They said they had a message about families, but I think I listened to them because they reminded me of Ryan—kind of young and innocent-looking, like they were playing at being grown-up in their father’s suits and ties, still riding bicycles.
They looked young, but they sounded wise and they had the kind of light about them that Ryan had. I didn’t tell them about Ryan, but their words were gentle and kind. They talked about a plan God has for his children and how he wants us to return to him.
I was intrigued, wondering how they knew so much. And as I listened, the porch, the lawn chairs, and the bicycles melted away and I felt like I was dreaming a comforting dream. Ryan, alive again. All of us happy again.
Suddenly Clay stood at the foot of the steps, breath coming out noisily, sweat dripping from his forehead.
“What are you guys trying to sell?” he demanded.
They looked at him. “We’re not selling anything. We’re teaching the gospel of Jesus Christ.”
Clay sat down and unlaced his shoes, jerking at the laces.
“Get out of here. There is no God.”
The missionaries rose but stayed where they were. Clay stood up too. He looked ready for a fight, but they calmly spoke to him. One of them said, “I know God lives and he loves us. He wants us to be happy.”
Clay became more angry. “That’s a bunch of baloney.” He shoved viciously at the bicycles, and they fell over like dominoes.
“Why did he take my brother? He was just a kid. Just a sweet little kid!” He threw his shoes at the house as hard as he could, barely missing the missionaries.
One elder looked ready to cry, but not out of fear. He said, “I felt the same way when my sister died of leukemia. But death isn’t the tragedy. Sin is. The gospel has taught me that I will see my sister again someday. Her spirit still lives on.”
His voice faded and he almost whispered. “Sometimes I can feel her near me.”
Clay stared at him for a moment, then brushed past him into the house. The elders thanked me for listening to them and asked if they could come again. I wanted them to. I wanted to know more. I wanted the comforting feeling they brought.
They did come back, and they gave me a blue book. As fall deepened into winter and it grew more serious and cold, the only thing that was in motion in our family was Clay, still running every day. The rest of us went through our routines. School, work, housework. But that was all. Anything extra took too much energy. But I did read the blue book, the Book of Mormon.
I brought the elders inside, and sometimes Mom listened briefly at the kitchen door, dish towel in her hands. She’d been a cleaning fanatic before, but now she cleaned twice as much, vacuuming twice a day.
What the elders said made so much sense.
“To every thing there is a season” (Eccles. 3:1). They said there is a pattern, a rhythm in life, and “As in Adam all die, even so in Christ shall all be made alive” (1 Cor. 15:22).
Clay saw me reading the Book of Mormon one day and said, “Those guys think they have all the answers, don’t they?” I told him I had been reading and praying, and that it was helping.
“I feel closer to my Heavenly Father, and he is helping me, one day at a time, one hour at a time,” I said. “And I feel closer to Ryan too. Sometimes he seems so near that I talk to him and tell him what I’m learning.” I was surprised to hear myself telling Clay such a private thing, but maybe I did it for a reason. Clay turned away and went to his room.
In March, Elder Martin told me and Mom, “I love springtime. It comforted me so much after Michelle died. I saw the plants die in the winter and be buried in snow. But in the spring, everything came alive again. I believed in the Resurrection. I believed in God’s purposes, and I finally trusted in his wisdom to take Michelle, even though we missed her so much. I knew Michelle was free from pain and that I would see her again.” He looked earnestly into our faces. “You will see Ryan again.”
Clay had come in from running and stood quietly as Elder Martin finished speaking. It had started snowing, but I could still see the daffodils, crocuses, and tulips Mom and I had planted the week before Ryan died, their yellows, blues, and reds brilliant against the pasty sky.
The elders smiled at Clay and shook his hand. Clay dropped his hat, and Elder Martin picked it up. He scooped a tiny bit of snow into his hands and it immediately melted.
“Look at snowflakes,” he said, looking at his wet palm. “No two alike, but they each have a pattern. You don’t see it unless you have a microscope. You have to look closely. If God gave something so small a pattern, he certainly gave us, his children, one. We can’t see it always, so we have to trust him.”
Clay said quietly, “I ran the marathon today. Twenty-six-point-two miles. It was a killer.”
“You should have told us!” Mom said. “We would have come to cheer you on.”
He looked at me. “I thought about what you said about praying. The whole time I was praying that God could help me understand why Ryan died and help me know that he wasn’t gone for good. Near the end of the race, I was the only one in front. I don’t even remember passing the other runners. It was like Ryan was running next to me, saying, ‘Go for it. You’re gonna win. Listen to your feet; keep up the rhythm; keep up the pace.’ And I won. I think I understand now. Ryan was like a sprinter. His race was quick, over in a few seconds. The rest of us are going for distance, though we don’t know when our own race will end.” His eyes filled, and he rubbed them with the back of his hand.
His voice dropped. “Ryan’s alive. His spirit is still alive.”
Elder Martin turned to Clay. “You’re right. You will see him again and be with him.” His eyes shone.
Elder Weiss said, “Hey, Clay, you’ve inspired us to start running every morning. What if we come by here on our way and pick you up? We can do some running together, and you can give us some pointers.”
Clay nodded. His breathing had slowed. He looked more healthy and alive than he’d looked for a long time. “Yeah, sure. That’d be okay.”
I watched the elders pedal away, smiling and talking like brothers, their long coats flapping behind them, ears already red with cold. Even though they wore dark suits, they seemed as bright as our flowers against the dull sky. Part of the pattern was becoming clear to me, and I knew those two young men would be connected to our family forever.
The snow changed to sleet, hitting the window with a pinging sound Ryan would have liked.

Sitting at the computer desk, I deftly steered through the colorful world of the video game I was playing. My character was in a battleground, and I was on my way to reclaim a base that the enemy had just captured.
From the kitchen, I heard my mother’s voice. “Weren’t you going to clean up in here?”
I broke my concentration long enough to respond, “In a minute.” But a minute turned to 10, and then 30. When the match was finally over, I logged off, surprised that my mother hadn’t bothered me again. I shuffled into the kitchen, expecting to find a pile of dirty dishes waiting for me.
Instead I found the sink empty, the counters wiped clear—the whole kitchen spotless. I felt guilty, knowing that my mom had cleaned it herself when I failed to appear. But I shrugged it off, telling myself I would help Mom later, and went to bed.
I can’t recall if I ever made up for that broken promise, but I can remember similar instances when I chose a virtual world over the real. I played video games throughout adolescence but became very involved with a multiplayer online game from the age of 16 until I started college at 18. I devoted hundreds of hours to boosting my character and my virtual skill set. I spent less time with my family, opting to complete quests with my in-game friends instead.
And it wasn’t just the game; I spent hours online watching videos, checking blogs or social networks, often running across or choosing to view material that I knew was below my standards.
As my virtual stature grew, my spiritual strength was shriveling. I became desensitized to living in the real world. I didn’t feel good about myself, and my priorities became unfocused. The virtual world had a grip on me, and I wouldn’t force myself to get real. I could sense the weakness within me but was unwilling to stop spending “money for that which is of no worth, [and my] labor for that which cannot satisfy” (2 Nephi 9:51).
I wish I could say that I eventually came to my senses and threw the game out, realizing how much of my time it wasted. Sadly, this was not the case. I stopped playing only because the Internet filter at my college dorms blocked it.
But I saw this as a chance to change. As I started my first semester, my focus shifted from building up my virtual character to realizing my true potential. Without the fantasy world distracting me, I tuned back in to the Spirit as it spoke to me of “things as they really are, and of things as they really will be” (Jacob 4:13).
In the six months or so that followed, I had the time and focus to do some incredible things. Instead of spending hours acquiring better armor, I studied my scriptures and learned to put on the armor of God (see Ephesians 6:10–17). Instead of honing skills that did me no good outside of a video game, I unearthed practical talents that allowed me to better serve others (see Matthew 25:14–29). I magnified Church callings, studied hard, and earned grades I felt good about. I made many new friends and (gasp!) even dated some.
Sometimes I missed that animated world, the competition and challenges, the in-game experience, the online friends I had made and played with. But as I thought about the changes I had seen in my life and myself, I knew I was fuller, happier, and more at peace with the things giving up the game had allowed me to gain.
When I later listened to Elder David A. Bednar give his fireside address “Things as They Really Are,” I thought back to that moment in the kitchen and other times I had disconnected from things as they really are. I had nothing of value to show for the time spent passively plugged in or logged on. What if? I asked myself. What if I had spent more time practicing musical instruments instead? or helping my mom? or laughing with my younger sister? I regretted wasting so much time.

When she was 21, she married Marcus in the Salt Lake Temple. Soon after their marriage they traveled east to Chicago where he entered school to become a dentist. He was in school during the Great Depression, and in order to help him achieve his goal, Ruth decided to find a job. There was a typing job open, but she couldn’t type.

She could, however, make her fingers fly over those piano keys, and she felt she could make her fingers learn anything. So for two solid weeks she riveted her fingertips to the keyboard of a manual typewriter and taught herself to type. Out of the 81 applicants for the job, she was selected!

Then World War II began and Marc was sent to sea. Ruth decided to wait in her parents’ home, and it proved to be a long, frightening vigil. But Marc was preserved to see his and Ruth’s family expand to three daughters and a son. And as Nancy, Allyson, Judd, and Jennie Jo each entered the Funk home and the family began sinking deeper roots in Salt Lake City, Ruth was given responsible callings in addition to being a good mother and supportive wife.

We also have better ‘preparation days’ than missionaries get. There are things that for reasons of expense or danger aren’t allowed in the mission field. For example, our son Henry Christian, who is serving a mission in Nagoya, Japan, had to leave his wakeboard and snow skis at home. Sister Eyring and I miss Henry when we go to the lake or to the mountains with his sisters and brothers. We even feel a little guilty that he’s not with us. After one of these trips, I have a hard time knowing what to write in my journal, which I send to Henry each week. But Henry understands that his sacrifice is both necessary and temporary. He is enjoying his unique missionary experiences and looking forward to great ‘P-Days’ with us when he returns home.

Henry also knows that the kind of preparation days our family enjoys require growing up, and the sooner the better. For instance, skiing and wakeboarding aren’t much fun if, as an old person, you are still treating your body the way a kid does. As you grow older, you have to take better care of your body. That thought will motivate Henry to stick with the missionary schedule, with its eight hours of sleep a night, three square meals a day, and six workouts a week.

Likewise, Henry understands that we won’t be buying his ski passes forever. He knows that to get where he wants to go he must do well in school and find challenging, rewarding employment. Having done an internship at a consulting firm in Boston just before his mission, he has learned that working in such a place will mean skiing and wakeboarding less than he’d like, at least in the beginning. That is true not just because the hours at work will be long, but also because he’ll be a loving husband and a dutiful father to his young children. He won’t be skiing and wakeboarding much until they are ready to learn.

But we’ve talked about this sacrifice on more than one chairlift ride. Henry knows that the hobbies of youth can be ours as we grow old only if we have excelled in growing up. That means investing in good health, studying hard, keeping covenants and sacrificing for companions, just as in the mission field. Everyone grows old. But those who plan carefully and who eagerly make the sacrifices of growing up can have fun doing it.

“Then there was the time on the bus. (The girls and boys teams ride together.) I was reading the Book of Mormon. I have a big quadruple combination, and it was kind of conspicuous. One of the guys who had been living in Utah said he’d never seen a Book of Mormon before and wanted to see it. He started looking through it and asking me questions about it. Before long, the whole back of the bus was involved in a discussion about the Book of Mormon. It was as if a curtain had been drawn between the front of the bus and the back, because up in front they were telling dirty jokes.”
Jodi has been known to “give out copies of the Book of Mormon like crazy.” She always carries a spare in her bag with her soccer uniform, bringing comments like, “It’s nice to see someone who really lives her religion.”
“People have said good things about the way I play soccer,” said Jodi, “But that’s really the best compliment I’ve ever been paid.”
No, there was never a question about playing on Sunday—not even in this tournament. But making her teammates understand was another story.
“Look,” she tried, “if I don’t play on Sunday, sure, I’ll disappoint my team, and I feel bad about that. But if I do play on Sunday, I’ll disappoint so many more. I’ll disappoint myself, because I’d be breaking a promise. I’d disappoint my parents, who know how important that promise is to me. I’d disappoint my cousins, who don’t play on Sunday because of my example, and I’d disappoint my seminary teachers, who have taught me better. But most important of all, I’d disappoint God. I just can’t do that.”
It was a great explanation, but it didn’t do Jodi much good. All Saturday night the team tried to convince her to play. They made fun of her. They called her every name they could think of. Finally, at about midnight, Jodi called home in tears. It wasn’t that she was tempted to give in. It’s just that she felt so alone.
Her parents listened. Her parents understood. Both her mother and father got on the phone and had a prayer with her. After they hung up, they called an old friend in the Bay area and asked her to give Jodi some support.
The next morning Jodi got up and got dressed—in a dress, which she wore as she stood on the sidelines watching her team play. They ended up tying their opponents, 1–1, and afterwards, many of her teammates apologized for being so critical of her.
The team ended up tying for third in the tournament, which was better than they’d ever done before. Jodi thought this would be a good note on which to end her soccer career, even though she was a junior in high school and could play for one more year.
“I’ve achieved just about everything I wanted to with soccer,” Jodi said. She had been ranked as the number one goalie in the state and had been scouted by a number of universities, but when they heard of her policy on Sunday play, they lost interest. “I’d like to try to develop some other talents now—things like music and acting. Plus being on the seminary council will require a lot of time,” Jodi said.
So Jodi’s senior year in high school will be a busy one, despite the lack of soccer, the sport she’s dedicated so much to for so long. She says she won’t miss it too much and that the things she’s learned from it will help her in other parts of her life.
“‘To everything there is a season,’ and the soccer season is over,” said Jodi. “I have no regrets. Because of soccer, many missionary doors have been opened. The Lord has blessed me, and others through me. I haven’t gone unrewarded. I’ve been humbled, pushed, and just about everything else, but I learned that I can stand up to it. The Lord knows he can count on me, and I know I can count on myself.”
Jodi couldn’t be happier knowing that she didn’t let one little game spoil all that.

Divorce was never a part of my vocabulary until it actually happened to me. For a long time I felt the embarrassing downside of the word every time I was asked about my marital status. “I’m divorced.” It was as if I could hardly say the words out loud—as if I were saying bad words.
Nevertheless, it was where I was in life, and I had a hard time fitting in. “You’ll find someone,” my friends would say. But I was not interested and had no desire to remarry. My four children kept me busy enough.
Until one day, without expectations or plans for the future, I met Arnfinn, and to my surprise we communicated so well that I enjoyed his company more and more. He was smart, good-looking, and playful. When he proposed, I did not know what the future would hold, but I knew I wanted that future with him. We took our time to “iron out the wrinkles,” as Arnfinn called it, and were married in the Stockholm Sweden Temple in the fall of 1997.
Being newlyweds at almost 40 was not the same as the first time. Falling in love was the same wonderful thrill, and the excitement of a new relationship was similar, but now we had two ex-spouses, a disobedient dog, a loud bird, and nine children, ages 3 to 17. Luckily, the newness of our romance was enough to get us through challenging days ahead.
“It seems like we don’t always have the same opinions about things,” Arnfinn said one day. Forty years of habits and doing things your own way will do that. I was 19 the first time I married, and routines and traditions were formed along the way. Arnfinn and I found out that it was all right and even healthy to have more than one opinion. It did not necessarily mean that one was right and the other was wrong. Opinions are shaped by many things in life, and respect and listening became the key words to understanding the other person.
We also tried to come to an understanding of how to blend our lives together—where to live, how to deal with the family economy, and which holiday traditions to uphold. There were a few more wrinkles to iron out along the way, but looking back, some seem trivial today. Harmony and love at home were the targets we were aiming for.
Having another mother involved in our family was especially hard for me. Arnfinn’s ex-wife is a wonderful mother and concerned with her children’s welfare. Vacations and weekends were planned with her, and at times I felt I did not have a say in my own life.
But the transition was probably more of a challenge for Arnfinn, who moved into a home with four children, two of them in their teens—children whose personalities were more boisterous than what he was used to and who had been brought up slightly different from what he would prefer.
Then one evening, so late that my thinker had stopped working for the day, Arnfinn challenged me to an IQ test. He sat down on one side of the dining room table and started making up equations and mathematical formulas in order to answer the questions. I was on the opposite side of the table drawing pictures to solve the problems presented. We finished and compared our test answers, only to find that we had achieved the same answers. That’s when I realized that the test was similar to our lives together.
Let me explain: He does things one way, and I do them another. But we have the same goal, even though the way there may vary. Reaching that goal is like the IQ test: while he makes equations and I draw pictures, we still get to the same answers.
I know I could never do his job as a lawyer, and I am pretty sure he would find my line of work as a writer and water-color artist difficult. The trick has been to find him cute when he does things differently from me instead of being annoyed. Difference can be an exciting learning experience if we let it. I told Arnfinn one day, “If you can teach me some things and maybe I can teach you some, we will turn out OK one day.” We both have to be teachable, and it’s an ongoing process. Admiration has become a key word.
If Mom and Dad are two diverse species, you can be sure that two sets of children will be poles apart as well. We rolled up our sleeves and faced the everyday problems of varying eating habits, clothing styles, bedtime, and chores, to mention a few. For a long time the children were titled “mine” and “yours” and did not always think that being thrown together was all that wonderful.
The oldest one let me know that she would soon be out of the house anyway and that she wanted me to be happy; the next two girls did not even seem to like each other; and one of the boys gave up his bedroom every other weekend and slept on the couch whenever his step-brothers came. He has never complained about that, bless his heart.
There’s always room for those you love. We rearranged the parlor next to the living room as a parent refuge and had the children in the upstairs bedrooms. Two television sets and two bathrooms became a necessity instead of a luxury. A few days alone once a year for the newlywed parents was also an essential investment for our future as a family.
Weekends and other events were planned ahead; meals, games, and activities had to suit most of the children. Arnfinn’s five children lived with their mother on weekdays, and I wanted to respect her wishes as well as make sure the children enjoyed their visit with their dad. That meant I sometimes had to keep quiet about minor annoyances and instead focus on what was more important in order for them to have an enjoyable stay. I applied patience and love—then more patience, in addition to a bucket of humor.
Chaotic Sunday mornings were a major trial. We tried to set the atmosphere with beautiful classical music while guiding one child after another in and out of the two bathrooms before the cowbell rang for a scrumptious breakfast. Still, getting everyone out the door and into the minivan to get to church on time was a trial of keeping the spirit of the Sabbath every Sunday. By the time we came home and enjoyed a nice dinner, we had calmed down enough to enjoy playing games together.
There is much wisdom in the programs and lessons we are taught in church. Family prayer, family home evening, and discussing gospel principles are worth the time and effort. The gospel has brought us joy and helped us understand even more how important and valuable families are.
We have made many new traditions but also kept some from our previous lives. Every summer we bring as many children as possible to the Stockholm Sweden Temple. We stay at a campground south of the temple. It has become a tradition that we enjoy and one that even the kids who are married have adopted for their families.
When our children now come to ask for advice about dating and marriage, I tell them that it does not matter if one likes jogging and the other is partial to ballet. The most important thing is to have the same enthusiasm for serving our Savior and the determination to strive toward the goal to be an eternal family.
Blowing bubbles with three of our grandchildren. Our children have grown up and moved out, but they know they are always welcome to visit.
When I meet couples who find each other for a second opportunity for marriage, I am delighted for them, glad that they have a partner and best friend to spend time with. But I also remember that the first few years of putting together two families were not all bliss and glee. It comes at a cost, and some days we wonder why it needs to be so challenging.
Today, our daughters who did not really like each other as teenagers are both mothers and enjoy comparing notes at family dinners and even spending vacation time together at the family cabin. Encouraging letters have been mailed to the boys serving missions, and some of our children have visited each other as they have lived abroad. They always have fun getting together for large holiday dinners and rejoice when the arrival of a new niece or nephew is announced.
There’s only Arnfinn and myself at the house now. We have a fun-loving dog and a new little bird. The kids have frequented their bedrooms in between studies and establishing new homes. They know they are always welcome and will be fed and loved when they come by.
Putting two families together requires twice as much love and twice the patience. There has been a lot of cooking and many loads of laundry to wash, but it’s worth it. We love our large family. The blessings of having twice as many people to love are twice as great.
And our family is still growing. There’s a new generation of beautiful babies, and they are all our grandchildren!

A year or two later a business associate asked me if I would be willing to accept some counsel. I readily indicated I would be happy to receive it. He suggested that I was too abrupt, too impatient, too brusk, and too intent on achieving my goals quickly. I had such respect for this man that I spent many hours pondering his perception and have made a great effort over the course of many years trying to gain control over an intensity that might overshadow other qualities I would rather acquire. The direction of my life has been affected in a major way by this effort.

Even when I was a young woman, most of my callings in the Church involved teaching Primary children, and this influenced my decision to pursue a degree in elementary education. But the choice of a major wasn’t the only way Church teachings affected my education. That became very clear as I prepared to graduate.
The last project I had to complete was a final paper that I would defend in an oral exam before three judges. The judges were some of the teachers who had taught my classes.
My paper carefully finished, I spent part of the evening before the oral exam with my boyfriend’s family. When I left to go home, his mother said she hoped everything would go well and quoted, “If ye are prepared ye shall not fear” (D&C 38:30).
The next day came. Dozens of memories passed through my mind. I remembered how I decided to leave the city where I grew up to further my education; I remembered all the sacrifices my family had made to finance it. I could not disappoint them. My final exam had to be a success.
My classmates were also waiting to take their exams. All of us were concerned about the questions the judges might pose, but I felt secure because I had prayed for help and because I knew that God knew the effort I had made to organize, research, and write my paper.
My turn came. After explaining my paper to the panel, I began to answer questions. After asking several on the topic I had covered, one of the judges queried, “How much work did you put into this paper?”
“A great deal,” I replied. “I gave it everything I had because I wanted it to be innovative.”
“Burned the midnight oil?”
“No, I don’t usually stay up late doing schoolwork,” I said. “I organize my day so I can get my work done.”
The faces of the judges clearly showed surprise. The same judge remarked, “I find it strange that you should admit you haven’t stayed up late. We know your classmates have, for many a night.”
One of the other judges said, “Let me tell you about this student. She has time for everything. I can say so because I know her. She has time for her studies, her friends, her family, and she even attends church.”
“Really?” the other judge was again surprised. “What church do you attend?”
“I’m a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
“Oh, yes, I know what church that is,” one said.
“And we are taught to go to bed early so we can be invigorated the next day.”
I felt calm and safe talking about the gospel, even though I was surprised to be asked about religion during a professional exam.
“Your paper was written with great feeling. It is excellent. I suppose this is also due to the habits instilled in you by your church.”
“Yes,” I said. “I was taught at church how to teach children, and it has really helped with my degree.”
“You took to it like a fish to water,” one of the judges joked. “We hope you won’t stop going to church, because you owe much to the values you have gained there.”
Soon I was excused from the room so the judges could come to a decision. Two minutes later they called me back in.
“It wasn’t hard for us to reach an agreement. In view of your exemplary conduct, your excellent grades, and the paper you defended today, our verdict is unanimous in favor of graduation, with honorable mention. Congratulations!”
When I told my family, they wept for joy.

As she grew older, Chan and I became pals. One day I was trying to teach her how to tie her shoelaces. I would show her how to do it and then untie them to let her try. After a while, we both got discouraged. It was hard for Chantel because she couldn’t understand why I didn’t just tie them so she could go play. I lost my patience and began talking to her with words that were both loud and mean. Shocked at my yelling, she looked at me with fright and tears in her eyes. Then she sniffled and pleaded with a soft, choked-up voice, “I love you.”
Now my little sister was teaching me. What I learned that day was something much more important than how to tie a shoe. Even though I was angry and mean, she still loved me. I had tried to teach Chantel something that wasn’t all that important. But in her I found a Christlike example to follow, an example of forgiveness and kindness.
I can’t think of a more important lesson.

When I was 11, my family had to leave East Germany. We moved to Frankfurt, West Germany. Until my father could find a job like he had before, he and my mother operated a laundry to make a living, and I was the laundry delivery boy. I saw some shiny red bicycles, and I wished I could have one to make my deliveries. But I needed a heavy-duty bicycle to pull the cart with the laundry on it. I rode around pulling that heavy laundry cart before school and after school. It was hard to see the other children play, especially during the winter months. But everybody in our family had to work hard, and I knew I was an important part of the family business. I felt needed and valued.

In the spring of 2021, our Young Women presidency had the chance to meet the remarkable athletes of the BYU women’s cross-country team. We all know what happened a year earlier, in the spring of 2020. When COVID-19 hit, all sports shut down, and cross-country at BYU was no exception. The coach and the athletes were frustrated. They had prepared for years to compete at this level—now it appeared all opportunity was lost. It seemed as if all they could do was wait. It was during this waiting period of indefinite length that Coach Taylor told her team something powerful. She told them to “win the wait.” That phrase has stayed in my heart and mind ever since I heard it.

Rather than sit back and passively wait out the COVID-19 restrictions, adjustments were made to train differently than they had in the past. Instead of taking a break or easing up on the training schedule, these athletes doubled down and focused. When the wait was over, they were prepared to compete—and win. And that is exactly what happened. When gathering restrictions were lifted, and they could resume competitions again, they went on to win a national championship. They won the wait.

The family of Joseph Stanford Smith and his wife, Arabella, was the last wagon to descend that day. A grandson, Raymond Smith Jones, has described their experience. I doubt that a modern film company, with millions of dollars and modern engineering resources, could film this epic.
Stanford Smith had helped the preceding wagons down that long day. His outfit had evidently been forgotten. Deeply disturbed, he climbed the two-thousand-foot incline. He found Arabella sitting on a quilt, holding the baby, patiently waiting. His outfit and their two other children in the wagon were hidden behind a huge, mountainous rock.
Stanford Smith moved his load to the edge. A third horse was hitched to the rear axle. Stanford and Arabella looked down the “Hole.” He said, “I am afraid we can’t make it.”
The wife replied, “We must make it.”
He said, “If we only had a few men to hold the wagon back we might make it, Belle.”
Replied his wife, “I’ll do the holding back.”
A quilt was laid on the ground. There she placed the baby between the legs of three-year-old Roy. “Hold little brother til papa comes for you,” she said. Ada, the older girl, was placed in front of them. Behind the wagon Belle Smith grasped the reins of the horse hitched to the rear. Stanford started the team down the “Hole.” The wagon lurched downward. The rear horse and Belle were thrown from their feet. Recovering, she hung back, pulling on the lines with all her strength and courage. A jagged rock cut a cruel gash in her leg from heel to hip. The horse behind the wagon fell to his haunches. The half-dead animal was dragged down most of the way. The gallant woman, clothes torn, with a grievous wound, later said, “I crow-hopped right along!”
On reaching the bottom, Stanford and Arabella heard a faint call from the children. Joseph Stanford Smith climbed to the top to get them. They were safely in place. Carrying the baby, the other children clinging to him and to each other, he led them down the rocky crack. As they approached the river’s edge, they saw five men carrying chains and ropes in the distance. The Smiths had been missed. The men were coming to help. Stanford called out, “Forget it, fellows. … My wife here is all the help a fellow needs.” (See David E. Miller, Hole-in-the-Rock: An Epic in the Colonization of the Great American West, Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press, 1959, pp. 101–18.)

I received a letter from Elder Mortenson who served in Buenos Aires, Argentina:
“Six months before I left my mission you spoke at our mission conference in Buenos Aires, Argentina. I felt the Spirit resting upon me so strongly that afterwards I was urged by the Spirit to seek a promise from you. I struggled forward and said to you, Can you look me in the eye and promise me that I can baptize those 10 people?’ I don’t even know if those were my exact words, but those words express the desire I had then. You see, I had not baptized a single soul, and my mission was soon to be over. You looked me in the eye and promised with a voice of certainty that should I be faithful to the utmost and work with all my heart, might, mind, and strength, ‘you will baptize 10 people.’ In my heart I knew you could not be lying, and I knew that I had received the promise that I sought.

“I worked with all my heart and with all my might and mind and strength, and my mission ended two years of faithful endeavor. The Lord did bless me, and the promise was fulfilled. For nearly two years I had baptized no one. The last Saturday of my mission, my companion and I entered the waters and opened the doors of God’s kingdom for 15 beautiful and repentant children of our Father in heaven.”
The promise by me was an easy thing and could have been made by any priesthood leader. Elder Mortenson caught the vision of total selfless service and self-denial, and he achieved his goal.

When Lynn Parsons was called as the disability specialist in the Hurst Texas Stake, she wanted to fulfill her calling in a way that would bless the lives of members of her stake, especially members with disabilities and their families.
One of the first things Lynn did was to review information on her calling at LDS.org (lds.org/callings/disability-specialist), and she used Handbook 2: Administering the Church to understand official Church policies regarding those with disabilities. The Disability Resources website (lds.org/disability) also served as a resource. It helped her understand various disabilities and served as a resource to share with members of her stake.
Handbook 2 states, “The bishopric or stake presidency may call a ward or stake disability specialist to help individuals and families.”1 LDS.org gives further information about this calling, explaining that “the role of the disability specialist is to help facilitate increased participation and inclusion of Church members with disabilities.”2
With this understanding, Lynn says she wanted to “help leaders fulfill their callings by finding the tools they needed to serve those with disabilities.”
Lynn also found information through community and national resources, the Internet, and ward and stake members who have a background working with people with disabilities. Lynn uses these resources as she looks for solutions to some of the challenges leaders and families face in her stake. She doesn’t always know where to turn for information or help, “but if you really seek the answer through prayer,” she says, “you will be inspired where to look to find your answer.”
Lynn also works to understand the disability-related needs of leaders in her area. To do this, she asked her stake leaders to send a letter to bishops informing them of her calling and that she was available to help. She also met with the stake Primary presidency to understand challenges, and she made plans to meet with other groups of leaders. “I wanted to get the word out,” she said. “I wanted people to know where they could find some help.”
By letting members of the stake know she was ready to serve, Lynn soon found opportunities to help leaders. Within the first few months of being called as the disability specialist, she was invited to meet with a ward council to talk about characteristics of a specific disability. She served in other ways, such as helping a teacher understand how to teach a child with autism and suggesting that an assistant Primary teacher be called so a child with a disability could attend class.
Moving forward, Lynn plans to help leaders fulfill their callings. As she does this, she is helping members of her stake follow the example of the Savior in loving and reaching out to others, including those with disabilities.