Gospel Story Finder

May I share some experiences of people who have obtained a remarkable felicity in their lives. For well over fifty years our family has been close to little Ella Hoover, who sits down in front of me in a wheelchair with her red cape over her shoulders. She is presently living with a favorite aunt in Delta, Utah. Delta is quite a place. I was born there. It’s near Hinckley. It takes Brother Gordon B. Hinckley and all his eloquence to do justice to either Delta or Hinckley. Brother Hinckley says he can’t understand why certain Utah towns like Faust, Utah, and Hinckley, Utah, have not prospered as well as some others like Murray and Ogden.

Ella is a remarkably happy and outgoing woman who is only a little over two feet tall. While still an infant, she was playfully thrown in the air by someone who failed to catch her properly, so that she fell to the ground and suffered injuries which resulted in a permanent deformity to her back and her arms and her legs. Despite these crippling physical deformities, she grew up, went to school, and attended Brigham Young University for a time. Because of the sweetness of her spirit, her great personal charm, her fine intelligence, and her happy disposition, she won the love of and married a completely normal, full-sized man. Through a miracle as great as any miracle that ever happened, she was able to conceive and carry and bear a normal child, whom they named Billy, after his father, and who is also here with us tonight.

One day before Billy was three, the Bill Hoover family was riding in their car in west Salt Lake County and the tire went flat. The father, Bill Hoover, pulled his car over to the side of the road and got out to check the wheels. In the process, a driver drunk with wine came along and struck the Hoover car and killed Bill Hoover instantly. Somehow this young widow, who never walked a step in her life without pain and without a crutch, raised this son to be an exemplary man. He in turn married and in time became a father in his own right and raised up four grandchildren to the great joy and delight of little Ella Hoover. This remarkable woman, despite all these obstacles, difficulties, and heartaches, is and has been an extremely faithful, well-adjusted, noble woman. Now in her seventies, she blesses the lives of all who meet and know her because she gives so very much of one commodity—herself. Hers has been an odyssey of faith without bitterness, in which she has found great happiness through tears and pain and sorrow.

On a rainy day on our campus, President Holland—then BYU’s ninth president—saw a student caught in the downpour. The student’s name was Matt. President Holland rolled down his car window and beckoned Matt to come over. Sister Holland was in the car as well, and the Hollands offered Matt a ride home.

Unbeknownst to the Hollands, Matt was uncertain about his future and didn’t know if he could “make it.” But as they drove Matt to his apartment—in the very same complex where President and Sister Holland had themselves once lived—he opened up about his worries, and they assured Matt he could and he would make it.

“Matt, part of your problem is that you don’t believe,” President Holland finally put it bluntly.

“Oh, I’m not talking about your testimony,” he went on. Rather, “you just believe that God will work His mighty miracles for everyone but you.”

And then President Holland underscored the point: “You gotta believe, Matt. You gotta believe.”13

Elder Matthew O. Richardson would go on to serve as BYU’s advancement vice president, as a mission leader together with his wife, Lisa, as a member of the Sunday School general presidency, and now as an Area Seventy. Elder Richardson teaches on our faculty as a professor of Church history and doctrine.

I’ve also learned that the more good you do, the closer the Holy Spirit is to you. I often help people on the street if they are carrying lots of things. Recently, I saw this woman carrying some items on her head. I didn’t know the woman or anything about her, but I walked up to her and asked if I could help. She accepted, so I took some of the things she was carrying.
When we got to her house, I found out that she is a baker. At that time, I was not working, and I needed a way to save up some extra money. She didn’t know that I needed work. Out of the blue, she told me that she wanted someone to help her bake bread in exchange for pay. She offered me specific times that fit perfectly in my busy schedule. I don’t think it was a coincidence but a blessing from God for helping others. To me, this was Heavenly Father saying, “My boy, I see the good that you’ve been doing!”

By the time I was old enough to understand what alcohol was, I knew my mom had a problem with it. Family members tried to hide her issue from my sister and me, but they could only conceal the early-morning binges and hangovers for so long.
Our mom was an alcoholic—and no excuse or elaborate story could change that.
As a young girl, I believed that addiction was a choice. I felt burned then each time my mom walked through our door with the scent of liquor on her breath after promising to let it go. It was like she didn’t want to change. But years of her painful tears, failed attempts, and crashing withdrawals taught me otherwise.
When I was in middle school, I began to realize that my mom’s addiction wouldn’t “go gentle into that good night,” as poet Dylan Thomas once wrote1—and not because she didn’t want to change. It wasn’t about the lack of willpower on her part or that she was choosing alcohol over her family. She was trapped in her addiction.
As President Russell M. Nelson explained: “Addiction surrenders later freedom to choose. Through chemical means, one can literally become disconnected from his or her own will!”2 Finding recovery would be a fight between her body and spirit for years to come.
After she had achieved six months of sobriety, I started to recognize my mom again—the one who used to dance in the car and write beautiful poetry and tell embarrassing jokes to all of my friends. It was as if someone behind the scenes suddenly switched back on the light in her eyes and was working overtime to keep it on. She hadn’t been sober for that long in years, and it felt good to have her back.
But it didn’t last. One night, before she had the chance to speak, my sister and I knew. Her glazed eyes and blushed cheeks said it all: after six months and four days, she had relapsed. For a moment, we considered walking out of the door, away from the worry and fear, but we knew that she wanted to change. We couldn’t do it for her, but we could support her as she walked the road to recovery.
Over the next few months, my sister and I looked for ways to help my mom keep pushing forward toward long-term sobriety. It wouldn’t be easy, but she had done it once, and we knew she could do it again.
Having witnessed my mom go through withdrawals before, we knew what to expect, so we gathered all of the liquor and wine bottles that we could find and dumped them down the drain. Then we stocked up on Gatorade at the grocery store and deep-cleaned the house; it was our best attempt to remove my mom from the environment that she was in when she relapsed.
After a few days, my mom was well enough to go back to work, but we knew the fight wasn’t over. Up until that point, the depth of her addiction was hidden from most of our family and friends. Over the years, it had become somewhat of a secret—a source of shame, something that social science researcher Brené Brown explains “derives its power from being unspeakable.”3 If we wanted her to stay sober, we needed to break the silence.
Deciding to open up to our family and some trusted friends was hard, but it was also liberating. Shame “corrodes the very part of us that believes we can change and do better,”4 so the very act of talking about her addiction gave my mom (and me!) hope again. We weren’t alone, and for the first time in years, we started to picture a life unruled by her addiction.
I’m not going to try to sugarcoat it: maintaining hope isn’t always easy. For years I supported my mom as she tried to get sober, but I would be lying if I said I didn’t experience sadness, disappointment, and frustration along the way. Speaking of the difficult journey one faces to overcome addiction, President Nelson explained: “Each one who resolves to climb that steep road to recovery must gird up for the fight of a lifetime. But a lifetime is a prize well worth the price.”5
Throughout my life, my mom has fallen down more times than I can count, but I’m proud to say that it’s been six years since she took a drink. Though it has taken me years of learning and relearning how to best support her, watching her recover has taught me that no one is ever too far gone. No matter how many times the person you love relapses, keep going—keep trying to support them in whatever way you can. Recovery is a lifelong commitment—a journey filled with tears, victories, failures, and triumphs—and it’s worth fighting for.

In reading that letter I began to discover the delights and blessings of being the child of missionary parents. When I served a mission in my youth, I understood on some level that my family loved the letters I wrote them. But at that somewhat selfish age, I didn’t appreciate how eager my family was for my success or how much prayer and worry they invested in my mission.
Now the tables were turned. I was pleasantly surprised to find myself rifling through the mail each day for missionary news, devouring every line. I soon noticed that our family prayers took on a new urgency. Our children no longer prayed the generic, “Please bless the missionaries.” They prayed the specific, “Please bless Grandma and Grandpa on their mission.”

“I was with President Harold B. Lee in the hospital at the time of his sudden death. President Marion G. Romney, a counselor in the First Presidency, and President Spencer W. Kimball, of the Quorum of the Twelve, arrived and waited while the doctors did what they could. When it was announced that President Lee had died, President Romney turned to President Kimball and said, ‘President Kimball, what would you like me to do?’ In that moment—simply and without any doubts or questions—the leadership of the Church quietly changed hands in that hospital waiting room. It was a moment I shall never forget.”

Daniel stared out the window. He saw his friends heading to the park with their basketballs. He wanted to go too.
““I can’t take you today, Daniel,” Mom said. “Your sister has a bad cold. And you’re not quite old enough to go alone. I’m sorry.”
Daniel frowned at his sister, Elise. She was sitting in her wheelchair with her toys on her lap. She was five, but she couldn’t walk or talk yet. Elise coughed hard. She got sick a lot, and she couldn’t go outside if it was too hot or too cold. And she had to eat through a tube in her stomach.
Daniel loved his sister, but sometimes he felt angry too. It was hard to always do what was best for Elise. He just wanted to play with the other kids. His stomach knotted in frustration.
“It’s not fair!” he said to Mom. “Everything is always about Elise!” He ran down the hall to his room.
Two days later Elise’s cough got much worse, and she had to go to the hospital. Daniel’s grandparents came to stay with him. Mom and Dad spent most of their time at the hospital with Elise for the rest of the week.
Daniel’s grandparents could take him to play with the other kids. But now Daniel was worried about Elise. He was sorry for what he had said to his mom that day. He didn’t like how sometimes he couldn’t go play because of Elise. But Daniel loved how she smiled when he talked to her, and being with her made him feel happy.
Daniel looked out the window, hoping to see Mom and Dad bringing Elise home.
Suddenly Daniel saw Mom’s car turn into the driveway. He ran to meet her.
“Mom, I’m sorry for what I said about Elise that day I got mad,” he said, hugging her tight.
“It’s OK,” Mom said as she hugged him back. “I know you love her. It doesn’t seem fair that we can’t always do the things you want to do. It’s hard sometimes for everybody. But I know we are blessed to have Elise in our family.”
Daniel said, “I miss her.”
“Me too,” said Mom. “The doctor said she can probably come home tomorrow.”
Two weeks later Daniel and Elise were both in Primary.
“Everyone find a partner and form a circle!” the Primary president said.
Daniel hurried forward and grabbed his sister’s wheelchair.
“Elise is my partner,” he told her teacher. He wheeled her up front to join the circle of children.
He looked over at Elise. She smiled at him, and he smiled back.
Daniel was glad Elise could be home again. He wanted to be a special brother to her.

But let me contrast the difference in the approach of the Donner party with that of a band of Mormon pioneers crossing the Atlantic. William Clayton sailed from England to America in 1840 with a host of new converts. You know his name, for he later wrote the classic hymn “Come, Come Ye Saints.” The words are a testimony of his understanding of adversity as part of the eternal plan. After arriving in Nauvoo, Clayton wrote home to his fellow Saints in England and said:

We have sometimes almost suffocated with heat . . . sometimes almost froze with cold. We have had to sleep on boards instead of feathers, and on boxes which was worse. We have had our clothes wet through without the privilege of drying them or changing them. We have had to sleep out-of-doors in very severe weather. Don’t suppose for a moment that all will be peace and ease. . . . These are days of tribulation and we must endure our portion. [And then he continued,] If you will be faithful you have nothing to fear from the journey. The Lord will take care of his saints. [William Clayton, letter from Commerce, 10 December 1840, Church Archives]

Church members in London celebrated the anniversary by helping clean up Tottenham, a city that experienced the August 2011 riots. In a regional park, volunteers weeded, built flower beds, and cleared litter.
Members also served at a children’s hospice, where they cleaned garden pathways and made the hospice grounds more accommodating to the children and their families. Charlotte Illera helped coordinate the project. “It was really hard work, but it was really sort of joyful work as well,” she said. “Even a little thing like sweeping up can be such a benefit. You don’t need to have any great skills. Just little things can make a difference to other people.”
Rudi Champagnie shared his view on the inspiration behind the First Presidency’s invitation to serve: “I think this revelation was to bring us closer together—to bring us out in the community, to meet new people.” He continued, “To see the Church getting involved in the community is a wonderful thing. To be a part of it is even more special. It has strengthened my testimony, and it has given me the desire to do more.”

As I went into surgery a few years ago, I was still conscious when the doctors and nurses were standing around me waiting, I said to the specialist, “There are numerous people full of faith who are praying for you this morning.” He quietly replied, “I’ll need their prayers.” It is my firm conviction that the numerous prayers were heard, that his hand was steadied and guided, that his judgment increased, and that as a result of the blessings of the Lord, healing followed and my voice returned to a satisfactory extent. The skeptic might have other answers.

I was reared as a Quaker, in the Society of Friends. Some branches of my family had been in the Society from its very beginnings in the mid-seventeenth century. Some suffered years of imprisonment for their faith. (Incidentally, I had to join the Mormon Church and do genealogy to find that out.)
As a Quaker, my father had a testimony against war, and so during the first world war he became a farmhand and we lived for a while in a little village that felt resentment against us because their men of military age were at the war. The boys used to torment my younger sister and me, and because of this I could not go to the village school—my mother and father taught me at home.
We were taught to be against dancing, the cinema, alcohol, and betting and gambling (including speculating on the stock exchange). As a result I learned that we were not of the world, and that we had enjoyments other than the world’s enjoyments. I interpreted that, as a child might well do, as looking down on people (I must have been a prig).
But Quaker meetings also taught me something of the Holy Spirit. Quakers believe in the inner light, and in my early teens I learned how it felt to be compelled from within to get up and speak, no matter how much one struggled against it.
However, I became dissatisfied with Quakerism. My family was poor, and I felt the condescension of members who were prosperous tradespeople and professionals. There were few working-class members of the Society of Friends. I was especially sensitive because the Society supported my widowed mother. I felt that there were class distinctions among the Friends.
Quakers shared a spirit, but to me it seemed too vague a spirit. It led to humane action, but the action seemed to me not vigorous enough. Their God had no body, parts, and passions. They lacked dogma, something firm I could depend on to help answer my own and others’ questionings. When I went to Cambridge in 1928, I found a generation trying to make the experience of literature and the other arts a substitute for religion. The text was Arnold’s statement that “religion has attached itself to the fact, and now the fact is failing it; but for poetry the idea is everything.” The little book that most characteristically enshrines this view is I. A. Richards’s Science and Poetry. The view was, however, an essentially individualistic one; it lacked the force to make a group cohere. There was a group—around Leavis’s periodical Scrutiny—that had a good deal of influence and effectively enforced the relationship of art and morality; but we were at sea, and though we could learn about winds and tides, there was no anchor aboard, and we had no destination.
At this point, I should like to say a few words about three important writers and their attitudes toward religion: William Butler Yeats, D. H. Lawrence, and T. S. Eliot.
Yeats used myths and images as a box of magical toys, and we cannot take his use seriously. However, he did show us a way of seeing the whole world and the whole of history in terms of images; and though he was not serious about it, we can be for our own serious purposes.
Lawrence had a disturbed life. He was restless because he could never find what he wanted, and he would not face his illness until the last. But he taught something of the sanctity and tenderness of the right relationship between man and woman in marriage, idealized from his own not very satisfactory experience. And he had a profound instinct about the need for a patriarchal community (his own family was very matriarchal) and for the priesthood. There are strong but dark shadowings of this in Aaron’s Rod, Kangaroo, and The Plumed Serpent.
Eliot was a sensitive and truthful seeker. He taught the value of exactitude in religious experience: “The spirit killeth, but the letter giveth life,” meaning that dogma is better than vague, liberal goodwill. And he well understood the step to conversion: “The awful daring of a moment’s surrender … costing not less than everything.” But his Christianity, with its royalism and Anglo-Catholicism, was a kind of seventeenth-century pastiche. His social outlook was limited and led him into snobbery (see Notes Towards a Definition of Culture). And his conversion liberated him in some ways and desiccated him in others.
At one time I investigated the Anglican Church. I attended a village church for some years. While I appreciated the hymns and the ritual, I could not join; there was nothing to join—no community of the church, no true social group, no force. The upper class tended to go to morning service and the lower class to evening service.
Like Eliot, they were pretending in a mock world, with—like him—some seventeenth-century pastiche as well as some Victorian pastiche dear to their own hearts.
After I had left Cambridge, there came to that university, as to others, the wave of Marxist thought characteristic of the thirties. Marxists deny God, but devout Communists—among whom were some of my friends—taught me something of faith: that faith must issue in energy, force, determination, organization. Faith is not content to leave things as they are, but wishes to change them for the better, both inside and outside oneself.
The quality of my friends’ faith may have been very good, but its object was deception. The Stalin trials, the Russo-German Pact of 1939, and the suppression of Hungary in 1956 were fatal blows to faith. Nothing was left but disillusion—or else self-deception—for idealistic Marxists. They found themselves in a wasteland; they knew the kind of bitter disappointment that Wordsworth experienced in the French Revolution. “Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive”; but it was just being alive and young, the excitement of animal spirits, no more. History has only savage answers to those who do not believe it to be a process of incarnation.
In the fifties, I lived for seven years in Islamic countries in Persia and Pakistan. Islam resembles Mormonism and Judaism in legislating for the organization of the whole community. The original social function of polygamy in Islam—that of providing status for spinsters and widows—helps an outsider to understand, sympathize with, and ultimately, as a member, accept the historical and eternal function of polygamy in the Latter-day Saint Church.
But Allah is remote, arbitrary, and all spirit to the Muslims. His ways are not to be understood by man, but are accepted with resignation. That he could have a body is blasphemy. History is not a process of incarnation to the Mohammedan, good historians though some of them once were. And the drive has irretrievably gone out of Islam.
I have had some experience with other religions: Hinduism, with its admirable regard for the family but its vague superstitions and continued social prejudice; and Buddhism, which in its proper form is a matter of intense spiritual discipline, has no place for a personal God, and advocates the absorption of human personality into the infinite, not its intensification through eternity. Each world religion has fatal flaws; each has in it something that points us toward and prepares us for acceptance of our Church.
So I was ready for the truth when, in 1966, my second cousin—now my wife—stopped at my door in the course of a genealogical hunt, introduced herself, and within a day or so had borne her testimony. She and the ever-ready missionaries told me what I was prepared to hear, though I had heard none of it before.
I had my difficulties as I began to relate the gospel to the world around us. But the more I learned of the gospel, the more I realized that it was wholly true, whereas much learned explanation was partial and uncertain. Facts we must accept, and know that our faith is never ultimately incompatible with them; interpretations remain a matter of continued discussion—a good scientist will always agree, too, that science does not promulgate immutable laws, but presents temporary explanations. The immutable laws remain those revealed for governing conduct, not the transient explanations of physical fact.
But all difficulties of this kind are resolved by the determination to enter the Church and accept it as a whole—all of it. It belongs together, and conversion is a matter not of choosing what you like and ignoring the rest, but of wholehearted, whole-minded acceptance.
Once we have been converted and have laid down at Christ’s feet whatever talents and tools we may possess, we find ourselves able to take them up again and use them for the Church in his name and in the light of his countenance.
I know that God lives. I have always known it. But I now know that he has a body, parts, and passions, for we are made in his image, and we may become like him. He lives in and through history. His Son was incarnate man and has now the flesh and bone that we too shall inherit after the resurrection. This is profoundly satisfying dogma.
I know that the Church is true. Its social organization and utter indifference to class distinctions vouch for this at the superficial level. But this organization could not be maintained were it not for the urge behind, the religious drive. I do not believe with Jonathan Swift that religion is just a good means of keeping society in order.
I know that Joseph Smith was a prophet of God. He speaks to me, a stylistician, in his own prose as a transparently sincere and matter-of-fact writer.
I know, therefore, that the Book of Mormon is an inspired translation and that the Doctrine and Covenants is revelation. They are quite different from Joseph Smith’s prose and significantly different from the Bible and from each other. They are unique. They could not have been invented by a man of Joseph Smith’s knowledge and training.
I know that there is a prophet upon the earth today, for there has to be succession and continuity. If Joseph Smith was a true prophet, then he had to be succeeded to maintain the revelation. As our prophet is sustained by our Father, so is he sustained by ourselves. Our Father blesses him, and through him the whole of the Church; and therefore we continue to accept and sustain him.
I believe in the work for the dead. The hearts of the fathers and the children may and must be turned to one another. The family goes back through history. It is not simply our nearest and dearest that are our concern, but our furthest and dearest. We want to learn as much as we can about them. I therefore believe in temple work. And only through regular temple work can a marriage be sanctified and become an eternal partnership on this earth.
I have come from the outside wilderness home. I carry with me throughout the day the sense of prayer. The whole world is sanctified unto the Most High, and “everything that lives is holy.”

Jeremy couldn’t see what all the fuss was about, just because his older sister Michelle was probably about to get married. He was, of course, glad in a way, because it meant he could have her room. Also, he had hopes her future husband would be like a brother to him. Jeremy needed that. He felt like he’d been dominated by women and girls his whole life. He was the youngest and the only boy in a family of four girls. Michelle, the next youngest, was five years older than he was and had been his chief baby-sitter as he grew up.
There was a time when they hadn’t gotten along. It began when Jeremy was eight years old and lasted for five years, until Michelle went off to college. During that time, Jeremy resented being ordered around by Michelle. “You’re not my mother,” he used to say.
After Michelle left for college, Jeremy and Michelle didn’t see each other much. But at least when she came home for Christmas her freshman year, she was sort of nice to him. That was a big improvement over what it had been.
Now, after two years at college, Michelle was about to be engaged. When she brought Christopher Kent home to meet the family, Jeremy had never seen her act so strange. When she saw Jeremy, she tousled his hair like they were, … well, brother and sister, which, technically of course, they were.
“Christopher Kent, huh?” Jeremy said. “Are you any relation to Clark? Are you like Superman in disguise? Can you leap buildings?”
“Don’t mind Jeremy,” Michelle said quickly.
“That’s all right,” Christopher said. “People say that to me all the time.”
Jeremy felt bad for Christopher because he could tell Michelle was putting on this big act to make him think she was a nice person. But Jeremy knew better.
“Has she ever grabbed your ear and pinched it when she wants you to do something?” Jeremy asked Christopher.
“Well, no, actually she hasn’t,” Christopher said slowly.
“She used to do that to me all the time. It really hurts.”
“I used to baby-sit Jeremy when he was little,” Michelle said with a pained smile on her face.
“She was really mean to me,” Jeremy added.
For one brief instant the old fire returned. “You deserved it, Jeremy.”
“What did I do?” Jeremy asked, trying his version of an angelic smile.
Jeremy was baiting Michelle to see if she’d lose her cool. He wanted Christopher to see the mean Michelle who had tormented him so much when he was younger.
Fortunately for her, Michelle displayed unusual self-control. “It wasn’t much, really, just little things,” she said with a kindly smile.
“You mean like the time I reset the timer when you were in the backyard trying to get a tan, so you got a real bad sunburn just before the junior prom?”
For Christopher’s benefit, Michelle smiled and said, “Jeremy always liked to play little jokes on me.”
For the rest of the evening, Michelle kept Christopher away from Jeremy. But Jeremy had a plan. He waited until Christopher had gone to the guest bedroom for the night, and then he went to the door and knocked.
Christopher opened the door.
“We need to talk,” Jeremy said.
“All right. Come in.”
“Actually, I was thinking maybe I could talk better if you took me out and bought me something to eat.”
“Really? Well, all right.”
“I’m kind of in the mood for pancakes,” Jeremy said.
It was not until he had finished one stack of pancakes at the all-you-can-eat pancake house that Jeremy began to talk seriously with Christopher. “Are you going to marry my sister?”
“Yes. We’re going to announce it in a couple of weeks, so don’t tell anyone. Okay?”
“That’s what I thought. See, the thing is, I don’t understand why you’d want to marry Michelle.”
“I’m in love with her.”
Jeremy shook his head. “That is so weird. Why would you want to marry Michelle? There’s lots more girls out there.”
“She’s beautiful and talented and …”
Jeremy stopped Christopher. “Hold on. You think she’s beautiful?”
“Yes, don’t you?”
“She used to spread this gunk on her face at night. I think it was made from guacamole. And she used to hang all this stuff to dry in the bathroom. It was like I had to hack my way through a jungle sometimes just to get in there to brush my teeth.”
Christopher laughed. “Really? You know, I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t be happy we’re having this little conversation.”
“Do you think she’s a nice person?” Jeremy asked.
“Yes.”
“She’s not, not really. Oh, sure, she puts on this big act for you, but you should have seen the way she treated me when I was little. She called me a little brat.”
“And you never did anything to earn that title?”
Jeremy smiled, “Well, maybe once or twice.”
“I thought so.”
“You’re a normal guy, aren’t you? I mean, you like football and basketball and pizza, right?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Did you play any sports in high school?”
“Soccer.”
“Really? I play soccer.”
“There you go then.”
“Did you go on a mission?” Jeremy asked.
“Yes.”
“That’s good. I’d want the guy who marries Michelle to have served a mission.”
“Are you going to serve a mission?”
“I guess so.”
“Good for you. It was the best thing I ever did.”
“Are you going to marry my sister in the temple?” Jeremy asked.
“Yes.”
“That’s good.”
“Do you know what getting married in the temple means?”
“It means forever.”
“That’s right.”
Jeremy paused for a minute trying to let his mind grasp the concept of eternity. “This is so weird. I don’t understand any of this. I mean one day she goes off to college, and the next she’s back here about to get married.”
“People change,” Christopher said.
“I guess so. I just wasn’t ready for it, that’s all.”
They had finished eating. Christopher paid the bill, and they walked out to the car.
“Can I ask you a question?” Jeremy asked as they pulled onto the street.
“Sure.”
“You will treat her okay, won’t you?” Jeremy asked.
“I will, Jeremy, I promise.”
“The reason I asked is … well, even though we didn’t always get along, she is my sister, and she wasn’t mean to me all the time. Sometimes she helped me a lot. Like I could ask her questions about things that were happening in school. She’d gone through it all before, so she knew a lot of things. She helped me know what teachers to get, and what to say when people were trying to get me to make some bad choices. One time she went to one of my games, and I really messed up and lost the game, but she stuck up for me in front of the whole team. Then she took me out and bought me something to eat, and we sat in the car and talked, and she said I’d done my best and that’s all that mattered. One time when I got kicked out of class for talking back to one of the teachers, she came to my room and just listened to me, and she didn’t say I’d done wrong. She just listened to me. That meant a lot to me, but I never told her … but I should’ve … and now you’re going to take her away … just when we were starting to get along. But see, the thing is, I still need her.”
“I’m not taking her to Mars. She’ll still be around. You can still ask her advice.”
“But she’ll be an old married lady.”
“She’ll still be your sister, no matter what. She’ll still love you.”
Jeremy gasped. “You think she loves me?”
“I know she does. She talked about you on the first date we ever had.”
“What did she say about me?”
“She told me about the time in high school when she had a date, and you went out and changed the number on your house, so the guy drove around for an hour trying to find your place.”
Jeremy smiled, “Yeah, those were the good old days.”
“Jeremy, I think you need to tell her how much she means to you.”
“I could never do that.”
“Why not?”
“She’d have a heart attack or something,” Jeremy said.
“I think you ought to risk it.”
“What would I say?” Jeremy asked.
“Just tell her what you told me.”
Jeremy thought about it. “I guess I could do that.”
They drove back home.
“Do you think I’ll ever be like you?” Jeremy asked.
“I’m sure you will.”
“This is so weird.”
“It’s not weird. It happens all the time. Let’s go in and get Michelle up so you can talk to her.”
“Tonight,” Jeremy asked, feeling himself getting panicky.
“It has to be tonight. We’re leaving in the morning.”
Jeremy felt nervous. “I’m not sure how to do this.”
“Just do it the same way you did with me.”
Fifteen minutes later, Jeremy and his sister left to go get some pancakes. After that night it was months before Jeremy could look another pancake in the eye.
But at least he finally told his sister he loved her.

Dr. Neal Halfon, a physician who directs the UCLA Center for Healthier Children, Families, and Communities, refers to “parental benign neglect.” One example involved an 18-month-old and his parents:
“‘Their son seemed happy, active and engaged, clearly enjoying time and pizza with his parents. … At the end of dinner, Mom got up to run an errand, handing over care to Dad.’
“Dad … started reading phone messages while the toddler struggled to get his attention by throwing bits of pizza crust. Then the dad re-engaged, facing his child and playing with him. Soon, though, he substituted watching a video on his phone with the toddler until his wife returned.
“… [Dr.] Halfon observed a dimming of the child’s internal light, a lessening of the connection between parent and child.”5

During the administration of President George Albert Smith, there lived in our ward an impoverished widow who cared for her three mature daughters, each of whom was an invalid. They were large in size and almost totally helpless. To this dear woman fell the task to bathe, to feed, to dress, and to care for her girls. Means were limited. Outside help was nonexistent. Then came the blow that the house she rented was to be sold. What was she to do? Where would she go? The bishop came to the Church Office Building to inquire if there were some way the house could be purchased. It was so small, the price so reasonable. The request was considered, then denied.
A heartsick bishop was leaving the front door of the building when he met President George Albert Smith. After the exchange of greetings, President Smith inquired, “What brings you to the headquarters building?” He listened carefully as the bishop explained, but said nothing. He then excused himself for a few minutes. He returned wearing a smile and directed, “Go upstairs to the fourth floor. A check is waiting there for you. Buy the house!”
“But the request was denied.”
Again he smiled and said, “It has just been reconsidered and approved.” The home was purchased. That dear widow lived there and cared for her daughters until each of them had passed away. Then she, too, went home to God and to her heavenly reward.

“Melanie and I just celebrated our 50th wedding anniversary with our family, walking in the paths of the land that our Savior made holy.
“Because this was a family trip—and not an official Church assignment—I wanted to be a dad and husband but also fulfill my calling as an Apostle to be a special witness of the Lord, wherever I may be. I prayed that God would put experiences and people in my path so I could be an instrument in His hands—and He heard my prayers.
“One such example was with a group of young humanitarian volunteers. We unexpectedly ran into most of the members of this group at Caesarea Philippi. I testified to them that as the Apostles of old proclaimed there that Jesus was indeed the Christ and the Son of the living God, I too could bear my solemn witness of the same. And I humbly do so!
“The next day, I began my morning with the prayer that if I could be put in the path of anyone who needed my love or testimony, then I would be properly directed. The location where we had planned to go for lunch was closed, so we went somewhere else. Not long after we sat down, the full group of young humanitarian volunteers from the day before entered as well. Their lunch plans had also been rerouted. We learned that one of the young men had cried the night before because he had missed the chance to meet an Apostle. Both of our prayers were heard, and God orchestrated our paths to cross—for the one.
“God hears our prayers. He answers the one. By divine design, He directs the details of our lives. He loves each and every one of us so very much. Just as Jesus Christ ministered to those in the Holy Land 2,000 years ago, He does the same for us today, wherever we are.
“I am grateful to be a witness to His power and His love, to make all things possible to them that believe. May it be so for each of us as we place our lives and hopes in His hands.”

Not long after we were married, we built our first home. We had very little money. I did much of the work myself. It would be called “sweat equity” today. The landscaping was entirely my responsibility. The first of many trees that I planted was a thornless honey locust. Envisioning the day when its filtered shade would assist in cooling the house in the summertime, I put it in a place at the corner where the wind from the canyon to the east blew the hardest. I dug a hole, put in the bare root, put soil around it, poured on water, and largely forgot it. It was only a wisp of a tree, perhaps three-quarters of an inch in diameter. It was so supple that I could bend it with ease in any direction. I paid little attention to it as the years passed.
Then one winter day, when the tree was barren of leaves, I chanced to look out the window at it. I noticed that it was leaning to the west, misshapen and out of balance. I could scarcely believe it. I went out and braced myself against it as if to push it upright. But the trunk was now nearly a foot in diameter. My strength was as nothing against it. I took from my toolshed a block and tackle. Attaching one end to the tree and another to a well-set post, I pulled the rope. The pulleys moved a little, and the trunk of the tree trembled slightly. But that was all. It seemed to say, “You can’t straighten me. It’s too late. I’ve grown this way because of your neglect, and I will not bend.”
Finally in desperation I took my saw and cut off the great heavy branch on the west side. The saw left an ugly scar, more than eight inches across. I stepped back and surveyed what I had done. I had cut off the major part of the tree, leaving only one branch growing skyward.
More than half a century has passed since I planted that tree. My daughter and her family live there now. The other day I looked again at the tree. It is large. Its shape is better. It is a great asset to the home. But how serious was the trauma of its youth and how brutal the treatment I used to straighten it.
When it was first planted, a piece of string would have held it in place against the forces of the wind. I could have and should have supplied that string with ever so little effort. But I did not, and it bent to the forces that came against it.

Timmy was so excited! Today was his first day in school. His teacher, Mr. Griffin, showed everyone the classroom and then they went outside. Mr. Griffin told the children that the small playground outside their classroom was just for them. The bigger playground on the other side of the school yard was for the older children.
Mr. Griffin asked Timmy’s class to stay on the small playground. If they didn’t, they might not hear or see Mr. Griffin calling them to return to class. After everyone promised to stay in the small playground, they went to play.
Timmy met lots of children in his class. He played on the slides and swings and then found a ball to play with. He kicked the ball as far as he could. He laughed and chased it. He didn’t notice that each time he kicked the ball, he got closer to the older children’s playground.
After a while, Timmy wanted to ask his new friends to kick the ball with him. But when he looked up, all the children around him were bigger than he was! Timmy looked back and saw that the small playground on the other side of the school yard was empty. His class must have gone back inside already! He ran back as fast as he could.
He went to the door and tried to open it. It was locked. Timmy was scared. He decided to pray. He closed his eyes, bowed his head, and said, “Heavenly Father, I’m scared out here all by myself. Please help me find a way back to my classroom. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
After his prayer, Timmy’s fear was gone. He felt calm. He tried the door again, and the handle turned. The door opened, and there was Mr. Griffin, looking for him.
Timmy was very happy to get back to his classroom. He was even happier to know that Heavenly Father loved him enough to calm his fears and answer his prayer. Timmy knew the peace that filled his heart while he was alone on the playground was Heavenly Father’s love. He said a silent prayer, thanking Heavenly Father for helping him. After that day, Timmy stayed on his playground and remembered to pray when he needed help.

Diligence is persisting in doing something in spite of opposition.1 Dora first learned how important—and how difficult—diligence can be after she was baptized in 1998.
When Dora was 17, she and her younger sister Alicia were baptized—helping lead to the growth of the Church in the islands of the Uros. About a month later, however, their father forbade them from having anything to do with the Church.
But something odd happened to the girls. They were suddenly less pleasant to be around and more likely to argue. Their father realized that during the time they were participating in Church activities, they had changed for the better.
“It changed his mind,” Dora says. “He began waking us up early to make sure we got to church on time.”
Dora attributes the change the gospel made in their lives to small things she and Alicia did regularly, like paying tithing, praying, studying the scriptures, keeping the Sabbath day holy, and renewing their covenants weekly by taking the sacrament.
Later, having seen for himself the changes that come from faith and diligence,2 Dora’s father joined the Church along with the rest of the family.

by Cathe Chapman
The memory of piles and piles of crushed granite remains in the minds of 70 youth from the Mesa Arizona Stake. As a service project in conjunction with their youth conference, they gathered at 5:30 in the morning at the Ho Ho Kam Park, winter home of the Chicago Cubs baseball team. They had been asked by the bicentennial committee of the city of Mesa to help improve the looks of the park. The piles of crushed granite had been dumped into the meridians that bordered the driveways and parking lot. Seventy-five tons needed to be shoveled and raked evenly.
“It’s a great project,” said Tony Curtis, a priest in the Mesa 23rd Ward, “because we are in service to the community.” The group worked at a fast pace because they were determined to beat the heat of the blazing Arizona sun.
When they finished the work, they were dirty, hot, and tired, and more than ready to participate in the water carnival planned for the afternoon.
The city of Mesa was so pleased with the work, they wrote a special letter thanking everyone who participated.

Britta Rasmussen, baptized with her husband in 1975, says she gained her testimony of the gospel by living it. When she first began attending Relief Society, she thought, “These ladies are doing what they believe.” She has always tried to follow that example.
For 45 years, she has been socializing with a group of friends she first met as a schoolgirl. She invited them to attend the open house at the temple while she and her husband were serving as guides, and she had the opportunity to bear her testimony to them. “All those people felt something,” Sister Rasmussen recalls, expressing the hope that what she said may someday touch their lives.