Gospel Story Finder

This was the second time I had entered this town, and I remembered the first time 17 years before when I was seven years old. It had been a little cooler, a little later; the streets had been darkening, street lights shining, but the sounds, the noises, had been the same.
Only the feeling was different because then it was all new and I was frightened. Instead of my very own, hard-earned, bought-and-paid-for sports car, I had been sitting, small and still, in Grandpa’s black and white sedan with the worn, creaky seats, the dusty dashboard, and the smell of Grandpa emanating from every corner, every fiber, circling around me, descending on me, yet all culminating on the person of that tall, broad figure sitting beside me. The car seemed to live and breathe as if it were a part of the man who had driven it year after year, smelling always of the same shaving lotion, the hot chocolate he drank for breakfast every morning, the solution he soaked his teeth in every night, the mints he sucked on after every meal. Clean smells, sweet smells, Grandpa smells that had been woven through his clothes, grown into his scratchy face, and soaked into the ends of his fingertips.
I didn’t know him. We had lived far away. Every year my mother and father had talked about going to see Grandpa and Grandma, but money was short, and we needed a new bathroom. The next year I broke my arm. The next year … well that was the year I had come, without my parents, who lay, to my bewilderment, in pretty boxes called caskets under the ground. The car and the night had claimed them. I didn’t understand.
Grandpa had waited at a red light, perhaps the same one I was waiting at now, and looked down at me. I must have looked very tiny to such a man, my skinny legs sticking out from my little skirt, my thin hands clutching my eyeless teddy bear, my pale face turned toward him, round, red eyes waiting.
Then he smiled that smile, that special smile. Not a broad one, not a hearty one. Such a slight upturn of lips, a simple rounding of cheeks, a curving of heavy eyebrows. But it was mostly his eyes that, dark as they were, shone deep into mine, sparkling dark like black diamonds. I sat startled, my mouth dropped, and for just a moment I felt certain that he was this Heavenly Father that my mother had told me about so often. He put his big hand on my neatly parted hair, touched the side of my face, then lifted one long blonde braid with his fingers. His words were simple, like the rest of him.
“Move closer, Blondie.” He put his arm around me, pulling me close. “Grandpa’s gonna take care of you now. Don’t be afraid, little Blondie Boo.” The light turned green and he drove on.
The warmth of his body helped me forget how cold my mama and daddy were in those boxes, and the tears that fell were no longer frightened but relieved. With my wet face against his side I slept.

One winter’s night during a particularly nasty snowstorm, there was a serious automobile accident in a small Idaho town not far from the Utah border. A young child was critically injured. I was an air ambulance pilot in the Salt Lake City area and was dispatched in a fixed-wing aircraft to pick her up and bring her back to Salt Lake.
The closest airport to the accident was in Pocatello, Idaho. While it would take us only about 45 minutes to fly from Salt Lake City to Pocatello, it would take the ambulance crew nearly three hours to transport the girl from the accident site to Pocatello because of hazardous driving conditions. Even though the air transport team would arrive well before the ambulance crew, the doctor in charge wanted us there early to transfer the little girl from the ambulance to the airplane without any delay, getting her on her way to a major trauma center.
The weather was bad; these were the absolute minimum conditions we could land in. A small commuter airliner was also on approach to Pocatello, about 10 minutes ahead of us. I listened intently to the other pilot’s radio communications, knowing we would encounter the same conditions. His approach was routine, until he should have been able to see the runway. It wasn’t visible, however, and he had to give up the approach and go around.
Now it was our turn. I was very concerned—what if we couldn’t get in and had to return without the injured girl? I quickly said a silent prayer. I told Heavenly Father if He wanted us to pick up that little girl I would need His help.
I began the descent. It seemed to take forever. I couldn’t see a thing except gray cloud and snow blowing horizontally past the windshield. I was quickly approaching the point where, like the commuter airliner, I would have to break off the approach. I waited until the last possible instant, and then suddenly the runway lights came into view. They were dim but good enough. I reduced the power and landed and offered a silent prayer of gratitude for the miracle I had just experienced.
As I taxied to our parking spot, two things were obvious—the storm wasn’t going to let up, and the company that usually provided us with deicing service and a hangar to protect the aircraft from the weather had closed for the evening.
A few minutes later the commuter airliner landed safely. Immediately the control tower closed and the controllers went home. After the passengers and crew of the commuter plane left, the ground staff locked up the airport terminal building and went home too. My colleagues and I were left with no way to deice the airplane or to put it in a hangar, and the snow was beginning to fall even harder. There was a very real possibility we would not be able to leave until the next morning.
The transport team and I decided it would be best to wait and see what conditions were like when the ambulance arrived. As I looked out the plane’s window, I could see the snow starting to stick to the commuter airliner, parked not far from where we were. Knowing it would be unsafe to attempt a takeoff with any amount of snow or ice on our airplane, I went outside. The snow was falling very hard and beginning to stick to our wings. I walked around to where I would be out of view and offered another prayer.
Time seemed to pass very slowly that evening. Occasionally I would look out at the snow accumulating steadily on the commuter plane, but I avoided going outside again to check our own wings.
After nearly two hours the ambulance arrived with the little girl. I opened the cabin door and got out. The commuter plane was covered with snow and ice. I turned around to see what condition our plane was in. Although I had tried to have faith and be optimistic, I am ashamed to say I was astounded by what I saw. Tears of gratitude welled up in my eyes as I walked around the airplane. It was clean and dry—absolutely no snow or ice anywhere on it. It looked as if it had just come out of a heated hangar. The snow had also stopped falling, and visibility had improved to the point where it would be possible to take off.
Heavenly Father had provided the miracles we needed that night to get a little girl to the hospital. It was a very humble pilot who bowed his head in gratitude that evening for the great blessings he had received.
The flight back to Salt Lake was completely routine. Certainly my prayers and the prayers of that girl’s family and friends had been answered. I never did hear what the little girl’s final outcome was, but my testimony of the overwhelming love and compassion our Father in Heaven has for His children was strengthened that winter night.

In April of 2000, I received a phone call from Rosa Salas Gifford, whom I did not know. Her father, Bernardo Agusto Salas, had liver cancer. Her father’s great desire, she explained, was to meet me before he died.
I felt impressed that I should visit Brother Salas that very evening. I drove past the location where the road to the house should have been. I could see nothing. However, I don’t give up easily. I drove around the block and came back. Still nothing. One more time I tried and still no sign of the road. I offered a silent prayer for help. The inspiration came that I should approach the area from the opposite direction. I turned the car around so that I was now on the other side of the road. As I neared the location once again, I could see a street sign lying on its side at the edge of the road and a weed-covered track leading to a single, tiny residence. As I drove toward it, a small girl in a white dress waved to me, and I knew that I had found the family.
I was ushered into the room where Brother Salas lay. With some prompting, Brother Salas opened his eyes, and a wan smile graced his lips as I took him by the hand. I spoke the words, “I have come to meet you.” Tears welled up in his eyes and in mine.
I proceeded to provide a priesthood blessing. The words seemed to flow freely under the direction of the Spirit of the Lord. Following the blessing, I offered a few words of comfort to the grieving family members. With my limited Spanish language ability, I let them know that I loved them and that our Heavenly Father would bless them.
As I drove homeward, I reflected on the special spirit we had felt. I experienced a sense of gratitude that my Heavenly Father had answered another person’s prayer through me. May we ever be on the Lord’s errand, that we might ever be entitled to the Lord’s help.

I’m reminded of the little child who came to her daddy and said, “Give me something hard to do.” So he thought of things she could do, but she would say, “No, daddy, that isn’t hard enough. I want something hard to do.” He was carrying his briefcase into the house, and he said, “Well, carry this; this will be very hard to carry.” She grabbed hold. Oh, boy, it was heavy! She said, “I think I can.” She struggled and staggered until she finally got it to the house. We all like to feel that we have met the challenge of something hard to do.

There are several influences in my life that have instilled in me a desire to teach our children to work. The first are experiences I enjoyed as a child growing up in the home of wise and wonderful parents. Our first family work project began when I was around nine years old. One night dad came home with a shoe-shining kit that had an adaptable shoe tree that fastened to the wall. He encouraged my brother and me to be industrious and earn some money by charging fifteen cents for every pair of shoes we shined. Of course, my parents’ shoes were always well shined, but our big opportunities came when my parents entertained. I would mingle among the guests and ask if any would like to have their shoes shined. Many a person was seen in our home sitting or visiting in his stocking feet.
A few years passed, and dad came home one night with another idea. “Why don’t you boys sell Christmas wreaths?” he said. And thus we were off on another venture. We would go from door to door taking orders, and then we purchased the wreaths from a wholesaler for our customers. For the next several years mom and dad spent many hours helping us in this project.
During my college years I began to realize that there were more values to work than simply the money one earns. Three individuals made statements that have left indelible impressions upon my mind. The first statement came while I was attending the University of Utah. The director of the Institute of Religion, Lowell L. Bennion, shared with me a philosophy of raising children. He grew a large vegetable garden, and when asked what he was growing, his reply was not the usual tomatoes, corn, or carrots, but simply, “boys.”
The second statement came from a student at BYU when he offered an explanation as to why he alone among his high school friends had remained active in the Church. He said it was because of a cow. He went on to explain that while his friends had nothing to do after school and began to get into trouble, he had to go home every day to milk the cow. Although he resented it at the time, he since has been very grateful to wise parents and the cow.
The third statement was made by a returned mission president who commented that many missionaries do not know how to work when they arrive in the mission field. They lack experience in organizing their time and in being self-starters.
A philosophy of work gradually emerged in my mind. When I got married, I wanted to achieve three goals: use work as a means of “growing children”; see that they did not have too much free time; and prepare our children to effectively serve the Lord.
Following my marriage to a wonderful companion, our home was blessed with the arrival of children. In the space of a few years we found ourselves the parents of ten children—all girls but eight. We knew as our children grew older they would need to assist with family finances. This became evident when our four older children expressed a desire to learn to ski. One Christmas we bought four pairs of used wooden skis and some poles, and we acquired some used boots. On Christmas morning our children were delighted to receive their skis, and they accepted the responsibility for most of their future expenses.
Since my wife and I didn’t believe in the dole system in any form of finance, we kept wondering how our young family could begin to become self-sufficient. It wasn’t long until we were offered an opportunity to collate and distribute advertising materials to 5,000 homes. We worked at the project after school, in the evenings, and on Saturdays. Everyone was involved in collating several pieces of advertising materials. Mom or dad assisted by driving the children to different locations and offering encouragement. The project was repeated several times. Our children were beginning to earn money, and we learned that we could have fun together while working.
After a couple of years, we graduated from advertising packets to telephone directories. During several summers, we loaded up our station wagon with books and children. The days were hot, the hours were long, some streets were hard to find, some addresses couldn’t be found, the books were heavy, some driveways were long and went uphill, some dogs were mean; but we had fun. Sometimes two children would go to a home, one to play with the dog and the other to take the books.
One summer one of the boys broke his foot while on the job. Within a few days he realized that he didn’t want to be left out of the summer work; besides he loved to ski. Soon he was in the back of the station wagon unwrapping the books and giving directions to the children as to how many books were to go to each house.
At the end of a day’s work, there were stories to tell, experiences to laugh at, accomplishments to brag about—and no one had any trouble sleeping. Yes, we were having fun and experiencing a sense of accomplishment.
Our next project began when our oldest son started mowing lawns the year before his mission. We bought a 1962 truck that ran most of the time, and some lawn-care equipment. That first year he did most of the work himself and occasionally took a younger brother with him. The next year dad decided to get involved, since none of the younger boys had drivers’ licenses. We advertised, gave bids, received referrals, and increased the number of our customers. Then came the day when dad mowed his first lawn. First the edger didn’t start, so he traveled across town to find out what to do. When he returned, one mower had broken down so he went back across town again to find out what to do. After several hours on that job, the second oldest boy looked at his dad and asked, “And is this what we are going to do all summer?”
We stuck with it and are now completing our fourth year. We have learned to keep our sense of humor through broken sprinklers, a flooded basement, unexpected rain, a burned-out truck engine, broken equipment, dad pulling up someone’s prized miniature tree, and the front wheel coming loose off the truck in busy traffic. And then there are those days when every piece of equipment is working, the truck is running, the sun is shining, we are on schedule, and someone forgets to fasten the tailgate of the truck. One by one our equipment slides out as we travel to the next customer.
One might ask why we do all of these things. The obvious answers are: (1) all of our teenagers have sizeable missionary funds; (2) all of our children over eleven know they will have a job; (3) no Sunday work is involved; (4) the children have learned valuable skills; (5) they are learning to budget their resources and to distinguish between wants and needs; and (6) as their father, I have had many wonderful teaching moments with them as we have worked side by side.
But these are not all. There are values that are often hard to describe but are real. A couple of Sundays ago the boys sat down at the direction of their mother and wrote what they felt the values were of working together as a family.
An eighteen-year-old boy writes, “Since I can remember, I have been taught the value of hard work and honoring all of your responsibilities and your family name. As I look back to my experience in family projects, I can see how they have shaped my character and personality by letting me make many important decisions. I have gained confidence by meeting new people and am better able to express myself. But the most important thing about family work projects is that your family comes closer together in love and respect.”
A thirteen-year-old who has been mowing lawns for four years writes, “Family projects have really helped me to understand how to work. The harder you work, the better you feel. I am grateful for a closer relationship with my brothers and parents.”
A sixteen-year-old said, “Working on family projects has taught us the importance of being honest and dependable. It has taught us to make a lot of sacrifices in order to keep our name in good standing.”
And finally, our fifteen-year-old said, “The family work projects have helped me manage my money. When I buy my clothes and other things, I take care of them because I know how much they cost and how much work it takes to buy them. When my parents bought my things, I honestly thought there was an endless supply of money, so I wouldn’t take care of them. Also, work gives me a feeling of satisfaction—and a great tan.”
Their mother writes, “I watch other youth with too much free time and am grateful that our boys know there are people relying on them. They sometimes have to sacrifice personal wants for the sake of their work.”
May I add my own feelings. Our family work has become a big factor in bringing a higher degree of love, peace, and unity into our home. Many neighbors have commented on how much our children really enjoy each other. I am amazed as I witness our children stretching in their tender years toward self-reliance. Yes, work is a spiritual and essential principle. Our own beloved prophet has taught that “life is not wholly for fun and frolic.”
I bear testimony that family work, when combined with family prayer and family scripture study, will do much to secure the blessings of heaven for families on earth. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

When I was 14, I was called to be a family history youth consultant. My family history class during Sunday School inspired me to find my great-grandfather’s parents on my mom’s side.
Every Sunday I did a little more work, going through records and searching for connections to my great-great-grandfather, William Aldred Thomas. But after a year with no results, I felt discouraged. I wanted to give up. But then one afternoon, I felt a distinct prompting to search for Francina Christina Meyer, his wife.
Several records came up that confirmed a connection to my great-great-grandparents. I was so happy—I had finally found my family! My home was full of indescribable joy. More names connected to the Thomas line were found, and my brother and I have been baptized and confirmed for five generations of that line—all because of perseverance and a single, special prompting!
This experience has been a tremendous blessing and testimony to me of the importance of family history work. I know that our family members on the other side will help us find them and that this work truly brings light into our lives.
Savannah B., Alberta, Canada

That joy is also available to women who, having never borne children of their own, express their motherhood by nurturing the children of others. One woman paid tribute to a single sister: “Although I loved my three small children very much and knew I was doing an important work, I often felt worn out and confined to my home. My husband was working two jobs, but there never seemed to be enough money for a baby-sitter and an evening out. Then sweet Monica came into my life. She called regularly to say she was coming over on a given night to stay with my children. To the delight of my little ones, she always arrived with games and treats. My husband and I were free to attend a temple session or to go out for dinner knowing we would return to a peaceful home. Monica consistently refused any payment for her efforts. This wonderful woman now nurtures my granddaughter.”

Following the final session of general conference, we left the Conference Center, still basking in the after glory. While on the train home, a Latter-day Saint family approached us, whose soulful beauty uniquely touched our lives.

The mother, with her children, asked if they could learn more about the Jewish head covering that I was wearing. Her 14-year-old son, named Taylor, had his interest piqued by his wonderful seminary teacher. His teacher’s name, we were told, was Brother Russell, and he appears to have taught quite well on Jewish practices.

Taylor, a truly extraordinary young man, clearly had a talent for humility and soul, and the time we spent together in discussion was remarkable. The deep light of his heart was clearly nourished by his family and by his Latter-day Saint faith in Jesus Christ. That a youth of today had such humble grace and a genuine interest in the sacred of another truly leaves me with bright hope for our future.

My daughter, Yael, was also greatly taken by the beauty of Taylor’s soul. That “the eyes are the window to the soul’’ is a favorite quote of hers, and she loved Taylor for the potential she saw he could become.

For me, the encounter with Taylor and his family was a most beautiful conclusion to the glory of general conference. Two families of God were having honoring sacred dialogue, and each of us left with more reverence and belief. This is what general conference inspires. This was, for me, a general conference after-glory moment I am grateful and humbled and blessed to have received.

In the end, to our friend and dear brother Taylor, to the friend whom we met only and sadly once, please always know that our lives were deeply enhanced by our chance encounter on the train that evening. Yael and I wish you only shalom, a Hebrew word meaning “peace and wholeness.” We wish you shalom in the broadest sense of the word, as you continue on your mission to bless our world with light.

And to you, Brother Russell, my long-lost friend and seminary teacher extraordinaire, though we have never yet met, it was wonderful getting to know you through the beauty of Taylor and his holy family. And I have an extra head covering, should you ever be in need! Thank you for teaching about my faith tradition in such an honoring and lovely way. You must have done so to inspire our young friend Taylor to inquire and seek to know more about my faith. Bless you, and shalom to you always.

Thanks for volunteering at our animal shelter! Are you ready to help some animals?
Yes!
This is going to be fun. Great idea, Margo!
Thanks! Helping animals makes me happy.
I’m glad! Jesus Christ made all living things. We need to take care of His creations.
That’s why I want to be a veterinarian when I grow up!
Now it’s time to go home and take care of our pet.
Kiwi must be hungry!
Illustrations by Katie McDee

“We had some acreage with a large garden; we also had chickens, pigs, and a cow. I grew up feeding the animals and cleaning the chicken coops and the cow barn. My father and I had an agreement: I would clean the barn every Saturday exactly as he had taught me to do it, and in return he would give me ten cents to go to the Saturday matinee and two cents for penny candy. There was a different movie at the theater each week, and I really enjoyed those Saturday movies.

“My mother worked harder than any woman I have ever known. She had eight boys and one girl, and she taught us discipline by having us work around the house and in the garden.

“I remember that many summer mornings when we’d go into the fields, Mother was right at our sides. We’d pick fruit and berries to can and store throughout the winter. The garden rows seemed very long to me as I worked up and down them throughout the summer.

“My father was a very gentle person. He disciplined us by letting us know that if we did wrong, we disappointed him. He and I were great friends, and he made me feel loved. I knew that he really cared about me. I felt a special bond with my father, for I was born on his birthday, November 25.

“At Christmastime our family would string popcorn and cranberries on thread to decorate the little Christmas tree. Maybe we would only have one gift and a few pieces of candy and popcorn, but they were wonderful Christmases, filled with love and fun family activities.

“We skated on Utah Lake during the winter. Sometimes we would go out a little too far on the ice, and we would hear it crack beneath us. In the summer we would swim in the Provo River, diving off the rocks into the cool, clear water. We played kick the can, hide-and-seek, and marbles; and we used a large tin can nailed to the garage and a little rubber ball to play basketball.

“We always attended church. I was sometimes wiggly and didn’t show all the interest that I should have shown, but I knew that what I was learning there were the things that really mattered.

“One of the spiritual experiences that I remember best from my youth happened when I was about five years old. My next older brother, Jay, had just been baptized. He was walking down a road between Provo and Orem. A man who had been drinking came swerving down the road in his car, and the door handle of the car caught my brother at the back of his neck. Jay had a serious fracture and concussion. We all prayed that he would get better, but after twenty long days in the hospital, he died. I vividly remember my mother and father sitting with us and saying, ‘Jay has gone back home to the God who gave us all life. The Lord could have saved him, but for some reason He didn’t. There will be a work for Jay to do where he is now, and we should not question the Lord. We should not have any bitterness or lasting sorrow.’ We all resolved that we were going to trust the Lord, and we all knew that someday we would again be with Jay.

“As I was growing up in Provo, there was another boy my age in my grade at school. His name was Walt Hansen. He and I were great friends; there was a great bond between us. His family did not attend Church, but Walt came because of the influence of his friends who reached out to him. Years later he became a bishop in the Provo Sunset Ward, and I’ve often heard people say that Walt Hansen was the most kind and helpful bishop that they had ever known. I hope that you children will realize that you may be a good influence in the lives of your friends and help someone else discover the gospel.

“I have two messages for young people: First, try to look on the bright side of things—look for the very best in people and in life. Have confidence in yourself, be happy, and develop good feelings about yourself. Try hard to please your Heavenly Father, because there is much joy from being obedient to the Lord’s teachings. Remember that you never know what the Lord has in store for you. When my parents brought me to Salt Lake City to general conference, we would sit in the balcony of the Tabernacle. I would look down and see the General Authorities. They seemed to be very wise, and they spoke with confidence. I felt the spirit of their testimonies and their love for the Lord. Now I sit in one of those red chairs, but I never thought back then that I would have such a calling.

“My second message to you is to pray to your Father in Heaven. Picture Him in your mind as the personal, loving, kind Father that He is, One who expects you to do your best in your Church assignments as well as in life. Pray for inspiration on how to live your life. I have found that most of my inspiration has come after I have prayed and while I am doing the things that I know that I should be doing. Inspiration and blessings flow as we serve our Heavenly Father.”

Even in our own lives, God will utilize various means to communicate with us at different times. While we were presiding over the mission here in Provo, President Thomas S. Monson announced the age change for sister missionaries from 21 to 19 years. In less than a year, the number of sister missionaries in our mission increased from just 18 to 110. Often transfers would include more than 20 new sisters; sometimes it seemed as if we had more sisters coming in than sisters who could train.

While working through one such transfer, I was struggling to know who should train our new sisters. We decided to go to the temple to see if help would come there. Since this was at the Provo Utah Temple, the chapel was full of missionaries from the MTC. As we waited, a large group of sisters came in and sat immediately in front of us. They looked familiar. I leaned forward and asked them where they would be serving, and they said the Utah Provo Mission. I then told them that I would be serving as their mission president. After the session we visited briefly and took some pictures. After having met them, I was able to easily complete transfers and assign the sisters who would serve as their trainers.

Years ago, when we lived in a mountainous area of Southern California, my wife called me as I was driving home from work and said, “Gary, be careful when you park in the garage because there is an overturned green plastic tub that I threw over a rattlesnake in there. Would you please take care of it when you get here?”

The garage doors had been newly varnished that day and because one of them had not completely dried, the workers had not yet put the rubber seal on the bottom. This small crack between the closed door and the ground allowed the rattlesnake to slither in.

Dear friends, please seal up any cracks in your life so that the adversary cannot destroy you. None of us would feel comfortable with a rattlesnake in our garage. How about in our house, our bedroom, our backpack, pocket, or our purse? We need to be very careful about what types of media we engage in and let into our minds. Much of it is far more dangerous than a rattlesnake which can only kill the body. Eternity is at stake and purity is the lynchpin. Be pure.

I am the youngest in my family. There is a five-year age difference between my brother Darrell and me, and we were not very close. You might think that five years is no big deal, but 14-year-old brothers rarely have much in common with nine-year-old sisters.
As we grew up, we might as well have been a hundred years apart for all the attention we gave each other. We didn’t dislike each other; we just never talked or saw much of each other.
During my 13th year, I became friends with some non-LDS girls. One in particular loved to dare me to do things against what I believed.
Then this strange thing happened. Darrell took the first step to bridge the gap between us. He let me know he was worried about how much time I spent with these girls. It made me angry. I felt he didn’t trust me. But it did make me start thinking, and I pulled myself out of a dangerous situation before it was too late.
You’d think we would have become super close, but our moments of closeness were few.
And then he left on his mission to Mexico.
Oh sure, I wrote to him like everyone else, but our letters to each other could have been form letters; there was nothing personal in them. If this wasn’t enough, the family was in a Darrell-mania craze.
“Look, Katy, another letter from Darrell. Would you like to read it?” Mom would ask as she held out the letter as if it were from heaven.
“Uh, no thanks, Mom. Just leave it here. I’ll read it when I’ve got some time,” I’d mumble. Well, if I wouldn’t read it, then she’d proceed to tell me all about it, which irritated me all the more.
Dad was just as bad with the slides Darrell sent. Dad was forever nagging me to come and see them through his viewer. When I’d politely decline because of homework or something, he’d act hurt and say, “I guess you don’t care about your brother’s mission, huh?” Then I’d bristle.
With ward members and other relatives and friends always asking about Darrell, he was the only subject talked about wherever I went. I was sick to death of hearing about Darrell.
One day Mom started to talk with me—about Darrell, of course. But instead of talking about his mission, she recalled different memories of him, some good and some bad.
“You know, even though we had some rough spots, I really miss him,” Mom said. Then she looked at me. “Do you miss him sometimes?”
I meant just to say, “Of course I do,” but I felt strongly that I should say what was true. “Not really. I hardly miss him at all.”
Mom looked shocked, so I spoke quickly. “It’s not that I don’t love him, Mom. It’s just that I really don’t know him. How can you miss someone you hardly even know? Think about it, Mom. What have Darrell and I ever done together to make us close? When was the last time you remember Darrell and me doing something together?”
She didn’t answer because, like me, she couldn’t think of any.
That night I decided to write to Darrell. I started with the usual lines about school when I stopped. I thought to myself, Why not tell him how I really feel? So I did. I poured it all out into that letter, all about how I really didn’t know him, and my feelings about his mission. I also added some things that were going on with me, about my new music lessons and about my goals to become a writer someday.
As I sealed it, I knew it wouldn’t be the most cheerful letter he’d ever receive, but it expressed my true feelings and I knew if I didn’t tell him I’d go crazy.
I was on pins and needles waiting for his answer. I came home one day to find a letter from Darrell waiting for me. I ripped it open and began to read:
“Dear Katy,
“I was very thankful for your letter. On Thursday I woke up homesick—something was very wrong. When my companion and I left to go tracting, we both felt impressed to check the mailbox, but there’s never anything in the mail until after four o’clock. But there was your letter. I love you, and I get the feeling that you want to talk. Fasting, prayer, and many tears have gone into this letter. I hope you will read it carefully. …”
He went on to tell me that I was right. We really didn’t know each other, and so he told me he’d like to be friends.
“… I can understand how tiring it must be to hear about me all of the time, so here in Mexico you have some relief from ‘Darrell-mania.’ I want to hear all about you!”
He was very impressed with my goals and my high school schedule and even offered some advice.
He told me many other things that are dear to my heart but too personal to tell anyone else. But it made me feel warm and good inside. It made me remember my experience during my 13th year and our moment of closeness. I remembered that feeling of closeness, because it was back again only much stronger than before.
I was crying by the time I finished his letter. Darrell truly cared about me, and my letter had helped him. Before, I’d been jealous of him and his mission. I resented all of the talk about him and the looks of pride in my parents’ faces, because it made me feel as if I were loved less, cared about less. I felt anything I could do would never be as important as Darrell’s mission. But Darrell made me feel so important, as if what I did mattered. And he really did want to hear all about me. I was deeply touched and deeply grateful.
From then on my letters to and from him were much more meaningful. He took part in helping me with my problems and in helping me to become a better person and learn to grow up. I love him so very much, and the best part about it is I know that my brother loves me too.

“Am I always going to look like this?” I groaned, staring into Raelynn’s mirror. My freckled face stared back at me in dismay.
Raelynn was my best friend even though she was a little older than me. She was already in junior high, and she told me about makeup and which clothes were “cool.”
Last summer, we used to pretend we were famous singers. We pretended our dolls were supermodels we had seen on magazine covers. We curled each other’s hair and pretended we were customers in a fancy salon.
Now Raelynn acted more grown up.
Lately I was getting bored of pretending too, and the real person I saw in the mirror made me sad. My teeth seemed too big for my mouth, and my face was covered in splotchy freckles. Worst of all, I had hairy arms! Famous singers never had hairy arms.
Raelynn stood next to me and frowned at her reflection. “Maybe we’ll be prettier when we grow up,” she said.
I was surprised. Even Raelynn, who knew everything about being cool, did not feel pretty. Our moms often told us we were beautiful, but that didn’t make me feel much better. Moms always say things like that.
When I turned 12 and started Young Women, I still felt ugly. Now I was even taller than my sixth-grade teacher! The boys in my class didn’t let me forget it and often made fun of me.
One Sunday, my new Young Women leader stood up to teach. I stopped staring at my oversized feet and looked into her face. The room grew still. I felt the Holy Ghost telling me that I was about to learn something important.
“Heavenly Father loves you,” Sister Brower said. She explained that Heavenly Father is pleased with how His children look because He created them. “You are some of His most beautiful creations.”
Beautiful creations? I pictured sunsets, mountains, and beaches. I felt reverence for Heavenly Father when looking at nature, but I had never felt much reverence looking at myself.
Slowly, I started to feel light and happy. “Satan wants me to feel sad if I don’t look like the girls on TV,” I thought. “But Heavenly Father made me different on purpose.”
Satan wanted me to worry about my freckles and feel sorry for myself. Heavenly Father wanted me to feel His love and grow closer to Him. As His daughter, I had more important things to do than to try to look like someone famous.
I went home from church that day knowing I was beautiful, and not because I had changed. Now I could see what I had been all along—a unique, beloved daughter of God.

Sometimes when it seems that you are most alone, you discover a wonderful friend who is there to support you. Last year at about this time we lost a son. I was in Beijing, China, at the time I was notified of his death. The following days—filled with shock and disbelief as my daughter Shannon and I struggled to get home—are still very vague to me. We flew into Salt Lake, where we joined the rest of the family, and then flew out the next morning to New York for the funeral service. Separated from friends and other support, our immediate family clung together during those dark days.

As we returned to Salt Lake and pulled into the driveway of our home, the first thing I saw was that all of my flowerpots had been planted with beautiful blooming flowers and flowering baskets were hanging from our arbor. Our neighbors had gotten together and planted along the entryway to our home. More than the beauty it presented, I felt a deep connection with these wonderful people who had worried and cared about us. This was the way they had expressed their love. Those flowers were beautiful for the entire summer and were a constant reminder that we were not alone.

As a physician, I once had a patient come to me after a routine blood test was out of normal range. In the days between her test and our visit, she had consulted the internet about what the results could mean. When we met, she was upset and worried. I tried to explain the results, but she was still distraught.
“Don’t worry about what could go wrong,” I told her. “That’s my job! It’s what I’m here for. I studied hard to know what to do about this. We’ll get through this together, and if you’ll follow my instructions, you’ll know how to be whole again. Trust me and let me take the burden of medical worries. Then you can focus all your energy on getting better.”
This helped to calm her fears. We made plans to run more tests, and I promised we’d move forward together.

The same spirit of love and collaboration that existed during the construction of the Catholic and Protestant churches was also evident in 1965 when a new Latter-day Saint chapel was built to replace the older 1904 chapel, which had deteriorated. When the building was dedicated at the close of the year and the work hours tallied, it was discovered that those of other faiths had actually donated more hours in its construction than the Latter-day Saints had. “All worked hard, and some of those with disabilities had their hands wired to the wheelbarrows that they might do their share.”33 The entire settlement joined in celebration over the knowledge that their LDS friends had a new chapel to worship in.

There is a better gift, but it will take effort now. My dad, when he was a boy, must have tackled the rowboat problem, and lots of others. That was part of the equipment he needed to become a scientist who made a difference to chemistry. But he also made a difference to me. Our family room didn’t look as elegant as some. It had one kind of furniture, chairs, and one wall decoration, a green chalkboard. I came to the age your boy or girl will reach. I didn’t wonder if I could work the math problems; I’d proved to my satisfaction I couldn’t. Some of my teachers were satisfied that was true, too.
But Dad wasn’t satisfied. He thought I could. So we took turns at that chalkboard. I can’t remember the gifts my dad wrapped and helped put under a tree. But I remember the chalkboard and his quiet voice and even his not-so-quiet voice as he built up my mathematics, and me. It took more than knowing what I needed and caring. It took more than being willing to give his time then, precious as it was. It took time earlier when he had the chances you have. Because he spent it then, he and I had that time at the green board. And because he gave me that, I’ve got a boy this year who has let me sit down with him. We’ve rowed that same boat up and down. And his teacher wrote “much improved” on a report card. But I’ll tell you what’s improved most: the feelings of a fine boy about himself. Nothing I will put under the tree for Stuart this year has half the chance to become a family heirloom that his pride of accomplishment does.

Last summer I met Sister Yvette Bugingo, who at age 11 fled from place to place after her father was killed and three of her brothers went missing in a war-torn part of the world. Yvette and the remaining family members eventually lived for six and a half years as refugees in a neighboring country until they were able to move to a permanent home, where they were blessed by a caring couple who helped with transportation, schools, and other things. She said they “were basically an answer to our prayers.”8 Her beautiful mother and adorable little sister are with us tonight, singing in the choir. I have wondered many times since meeting these wonderful women, “What if their story were my story?”

Two weeks after graduating high school in American Samoa in 2002, I boarded an airplane for basic training in Fort Sill, Oklahoma – marking a new chapter in my life as an enlisted service member in the United States Army.

In January of 2003, I was assigned to the northern part of South Korea for my first tour of duty. Although only 18 years old, I felt like I was a grown man. I was making my own money and now had the liberty of doing whatever I wanted to do with my free time. I loved buying clothes and eating out, so the new experience of making and spending money was quite exhilarating.

After my first couple of months in my new duty station, soaking in all my freedom as an adult, I often felt a little distant from Heavenly Father. Buying clothes and hanging out with friends did not bring the enduring peace I yearned for.

Luckily, a chapel on a hill was about a twenty-minute walk from my barracks that held sacrament services at noon. I knew that my ticket to once again access the comforting power of the Holy Ghost was on that hill. I was determined that I would not miss a Sunday. One of the blessings that came from going to church was my desire to keep God's commandments and be a good person.

Unfortunately, my desire to be a good person seemed to lose momentum as the week progressed. Many of my buddies would entertain some outing ideas over the week, which were appealing but deep inside, I could sense that these activities would not lead to a place that I wanted to be spiritually.

In hindsight, I believe that attending church services throughout my military service has helped me maintain a relationship, although distant at times, with Heavenly Father. I felt Heavenly Father was pleased with my efforts to attend church. This sense of reassurance reinforced my desire to be good and do good.

However, I often felt confused and frustrated as to why I didn't feel the desire to do good all the time. It seems as if I only felt those feelings the strongest on Sundays and maybe Mondays, and as the week progressed, the appeals of worldly and unrighteous activities seemed to be winning the battle for my soul.

“Why can't I always have the desire to do good?” This question comes to mind often whenever I ponder my life and the person I hope to be.

During my military service, my conversations with God were often in the form of questions, partly due to my inexperience in figuring out how to be an adult. I felt many of those questions went unanswered. But as I look back on my life, I can see why. The answers to those questions would eventually come at a time when I was ready to receive them.