Gospel Story Finder

On Pierrefond Avenue, Eddy Shackelford had what we called a hockey player’s name.
I told him that if he ever got to the National Hockey League I’d pick him right out on the ice because there’d be no room for a number on his sweater, just the letters of his last name.
But we all agreed, it was a hockey player’s name if there ever was one.
And we all agreed Eddy was bound for great things. Of the dozen kids my age who met daily to play ice or street hockey, Eddy was without doubt the best player. He was taller and stronger than the rest of us, but it was more than that—he was a leader. And he was my best friend.
During one game Eddy told me he would not go if another team, other than the “Habs,” drafted him out of junior hockey. (The “Habs” was a nickname for the Montreal Canadiens, a French abbreviation for “Inhabitants.”) If we had grown up in Philadelphia, or in New York, or anyplace else in the world, it would have been different, but when you’re 12 and living in Montreal, your dream is to play for the “Habs.”
“I wouldn’t go to Buffalo,” I replied one day. “Or Chicago. I might go to Toronto or Detroit though. They need help and I’d get to play a lot.”
I knew Eddy thought I was a traitor to even suggest such a thing, but he muttered only, “Not me.”
Each day, before sides were picked, we knew Eddy’s team would be the “Habs.”
“You can be Boston,” Eddy might say if the Bruins were having a good season. And he got away with it. On a street in the heart of Montreal, with an inbred passion burning in each of us for the “home” team, there was never an argument.
In winter Eddy’s dad would flood a vacant lot and let us play until it was too dark to see the black puck against the ice. The games would last through bitter cold and through heavy snow that teemed by the streetlights and built up in piles outside our playing area. In summer we moved our games to the middle of the street, batting a tennis ball into flimsy nylon netting. Windows would break and ankles would twist, but otherwise little changed the flow of events on Pierrefond Avenue.
What did eventually happen left most of us wondering for some time. Only lately have I come to fully understand what Eddy went through the summer he turned 13.
“I don’t know what you’ve heard, but I’m not going to be no Mormon,” Eddy said to me one Saturday as we sat on the bank of the St. Lawrence River.
“Why would you have to be a Mormon?” I was stunned. We all knew about the Mormons—I had seen them knocking on doors in our neighborhood. My vicar told us they were an abomination and to not answer the door. My dad said they had many wives and were simply misled. On Pierrefond Avenue, we all knew about the Mormons.
“I thought everyone had heard. My Mum let them in the other day,” said Eddy. “Now she wants me and my dad to go to their church. I told her no way. My dad said no and he said if he sees those Mormon guys he’ll run them off. My mum still says she’s going tomorrow though.”
“You think she’ll go?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I just know I’m not going.”
Eddy’s dad was as strong willed as his son. Mr. Shackelford served in the military for many years before going to work for the Canadian Pacific Railroad as a brakeman. Most adults on our avenue looked up to the senior Shackelford, a tall, dark man with high, heavy shoulders and not a trace of a belly. I didn’t know him very well, but I feared him.
I didn’t know a lot about Eddy’s mum either. She was just a regular mum. She was born into a French family and married Eddy’s dad when she was still quite young. His mum liked to sing a lot and was nice to me when I went around.
“Bonjour Monsieur,” she would sing to me as I came in the door of their house.
“Bonjour Madam,” I would say back, grinning from ear to ear with embarrassment.
“Just tell her to stop it,” Eddy would say. “She’s teasing us because she thinks we act too old for our ages.”
After Eddy’s news I left him on the banks of the river. Later, my dad told me he saw two guys in suits going up the Shackelford’s walk that day. “Those Mormons are in for a rude surprise,” he said, adding that Mr. Shackelford was home.
I didn’t see Eddy on Sunday. But, being summer break, he was out again for street hockey on Monday morning. Within minutes our sticks were clicking on the concrete road as we battled out the previous years’ Stanley Cup matchup. But something was wrong. No one would pass to Eddy.
“Can Mormons still play hockey?” one of the boys playing goal finally called out. Eddy took it, even though the others laughed and added comments of their own. “Sure they can,” the boy called again. “They just have to pray before every period.” Eddy threw down his stick and charged the goalie.
We let them fight it out, but it was no contest. Eddy was the toughest kid on the street.
After a few moments I pulled Eddy off the sprawling goalie. I don’t know if the others had been jealous of Eddy all along, or if Eddy had hurt them by doing something that was against the grain of our quiet street. All that was clear to me at the time was Eddy would never again hold as high a place on Pierrefond.
“You went to their church, didn’t you?” I asked Eddy.
He didn’t answer. For a long time he looked around the group, then without speaking walked off toward his house.
I visited Eddy that night and Mr. Shackelford answered the door. He looked down at me and smiled. “I’m glad you came,” he said letting me in.
“Glad to be here,” I said. A dumb thing to say. My nerves got the best of me. He just laughed.
“Ed, one of those kids is here,” he called upstairs. “Want me to beat him up for you?” He looked at me menacingly for what seemed like an hour. My eyes widened and I began to sweat. Then he laughed again, winked at me, and went into the other room.
“I thought your dad was mad at me,” I said to Eddy as he came down the stairs. “He was just kidding though. He’s all right.”
“Yeah, he’s okay sometimes.” There was an awkward silence, and I watched as Eddy rocked from leg to leg. “You come to give me a hard time?”
“No.” Then I started rocking with Eddy. “So you a Mormon now?”
“No,” said Eddy. “We just went to church, that’s all.”
“We still gonna be friends?”
“Sure. I’d be your friend even if I was a Mormon. That’s for good.”
“We were sure your dad would scare those guys off yesterday,” I said.
“He was going to, but since my mum let them in my dad gave them five minutes to talk. It was a lot longer than five minutes, but Dad just sat there not saying a word until they were done. Then this one missionary, that’s what they’re called, asked if there were any questions and my dad started to get up but he couldn’t or something.” Eddy fell quiet for a time, looking down at his feet.
“Well, what happened?” I asked.
“My dad cried.”
“He cried?”
“Yep. You won’t tell anyone will you?”
“No way. Who’d believe me?” I said.
“Then my dad asked if he could go to church too, just to see what it was like. So I asked if I could go as well.
“And the missionaries started to cry, but it’s not like they’re wimps though. Then one of them said a prayer and it was real … you know, peaceful. And they said that was the Spirit.”
Eddy and I talked for some a time about the missionaries and his time at church. I could feel the excitement in his voice, an excitement that in the following years led me and many others to investigate the LDS faith. Like Eddy, I felt the Spirit testify of its truth and was baptized.
But outside, on the street, Eddy had become “The Mormon kid,” a title he could not seem to shake. The boys on the avenue no longer looked up to Eddy as their hero. Even though he was still a leader and a great hockey player, he had taken a path they did not understand.
It’s been six years since Eddy’s mum first invited the missionaries into their home. A few nights ago Eddy and I sat together as a bus carried us from a game in Sherbrooke. It was the last game of our junior hockey season. For Eddy it was the last game for two years. This morning he left on a mission.
As I sat on the bus I thought about the choice Eddy had made when he was 13 and the choice he just made. In the weeks following his baptism he endured the scorn and ridicule of the Pierrefond gang, but he never faltered in his conviction to the truth. One day this spring our coach said Eddy had a chance to be invited to the “Habs” camp, but Eddy just smiled and said a polite, “Not me.”
As we traveled in the darkness I looked over at Eddy. He was lost in thought. Though I did not know what to say to him, I knew we were friends. Outside the world was waiting for Eddy, but at that moment I was happy he was next to me—I was sitting beside Eddy Shackelford, and he was still my hero.

I was baptized when I turned eight years old, though it wasn’t until the summer after my junior year of high school that I found out what it meant for me to have a testimony of the Church and gospel.
We had a combined stake youth conference that year, and it was held in a beautiful valley. For two days we were given tasks to perform, helped around campsites, and played lots of games.
On the third day, we were given a packet and told not to open it until instructed. After a prayer, we each found a quiet spot not too far away where we would be alone. Once settled, we could open the large manila envelope.
There was a spot, serene and shaded, with a gorgeous view and a log to sit on. I perched on the log feeling like there was no one else around me. I opened the packet and pulled out all the papers inside.
The top sheet told me this was my very own opportunity to talk with my Heavenly Father. Then there was a white envelope, which held a letter from each of my parents. Tears sprung to my eyes as I read the loving words my parents wrote me.
Next, I looked at my goal sheet. It listed a few suggestions for me to tell and ask my Heavenly Father in prayer. There was also space for me to write my own ideas.
There I knelt, eyes closed and hands clasped, and had a good talk with my Father in Heaven. I can’t remember everything that I said or felt. One thing stands out clearly, though. A wonderful truth slipped into my mind.
“Heavenly Father,” I said, “I know—I KNOW the Church is true. It just is.”
At that moment, something warm crept over, around, and through me. I felt so light I could have been floating. Everything seemed bright, peaceful, and perfect. A feeling of love enveloped me so fully I almost couldn’t breathe.
I remained on my knees, soaking in the Spirit for several minutes. When my eyes opened, the world around me didn’t seem real. It was quite a shock to come back to dirt, bugs, and heat. I was happy, though. I gathered my pages and headed back to my group.
Yes, I was baptized when I was 8, but this experience at age 17 truly strengthened my testimony.

I look back to 1967 as a time of change in my life, a time of growing into maturity in many ways. I was fifteen years old, and in January we had discovered that my mother was expecting her sixth child. We were all excited, and mother couldn’t have been happier.
Then, without warning, my mother began to have a miscarriage. My father took her to the hospital, where she was given a powerful drug to prevent the miscarriage. The doctor told my father that if the drug was successful, there was a strong possibility the baby would be either mentally or physically deformed.
My father didn’t share this news with anyone, not even my mother, and under that heavy burden he became depressed. He was inactive in the Church then, and had no testimony to sustain him. My mother became despondent, and when she learned that she would be confined to bed for the rest of her pregnancy, her distress deepened.
I sensed acutely the sadness in our home, and being the oldest child, I felt responsible for doing something about it. But I didn’t know what. Then, remembering the counsel in James 1:5 to ask God for wisdom, I decided to pray.
I remember tearfully kneeling, all alone, pleading with our Heavenly Father to let us have our baby, promising that we would always love and cherish it, that my mother would not be able to accept the child’s loss. As soon as I had uttered these words, I felt a warm, comforting hand upon my shoulder. I was told that all would be well. I stopped crying and stumbled to my feet, anxious to tell my sweet mother the wonderful news!
I remember her surprise as I walked into her room. She had just sent everyone out. I didn’t give her a chance to say a word, I was so excited. As I finished telling her of my experience, she wept. I bent and kissed her, and left the room.
Later she called me to ask if I remembered what I had said to her. I said yes, and related the story again. She looked puzzled and said, "What else?" I really didn’t know what she meant. She said that when I entered the room my face seemed to glow. It told her not to fear, our Father in Heaven knew of her deep desire to keep her child. She would be granted that, and the baby girl would be perfect in every way. I don’t remember saying all that to her, but the Lord knew of her need to hear it.
On May 18, a new baby girl joined our family.

Since the time he entered the Manila Philippines Temple in July 2001, just before leaving for his mission to Singapore, Riaz Gill of Pakistan knew that he wanted to return to the temple so he could have an eternal family.
In 2007, his wife, Farah, was baptized, but funds were tight and they didn’t know when they would be able to make the trip to the temple, more than 3,500 miles (5,700 km) away. With the birth of their son, Ammon Phinehas, in 2009, their desire to be sealed in the temple grew even stronger, and late in 2010, with help from the Church’s General Temple Patron Assistance Fund, their prayers were answered.
“Going to the temple with my family has helped to make my testimony stronger,” Brother Gill said. “After our temple visit, it seems like I have more to give to the Lord. … The temple visit was so good and faith-promoting, it is hard to express in words.”
While there, Brother Gill was also able to perform ordinances for his father, grandfather, and father-in-law, who have all passed away. He had the work done for his mother, and he was sealed to his parents.
“It has been a great privilege for me and my family to visit the temple,” he said. “I want to give my special thanks with a lot of prayers to the leaders who made this temple trip possible.”

Let me recall for you the story of Mary Ann Baker. Her beloved and only brother suffered from the same respiratory disease that had taken their parents’ lives, and he left their home in Chicago to find a warmer climate in the southern part of the United States.
For a time he seemed to be improving, but then a sudden turn in his health came and he died almost immediately. Mary Ann and her sister were heartbroken. It only added to their deep grief that neither their own health nor their personal finances allowed them to claim their brother’s body or to finance its return to Chicago for burial.
The Baker family had been raised as faithful Christians, but Mary’s trust in a loving God broke under the strain of her brother’s death and her own diminished circumstances. “God does not care for me or mine,” said Mary Ann. “This particular manifestation of what they call ‘divine providence’ is unworthy of a God of love.” Does that sound at all familiar?
“I have always tried to believe on Christ and give the Master a consecrated life,” she said, “but this is more than I can bear. What have I done to deserve this? What have I left undone that God should wreak His vengeance upon me in this way?” (Ernest K. Emurian, Living Stories of Famous Hymns, Boston: W. A Widdle Co., 1955, pp. 83–85.)
I suppose we have all had occasion, individually or collectively, to cry out on some stormy sea, “Master, carest thou not that we perish?” And so cried Mary Ann Baker.
But as the days and the weeks went by, the God of life and love began to calm the winds and the waves of what this sweet young woman called “her unsanctified heart.” Her faith not only returned but it flourished, and like Job of old, she learned new things, things “too wonderful” to have known before her despair. On the Sea of Galilee, the stirring of the disciples’ faith was ultimately more important than the stilling of the sea, and so it was with her.
Later, as something of a personal testimonial and caring very much for the faith of others who would be tried by personal despair, she wrote the words of the hymn we have all sung, “Master, the Tempest Is Raging.” May I share it with you?
Master, the tempest is raging!
The billows are tossing high!
The sky is o’ershadowed with blackness.
No shelter or help is nigh.
Carest thou not that we perish?
How canst thou lie asleep
When each moment so madly is threatening
A grave in the angry deep?
Master, with anguish of spirit
I bow in my grief today.
The depths of my sad heart are troubled.
Oh, waken and save, I pray!
Torrents of sin and of anguish
Sweep o’er my sinking soul,
And I perish! I perish! dear Master.
Oh, hasten and take control!
Then this beautiful, moving refrain:
The winds and the waves shall obey my will;
Peace, be still! Peace, be still!
Whether the wrath of the storm-tossed sea
Or demons or men or whatever it be,
No waters can swallow the ship where lies
The Master of ocean and earth and skies.
They all shall sweetly obey my will.
Peace, be still! Peace, be still!
They all shall sweetly obey my will.
Peace, peace, be still!
Too often, I fear, both in the living of life and in the singing of this hymn, we fail to emphasize the sweet peace of this concluding verse:
Master, the terror is over.
The elements sweetly rest.
Earth’s sun in the calm lake is mirrored,
And heaven’s within my breast.
Linger, Oh, blessed Redeemer!
Leave me alone no more,
And with joy I shall make the blest harbor
And rest on the blissful shore.
(Hymns, no. 106.)

This is best described with a story. When Sister Kaitlyn Palmer received her mission call last April, she was excited to be called as a missionary but felt it equally important and special to go to the temple to receive her endowment and make sacred covenants. Shortly after she scheduled her endowment, the announcement came that all temples would temporarily close due to the worldwide pandemic. After receiving this heartbreaking information, she then learned she would attend the missionary training center (MTC) virtually from her home. Despite these disappointments, Kaitlyn focused on keeping her spirits high.
In the intervening months, Sister Palmer never lost hope of attending the temple. Her family fasted and prayed that temples would open prior to her departure. Kaitlyn would often start her home MTC mornings by saying, “Is today going to be the day we receive a miracle and temples open back up?”
On August 10, the First Presidency announced that Kaitlyn’s temple would reopen for living ordinances on the exact day her early-morning flight to her mission was scheduled. She would not be able to attend the temple and make her flight. With little hope for success, her family contacted temple president Michael Vellinga to see if there was any way the miracle they had been praying for could be realized. Their fasting and prayers were answered!
At 2:00 a.m., hours before her flight departure, Sister Palmer and her family, in tears, were greeted at the temple doors by the smiling temple president with the words, “Good morning, Palmer family. Welcome to the temple!” As she completed her endowment, they were encouraged to move quickly, as the next family was waiting at the temple doors. They drove directly to the airport just in time to make her flight to her mission.

One winter day six-year-old Heber J. Grant sneaked onto the back runner of President Brigham Young’s sleigh. He wanted to ride for only one block. But he didn’t dare leap off until the sleigh slowed down. When it did, he had ridden quite a way. He tried to run without President Young seeing him.

President Young: Stop! That little boy is almost frozen! Put him under the buffalo robe.

President Young: What’s your name?
Heber: Heber Grant, sir.
President Young: You must be Jedediah’s son. I loved your father very much. He was my Second Counselor.

President Young told Heber he would like to interview him in six months. Heber obeyed. He and President Young were friends from then on.

Heber spent almost as much time at Brigham Young’s home as at his own.

Crystal was in high school and Angel was six years old when their mother could no longer look after them. I offered to take them in. “I promise I will never leave your children,” I said. “I will take good care of them.”
Years later, another young mother asked me to take in her baby, Allison. This mother faced difficult circumstances and knew I could give her baby a good life. I took Allison in.
I try to teach these children the important things in life. I bring them to church and try to help them grow closer to God. I know that when I am nearer to Him, I can do so much more, even the things I think are impossible. Of course, I want that for Crystal, Angel, and Allison.
These children have suffered in life, but I’ve watched the gospel and the Spirit heal their hearts. I’ve watched their perceptions and behaviors slowly change. Together we pray for their birth parents, because no matter what, I want them to respect and love them.
I love Crystal, Angel, and Allison as if they were my own children. Sometimes people ask me if I will regret my decisions. What if Allison’s mother decides to take Allison back? Will I regret loving Allison and becoming attached to her? But why should I regret it? Helping other people is nothing to regret! It’s something to be grateful for.
I am so grateful for Crystal, Angel, and Allison. Thanks to them, I have learned how to be a mother. I learned how to wake up in the middle of the night for diaper changes, how to teach young children to pray, how to love more deeply than I thought possible. That is something I didn’t think I would ever have.
Perhaps my calling in this world is to take care of those that don’t have mothers or are far away from their mothers.

The year 2000 was full of significant events for my family and me. My wife and I celebrated our first anniversary. We became parents for the first time. It was also the year I became paralyzed, just five weeks after our daughter’s birth.
That summer I had been helping an elderly sister in our ward by regularly biking the few blocks from our apartment to her home to mow her lawn, but one morning I was very tired and not as alert as I should have been—and I was accidentally hit by a car. While it is a miracle that I survived, I unfortunately did not escape without injury. One week after the accident, I awoke to the realization that I was paralyzed, unable to move any muscles below my lower chest.
Paralysis is a permanent disability. Even with all of today’s great strides in modern science and medicine, it cannot be cured. And naturally I was afraid at first, concerned with how I was going to be a husband and a father. The fear was then replaced by anger at myself for being foolish—for not stopping at that intersection and for not wearing a helmet.
I felt like a burden. It took many months at a rehabilitation hospital to teach me to live the rest of my life with my disability and how to become independent again. At the same time, living with my paralysis has helped me better understand the scriptures and our Savior’s Atonement.
Christus im Getsemani-Garten betend, by Hermann Clementz
One particular insight came while I was pondering the miracles that Christ performed. In Mark 2, Jesus forgives a paralytic of his sins and then heals him. When the scribes questioned His offer of forgiveness, Jesus said, “Whether is it easier to say to the sick of the palsy, Thy sins be forgiven thee; or to say, Arise, and take up thy bed, and walk?” (verse 9).
I had read this scripture many times before, but I never understood it until after my accident. In reading the chapter, we are reminded of how truly miraculous the healing was. Today, even after 2,000 years and many medical advancements, such a healing still cannot be achieved by man alone, and I live with this reality every day. Many think that this is the lesson behind this scripture—that Christ has the power to cure even the incurable. But there is so much more to this scripture, especially as we look past the physical miracle and instead focus on the spiritual miracle.
Just as it is impossible for one with physical paralysis to “arise” and “walk,” it is equally impossible for man alone to overcome the spiritual paralysis caused by sin. I have learned that the Savior’s Atonement is the true miracle in this scripture. I may never experience the miracle of being able to physically arise and walk again in my earthly life, but I have received the greater miracle of the forgiveness of my sins through the Atonement of my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. The reality of this miracle is affirmed in verses 10 and 11:
“But that ye may know that the Son of man hath power on earth to forgive sins, (he saith to the sick of the palsy,)
“I say unto thee, Arise, and take up thy bed, and go thy way into thine house.”
Being healed of the effects of sin is the greatest miracle we each receive in our lives, all because of Jesus Christ. In atoning for our sins, Christ took our infirmities and sins upon Himself. He knows what we go through in life. He understands our individual disabilities, weaknesses, and challenges, no matter how big or small. There is no other person in the world who can heal the spiritual paralysis of sin.
I am thankful for the insight that I have been blessed with. It provides needed perspective as I live with my disability and strive to use it to help me learn and grow. I have been able to stop feeling sorry for myself and go do the same things I loved to do before my accident, and I have been blessed to be able to serve in spite of my condition. Some may find it difficult to be thankful when living with a disability, but God blesses us continually—even in these times. I am grateful for my Savior, for His Atonement, and for this amazing miracle in my life.

His military obligation fulfilled, Hal enrolled in the Harvard Graduate School of Business, where he earned a master’s degree in 1959 and a doctorate degree in 1963, both in business administration. Though he had the intellect to succeed in a career in science, Hal found that his passion lay in teaching, lifting, and strengthening others.
While attending Harvard during the summer of 1961, Hal met Kathleen Johnson, the daughter of J. Cyril and LaPrele Lindsay Johnson, of Palo Alto, California. She was attending summer school in Boston, and Hal was smitten the first time he saw her. He felt an immediate desire to do his best when he was in her presence—a feeling that has continued throughout their lives together.
They dated that summer and continued their courtship through phone calls and letters after Kathleen returned to California. They were married in July 1962 in the Logan Utah Temple by Elder Spencer W. Kimball. That same year Hal became an assistant professor at the Stanford Graduate School of Business.

Wilfredo Perez, a recent convert from Cabo Rojo, Puerto Rico, has always had a lot of friends.
“The day I joined the Church,” he says, “many members told me that maybe I’d lose some friends. I wondered why. I couldn’t see why my being a Latter-day Saint would affect my friends.
“I kept doing things with my friends, but I no longer talked about or did some of the things I used to do before I joined the Church. Sometimes that made them a little uncomfortable. In the beginning, it was hard to say no. I didn’t want to hurt their feelings or have them think I didn’t like them anymore.
“One of my friends invited me to a New Year’s Eve party. I went and he told me, ‘Wilfredo, come in and have all the rum and beer you want.’
“I told him, ‘No thanks. I don’t like rum or beer, and besides, it’s not good for my health.’
“‘Okay,’ he said, ‘enjoy the party any way you want.’ So I enjoyed being with my friends, but without drinking or doing things I knew I shouldn’t.”

As a teenager, my independence and my privacy were very important to me. So our family rule that Mom and Dad always had to know where we were, who we were with, and when we’d be home, was annoying. Even though we all complained about it, we all abided by it.
It was early spring of my junior year in high school when my 13-year-old sister, Jenni, and I were heavily involved with our girls’ volleyball team. Our team was not the best nor the worst. We just played to have fun. One of the most exciting matches of the season, involving several teams, was to be held about 40 minutes from our home. It was a Friday night, and since I’d had my driver’s license for more than a year, Mom and Dad let me take the van with my little sister as my companion. Jenni and I didn’t always see eye to eye, but we had a great visit with each other on the way to the match. Being alone gave us the opportunity to really talk. The evening was as much fun as we had anticipated. After saying good-bye to friends old and new, Jenni and I left and headed for home.
Just 15 minutes into the ride on a fast moving freeway, we ran out of gas. It was a dark night, so we hoped we could coast to the next off-ramp. But the van came to a stop under an overpass nearly a mile away from the exit. Scared, we offered a prayer. “Heavenly Father,” we prayed, “please help us find a way to get home safely.”
As we ended our prayer, I remembered that in an emergency we are told to lift the car hood and put something white on the antenna, so we did. We knew it was just a matter of time before a police car would drive by and offer to help. Three times we were passed by police, even though we were flashing our lights and honking.
Discouragement nearly overcame us, and we decided it was time to pray again. Finishing the prayer with tears streaming down our faces, we talked about possible solutions. We could see the exit sign and decided to walk toward it, hoping to find a telephone. About a quarter of a mile away from the van, we heard a vehicle approaching us and slowing down. Could our prayers be answered? We turned around and saw two motorcycles coming toward us. At that moment we both felt very strongly that we should head back to the safety of the van. Back in the car, huddled together, we tried to comfort each other. Then, as the Spirit whispered peace to each of us, we looked out our window to see our mother and father coming to a stop on the other side of the freeway. Our relief and gratitude completely overcame us as we ran into the arms of our anxious parents. “How did you know?” we asked. Softly and clearly our parents answered that they knew where we were, who we were with, and when we were supposed to be home. Because we had always followed this rule, when we didn’t arrive home on time, they knew they had to come looking for us.
I was never annoyed by my parents’ strict rules again.

One summer evening my parents and I swung in the squeaky glider on the front porch and fanned ourselves with the evening’s Register-Mail. We were hopefully searching the twilit skies for a thundercloud, but only heat lightning appeared to lick the sky.
A train clattered by on the tracks across the road, then tooted as it passed the State Street intersection. Daddy pulled out his pocket watch and remarked, “Mail train’s right on time.” Then he continued, “Dulcy, you ought to get to sleep a little earlier tonight. The circus train starts unloading at five o’clock in the morning.”
I knew he was right but I hated to miss the nightly game of hide-and-seek with my friends, the Shane kids, who were just coming up the walk.
“Dulcy, can you play?” Emmalou called. “Walter said he’d be it.“
“Not tonight, I have to go to bed early.”
They drifted away as Mama said, “Dulcy, before you go upstairs, there’s something Daddy and I would like to tell you.”
We got up, brushed june bugs off the screen door, and went inside to sit down by the dining room table. Mama fidgeted with the bowl of zinnias in the center of the table. “We received a letter from my cousin Martha today. She’s sick and needs someone to look after her boy. He’s coming tonight,” she said.
“Oh boy!” I exclaimed. “Someone new to play with. Will he stay all summer?”
“No, just for a few days. His grandma is driving up from Missouri. He’ll spend the summer with her.”
“How old is he?”
“About your age, maybe a little younger,” Daddy put in.
“Dulcy, I want you to show him kindness and understanding while he’s here,” Mama continued. “He’s not had much.”
“Yes, Mama.”
“Now brush your teeth and go to bed.”
Upstairs I decided to count to a million by fives, determined not to go to sleep until the boy arrived. But I never made it past one hundred and fifty.
It seemed only moments later when my Mickey Mouse alarm clock rang. And even before I opened my eyes, I knew something in the room had changed. My white china dogs still marched on their shelves; the dolls and stuffed animals still sat in their corners. What was different? Then, from deep within a heavy comforter over the daybed, came a muffled sound.
“Is that you Clipper?” I said, wondering if my dog would emerge. “You’ll get fleas on Grandma’s quilt.”
The comforter was tugged downward to reveal the largest dark eyes I’d ever seen. “Good morning.” I said. “My name’s Dulcy. What’s yours?”
“Jebediah E. Banks,” came the answer.
“That’s a big name for a little boy like you.”
“It was my Granddaddy’s, and I reckon I’ll grow into it.”
“Till you do, I’ll just call you Jeb. Do you want to see the circus train unload?”
We sat side by side on the window seat while, across the road on the spur track from Peoria, the spectacle began. Work lights cast a yellow pall on the scene and threw long, grotesque shadows upward into the nearby trees. Men dressed in overalls worked swiftly, lifting machinery, tying off ropes, and transferring the calliope to a waiting truck. Animal handlers in knee-high boots helped maneuver red and gold cages off the flatcars with only an occasional snarl of protest from within. In their slow, plodding manner, the elephants carried poles and timber in their trunks without a sound or gesture from anyone.
I cast a glance at Jeb.
“Is it real?” he whispered.
“Of course it is,” I replied.
He turned to stare at me questioningly. “But the elephants,” he said, “they’re yellow.”
“They just look that way on account of the lights.”
When the train was completely unloaded, we climbed back into our beds. I lay staring at the ceiling, puzzled about Jeb. How can a boy of seven or eight not know what’s real and what isn’t? I wondered. After breakfast, I’ll have to teach him the difference.
That morning Jeb and I sat on the porch steps while I figured out what to do. But Mama already had plans. She came out and handed me a brown paper sack. “You and Jeb take these string beans down to Grandma so she can cook them for supper. Hurry along now.”
Our bare feet slapped on the hot sidewalk as we hurried the two blocks to Grandma’s house. “Grandma,” I called as we went in the back door. Then I saw the note on the kitchen table.
“DULCY,” it read, “HAVE GONE TO STORE. HAVE SOME COOKIES.”
I pulled out the brown stone cookie jar and we selected two ginger drops each. As we sat at the table and made the cookies last as long as possible by eating around the edges, I said, “Jeb, I’m going to show you the difference between what’s real and what isn’t. I’ll show you make believe first.” Then I went to the pantry.
I carried about a dozen bottles and cans of different kinds to the table. I arranged them with the tallest in the middle, flanked by the next tallest on either side, then the next in height, until the shortest bottles stood at the ends on each side.
This is a pretend game I made up,” I explained. “You’re going to be the only other person in the whole world to know about it.” His dark eyes brightened slightly.
“This is my Sunday School class,” I began. Then I introduced him to the containers that were pretend pupils, each with a name and with a part to give as they stepped out of line to say their pieces, the way my real class does for the special Mother’s Day program every year. For the grand finale, the Sunday School-bottle class sang, “Mother, I Love You” before they were dismissed. Naturally, I said all the pieces and sang the song; and the bottle named Dulcy knew her pieces best and the one named Walter forgot his.
“Now it’s your turn,” I told Jeb.
He traced the design on Grandma’s tablecloth before he said, “I don’t know how.”
“Just try,” I pleaded.
“No, I can’t do it,” he insisted.
“Then let’s go home,” I snapped as I put the bottles away.
Later, we sat under the pear tree in my backyard.
“Are you mad at me?” Jeb asked.
“No.” But I didn’t sound much like I meant it.
Moments later I turned to look at him and found him staring straight up into the tree. “What in the world are you looking at?” I asked, giving him a nudge.
Slowly, very slowly, he said, “There’s a yellow elephant sitting right up there.” He pointed to the highest branch.
I looked up before I realized what had happened. “Jeb!” I squealed. “You’ve learned how to pretend!”
We climbed as high as we dared and stayed in the tree the rest of the day. Mama sent our lunch up to us on a rope pulley and in the afternoon brought out a sack of fresh sugar cookies.
The next day we climbed back into the pear tree after breakfast. In the late afternoon it began to rain and Mama called us inside. We cut through the garden as Jeb said, “Tomorrow, let’s get up earlier and play with my elephant.”
“Tomorrow your grandma is coming and you have to go to Missouri.”
“I can’t go.” He stopped by a neat row of calendulas. “I can’t leave my elephant.”
“Don’t be silly,” I told him, looking up into the rain so it would pepper my face. “There isn’t any elephant in the pear tree.”
He pulled back his arm and doubled up his fist as though he were going to hit me, but I managed to get out of the way. Mama appeared before we had time to do any damage to each other. “Dulcy,” she shouted, grabbing me by my collar. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself, picking on a child so much smaller.” Jeb slipped away from her and climbed back into the pear tree. “I’m going to call your father,” Mama said, looking at me. She turned toward the house, but I headed for the pear tree.
“Come on down, Jeb,” I said.
“No!” he declared, sobbing. “I’m never coming down. I’m going to stay with my elephant forever. He’s the only one in the world who loves me.”
And right there I should have told him. I should have said, “I love you, too, Jeb.” But I didn’t because I was only ten, and was still smarting from our verbal battle.
“Well then, why don’t you take your stupid elephant and go join the circus?” I shouted, and turned and ran through the downpour into the house.
Soon Daddy came home and gently coaxed Jeb out of the tree. Mama spooned hot potato soup into him and put him to bed. The next morning I awoke early to a dully, gray dawn, heavy with moisture. Jeb’s bed was vacant. I hurried down the hall and shook Mama.
“Has Jeb gone to Missouri already?”
Her eyes widened in alarm and together we ran to my room. His pajamas were neatly folded on the quilt, the only evidence that he’d ever been there. We woke Daddy and the search began.
Thinking of the pear tree first, we went outside, using Daddy’s flashlight to cast a beam into the mother of pearl mist hanging on the branches. The tree was strangely empty, emptier than yesterday, and I had the craziest feeling that Jeb really had taken his elephant with him.
Then I remembered what I’d said to him. I told my folks that Jeb liked the circus a lot, so we headed for the fairgrounds.
Daddy and the manager organized a search. While acrobats in robes of scarlet scoured the main tent, a family of midgets hurried to the clown’s wagon. The bearded lady kept Mama and me company, reassuring us this had happened a thousand times before, and they knew just where to look for a runaway boy.
The sun broke through the overcast and I managed to slip away to find the elephants.
They were staked near some scrub oaks, and I found Jeb sitting in the shade nearby. When he saw me, he said, “They’re not yellow, Dulcy. Only mine is yellow.”
On the way home all I managed to say was, “I’m glad you found your elephant, Jeb.” I wanted to say more but the time for that had passed.
The moment we turned onto Second Street, we saw the old Packard coupe with the Missouri license plate parked in front of our house. As we pulled into the driveway a lumpy, middle-aged woman with set lines on her face hurried out of Mrs. Adams’s house next door. I knew she must be Jeb’s grandma.
Within moments she had taken him by the hand and walked to the Packard. Jeb paused with one foot on the running board, shook his hand free, and turned around. He stared at me with those sad brown eyes for one long moment, but without any sign of farewell or that he’d ever known us. Then he turned and climbed into the car and they chuffed up the street, turned onto Pearl, and disappeared.
I hope he took his elephant. It’s all I had to give him.

On Gratitude to the Lord
Obeying God’s commandments has been important to us. We stood firmly by our decision to keep the Sabbath day holy and wouldn’t bend. As we did all that we could do, our children learned that there is a God and He blesses us. Our children really do hear and remember.
When our oldest son was serving in the Japan Fukuoka Mission, the mission president often introduced him by saying, “Elder Kawada’s father stopped growing potatoes so he could keep the Sabbath day holy. Elder Kawada was raised in a family like that.”
We feel happy when we see our children. They come to church. They have served missions and married in the temple. We are grateful to our Heavenly Father, who knows us and has blessed us.

For Tino, missionary service took an unexpected turn. Deferment of their mandatory military obligation is not allowed for Portuguese missionaries, and Tino was called into his country’s air force. He still remembers the counsel of R. Perry Ficklin, then president of the Portugal Lisbon Mission, who explained that Elder Moreira’s missionary service wasn’t over, that he was only being “transferred to another area—more difficult.” Tino went on to teach and baptize a number of people in the air force.

Elder Sheffield has been under the knife eleven times in major surgery and many more times in surgery lasting less than an hour. The greatest desire of his life was that the surgery would make him acceptable for a mission. A year before he entered the mission field, he had his final operation. Since he has been on his mission, he has averaged seventy to eighty hours a week in proselyting. He is greatly loved by all.
He has been a great blessing to missionaries who thought they had problems. In one interview his companion told me that Elder Sheffield’s shoulder separates and falls out of place quite often. When this happens he is in severe pain. It happens most often during the night. When I interviewed Elder Sheffield, I suggested that we put him in a local hospital here and have the doctors do what needed to be done to correct this problem. He looked me in the eye, and with a sternness seldom seen he said, “President, I have spent most of my life in hospitals, and when I complete my mission I am returning to several more major surgical operations. I promised the Lord that if he would let me serve a mission, I would not spend one day in the hospital during the two years no matter how sick I was or how much I suffered.”

For eight years, the Waji family rarely attended church, facing spiritual and personal challenges. It was during this time that Elder and Sister Moyer, senior missionaries, visited their home. That visit marked a turning point in their lives. Ada Worq, one of Waji and Emebet’s daughters, recalls the significance of that moment: “I will never forget what they said when they visited us. They asked, ‘What can we do for you?’ and then spoke to us about Christ’s love and faith. Everyone was crying, touched by the Spirit.”
This visit ignited a renewal of faith within the family. They recommitted to the gospel and returned to full activity in the Church. However, their path to the temple remained challenging. For Waji and Zenbech, being sealed in the temple for time and all eternity became a cherished goal, but their journey was met with multiple setbacks. Their planned trips to the temple failed three times. Despite their best efforts, unforeseen obstacles prevented them from making the journey. But through faith and divine intervention, their trip was finally made possible. With the support of the mission leaders, President Oliva Cowley and Sister Rebecca Cowley, they made their way to the Accra Ghana Temple.
On June 17, 2024, after 25 years of membership and waiting, Waji and Zenbech entered the temple and were sealed together. The day marked was filled with deep spiritual meaning. Mekonnen, their eldest son, reflected on the experience: “I saw how much the people have been blessed because of having the temple in their country.”
Waji, moved by the power of the temple, said, “The temple is like a compass—it directs us to the way of eternal life. It is my prayer that there will be a temple in Ethiopia one day.”
Sister Zenbech shared her profound feelings from their temple experience, saying, “I felt the love of Heavenly Father and the love of the people while I was in the temple.”
For both Waji and Zenbech, being sealed in the temple was not only the culmination of years of faith and sacrifice but also the fulfilment of a promise they had longed for.
Following their sealing, the family continued to grow spiritually. Their renewed dedication led them to serve in various callings in the Church, building their testimonies and further strengthening their faith. Their daughter Bemnet, inspired by her family’s experience and her own faith, began preparing to serve a mission, contributing to the ongoing legacy of commitment and service within the Waji family.
The Waji family’s journey serves as a powerful reminder that faith, patience, and perseverance in the gospel yield great blessings. Though Waji and Zenbech faced numerous obstacles, their dream of being sealed in the temple became a reality, demonstrating the power of the Lord’s timing. Their story offers hope to all those striving for the blessings of the temple, showing that through faith, anything is possible.

11-year-old Riley Quigley has a few challenges that normally would stop him being able to attend an event where there are crowds and a lot of noise.
On 11 November 2020, during the lockdown, Riley went with his aunt to the Poole Park War Memorial and, on behalf of Poole Ward of the Poole Stake, very thoughtfully laid a Royal British Legion poppy wreath.
After laying the wreath, Riley said that it made him feel very proud to have been able to do something as special as that.
He then went around and helped tidy up some of the other wreaths that had previously been laid but had been blown about by the wind because “they needed to look nice and tidy for the soldiers who died”.
His bishop, Ben Silsby, said, “He looked so smart and respectful. I am very proud of him.”

It was storming outside, and the only sound in the cabin was Father’s voice quietly explaining why he had given flour to those who had come by during the day. There was much sickness in the little community and a mixture of flour and water seemed to be the best possible medicine.
Patiently Father reminded the children that they had been especially blessed because none of them had had the strange “winter sickness.” Even though the crops had failed in the fall, it had been possible for him to trade flour for the wagons he made for his neighbors or for pioneers going through Fillmore on their way to the west coast.
Early that morning Mother said, “Please don’t give away any more flour, Father. There’s only enough left for a little bread for our own children.”
Before Father could answer, a knock came at the door. A neighbor stood outside. He said he needed some flour for his sick wife.
Even the youngest child was touched by the look of gratitude on the neighbor’s face when Father filled a cup with flour, gave it to him, and said, “Be of good faith; the Lord will provide.”
A few minutes later another knock was heard and when Father opened the door, a young man hurried in. The family knew Father could not refuse help when the worried young father said, “Oh, Brother Carling, my baby is dying! I must have some flour.”
After the young man left with the flour, Mother started to cry. Father gently put his arm around her and suggested that the family kneel with him in prayer. A feeling of peace and hope came into the little cabin as Father expressed thanks for health, for warmth, and for safety on such a cold November day. Then he prayed that in some way it might be possible for them and their neighbors to get food, especially some flour.
After the prayer, Father suggested that Mother try to scrape together enough flour from the box to make a little gravy. To her surprise there was plenty for that and some flour was still left over.
While the family was eating, another knock was heard at the door. The man standing outside said he needed the services of a good wagonmaker and had been told Father might be able to help. “I have twenty tons of flour here,” he said. “I wonder if I could trade flour for wagons!”

Some ways to strengthen families are illustrated by the following example. I had an assignment in the Boise, Idaho, area. After training on Saturday afternoon, I stayed in the home of my niece and her family. That evening before the children went to bed, we had a short family home evening and a scripture story. Their father told about the family of Lehi and how he taught his children that they must hold fast to the iron rod, which is the word of God. Holding fast to the iron rod would keep them safe and lead them to joy and happiness. If they should let go of the iron rod, there was danger of drowning in the river of dirty water.
To demonstrate this to the children, their mother became the “iron rod” that they must cling to, and their father played the role of the devil, trying to pull the children away from safety and happiness. The children loved the story and learned how important it is to hold fast to the iron rod.
After the scripture story it was time for family prayer. Their mother reminded the children to pray for the bishop, who was having serious eye problems. Three-year-old Brooklyn offered the prayer that evening. She thanked Heavenly Father for their blessings, and then she fervently asked Him to “bless the bishop because his eyes are broken.”
The next morning we got to sacrament meeting and got seated. Brooklyn and her five-year-old sister, Kennedy, looked up on the stand and saw the bishop standing there. The girls pointed to the bishop and excitedly said to their mother, “Look, there’s the bishop.” Then a knowing look passed between these two little girls that seemed to say “We prayed for the bishop, and now he is better.” They prayed in faith, knowing that Heavenly Father would hear their humble prayers.