Gospel Story Finder

Bro. Tew: President Hinckley has spoken often of his wonderful mother. On one occasion he said:

"My mother died 65 years ago. She died while I was a student at the University. I went on a mission after that. It was in the bottom of the Depression. Money was terribly scarce. My father had a lot of property, but all that he was getting out of it was tax notices—no income from it. We discovered that my mother had established a savings account with the nickels and dimes and the quarters she got in change when she bought groceries, and that spelled the difference that made it possible to cover my expenses in what was then the most costly mission in all the world."

Her small change saved a little at a time made a big difference!

All of us at various times in our lives struggle with choosing whether or not to become offended. Some years ago, before I came to BYU-Idaho, I was experiencing some turbulence in my life largely because of how I chose to react in regard to others. I wasn’t happy and was quick to point out faults in others. I didn’t do it publicly or out loud, but it was something I did in my heart and under my breath. It took me a while to admit that I wasn’t happy and for the most part, I was someone who could become offended easily.
It was at this point in my life that I decided to do some searching and pleading with the Lord for an improvement in attitude. I was attracted to conference talks as never before and I read and re-read some selected talks a number of times over a period of months. After a time, I decided I was willing to do about anything to become happier and I needed God’s help.
In the process of all this, I came up with a saying that I would rehearse under my breath whenever I felt I was approaching the weakness to be easily offended. I would stop and say to myself: “I’m probably wrong in my assumptions about so and so, and Troy, you need to work on your own weaknesses.”
What lead me to develop such a little phrase? Perhaps it was from these two insights from the foremost conference talk that I read several times during this period. It was President Ezra Taft Benson’s talk “Beware of Pride.” Two lines that I discovered from this talk penetrated my heart and caused me to examine myself like I had never done before. Here they are:
Think on this. Here’s the second:
The part about “withholding gratitude and praise that might lift another” really struck me. It was then that I decided to try something: to give compliments to others instead of harboring an incorrect assumption—a judgement, if you will. I noticed a difference right away and I started improving and feeling better at a rate I didn’t expect. And the responses I received back from those whom I gave a simple word of encouragement to built my confidence, in that their compliments to me in return gave me something more than what I had anticipated.

The week I stayed with Uncle Alex and Aunt Cindy was the week their garden cranked out a year’s supply of zucchini. Uncle Alex called it the “Zucchini Explosion.”
Uncle Alex is a lot like me, only grown up. We even have the same name, sort of. You see, my name is Elliot Alexander Cranton. His name is Alexander Elliot Cranton. Aunt Cindy says we’re quite a pair.
We ate supper on the patio the first night, and there it was on my plate—zucchini. Uncle Alex is a lot of fun, and I like Aunt Cindy too. But zucchini and I don’t get along at all. They look like giant cucumbers, and they just mush around in your mouth.
I ate as much as I could stand, then spread the rest around on my plate. I didn’t want to hurt Aunt Cindy’s feelings, but I didn’t want to eat the zucchini, either.
After supper three of Aunt Cindy’s friends stopped by to visit.
“Would you like to take home some zucchini?” she asked them.
“My family won’t eat them,” said the tall one.
“My family won’t touch them,” said the short one.
“My family won’t even look at them,” said the one in between.
I wasn’t surprised.
Uncle Alex and I excused ourselves and went to catch lightning bugs.
We caught about twenty-five and put them into a jar. I thought the breathing holes in the lid were small enough when I took the jar into the kitchen, but I guess they weren’t.
I don’t know why Aunt Cindy was so upset. Only one got on her foot. The rest were on the ceiling. And the walls. And the floor.
“Alexander Elliot and Elliot Alexander,” she shouted, “get these bugs out of my kitchen!”
“If you insist, but we sure could have saved on the electric bill,” Uncle Alex joked.
The next night we ate in the kitchen. We had a zucchini casserole. I offered to scrape the dishes so that Aunt Cindy wouldn’t see how much I’d left on my plate.
After dinner, Uncle Alex and I hunted for fishing worms. We put them into a paper cup with some dirt, then put the cup into the refrigerator to keep the worms fresh.
“Alexander Elliot and Elliot Alexander,” shouted Aunt Cindy when she looked in the refrigerator, “what’s this next to the zucchini?”
She looked into the cup. “Get these worms out of my kitchen!”
Aunt Cindy did not even want to understand about keeping worms fresh.
We ate in the dining room the next night. We had zucchini with some kind of sauce on them. I’d swallowed more zucchini that week than I’d eaten before in my whole life. But it wasn’t enough for Aunt Cindy.
She looked at our plates and shook her head. “I’ve already put away more zucchini than we’ll need for the winter.”
“Leave the zucchini to us,” said Uncle Alex.
“Sure,” said Aunt Cindy, smiling a little. “You two are just like those zucchini. I don’t know what to do with them, and I don’t know what to do with you!”
After supper I helped Uncle Alex move the picnic table out by the road. We put the zucchini on the table. I made a sign that said ZUCCHINI—20¢ EACH.
Eight cars went by. I changed the price to ten cents.
Fourteen more cars went by. No luck.
I made a new sign that said ZUCCHINI—FREE TO A GOODHOME. Sixteen cars later, we gave up.
“Let’s look in Aunt Cindy’s cookbook,” I suggested. “Maybe we can find a recipe for chocolate-covered zucchini.”
“I’ll try anything,” said Uncle Alex.
We went into the kitchen and got out the cookbook.
“Uncle Alex,” I asked, “why doesn’t Aunt Cindy ever make zucchini bread? It sounds kind of good.”
“It is,” Uncle Alex said. “You don’t even know you’re eating zucchini. Aunt Cindy says it’s fattening.”
“Let’s make some.”
That was when I found out that Uncle Alex is not very handy in the kitchen, especially with messy things like flour and eggs. After we put the bread in the oven and were just starting to clean up, Aunt Cindy came in with her three friends.
“Alexander Elliot and Elliot Alexander,” she shouted, “what have you done to my kitchen?”
I don’t know why she was so upset. There was just a little flour on the counter. And on the floor. And on Uncle Alex.
“What is that wonderful smell?” asked Aunt Cindy’s tall friend.
“It’s zucchini bread,” I told her.
“How delightful!” said the short one.
“It does smell delicious,” said the one in between.
When the bread was done, Uncle Alex cut a slice for each of us, even Aunt Cindy.
It was really good, and it didn’t mush around in my mouth.
Uncle Alex gave each lady the recipe and a big sack full of zucchini.
“Oh, thank you,” said the tall one.
“How thoughtful of you,” said the short one.
“Are you sure you don’t want to keep some for yourselves?” asked the one in between.
The next day, Uncle Alex and I picked three zucchini from the garden. We took them in to Aunt Cindy.
“Alexander Elliot and Elliot Alexander,” she shouted, “get those zucchini out of my kitchen!”

Just about everyone has heard the story of a proud little grandmother who, watching her grandson on parade with the other soldiers, exclaims: “Look, everyone but Johnny’s out of step!” It’s an old joke used to show how a dear lady refused to notice her grandson’s imperfection, and after I heard it, I filed it in the back of my mind and forgot it. Forgot it, that is, until one day when I was playing bass drum in the cadet band of University School in Victoria, British Columbia, Canada.
The bass drum player wears a shoulder harness to carry his instrument. As he marches along, he walks just as a person normally walks, so that his right hand is forward to strike the drum when his left foot hits the ground (and vice versa). This is important because the left foot-right hand position marks the beginning of each measure of music.
One other thing—the bass drum is big. The one I was playing was so large I could just barely see straight ahead over the top of it. But I could not see the feet of the band members ahead of me. I depended on the music and the left foot-right hand position to keep me in step.
We were rehearsing for our annual inspection. The cadets always marched along the school driveway and out onto the playing field to assembly for review. The band would lead the parade, followed by the platoons in ranks three abreast. Everyone followed the beat to keep their steps in cadence.
Mr. Genge, a veteran from the British Army’s North Africa campaign in World War II, directed the maneuvers of the entire parade. But the band members paid particular attention to the drum major. We called him Brown I (we had four fellows named Brown at the school, so we labeled them Brown I, II, III, and IV, and the nicknames stuck). Brown I was tall, about six-foot-six. He carried the big silver baton, or “mace”; he decided which tunes we would play; and by twirling and pointing the mace in different directions, he gave the band its instructions.
The morning sun dazzled its reflection from our polished instruments. Our newly pressed uniforms made us look crisp and sharp.
Mr. Genge called out in his high voice an oft-heard command: “Parade: move to the right in column of threes; To the right, quick MARCH!”
This time, however, something went wrong. Brown I stepped off on the wrong foot. He had never done it before, but now, there he was, in front of the whole band out of step!
A chain reaction quickly swept through the ranks. The front row of musicians, realizing they were not in step with Brown I, figured they must be out of step, so they changed to match him. The other rows rapidly did the same all except the bass drum player. Remember, I couldn’t see over the drum far enough to know that I wasn’t in step with the others. I was just listening to the music and following its beat.
“Birley, you’re out of step!” the snare drummer on my left whispered.
I marched on a few paces, feeling the rhythm of the music. I could tell I was in step with it. “No I’m not!” I whispered back.
“Birley, you’re out of step!” This time it was Price, on my right. “No I’m not!” I insisted. I cringed as I heard Mr. Genge’s voice say, rather softly, “Birley, change step!”
“But sir,” I protested, “I’m in time with the music!”
Mr. Genge seemed shocked for a moment. It’s not usual for a cadet to talk back to a superior, much less to refuse to follow a command. But he listened to the music as he watched me continue, and in a moment exclaimed, “You’re right!”
Then he issued the strangest order ever heard on that parade ground: “With the exception of Birley, parade CHANGE STEP!”
All of the cadets had to change to match my step and the beat of the music.
I don’t suppose many of those who were there would still recollect that event without being reminded of it. It might have slipped from my memory, too, if it hadn’t been for another incident a few years later, one that taught me something else about being out of step.
Kent and Colleen Ockey were definitely different from other families I had met while selling photography. Not only were they genuinely friendly to me, but they showed great love to each other as well. I remember how happy they seemed, how comfortable and at peace I felt in their home even though I couldn’t find an ashtray. These people seemed completely out of step with others I had encountered in my work.
On a side table in their living room, I noticed a large copy of the Book of Mormon. I had read a few chapters of it earlier in my life, and now it attracted my attention again. The Ockey’s answered my questions freely, and invited me back. They introduced me to the missionaries. I began studying, praying, and searching. Twenty-three days later, I was baptized. I finally felt that I was in step, and I’ve tried to keep in step with the Lord and the guidance from his appointed leaders ever since.
As I grew in my knowledge of the Church, I learned that the history of the gospel is a history of people (often classified as misfits by their peers) who marched in step with the Lord and out of step with their contemporaries.
Moses could have lived a life of luxury in a palace, instead, he faced persecution, battling to free the Hebrews from bondage. Daniel refused to bow and worship idols, even though it was the practice of nearly everyone else in his community. Mormon, even though encompassed by the hopeless corruption of his society, refused to succumb to its degradation. These prophets listened to the Lord rather than listening to the influential powers of their day.
In our dispensation, we find another good example in Joseph Smith. For a while, he was the only one in step. Then there were three witnesses, then eight more, and simultaneously many others joining the Church, all marking their step from the one man who began by being in step all alone. Now there are more than four million Latter-day Saints marching forward in the truth.
But though we may be in step with each other and with the Lord (or are at least trying to be), we are still greatly out of step with the trends of the world. We will be increasingly noticeable because we are not like all the others.
We are by no means perfect, but you and I know that in truth we are the only ones in step. There are many other sincere truth-seekers listening for the music, but only in the true Church is the true cadence marked.
There are many others who will whisper (or shout) at us that we’re out of step, but if we stand firm, we can look forward to the day when a great master, the supreme leader of mankind, will say in effect what Mr. Genge said to my group of cadets:
“All the world, with the exception of those who are true to the faith, CHANGE STEP!”
And what a wonderful feeling it will be to know we helped prepare the world for his coming!

“The first thing is always beauty. Sorry, that’s just the way it is. I mean, there are things you can do. I mean, you can help yourself out. …”
He is blushing, all six feet three inches of him, because he is in a Young Women meeting, not in the high school gym. He is our male expert for our dating lesson today, and I think the only reason Jodi asked, “What’s the first thing that attracts a guy to a girl?” was to capture his brown-eyed attention. Only now he’s not looking at her. He’s staring at the floor, embarrassed to have been so openly honest in church.
Serves him right, I think. I don’t ask my question: What if a girl is ugly and fat but funny, smart, and considerate? Is beauty such a vital virtue that a girl can’t be considered for a date without it? Anyway, what does he know about “helping yourself out”?
I say that because I’ve been helping myself out for the past three years. I do it with a rattail brush and Sticking Pretty hair spray, with Glitter n’Glo eye shadow and Perfectly Pink lipstick. I even practice a weight-loss program called Body Be Good. But I am 16 years old, and I am just as pathetic as I was before self-help. I am five feet tall and weigh 165 pounds. My hair is 22 inches of beetle-brown seaweed. My eyes are blue BBs, legally blind, buried beneath the inch-and-a-half thick lenses of my steel-rimmed glasses. My mouth is in its fourth year of orthodontic intervention, and my face ought to be intervened with too—by a dermatologist. I imagine this is the self-help to which Dr. Dating refers.
It is noon. The lesson ends, and I plod out of the Young Women room while Jodi simpers about our stellar speaker.
All the way home, I stare out of the car and remember the first thing is always beauty. My pudgy cheeks and frazzled hair hover in the window, superimposed on all the trees and houses that we pass.
“What are you thinking about, Marie?” Dad asks when he spies me in the rearview mirror, moping at my reflection.
“Nut’uhn,” I grunt.
“What?”
I gulp, deciding it’s worth a second opinion. “Dad, what first attracted you to Mom?”
He grins over at Mom like they met yesterday. “Well, I saw her across the room at a stake young adult dance. And I thought, Wow, she’s pretty cute!”
My mouth twists. “That was it?”
“Well, what did you want?” he laughs. “Shooting stars? An angel overhead saying, ‘Hey, George, she’s the one?’”
I scowl at my shoes. Two to none. The first thing is always beauty.
“Why do you ask?” Mom asks as she turns to face me.
“Never mind,” I sulk.
Lunch is a Body Be Good banana shake. Mom and Dad and Anna eat baked potatoes and talk about Sunday School. When Mom asks me what my Laurel lesson was about, I mutter, “Datin’” and don’t clarify when she tells me to enunciate.
“Can I be excused?” is all I say.
Mom looks at Dad and nods, and I head to my bedroom.
I look at the picture of the Bountiful Utah Temple above my bed and shake my head to shoo away thoughts of self-pity.
That’s when I remember the family’s love and romance expert, my Grandpa John, who courted my grandma via the postman while he was in Europe during World War II and she was in Casper, Wyoming. Grandpa and Grandma passed away when I was little, but Mom still tells the stories about how they fell and stayed in love. Mom has all of Grandpa’s letters to Grandma. I will make it a survey. Grandpa is source number three.
The letters are in Mom’s closet on the high shelf, so I have to lug a chair to reach them. I create a clunking racket as I rummage through journals and baby books and photo albums. Mom comes in to ask me what I’m doing.
“I’m just looking for Grandpa’s letters.”
“Marie, is something bothering you?” Mom raises an eyebrow, but I’ve found the letter box. I pull the chair back to Dad’s desk and retreat to my room with the letters from the expert.
“Dear Emma,” reads the first one I open. It smells like smoky dust. “Hello beautiful. I miss the glow of your pretty face. …”
I quit there and tally the score: three to zero.
“Think beautiful,” I whisper to myself in the mirror. I’ve shed my glasses, so I have to squint with my nose an inch from the mirror to scrutinize my reflection. My eyelids are glittering. My lips are pink. My eyelashes are lengthened with Anna’s mascara. I twirl pieces of my hair onto the top of my head to configure an elegant up-do. Twisting my face from side to side, I experiment with different expressions. But even in profile, my cheeks are too pimply. My eyes are too tiny. My hair is too fuzzy.
I shake down my hair. It’s hopeless. I’m hopeless. I have no beauty. I return my glasses to their perch on my nose.
The next Young Women lesson is about eternal marriage. Bishop Wright and his wife are this week’s guest lecturers. They are gentler and more profound than Dr. Dating. They do not talk about beauty, except as it exists in the house of the Lord. I feel my insides tingle. It is my deepest desire to go to the Lord’s house so I can return to live again with Heavenly Father.
Sister Wright’s eyes moisten when she bears testimony of the temple. “Girls,” she says, “we may joke sometimes about being better than men, about being better looking, smarter, or more sensitive. But the truth is neither men nor women can achieve exaltation alone. In 1 Corinthians 11:11, we read, ‘Neither is the man without the woman, neither the woman without the man, in the Lord.’ Only with your eternal companion can you attain the highest degree of glory in the celestial kingdom.”
I feel a warmth within my chest, and I know her testimony must be true. But my stomach lurches. I have a question which I am too frightened to ask. What if a girl is ugly and fat, with no beauty to which an eternal companion will ever be attracted? I picture my reflection in my mirror under the up-do, and I shudder, and it’s not because I feel the Spirit.
Mom has told me ever since I could read that I can always find answers in the scriptures. I have never wanted an answer as badly as I want one now. When we get home from church, I tell Mom that I feel funny, and I don’t want lunch. I shut myself in my room. Frantically, I look up all the scripture weddings I can remember: Rebekah, Rachel, Esther. They are numbers four, five, and six in my first-thing-that-attracts-eternal-companions survey. I devour the words.
“And the damsel was very fair to look upon. … And Isaac brought her into his mother Sarah’s tent, and took Rebekah, and she became his wife; and he loved her” (Gen. 24:16, 67).
Four to zero.
“Leah was tender eyed; but Rachel was beautiful and well favoured. And Jacob loved Rachel; … And Jacob served seven years for Rachel; and they seemed unto him but a few days, for the love he had to her” (Gen. 29:17, 20).
Five to zero. My heart squeezes Spandex-tight.
“And he brought up … Esther … and the maid was fair and beautiful; … And the king loved Esther above all the women” (Esth. 2:7, 17).
Six to zero.
It isn’t fair. No beauty, no hope, no exaltation.
My door creaks, and in steps Mom. “Marie, what’s the matter?” She sees my scriptures and my watery eyes. “What are you doing, honey? What’s wrong?”
It splutters out of me all at once. “Boys will only love you if you’re beautiful. It’s always the first thing. They aren’t attracted unless you’ve got beauty. They don’t get attracted, you don’t get married. You don’t get married, no exaltation. I took a survey. You and Grandma and Rebekah, Rachel, and Esther. And I’m never getting married! I’m never going to be able to live with Father in Heaven! Look, look at this verse. “I beheld a virgin, and she was exceedingly fair and white. … A virgin, most beautiful and fair above all other virgins … bearing a child in her arms” (1 Ne. 11:13, 15, 20).
Mom touches my arm gently and lifts my scriptures from my hands, “Bearing a child,” she slowly repeats and looks at me with soft eyes. “Marie, may I read you another scripture about that child?”
She doesn’t wait for a response. “He hath no form nor comeliness; and when we shall see him, there is no beauty that we should desire him.
“He is despised and rejected of men; a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief: … he was despised, and we esteemed him not.
“Surely he hath borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows” (Isa. 53:2–4).
She pauses while I lower my chin into my chest.
“Maybe … maybe you’re right, Marie. Maybe men only love and desire that which they think is beautiful. After all, they didn’t love our Savior. They despised Him. They crucified Him.”
I shake my head slowly. “But He was the most beautiful of all.”
Mom doesn’t respond. Her eyes are expectant. She wants me to say more.
“They just …” I pause. “They just couldn’t tell.”
“Why not?”
“Well, they didn’t recognize it. They couldn’t tell that it was beauty. He was beautiful because …” I blow a frustrated gust of air through pursed lips. “I can’t explain it. He was beautiful in the way you just can’t see.”
Mom nods in agreement and reads, “‘Therefore, what manner of men ought ye to be? Verily I say unto you, even as I am’ (3 Ne. 27:27). Marie, you don’t have to look like Grandma or Esther or Rachel or Rebekah. For all we know, their kind of beauty was as invisible as our Savior’s. The only beauty you have to cultivate is His. If you can be beautiful like He was beautiful, you won’t have to worry about winning an Isaac or Jacob. Men who saw no beauty in our Savior may also not see your beauty. But men of Christ, acquainted with His grief, will come to love you and say, ‘She is the most beautiful of all.’ There may be pain caused by those who don’t know you, but you will draw closer to the Savior as you emulate Him. And until your Isaac or your Jacob comes, you will know that Christ has borne your grief and carried your sorrows. And He will comfort you.”
She places my scriptures back in my lap, squeezes my hand, and drops me a tissue for my sniffling nose. Then she slips out of my bedroom and closes the door. After a minute, I wipe tears and mascara and Glitter n’Glo off my eyelids. In my heart I feel a beauty that I know must be His.

What do you think life in the Missionary Training Center will be like? The youth of the Meridian Idaho Stake found out, thanks to some energetic and creative missionaries.

They were looking for a way to get the young people excited about missionary work, so they planned “The MTC Experience,” which simulated a day at the MTC. The youth were divided into companionships, given name tags and an orientation, then sent to classes. They learned and practiced gospel-sharing techniques and were taught about the Savior and Joseph Smith and about recognizing the Spirit. The local mission president, David Stanley, also addressed them.

The best part of all, according to Sister Laurisa White, a missionary serving in the area, was when everyone stood at the end and sang “Called to Serve.” “Everyone was blown away by it,” she said.

Justina Mumcy De’Beauville was raised as an only child in a strong countryside community and earned the nickname “country girl” because of her weekly trips to town, where she sold produce at the city market. One fateful day, Clayton John De’Beauville, a city boy bus driver, picked her up, and they fell in love at first sight. A cherished memory, held dear by Sister De’Beauville, focused on a sweet gesture from Brother De’Beauville. He decided to purchase her entire daily produce, allowing them to spend more time together that day. It is still a mystery what he did with that abundance of vegetables. This act of kindness has been the foundation of their enduring love and affection.

Shane Aldous steps to the front of his karate class.
“Taegeuk Seven Jang,” he shouts and begins leading students through a complex series of smooth flowing movements called a kata. Shane’s hands move into positions, palms up, fingers together. His eyes wide, alert, he steps into a low stance. Then with practiced precision, a hand moves in a graceful circle, stops, pulls in, and punches upward. A fast high kick follows.
A karate class might seem an unlikely place for missionary work, but for Shane Aldous, 15, and his family, almost any place can present an opportunity.
“Two years ago I was the biggest boy in my class,” Shane explains. “All of the boys who thought they were tough wanted to fight me. But I didn’t want to fight. My mother saw an advertisement in the paper for karate classes and asked if I wanted to take lessons.”
Chol H. Kim, the instructor of the class, teaches TaeKwon Do, a Korean style of karate, which emphasizes both physical and mental discipline. “In TaeKwon Do, character development is as important as physical development. It’s a class rule,” Shane says, “to show respect to your teachers and your parents.”
Shane’s parents and his brother Brad, 14, were so impressed with what Master Kim was teaching that they also signed up for his classes. “We do things as a family whenever we can,” Shane says.
Because they worked together and could help each other learn, the Aldous family progressed rapidly.
Brad and Shane began entering karate tournaments, and at the United States National Junior Olympics they took top honors in their divisions. Shane brought home a silver medal, and Brad won two gold medals.
From the time the Aldous family enrolled in his school, Master Kim had been watching them closely. There was something about them that made them stand out from other people. “I was impressed by the support they gave each other,” he says. “And by the emphasis they put on family and personal growth and development.”
Eventually the Aldous family invited Master Kim to church. He began taking the missionary lessons and was baptized.
Not long after he was baptized, one of his students, Gloria Lee, 19, was also baptized.
“I thought Master Kim was making a terrible mistake,” she says. “I’d heard some bad things about the Mormons. I didn’t want him to become involved in what I thought was a false religion and ruin his whole life. I decided to so something about it, so I confronted him and some other members of the Church. But I had a lot of questions about my own religion, and everything I learned about Mormonism made sense. I couldn’t deny it. I started taking discussions from the missionaries, and instead of saving Master Kim from the ‘terrible’ religion, I ended up being baptized myself. I am very lucky. My family belongs to another church, and they worry about me the way I worried about Master Kim. It’s not easy, but I’ve never regretted being baptized. The Church is true. The Aldous family has always been a good example for me. Without them I would not have found the Church.”
Accorind to Shane, working together as a family and living and knowing gospel principles are important keys to being successful missionaries. “You never know when people are watching you,” he says. “Or when they are going to become interested and start asking questions.”

After four years of trying to have another baby, Anna (names have been changed) and her husband were grateful for the birth of a daughter. But Anna found that adapting to the needs of a newborn, in addition to caring for her sons, was overwhelming. She found herself sinking into depression in spite of her best attempts to manage everything and maintain a sense of normalcy. Anna was struggling with postpartum depression.
All mothers, including Anna, know that having a baby is “supposed” to be a happy time and new mothers are “supposed” to be grateful for this incredible blessing in their lives. Yet for some women, postpartum mood disorders detract significantly from these happy feelings. Postpartum depression is manifested in many ways and can have physical, emotional, and even spiritual implications for the women who suffer from it. For instance, these women might have unrealistic expectations for themselves at a time of great transition, feeling that they should be able to do everything immediately for themselves and their newborn because they should be “super-mom” and “super-wife.”
It is important that these women—and their families—understand what postpartum depression is (and what it is not), recognize symptoms, find effective ways to manage it, and, most of all, know that there is hope for normal functioning while dealing with feelings of depression.
A woman’s experiencing postpartum depression does not mean that she is weak, that she has done something wrong, or that she is to blame for her overwhelming feelings. In most cases the state is temporary. Suffering from postpartum depression, like facing other trials, can bring us closer to the Savior as we find ways to obtain spiritual strength. As former Young Women general president Ardeth G. Kapp explained: “We know about our Savior, but it is often in our adversities that we truly find Him and know Him and love Him. … I can testify from my own experience in life that some of our heaviest burdens, disappointments, and heartaches can in time be replaced with ‘the peace of God, which passeth all understanding’ (Philippians 4:7) while we ‘wait upon the Lord’ (Isaiah 40:31).”1
For some women, giving birth creates temporary feelings of sadness that are often referred to as the “baby blues.” Symptoms—which usually appear within the first week after giving birth and can last up to 10 days—may include tearfulness, irritability, fatigue, anxiety, and emotional sensitivity with highs and lows. Baby blues are most often attributed to physical changes the mother is experiencing, but these symptoms can be aggravated by sleep deprivation, inadequate nutrition, a challenging infant, and lack of support. The baby blues are observed in all cultures across the world and affect up to 80 percent of women who give birth.
In contrast, postpartum depression is an illness with a biochemical basis. Although no one is sure what the exact cause is, researchers believe that the hormone-level shifts that occur during pregnancy and after childbirth may contribute to chemical changes in the brain. That, combined with the stresses and fatigue that accompany having a new baby, can lead to depression. About 10 percent of women who have a baby will experience postpartum depression, which typically occurs within four weeks after giving birth but can occur anytime during the following year. Many women who experience postpartum depression have had a previous encounter with depression; new mothers in this category should closely monitor their feelings so they can get help if symptoms appear and escalate.
Some women experiencing postpartum depression start to feel better within a few weeks, while others don’t feel “like themselves” for several months. But help is not out of reach: identifying symptoms is the first step to starting to feel good again.
Often, a new mother assumes that feeling depressed demonstrates weakness. She may even worry that others will think less of her if they know how she is feeling. For these and other reasons, she might not discuss her symptoms, leaving the postpartum depression to go undiagnosed and untreated.
John, speaking of his family’s experience with postpartum depression, said, “My wife, Carolyn, hid her symptoms from everyone, even me. It was hard for me to know how much she was truly suffering. I think she thought that as the bishop’s wife she couldn’t let anyone—not me, not her friends, not her mother—know what was going on.”
Dr. Cheryl Tatano Beck, a noted nurse-researcher, calls postpartum depression “a thief that steals motherhood.”2 But family members and close friends can help mitigate this “theft” by watching for its symptoms. They may notice behavioral changes in the new mother, including the following:
A depressed mood lasting most of every day.
The absence of laughter or play with the infant.
A downcast or blank facial expression.
Persistent sadness.
Comments about flaws she perceives in herself or the infant.
Indications of feelings of guilt or inadequacy.
Indecisiveness about ordinary matters.
Noticeable irritation, especially related to the infant’s fussing or crying. (See “Symptoms of Postpartum Depression” sidebar on page 30 for more internal signs that only mothers themselves may notice.)
If family members and close friends think they detect some of these symptoms but aren’t sure, they can sensitively ask the mother such questions as “Are you feeling down [or depressed or hopeless]? How long have you been feeling that way?” or “Do you feel a lack of joy in your life?” Once the mother and those closest to her recognize the symptoms, they can begin to get a handle on the depression.
Managing postpartum depression is important not only for the woman’s welfare but also for that of the infant and the rest of the family. Because the mother is often the center of her child’s social environment, her mood affects the child. And the mother’s and the baby’s well-being affect the family’s well-being.
Because this condition affects the entire family, the management of the postpartum depression is a family concern. It is important for the woman to have support from her husband, family members, and others.
Support from Family and Friends. According to “The Family: A Proclamation to the World,” “husband and wife have a solemn responsibility to love and care for each other and for their children.”3 The primary strategies for meeting the challenge of postpartum depression are to strengthen the couple’s relationship and increase the husband’s sensitivity. It is essential that the new mother have help and support from her husband in activities like these:
Taking over household tasks and the care of other children.
Limiting the number of visitors to foster a peaceful environment. (For some women, however, having visitors may help alleviate symptoms of depression.)
Helping the mother get enough rest, appropriate nutrition, and exercise.
Assisting with infant care.
Becoming educated about postpartum depression.
Giving priesthood blessings as appropriate.
Offering the gift of presence—listening, caring, and just being with her. Accompanied by a hug, a healing conversation may be just one sentence long: “This must be very hard for you.”
Encouraging the new mother to get professional assistance as appropriate.
Rachel, who experienced postpartum depression after the birth of her third child, said, “The smallest task seemed insurmountable because I lacked emotional and physical energy. I was so grateful that my husband was understanding and compassionate and assisted me in getting the help I so sorely needed.”
Postpartum depression may be difficult for a husband to understand, and sometimes he may react with confusion, frustration, anger, guilt, anxiety, or embarrassment. It may be helpful for him to engage in counseling or reading to increase his understanding of postpartum depression and to learn how he can be most helpful. His doing so can benefit both him and his wife.
Johanna, who suffered postpartum depression after having preterm twins, said, “Although the experience was challenging for Sam and me, our marriage became stronger. We became closer in our relationship than we had ever been before. We worked together to resolve issues. I relied on him for priesthood blessings. We truly communicated with each other and the Lord.”
Extended family and the Church community can augment the support of the father. Kathleen H. Hughes, former counselor in the Relief Society general presidency, spoke about her experience with postpartum depression and the help she received from others:
“After the birth of our son … , I sank into a horrible depression. Many of the women in my family suffer from postpartum depression and, as you may know, in those days medical professionals did very little to help women with this condition. I was left to fight my way out of the darkness.
“But those hard times for me were often tempered and lightened by wonderful sisters in the ward who cared for my children and who cared for me physically, emotionally, and spiritually—helping me through that emotional battle.”4
Women might find additional support through organizations for new mothers. Christine, who lived far from extended family and felt alone after she had her first baby, reported, “As I talked to other young mothers in my housing complex, I found a lot of commonalities in our struggles. It really helped—and I even found myself laughing instead of crying.”
Professional Treatment. New mothers might consider seeking professional assistance, including counseling from LDS Family Services (see www.ldsfamilyservices.org) or from an appropriate source recommended by a health care provider. For some, medication may be necessary, as prescribed by a psychiatrist or other clinician.
Taking Care of Yourself. It is vital that new mothers care for themselves by resting as much as possible, eating a nutritious diet, and taking “time out” with mothers’ groups or children’s play groups.
In addition, because motherhood is physically and emotionally demanding, mothers should set realistic goals that allow for flexibility, remembering that “to every thing there is a season” (Ecclesiastes 3:1). Elizabeth, who gave birth to four daughters in a period of just a few years, said, “It isn’t feasible to quit doing housework and cooking when there are other children needing clean clothes and lunch. I found it helpful to do just a little bit each day—one load of laundry, cleaning the bathroom sink (instead of the whole bathroom), planning the meals, and having my husband do the shopping. Feeling productive, even if it’s just a little each day, is very encouraging.”
Other Helpful Outlets. Other activities might also be helpful in managing and overcoming postpartum depression:
Listening to uplifting music.
Reading the scriptures and other inspiring books. Anna reported that she especially enjoyed reading 2 Nephi 4, which documents Nephi’s feelings of discouragement and doubt, then his growing recognition of the love of the Lord for him: “My God hath been my support; he hath led me through mine afflictions” (2 Nephi 4:20).
Keeping a journal. Rachel said, “As I wrote in my journal, I was able to articulate my feelings of deep despair. It helped me to become more aware of what seemed to trigger feelings of depression. It also helped me begin to count my blessings.”
Praying for help and comfort. Anna said, “Being depressed made it harder for me to feel the comfort of the Holy Spirit I so desperately needed. I tried to challenge the negative voices that left me feeling weaker and doubting my capacity to overcome my negative emotions.” Johanna asked herself and the Lord this question as she engaged in personal prayer and contemplation, “Heavenly Father, what am I supposed to learn from this?”
Recognizing that we can learn from our trials can strengthen our faith, even as we are in the midst of them. God does not leave us alone in our struggle to find hope. Elder Jeffrey R. Holland of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles counseled: “To any who may be struggling to see that light and find that hope, I say: Hold on. Keep trying. God loves you.”5 And He does. Sister Patricia Holland, Elder Holland’s wife, once invited us to return to “the wholeness of our soul, that unity in our very being that balances the demanding and inevitable diversity of life.”6
Anna explained the process she went through: “As I struggled to overcome postpartum depression, I sought to get beyond the darkness and into the light, the light of the Son of God. I wept as I read Isaiah 53:3–4, understanding fully for the first time that the Savior was ‘a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief. … Surely he hath borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows.’ I held on to the promise that the Savior was my personal Savior, that He had been sent to ‘give unto [us] beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness’ (Isaiah 61:3). As I looked toward the Savior, I realized more fully that He knew my pain, that He could sensitively succor me as I reached out to Him.”

Take, for example, my recent life transition—marriage.
Getting married in the temple is important to Heavenly Father’s plan. And I always thought that once the opportunity was on the horizon, I would feel nothing but contentment and peace.
For me, that wasn’t the case.
I never thought that something so good could be so utterly terrifying. I felt guilty about feeling anxious over the beautiful relationship between me and my future spouse. Of course I wanted to marry this wonderful man, so why in the world was I so hesitant and scared? I was beyond frustrated at how hard making the decision was for me.
I prayed, read scriptures, fasted, and attended the temple over and over again to find guidance. Eventually, I made the decision to move forward with marriage and asked Heavenly Father if it was right. And I felt a peaceful and unquestionable certainty many times that it was. But eventually, my brain’s defense mechanism against change, along with the adversary, would once again try to convince me otherwise.
It was exhausting, to say the least.
But as difficult as this back-and-forth process was, and as much as I pleaded for my fear of change to go away, I learned some valuable lessons.
When you’re on the brink of something good in your life, when you’ve gotten your answer and you’re ready to take a leap of faith, Satan will try to step in and prevent it.
He does this to me often.
He plants doubts that make me question the answers I’ve received. He makes me consider how safe I’ll remain if don’t move forward. And he tries to convince me that the good decisions that will reshape my life and help me grow are not worth it, that they’re too much for me, and that I will fail. Ultimately, he tries to keep me stuck.
In these dark moments when I’ve felt overwhelmed and intense terror about the future, the words of Elder Jeffrey R. Holland of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles have always helped me cling to the light and carry on: “With any major decision there are cautions and considerations to make, but once there has been illumination, beware the temptation to retreat from a good thing. If it was right when you prayed about it and trusted it and lived for it, it is right now. Don’t give up when the pressure mounts. … Face your doubts. Master your fears. ‘Cast not away therefore your confidence.’ Stay the course and see the beauty of life unfold for you.”1
In a priesthood blessing I received to help me overcome my fear of marriage, I was told that Heavenly Father wants me to be confident in myself and my decisions, and also in the answers He has given me (see Doctrine and Covenants 6:22–23). I was told to not doubt that those answers were from the Spirit and to be willing to move forward with faith instead of being held back by fear.
Those words helped me finally realize that if we want God to guide us, we have to be willing to trust Him.
I’ve always had faith in the Savior’s transformative and healing power. But I never in my life thought that I would have to rely on Him to help me have courage to do something good. My feelings of inadequacy about marriage seemed much too unimportant for Him to heal. However, now I know that His healing power truly applies to all things. He is aware of our needs and feelings, and He can deliver us from all our weaknesses or fears. He can change our hearts. I have felt Him increase my willingness to move toward the good life changes He wants me to experience.
As much as I’ve always avoided change, I’ve realized that when Heavenly Father asks us to do something, even if it terrifies us, He will always enable us to be successful. By myself, I might be capable of some things. But with Him on my side, I can truly do all things (see Alma 26:12).
After long wrestles with Him and so many moments where I chose faith even while feeling the strong pull to remain in my comfort zone, I’ve finally been sealed in the temple to my dear husband—my best friend. I know without the Savior’s help and without trust in God, I couldn’t have gotten to this point. And I know They will continue to guide me one step at a time throughout this new journey with my sweet husband.

There was the Relief Society leader with whom we had been discussing visiting teaching. We talked about contacting those for whom we had responsibility. At one point she began to speak, almost apologetically. “Oh, Sister, you know that none of us in the branch have telephones. So we have to ask Heavenly Father if anyone needs us.” She illustrated with many examples. She would pray in the morning, asking if anyone needed her; frequently she would receive a strong impression that she should visit one of the members; sometimes she would even feel strongly about taking food or something else. And I wondered how many times I had let the telephone interfere with that pure form of communication. …
One time as we talked about good nutrition, a sweet mother from the Philippines spoke to me. “You know, Sister, I don’t have enough money to buy all the things I’d like. So before I go to the market, I kneel and ask Heavenly Father to help me spend my few pesos wisely and buy the things that will be best for my family. As I bring home my food, I again ask him to help me prepare it properly. And then, Sister, when it is time for us to eat, we know we can ask Heavenly Father to bless our food—to help us be strong and healthy with what we have been able to buy and fix.” And I thought of how many times a blessing on the food had been for me but a signal to eat. …
There was the group of Relief Society women in Central Java who would each save a spoonful of rice in the morning before they began cooking for the day. They’d put that spoonful, each day, in a plastic bag; then on Saturday they would bring their bags with them to Relief Society. If anyone was ill or had not been attending church for some time, all the sisters would walk together following the meeting to visit her. And they would take some of the rice to share. I’ve learned much about service and consecration from such examples.
I was serving in Indonesia when the Book of Mormon was first translated and printed in that language. During that time I had an inkling of what it must have been like for Joseph Smith and others when they were finally able to give so many others the privilege of reading the book. One of my local companions, an Indonesian sister from the city of Solo, slept with her copy right beside her.
The chance to share the gospel sometimes came in unexpected ways. This happened once in Taiwan. Without any previous language training, I was struggling daily to learn Mandarin Chinese. Tracting provided the thrill of a lifetime—having someone answer the door when it was my turn to talk! How amazing it was to me those first few times that someone could actually understand some of my sounds!
Then one morning an American woman answered—totally unexpected. Her husband was in the Navy. We were caught off guard and were speechless. Finally she said, “Oh, you must be Mormon missionaries! Come on in—I used to be a Mormon.” And thus began a miracle.
Her husband wasn’t a member and she wasn’t active. A teenage son and daughter had been baptized but weren’t active at the time either. We had the privilege of switching from Mandarin to English and sharing the gospel with this great family. The father was eventually baptized, both children served missions, and now the father and mother are working in a temple. Who would have believed we would meet that wonderful American family in Tainan, Taiwan!
Through these and many other experiences, I have learned one of the great lessons of missionary work: I gained as much from others as they did from me. We all grew spiritually—we were teaching each other. I realized there is a need for all of us to be open to every chance to lift, help, teach, and strengthen one another … no matter where or when.

Alejandro Flores, 13, discovered the importance of doing as well as knowing. “Last Sunday,” he says, “my grandmother asked me to teach a family home evening lesson about dress standards, using For the Strength of Youth. Some of my cousins and I had the habit of following worldly styles, and I felt uncomfortable giving the lesson. But now my cousins and I are doing better in the way we dress.” His lesson and example helped prepare his cousins for an important event. “They’re getting baptized next week!” he says.

“Lindsay, what’s going to happen to me?” I asked my sister, as my frail body lay limp in the emergency room bed.
Lindsay replied through her tears, “I’m not sure, but I think it’s time for you to trust in Heavenly Father.”
I sat back in my bed while I rested in a state of confusion, worry, and mostly panic. I had finally reached the breaking point.
After five long, difficult years of self-worth issues and depression, anorexia had a firm grip on my whole soul. My worn-out spirit had long given in to destructive thoughts and lost hopes, but it had only been in the past year that my body had succumbed to anorexia’s deadly effects as well.
My weight was perilously low and continuing to drop. Astoundingly, I still felt I was “chubby.” It was only when I couldn’t keep any food down or stand up without losing consciousness that my concerned friends rushed me to the hospital. Within the next few days, my secret had blown up in my face, and my family insisted that I receive treatment.
At first I did not understand the seriousness of the problem. I had to trust in the love and counsel of others. I couldn’t see it in myself because I had years of practice brushing off the worries and advice of others who thought I was losing too much weight. As with many other people suffering from eating disorders, I wasn’t willing to see my problem until I was forced to by medical professionals.
I would love to say that once I confronted my problem every day was easier and that all I had to do was eat. However, it was quite the contrary. Every week was filled with doctor appointments, planning meals with a nutritionist, group and individual therapy, and weekly appointments with my bishop. I needed to set aside a time to eat every day, and I learned that I needed to always be accountable to another person for what I ate. I needed to gain the trust of others again, and they needed to gain my trust so I did not feel invaded and constantly questioned about my eating habits.
My biggest problem was that, although I felt the support of many people around me, I thought I had to fight the battle alone.
“What do you want me to do?” I shouted at my therapist. “It’s like you want me to be perfect or something! I can’t do this! I can’t just sit here and tell you why I feel like I’m fat, or why I hate myself. I don’t know why. All I know is that I just can’t do this anymore! It’s not worth it because no matter what I say or do, it’ll never be good enough to fix all of this. I’m just … broken!”
My therapist let me cry it out before she said, “You’re right. You can’t do this on your own, and no matter what you do, it won’t be good enough. You’re never going to be perfect …”
She paused to let her final thought sink in and went on to say, “… on your own. The Savior has already won this battle. Hand it over to Him, and He’ll heal you. Just hand it over, Katie.”
The words pierced my broken heart, and the Spirit filled me and testified that what she had said was absolutely true. My healing process had begun.
Some days were harder than others. On those days, I felt a deeper desire to seek the Lord’s help and to plead with Him to rid me of this terrible disorder. I knew He could do it, but I also knew I needed to trust in Him first.
I began to write all my feelings in a small journal that I kept with me throughout the day. The beginning entries contained words like insignificance, intimidation, and frustration. Once the day was through, I would put my book down in front of me, tear out the pages, and pray for those feelings to be recognized and changed. Then I’d throw the pages away and make a new entry of what I felt. Those new entries had words like hope, strength, and love. I had begun to literally and figuratively place my trial and those detrimental feelings at the Savior’s feet. That’s when the pain began to subside.
As the days became weeks and the weeks became months, I began to feel the companionship of the Spirit. I learned how to distinguish between revelations from the Lord and the harsh feelings and thoughts of the world. I felt unity within my family as we pulled together to strengthen not only me but one another. Yet, most of all, I developed my friendship, my very best friendship, with my Savior. The calming influence of the Atonement was, and is still, taking place in my life. Although this experience continues to influence my life and will continue for years to come, I now see myself not only for who I am but mostly for who I will become. I know now that this is how our Father in Heaven sees us, and what a sight that is!

You take your place in line, rubbing the chalk deeper into your hands. You take a quick glance at your older sister. She is running, jumping, spinning—making difficult gymnastic moves into something beautiful.
“I can do it,” you say to the air.
Then you run at the vault. There is a low crack, a moment of uncertainty as the ground disappears and you begin twisting. I can do it, you repeat. The landing is perfect. You turn and your older sister is watching. You both smile. For a moment anything is possible.
If you’re not 13, try to remember what it was like. Standing in the shadow of an older brother or sister. Wondering who you are. Proving yourself in a big world.
Denice Pauga is 13. She is also one of the best gymnasts her age in Canada, but her sister Cassandra, 16, has always been that little bit better. It has taken a long time, but Denice is beginning to find her own way, in life and at the gym.
In Lethbridge, Alberta, the west wind always blows hard off the plains, twisting and dancing through town. The wind is persistent, like the girls have learned to be. In the quiet city of Lethbridge, Denice and Cassie have found anything is possible.
For Denice, persistence is not a natural quality. Oh, she has talent, lots of it. In fact, when Denice was only two she followed her sister into gymnastics—the routines, the moves, they all came easy to her and it was fun. But getting to a point where she could compete with the best was hard work. Cassie never objected to training long hours, skipping parties, missing her friends. But for Denice it was different.
She complained about having to practice every night. Her dad said she didn’t have to go and for six months Denice played with her friends, instead. No gymnastics.
In the end Denice missed the competition, the limelight, and asked to go back—this time for good. “I think one of the things Denice loves about gymnastics is showing a crowd what she can do,” says Cassie.
And that love of performance is apparent as soon as you meet her. So is her distaste for practice. In a way it is charming, that she cannot fake an attitude. Denice grumbles all the way up to the bars; then she grabs a hold and her eyes focus. She turns professional. She seems to relish each movement that defies physical law—to know that she can do something so wonderful, so fascinating for the people watching.
But even with that love of performance, there have been difficulties. “It’s hard because Cassie is always one step ahead of her,” says Robby, their mom. “What Denice doesn’t realize is that she is actually a better gymnast than Cassie was at her age. But Cassie always gets to move first.”
“I feel competition to do as well as Cassie, but I have realized that I can do some things as good as her,” says Denice. “Some things I can do even better. That makes me feel equal.”
And in time she has found something of her own that has helped—a relationship with her Heavenly Father. “It’s become important in my life. I always pray before a meet and I haven’t been hurt yet. And I know if I stick to the standards of the Church, if I don’t give them up, He will help me out when I need it.”
Cassie was the opposite of Denice. She never wanted to leave gymnastics. “You could put her in the gym at eight o’clock in the morning and come back for her at eight o’clock at night and she’d still be working hard,” says Robby. She loved the practice as much as competing—the thrill of nailing a move that only a handful of girls in the world could make.
But along the way Cassie had her own obstacles to overcome.
In December of ’89, Cassie was coming off a remarkable year. She had placed 13th in Canada her first year as a high performance senior (the highest class of amateur—Denice competes in the Open Class, 13- and 14-year-olds). But then, as she was performing a routine on bars, she slipped and tore ligaments in her back. For the next six months she was in pain, at first barely able to move. She rested, did all the right things, but Canadian nationals came and practice and competition were still painful.
She convinced her coaches and parents to let her compete anyway. The night before the meet, Cassie said a prayer that her back would be better. That morning, as she was warming up, her grandmother came up and said she had been fasting and praying for her, to help her through the competition.
“My back had hurt for all those months. It was hurting all the time. But at that moment it stopped.
“I’d always prayed before a competition, but that was the first time I realized Heavenly Father does answer our prayers, that he is there to help us get through the tough things in life.”
Although she missed most of the year due to her injury, she was able to place 13th again, one spot off the 12-person Canadian international traveling team.
From then on life and gymnastics were different. They meant even more. It was like the Lord was there, always, and it was through him that anything was possible.
Of course, there’s more than the gym in Cassie and Denice’s lives. Cassie attends seminary faithfully, and Denice starts this year. Both girls sing and play instruments. They enjoy attending Young Women. And there are friends and family.
Mom and Grandma take the girls to the gym and travel with them on trips. Little sister, Kirsten, is also in gymnastics, and the older girls enjoy helping her. And there’s Dad. Tony loves his family, but he has found he has his own obstacles. He’s a perfectionist—he admits it. Tony has always been a top athlete and he expects his children to win. So usually he stays away from the meets, not because he doesn’t care, but because he cares so much.
“I’m afraid that my presence will be too much—that they will perform to satisfy me, rather than themselves, and end up making a mistake.
“I’m a very hard person for them to have for a dad. I don’t actually know if they think I’m proud of them. I think Cassie knows.”
They know. Through time Dad has become less of a mystery. “I’m learning to deal with it,” says Denice. “It’s like other problems in life. You just take them one step at a time, just like learning a new move.”
You strive for excellence, but eventually you realize you can’t be perfect in everything you do, everything you try. You just have to do your best and accept that in others.
That includes accepting each other. In training they have put aside sisterly differences and offer encouragement.
“Believe it or not, they train together like friends, not sisters,” says their coach, Dan Niehaus, who supervises the girls’ 25 hours a week of training. “They transmit a good feeling to the younger girls in the gym. They make it a fun place to be.”
As for the future, it is rich with hope like the present, full of challenges and occasional victories. This year both girls are hoping to place well at nationals and realize a life-long dream, to make the Canadian traveling team.
“I think representing my country would be the best,” says Cassie. “Being at an international competition and having a Canada track suit on—the suits are really nice.”
All that seems so far from Lethbridge. But it started here on the southern Alberta plains—with the support of a family and a determination to do their best.
Outside, the prairies seem to stretch on forever. The persistent west wind always blows, twisting and dancing. Cassie and Denice know Lethbridge is a place, like any place, where anything is possible.

May I share with you an experience or two that I’ve had. Several years ago I was called to the Primary Children’s Medical Center to see a nine-year-old boy. Three days before, he had complained to his parents of headache and not feeling well. They had noted that his little body was hot; he had a fever. For three days they watched and waited and hoped that he would recover, but he became increasingly sick. On the day he was brought to the hospital he had lapsed into unconsciousness, and the family realized for the first time how really sick he was. At the hospital he was examined by the doctors. The laboratory tests and the X rays were done. Then, because bacterial or spinal meningitis was suspected, a little needle was put into his back so that they could obtain a sample of spinal fluid to make an examination. As that fluid came out through the hollow hub of the needle, instead of being crystal clear like spring water, it was cloudy. When the fluid was examined under the microscope, one could see the pus cells and the bacteria. Yes, indeed, he was critically ill with bacterial meningitis.

That evening as I left that little boy in his room—unconscious, blood pressure falling, intravenous fluids started, massive doses of penicillin being infused through the intravenous fluids—I had serious doubts that he would survive. I had doubts, if he did survive, that he would ever be normal.

Walking down the hall, I met that little boy’s mother and father. The father said, “Doctor Mason, will you assist us in administering to our boy?” So I went back into that room. There the father and I exercised our priesthood in behalf of the little fellow. The father anointed his son and then asked me if I would seal the anointing and give a blessing. As we laid our hands upon that little boy, the Spirit of the Holy Ghost whispered to me, “Promise him he will recover. Promise him he’ll have no aftereffects of this infection.” And so in the name of Jesus Christ and by the power of the holy Melchizedek Priesthood that I held, I promised that boy that he would be healed. I promised him that he would have no aftereffects. As I left that room the second time that evening (even though earlier I had had grave doubts), after that manifestation of the Spirit, I had an assurance that was much surer than medical science or previous experience. I knew that he would live. And indeed, he did. His recovery was uneventful and complete.

On the anniversary of my brother’s death, I reflected on my time since he died. I remembered not only the extreme pain I felt but also the blessings God gave to me.
I never understood how people could say that the death of a loved one could bring blessings. I couldn’t understand how I could possibly have joy and gratitude for something that hurt me so deeply. There was one night, however, that changed my perspective entirely.
I woke up in the middle of the night with the heaviest heart I’d ever had. The pain was suffocating me. I fell to my knees and sobbed a prayer to my Heavenly Father. All my life I had been taught about the Atonement and Jesus Christ’s miraculous healing power. Now my faith was being tested. Did I really believe? I asked my Father in Heaven to please heal my heart. The pain was too much for me to deal with alone.
Then a feeling of peace, comfort, and love swept over my entire body. I felt as though God had wrapped His arms around me and was protecting me from the intense pain I had felt. I still missed my brother, but I was able to see with different eyes. There was so much for me to learn from this experience.
I know the Lord’s love and peace are available. We need only to partake.

A sweet sister and friend in our ward recently lost her mother-in-law. I had visited with her on several occasions as funeral plans were being prepared, but at work one afternoon the day before the funeral, I had the distinct impression to give her a call. I was working on a project that I wanted to finish and tried to push the thought away. But the prompting came again, and I stopped, dialed her number and had a very special visit with her over the phone. She later told me that she was feeling especially low and just needed someone to talk to.

I think these are the kinds of “promptings” the Lord gives us quite often, if we have our “ears tuned” to hear. Our Heavenly Father knows each one of us and gives us that “comforting hug” through one of his children who are his “instruments” here on the earth. I would encourage you to record these special occasions in your journals to reference and share with your posterity at a future time.

My friend Arnaldo and I both served missions for the Church, but after our missions, I was less active in the Church for almost 10 years. Arnaldo paid for my subscription to the Liahona (Spanish) year after year. His faith has been rewarded. I am again active, have a calling, and have had the blessing of returning to the temple, thanks to Arnaldo and the Liahona.
Alberto Tejada ChacónHunter Ward, Arequipa Peru Central Stake

We shouldn’t have a problem with masturbation. I know one fine father who interviewed his 11-year-old son and he said, “Son, if you never masturbate, the time will come in your life when you will be able to sit in front of your bishop at age 19, and say to him, ‘I have never done that in my life,’ and then you can go to the stake president when you are interviewed for your mission and tell him, ‘I have never done that in my life.’ And you would be quite a rare young man.”

The father again interviewed the young man, who is now 18 years old, and he asked the son about masturbation. The son said, “I have never done that in my life. You told me, Dad, that if I didn’t do that, I would be able to sit in front of the bishop and stake president and tell them I had never done it, and I would be a rare young man, and I am going to be able to do it.”

One regret I have is that I never sat down with my paternal grandmother to talk about her life and record her memories for posterity. After her death my father and uncles would tell me how unimpressed she was with herself and that she even asked on occasion, “Why would anyone want to know about me?”
When financial difficulties forced my family to move into Grandma’s old house, a flood of happy memories came rushing back, along with the regret. One night a few days after moving in, I looked through several of my grandmother’s old photo albums and a box of keepsakes, which included old letters my uncle had written, old temple recommends, and even my grandfather’s funeral program. After looking at this memorabilia, I wondered if there was more.
I felt impressed to look in the attic and was immediately led to a sack that contained an old blue binder that looked destined for the trash can. In that binder I discovered the beginning of a life story my grandmother had written 30 years before. I found out later, to my astonishment, that no one in the family even knew it existed. My father and uncles were right—Grandma was so unimpressed with herself that she didn’t even tell anyone she had started writing a life story!
That night I read every single word on those eight pages, and as I did, I learned a lot about my grandma—what life was like for her in high school, how she met my grandfather, and how hard it was for her to close the movie theater she and my grandfather had operated together.
I felt her presence as I read those pages, as if she were telling me not to worry any longer about not completing the oral history I had intended to do. Reading about my grandmother’s life in her own hand was absolutely priceless and lessened the regret I had been feeling for so long. It was a reassurance of the Lord’s tender mercies and a testament that family history isn’t just finding out about ancestors we did not know in this life. It’s also about discovering more about those we love dearly and with whom we spent precious time here on earth.