Gospel Story Finder

A small Vietnamese woman struggles to lift a frozen turkey out of the supermarket freezer. Her husband examines it and with an ear-splitting grin turns to the two young American girls standing beside him. “Chicken?” he asks. The group bursts into giggles. The two girls try to explain in simplified English that this large fowl is not a super species of chicken but is a turkey.
The girls are from the Riverside Stake in Salt Lake City, Utah. As a stake service project, they are sponsoring a Vietnamese family. One of their tasks has been to introduce the family to an American supermarket. “Our first trip to the grocery store was definitely memorable,” said Laurie Sperry, Center First Ward. “We did a lot of laughing.”
The job of sponsoring a refugee family involved many of the young women. They helped in the search for a suitable place for the family to live, in gathering clothes and bedding, in enrolling the children in school, and in giving the small family a tour of the city. One of their stops was at Temple Square for a showing of “Man’s Search for Happiness” presented in Vietnamese. The girls introduced the children to some unique American celebrations such as Halloween, helping them with costumes and taking them trick-or-treating.
“Even though we couldn’t communicate in words,” said Laurie, “we could feel their gratitude.”
The girls of the Riverside Stake tasted the sweetness of service. And what started as a service project has turned into a caring, helping relationship between friends.

Later Charles and his fiancée, Sarah Price, said good-bye to their families and went to Liverpool, a seaport from which most of the Latter-day Saint emigrants embarked. They were married on shipboard after they set sail for Nauvoo. Although the trip across the Atlantic Ocean aboard the Equinox was long, the 572 Saints “arrived in full health and vigor, with not one soul lost, full of praise and thanksgiving to the God of Israel for his mercy in blessing them with a safe journey with no serious difficulty” (Journal of Charles Smith).
The company of Saints remained together on the second part of the trip, from New Orleans up the Mississippi River to Nauvoo. As their boat landed at Nauvoo on April 12, 1843, the Prophet Joseph was standing on the riverbank to welcome them! The next day he delivered an address to the new arrivals that was very comforting to them after their long journey.

Recently a member in Monterrey, Mexico, told me how the Book of Mormon changed his life. As a teenager, Jesús Santos was impressed by the LDS missionaries he saw walking down the dusty streets. He wanted to talk to them about their church but was told by a friend that you have to wait for them to contact you.
Many times he would go to the church building and look through the iron fence at the missionaries and the Mutual youth playing games. They seemed to be so wholesome, and he wanted to be part of them. He would lean his chin on the fence, hoping that they would notice him and invite him to participate with them. It never happened.
As Jesús recounted his story to me, he said, “It is sad. I was a young man and could have served a full-time mission.”
He moved to Monterrey, Mexico. Nine years later he was visiting a friend across town when the missionaries knocked at the door. His friend wanted to send them away. Jesús begged him to let the missionaries talk to them for just two minutes. His friend consented.
The missionaries talked about the Book of Mormon, how Lehi’s family traveled from Jerusalem to the Americas, and how the resurrected Jesus Christ visited Lehi’s descendants in America.
Jesús wanted to know more. He was especially intrigued by the picture depicting Christ’s appearance in America. He gave the missionaries his address. He waited for months, but they never made contact with him.
Three more years passed. Some friends invited his family to a family home evening. They gave him a copy of the Book of Mormon.
As soon as he began to read it, he knew the Book of Mormon was true. Finally, 12 years after he first became aware of the Church, he and his wife were baptized. So many years had been lost. If missionaries had just talked to him, if the Mutual youth had just noticed a lonely teenager looking over the fence, if the missionaries in Monterrey had found him at home, his life would have been different during those 12 years. Gratefully, member neighbors invited him for a family home evening and shared with him that book which has such great converting power, the Book of Mormon.
Today Jesús Santos serves as the president of the Monterrey Mexico Temple.
In my mind’s eye I can still see Jesús Santos as a ragged 18-year-old boy looking over the fence at the chapel. Can you see him? Can you invite him and others like him to be one with us? Whom do you know that would respond to your invitation to read the Book of Mormon? Will you invite them? Don’t wait.

Trevor sat down on the couch and put his chin in his hands. His brothers were playing with Grandpa. He wished he could have fun too, but he couldn’t stop worrying about his baptism.
Mom sat down next to him and ruffled his hair. “What’s wrong?” she asked. “Don’t you want to play?”
Trevor shook his head, frowning.
Mom looked at him a moment, then put her arm around him. “Are you still afraid to go under the water?”
Trevor nodded.
The thought of being underwater always scared Trevor. When he was three, he had fallen into a swimming pool. He could never forget how scared he had felt as he sank deeper and deeper into the water until someone pulled him out. He had been nervous around water ever since.
“Why isn’t anything working?” Trevor asked. “We prayed, and we even visited the font. Nothing worked!” Springing up from the couch, Trevor ran into his room.
Shutting the bedroom door behind him, Trevor fell onto his bed. Soon he heard a soft knock on the door.
Trevor looked over as Dad sat down beside him. “Mom told me you’re still nervous about getting baptized,” Dad said.
Trevor nodded. “I keep praying, but the scared feeling won’t go away.”
Dad thought a minute. “Sometimes when we pray for something, it doesn’t happen right away. You might feel scared now, but maybe by tomorrow you’ll feel better.”
Trevor shook his head, but then he remembered when he was nervous about starting school last year. Dad had given him a blessing. Maybe a blessing could help him get baptized too. He looked up at Dad. “Do you think you and Grandpa can give me a blessing?”
Dad nodded. “I think that’s a great idea.”
A little while later, Trevor sat down in a chair in the family room. Dad and Grandpa placed their hands on his head. Dad blessed him, saying that if he had faith, Heavenly Father could help him to feel calm and peaceful.
The next day as he sat at his baptism in his white clothes, Trevor still felt nervous. He was glad he had received a blessing, but what if he stayed scared? How would he get baptized?
After hearing a talk about baptism, Dad leaned over. “It’s time to go to the font,” he said. Trevor nodded and followed Dad to the font. Dad went in first.
It was Trevor’s turn. He hesitated, but then he remembered his blessing. “Heavenly Father, please help me to have faith,” he prayed silently to himself.
Slowly, Trevor put one foot in the water. It was nice and warm. Trevor took another step.
With each step, he could feel his worry and fear melting away. Dad took him by the arm and smiled. “Ready?”
Trevor felt calm and peaceful. This was the feeling Heavenly Father had promised to give him. He nodded. “Ready.”
Dad raised his right arm and said the baptismal prayer. As Dad lowered him under the water, Trevor wasn’t afraid. All he could feel was that calm, peaceful feeling growing stronger.
Trevor came out of the water smiling. He knew that his faith had helped him overcome his fear so he could be baptized. He knew Heavenly Father would always help him when he was trying to choose the right.

I was born in Armenia when it was part of the Soviet Union. My parents taught me and my two siblings to be honest, good, and morally clean, and they did everything to give us a good education. But one of the first things I learned in kindergarten was a philosophy that religion is the opium of the people. And until I was 12 years old, I never knew there was a God.
When I was 12, a terrible earthquake destroyed 90 percent of my hometown, killing more than 50,000 people. I was in school when the noise became louder and louder, and everything around us began to shake. I was pulled into the crowd, trying to escape the building. Amid all the confusion, I suddenly realized I might never see my family again. In that moment, I saw a red knit scarf my mother had made for me hanging in a large hallway to the right of the stairwell. Following an impression, I broke from the crowd and went to retrieve the scarf. In that instant the ground shook for the third and last time, and I witnessed the stairwell collapse with all my friends in its ruins. Upon regaining my senses, I found that the whole school was a huge mass of rubble—with the exception of that tiny area housing me and my red knit scarf.
My entire family of five survived. When my father saw my mom, my eight-month-old sister, my seven-year-old brother, and me sitting in the middle of the street after seven hours of searching for us, the only thing he said was, “Blessed be Thy name, God.” I had lost my home, but for the first time I heard the name of God.
Eleven years passed. I had just graduated from the medical university in Yerevan, the capital of Armenia, where I was a medical resident in ophthalmology. While doing some volunteer work, I met two Latter-day Saint missionaries and we became good friends. They were welcomed in our home just as anyone else, but as soon as they started to talk about God, the whole atmosphere became tense. My parents told me that missionaries “teaching their religion” were not welcome in our home. Personally, I was not interested in religion, but I had not stopped them because there was something different in the eyes of those missionaries—something so innocent, pure, and magnificent. I was very interested in finding the source of the light I noticed in their eyes.
After my parents expressed their disapproval, I avoided meeting with the missionaries and finally arranged to meet them at their church building but just to say I was too busy to proceed with our discussions. Arriving at our appointment one hour early, I entered a room with lots of chairs and about 15 people in it. As I sat quietly, trying not to disturb anyone, I was astonished by the unusual but unbelievably familiar feelings. I felt just like I had when I was five years old and could run home, hug my mom, and tell her all that I had done—certain that she loved me, that she would always be there for me, and that everything was all right. After the long years of wandering in spirit, I knew I was home.
That night for the first time in my life, I knelt and prayed to God. If there was a Heavenly Father, I wanted Him to answer me, to tell me if the things the missionaries taught were true, to show me why I felt so different. It is hard to describe what happened next. I had never before felt the presence of my Heavenly Father so tangibly. I knew He loved me. He knew me. He had always been there. I slept that night knowing with all the strength of my heart that I had found my way home.
I started studying the gospel very carefully. After four months of intense investigation, I decided to be baptized.
My life soon turned upside down. I lost my job and had to end my medical residency. As my interests and values started to change, my old friends started to disappear. But hardest of all for me to accept was that my parents were against my baptism.
I loved my parents dearly. They had given everything they had to provide me with the best education and environment. They were proud of my accomplishments. But when they heard my decision, they were shocked. It was the first time I had wanted to do something they did not agree with, and it was very difficult for all of us. But I knew that God wanted me to be baptized. So even if my family would deny me, I couldn’t deny my Heavenly Father.
My family did not accept the invitation to my baptism, so on my baptism day I went alone to the church. There were many people at the baptism, but I felt my only “family members” were the two missionaries. Then as I turned to go to the baptismal font, I saw my mother and brother. It was the happiest day of my life. The presence of my family was like a beam of sunshine that brought me the hope of a brighter tomorrow.
The following year was full of blessings. In addition to responsibilities in my branch and much volunteer work, I found work in a private hospital and was able to continue my education. My mother came to Church meetings several times after my baptism, and she joined the Church five months later. But most important, I had my Heavenly Father’s love as part of my life, and I had the assurance that I was finally on my way home.

Sister Beck: Last week I was shopping with my granddaughters. I noticed a sales clerk watching our fun. Later I gave her a pass-along card. She told me, “I’m at a point in my life where I’m trying to take charge, and I don’t know how.” So we talked. My closing comment to her was, “If you want this when you’re my age”—and I pointed to my little granddaughters—“you have to be really careful what you’re choosing now. The choices I made at your age determined who I am now.”

Senior Classman Kevin Scott was assigned to preside over a dining table of ten freshmen midshipmen at the United States Naval Academy. Seniors at the Naval Academy at Annapolis assist in training new midshipmen not only in tactics, but also in courtesy and discipline.
During the dinner Senior Scott requested that each midshipman give his full name, his hometown, and his state.
One of the freshmen answered, “Midshipman Ernest Ward Sax, sir, from Salt Lake City, Utah.”
Senior Scott said, “Are you a Mormon?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Does that mean you do not smoke or drink liquor or coffee?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you have a copy of the Book of Mormon?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Have you read it?” was the next question.
“Yes, sir.”
“Will you loan it to me?” requested Scott.
“Yes, sir.”
An unusual but friendly relationship developed, with an exchange of books and pamphlets between young Midshipman Sax of Salt Lake City and Senior Classman Scott of North Carolina.
Annapolis graduate Kevin Scott is now a Marine lieutenant in flight training in Florida. Newly baptized Kevin Scott is the ward mission leader, the “spark plug” of the ward missionary effort. He is now testifying to others about the restoration of the gospel and enthusiastically encouraging our members to spread the message.
Midshipman Ward Sax, now in his second year at Annapolis, is the son of a caring Mormon family, a young man who honored his priesthood responsibility.

Think again. The boys in the teachers quorum of the Sandy, Utah, Willow Creek First Ward did, and their quorum hasn’t been the same since.
Quorum members seem to be friendlier to each other than before. Ward members see the boys just a bit differently. And occasionally you might catch one of them humming a spiritual tune in the halls at school. But with all those changes, some things have stayed the same. These boys are a perfectly typical group of teachers who like to do all the things teachers quorums do.
“We like to camp and play basketball and ski together,” says Michael Olsen, “but those things aren’t centered solely on the Spirit. Singing together is a much different experience. It brings us together in a way that other kinds of activities just can’t.”
The coming together that Michael describes is the very thing the teachers quorum presidency were looking for when they decided to try this experiment. But they weren’t sure it would work. After all, they were going to have to ask their fellow teachers to give up an hour on Sunday to come and … sing.
“We wanted to do something that would serve the ward and also be good for the quorum,” says Dave Liljenquist, a former member of the teachers quorum presidency. “When the bishopric and our leaders introduced this idea, we actually laughed. But we said we’d give it a try.”
And so a handful of the boys started to go to choir practice.
Cameron wasn’t the only teacher who discovered how much he liked the choir. All the other boys that were going were having fun, too. Pretty soon, their friends in the quorum decided to find out what was so great about the choir.
It wasn’t long before the teachers quorum was filling half the choir seats.
“At first, I felt some pressure to go to choir because my friends were going,” says Ben Young. “But after the first time I was going because I wanted to. Singing gives us more time together with our friends.”
But don’t misunderstand. “Choir practice” isn’t code for time to talk or horse around. These boys are serious about the choir. When they’re in choir practice, they’re either singing or quietly listening to the instructions given by the choir director.
And speaking of the choir director, Sister Naomi Bonney, what does she have to say about all of this?
“We have some sons singing in the choir with their mothers. I think that’s brought a nice feeling to the choir,” she says. “These young men are learning something valuable they will be able to use the rest of their lives.”
“At school, sometimes I’ll think of the words to a song,” says Mark Garbett. “You keep them with you, and they have good messages.”
Joey Ulrich says it wasn’t too hard to learn to read music, a skill he mastered pretty quickly even though he’d never done it before he joined the choir. And Paul Garbett says that being in the choir reminds him that, even though he could be doing other things on a Sunday afternoon, choir practice is a great place for him to spend time.
“Sunday is a day of worship, not just a day of rest,” says Paul. “Singing in the choir is another way to worship, just like praying or reading scriptures.”
But it’s probably Michael who sums up the choir’s appeal the best: “You know, sometimes you’re singing about something and you learn something new. And other times, when you’re singing about God, you realize that you know it’s true, that He’s real and that we believe in Him. It invites the Spirit. It makes you feel good.”

Entering adulthood, Elder Christophe G. Giraud-Carrier had grand plans—start a rigorous college path, obtain an educational deferment to serve a full-time mission, marry his teenage sweetheart, and then begin family life and his profession as an engineer in his native France.
While the mission and marriage went as planned, other expectations did not. The deferment did not happen, but a transfer to Brigham Young University (BYU) did, followed by a desire to teach on the university level. University jobs in France were scarce for one educated outside the country, so raising a family, having a different career, and serving in the Church came in different countries and on the Lord’s timetable.
“The mere fact that very few things have happened in the way that we planned allowed us both to realize that if we let the Lord do His thing and take us places, then that’s where He wants us to be and that’s where we can serve,” said Elder Giraud-Carrier. “It has helped us to learn to trust Him, to trust that He can make of our lives more than we otherwise could.”

“My family, and especially my father, was very strict in disciplining the children in our home,” Elder Kikuchi recalls. “Those on my father’s side of the family are from the Samurai, and the Samurai way is very strict. In ancient Japan, the Samurai were the rulers and in those days they fought with swords.

“Every morning when I would get up, I had to dress—even when I was very small—and come before my father on the tatami [mat]. Then I would bow and say, ‘Good morning, Father, I will be a good boy.’ After that greeting I could go to breakfast. I remember one particular morning when I was four years old that I got up and forgot to say those words to my father. He became angry and scolded me. And I was very surprised when he opened the door and threw me outside into the snow. We lived in the northern part of Japan, and there is plenty of snow there in the wintertime. I remember that day so clearly when Father threw me into the snow just because I didn’t say, ‘Good morning, Father, I will be a good boy.’”

Elder Kikuchi recollected further that he ran to his uncle’s house that morning to stay for a while.

“But I have to say about my father,” Elder Kikuchi continued, “that every morning after I bowed and told him I would be a good boy, he held me to his bosom and said, ‘I love you.’ I remember that his beard scratched me when he did this, but I always knew he loved me.”

The center of St. Petersburg, crisscrossed by canals, is full of palaces, monuments, statues, churches, gardens, and museums. For seminary students from the Obukhovskii Branch, it seemed a perfect place to talk about their love of seminary, their love for the scriptures, and their love for their city.
Julia Shaikhulina reminisces about returning from a trip to the Stockholm (Sweden) Temple. “I wondered how I’d feel coming home, since going to the temple is such a wonderful experience. But it was autumn, and as our bus drove across the city, the trees and the buildings were bathed in a golden light. It made all of the buildings look beautiful. And I said to myself, I know that I love my city. It made me feel like I wanted to share the gospel with everyone.”

Many years ago, before homes were heated by gas or electricity, one of the major fuels in my home town was wood. In the late summer and fall we would take our wagon and team of horses into the mountains and bring down logs. The wagon consisted only of two front and two back wheels connected by a very strong hardwood pole called a reach.
The men and boys would leave early in the morning, often before sunup, to begin the long journey. Mother would fix a lunch, and the boys would ride on the skimpy wagon. Sometimes we would be lucky enough to take our ponies and ride ahead of the wagon and play we were real “scouts.”
Once the wagon turned off the main canyon road, the trails up through the ravines and over the ridges were narrow, steep, and rocky. Often the rain had caused gullies to wash down the trails, cutting away banks, exposing large rocks, and making deep ruts. Travel was very slow, but when we finally arrived, we all began work at once.
As the trees were felled, one of the horses would drag the logs over to the wagon, where we would roll or lift them up. Often the logs were so long they would hang over the back of the wagon. When the wagon was finally loaded, the logs were chained securely both in front and back. Then a large chain was wrapped around another half dozen logs, and these were tied to the back of the wagon to be dragged along the trail. With the already heavy load, I wondered at first why the straining horses were forced to pull these extra logs across the rough terrain. But I soon learned the reason.
Although going up the mountain road was rough, coming down the trail with such a heavy load was dangerous! It was difficult for the horses to hold back the heavily loaded wagon on the steep mountain roads. Even when the brakes were applied to keep the back wheels from turning, the wagon would skid and slide. The horses had to struggle to hold back the great weight of the wagon. The heavy logs dragging behind slowed the wagon enough to help the horses hold back the wagon. This way the horses were not pushed forward any faster than they should go, and a runaway or a tip-over on sharp turns into the deep canyon was prevented.
When the wagonload successfully had survived the dangerous descent and reached the main canyon road, the log drag was pulled to the side and left to be picked up later when there were sufficient logs on the side of the road to make a full load.

As my future wife and I prepared for marriage, we began looking for wedding rings that would symbolize our union. None we looked at seemed right until we decided to wear CTR rings. These rings, we believed, would remind us always to choose the right and to raise our family in righteousness.
One day, shortly before our marriage, I noticed my ring had lost its luster. I asked several people what to do and was told to polish it with substances like toothpaste, fine cotton, and grease. I tried them all. Nothing worked. I finally gave up, even though the lost luster bothered me.
After we were married, life seemed to get more complicated. I became so busy with work and Church callings that my wife was left alone to do much of the work at home. Gradually, the joyful feeling in our home ebbed away. Unsure of the reason for the change or of how to resolve our concerns, we prayed for guidance.
In time, our first son was born. My wife spent a great deal of time caring for our son. I was grateful for all she was doing and decided that I would make hand washing the diapers my task.
Several weeks after I began washing the diapers, I was surprised to see that my wedding ring had regained its luster. It occurred to me that washing diapers every day had done what none of the recommended polishing techniques could do.
It also occurred to me that since I had been so busy with duties outside my home, I had failed to fulfill my most important duties as a husband and father. Like my ring, our marriage had lost its luster. But once I chose the right—as my ring suggested—and made my family my top priority, both began to shine once more.

I was excited to go to youth conference, but then I found out there were lots of rules— for example, no cell phones and no going outside alone. It seemed like adults were constantly keeping an eye on us. But I had a great time, made a lot of friends, worked on a service project, and learned about the gospel.
During a testimony meeting on the last day of youth conference, one of the leaders talked about how much he loves us, the youth in the stake.
“If you love us, why do we have so many restrictions here?” I thought. At that same moment, like he could read my mind, he answered my question.
Leaders put rules in place, he said, not to annoy us but for our safety. The moment he said that, I was touched by the Spirit. I understood that Heavenly Father gives us commandments for the same reason. They are not to annoy us; they are to help us return safely to Him (see Doctrine and Covenants 82:8–10).
The Holy Ghost touched me and helped me to know that this is true.
Serge P., Île-de-France, France

Sometimes living the principles of the gospel presents us with some challenges. During World War II, I enlisted in the Navy immediately out of high school and entered boot camp in San Diego. I shall never forget the first night in the barracks. We were all dressed in our standard white skivvies, and I ended up with the top half of a two-man bunk. I remember lying there after the lights were turned off and trying to decide how I was going to say my prayer. There was a little confusion around the area, and I didn’t want to flaunt my religion, but I also thought I might as well establish early that I was not ashamed to pray. So after a few minutes when the confusion subsided, I knelt quietly on top of my bunk and began to pray. I had just started when a large, boisterous fellow I’d met from northern Idaho came roaring down the aisle and in a loud voice yelled, “Hey, what are you doing, Clarke?” At the same time he whopped me across the backside and just about knocked me off the bunk. It’s quite an experience to kneel in the dark about five feet off the ground and suddenly find yourself flying through space! I managed to grab the rail and stay on top, but my nerves took an awful jolt. I didn’t say anything but continued my prayer. When I finished, my big neighbor fervently apologized and promised it wouldn’t happen again. We talked good-naturedly for a few minutes, then went to sleep.
That was the end of my problem. The next night I followed the same basic routine, but this time my friend took it upon himself to see that I had no interference. I heard him say, “All right, you guys, knock it off. Clarke’s saying his prayers.”

When I was seven, I thought I had the true meaning of Christmas all figured out. Christmas was more than just receiving gifts. You had to be willing to give a gift if you expected to receive one in return.
Each year our gifts to friends and neighbors were Mom’s holiday cookies and candies. Her walnut divinity was famous. My sisters and I would pitch in to help deliver plates of treats around the neighborhood. The neighbors would reciprocate by delivering their own favorite treats to our house—completing the exchange program.
That year the last of the neighbors came by with their gift on Christmas Eve. However, instead of a plate of cookies, they gave us a small, beautifully wrapped present. They instructed us not to open it until we had opened all the other gifts under the tree the next day. I used my best detective skills to try to determine what was inside. But the only clue I could find was a gift tag that merely added to my curiosity: “To the Luebke Family—the Greatest Gift of All.” That was quite a promise for such a small box—especially when all we had given them was homemade cookies and candy.
Christmas morning finally came, and we opened all our presents. Then, as we sat in the carnage of torn wrapping paper and opened boxes, Mom brought out the mysterious gift and read the tag. My sister and I fought over who would open it. I don’t recall who won, but I clearly remember my disappointment when I saw what was inside the box—nothing except a card. I had been skeptical that this gift would really be “the Greatest Gift of All,” but I had certainly expected more than a handwritten card. Mom, on the other hand, was visibly touched by the card.
The next year when the Christmas decorations went up, the little present was back under the tree, like an unwanted fruitcake. I lifted the lid, hoping that I had missed something the year before. But it proved again to be an empty box with a simple card in it.
As the years went by, that little gift became a family tradition. Every year it was the first present under the tree and the last one opened on Christmas morning. In my teenage years my attitude began to soften toward the little gift.
The first Christmas after my mission, I headed home for the holidays after a semester at college. As I walked through the door, the memory of many Christmases at home came flooding back. As I looked in the living room, I saw it, that unusual little present, alone under the tree. It showed the wear of having many heavy packages piled on top of it over the years. I picked it up with a reverence I had never shown it before. The tag was still attached: “To the Luebke Family—the Greatest Gift of All.” As I lifted the lid and read the card inside, I now had a testimony that it truly did represent the greatest gift our family could ever be given. It read, “From Jesus Christ—The Gift of Eternal Life.”
I am grateful for the family who gave us this family tradition that has blessed our Christmases by reminding us of the greatest gift of all.

When I was about 11 years old, a man came to our little town to teach at the Church academy. He played the violin a little, and we hadn’t had anyone there for a long time that had played the violin. My mother was impressed and picked up a little violin, I guess at some little rummage sale somewhere, and decided that I should learn to play the violin.
Even though I had never seen anyone play the violin in public, he came to our house and started giving me some little simple lessons on playing the violin. I was coming along fairly well by the time we graduated from the eighth grade in grammar school, and for the graduation exercises held in the high school I was asked to play a violin solo.
I’d carefully practiced the little number “Traumerei,” as I remember the name. My sister who was four years older than I and was then one of the popular girls in high school was my pianist. At the graduation exercises, Connie McMurray was the valedictorian. Girls are always smarter in school than boys. As she was giving the valedictory address, there was a little pedestal with a pitcher of water and a glass on it for the school board. The school board was on the stand, plus a little handful of us who were graduating from the eighth grade.
As Connie McMurray was giving her famous valedictory address, near the end of it we noticed the little doily under the pitcher of water on the pedestal was moving over a little bit towards the edge, and over it fell with the pitcher and glass of water! Connie McMurray fell in a dead faint.
In the scurrying around of cleaning the water off the stage and rearranging the chairs, they announced that we would now have the violin solo from David Haight. I walked over to the little old piano, and my sister came up from the audience. I took that little simple violin out of that wooden case as my sister sat down at the piano and sounded an A. I said, “Go ahead and play.”
She said, “David, you’d better tune it.”
I said, “No, no, I tuned it at our piano at home.” We had an old Kimball piano at home. You know, homes in those days—if you had a piano and books, that’s all you needed for the family. I had carefully tuned the strings by twisting those ebony pegs of that violin, but I didn’t know that all pianos weren’t the same. So as my sister said, “You’d better tune it,” I said, “No, no, it’s all tuned. I tuned it at home.”
So she went ahead and played the introduction, and then I came down on the first note. We were off about two notes.
As she slowed down, I said, “Keep playing,” because I couldn’t imagine anyone would take the time of a famous audience like I was playing to—you know, 100 people in that little high school auditorium. You wouldn’t hold up Carnegie Hall while you tuned your violin! That would be shop work. You would do that in the back room so that when you would start to play, why, you’d be all ready to play.
She slowed down. I said, “Keep playing.” We finished it, and she didn’t speak to me for days following that show.

I’m Molly McKinzie, and in most ways I’m rather ordinary. My hair is brown. My eyes are a plain sort of gray. I’m not too short or too tall.
My best friend is Brenda. We both love pets, ballet lessons, climbing trees, and strawberry ice cream with chocolate on top. In other ways, though, we’re very different.
Brenda’s hair is curly and blond, and her eyes are a sparkling blue. And, when she giggles, Chuck Thornton, the neatest boy in our class, stares at her and can’t remember what he was going to say. I often wished he’d look at me like that.
It seemed hopeless, though, because of the one thing about me that isn’t ordinary—my nose.
“Most remarkable!” said Dad’s Aunt Prudence from Philadelphia, when she came to help after Mom had Michael. She tilted my chin up with her long, skinny finger and spoke to Mom as if I weren’t there. “It certainly doesn’t look like anyone from my side of the family.”
“Maybe not too much,” said Mom with a funny look on her face, “but Molly helps take good care of baby Michael.”
Mom was right. I did such a good job that Aunt Prudence didn’t have to stay very long.
I don’t know why grownups are forever trying to figure out who looks like whom. When Michael was born, everybody said things like, “Oh, how sweet! He has his mother’s delicate nose.”
“And his father’s chin and hair.” “Yes, but aren’t those Grandpa McKinzie’s ears?”
Actually, baby Michael looked like baby Michael to me and not like anybody else. It made me start thinking, though. There must have been somebody in the family with a nose like mine.
The day Michael rolled over for the first time, Mom hurried to get out his baby book so she could write it down. I got out my baby book too. Sometimes I like to look at it just for fun.
As I turned the pages, I noticed one that I hadn’t really looked at before. It was titled “My Family Tree.” All the lines were blank. I asked Mom if she had the names and pictures of the people who belonged there. I hoped that at least one of them would have a nose like mine.
Mom smiled. “I think we could find some of them.” When she finished feeding Michael, she got down a large box. “I have a few pictures, but you’ll have to ask Dad about his side of the family. I don’t know much about them.”
We dumped everything out onto the floor. “Someday I need to organize all this,” she said. We found pictures of aunts, uncles, cousins, grandmas, grandpas, birthday parties, graduations, and weddings. We filled in many of the spaces and kept working until Dad came home. He joined in the fun too. We only stopped to make some sandwiches.
Dad got out his large black photo album and filled in many spaces. There was a picture of Dad as a little boy pulling a small dog in a wagon.
I had to laugh. Dad looked so plain and ordinary, just like me, except that he had an ordinary nose. The remarkable nose just couldn’t be found. When we finished that night, all the spaces were filled except two.
“Hmmm,” said Dad, leaning back in his chair, “I wonder where we can find your great-great-grandparents.”
The next Saturday, Dad and I drove to a huge library in a nearby city. We looked through books and films and even used a computer to search for more clues. Finally, after looking for a long time, Dad found a name. “Philadelphia,” he said thoughtfully. “It looks like we need to write Aunt Prudence a letter. Will you help me, Molly?”
I wrinkled my remarkable nose. “I guess so,” I said.
I helped write the letter, then began checking the mailbox each day for an answer. “It will take many days,” Mom said. I waited and waited until I almost gave up.
Weeks later I was out walking our dog, Dixie, when the letter carrier came. He waved to me as he put a stack of mail in our box. I waved back and ran to see what was inside.
Dixie’s leash slipped through my hands as I shuffled through the letters. Just then, a big gust of wind came along and blew the mail everywhere. I ran around as fast as I could, gathering it up.
Dixie thought it was a fun game and caught the last letter in her teeth. When I tried to take it from her she growled playfully and ran away, wanting me to chase her.
“Bad dog!” I shouted, but she paid no attention, darting this way and that with the letter still in her teeth.
Chuck Thornton came around the corner just then, delivering newspapers. He stopped to watch the chase. It was so embarrassing. He whistled to Dixie, and she ran right to him and let him take the letter from her.
“Thanks, Chuck,” I said, a little out of breath. “She’s kind of silly sometimes.”
“That’s all right,” he said. “Hey! Look at this. It’s addressed to you, Molly. It’s from somebody in Philadelphia.”
“Really?” I was so excited that my hands shook when I opened it.
Inside was a five-page letter and some very old pictures. I read it carefully while Chuck looked at the pictures.
“I can’t believe this,” I said. “My Great-Great-Grandmother and Grandfather McKinzie were immigrants from Ireland who helped build a town in Pennsylvania. There’s even a park named after them.”
“Wow! That’s neat!” Chuck exclaimed. He handed me the pictures. “You know, Molly, you even sort of look like your great-great-grandfather. It’s … uh … your distinguished-looking nose.”
I stared at his picture. It was true! There was my nose on my great-great-grandpa’s face. “Distinguished?” I asked Chuck nervously.
“Yes, I think it’s the perfect description of it. Lots of famous people have distinguished noses.”
“They do?”
“Sure! Even some movie stars.”
Mom opened the door. “It’s here!” I yelled, waving the letter. She invited Chuck in for hot cider and donuts. While we had our treat, she read the letter.
“Remarkable!” she said, looking at the pictures.
“Distinguished!” said Chuck.
We all laughed.

It felt just like any other Sunday morning in Primary. Brother Barrow and Brother Jensen sat at the front of the class.
“Good morning,” said Brother Barrow. “Did everyone have a good week?”
Miles popped up in his seat next to me. “Yeah! I had fun this weekend!” he said. He told about a park he went to.
After everyone had taken a turn to talk, Brother Jensen began marking the roll. “Hmm,” he said, looking up at us. “Samantha isn’t here again. Does anyone know who she is? I’ve never met her before.”
I raised my hand. “I know who she is,” I said. “I’ve seen her at school.”
“Thank you, Grace. Could you tell us more about her?”
I thought about Samantha. It seemed like she always played by herself. “She’s pretty shy,” I said. “I don’t think she has very many friends.”
“I think we should do something special to invite her to Primary,” said Brother Jensen. “How would everyone feel about coming to my house this week to make brownies and a card for her?”
“That’s a great idea!” said Miles.
“I want to come too!” said Haylee.
“Sounds good,” said Brother Jensen. “I’ll call your parents so we can find a time to get together.”
Finally the day came. We met at Brother Jensen’s house, and we were ready to bake!
“Who wants to mix the cocoa and baking soda?” Brother Barrow asked.
“I do!” said Mason.
Soon we all had jobs to do. Before we knew it, the brownies were in the oven.
“OK, everyone, while we wait for the brownies to bake, let’s make the card,” said Brother Jensen.
Our card was actually a big poster. We got out crayons and markers and wrote things like “We miss you!” and “Come to Primary!” By the time we were done writing and drawing pictures, the brownies were done.
We put the brownies on a plate and went together to Samantha’s house. Brother Jensen knocked on the door, and Samantha’s mom answered.
“SURPRISE!” we shouted.
“We just want to invite your daughter to Primary,” said Brother Barrow.
“That is so thoughtful,” she said. “Thank you all so much.” She called to Samantha, and she came to the door. “Look, Samantha. See what they brought you!”
“Thank you,” she said shyly.
I waved to her from the back of the group. “Hi, Samantha! I’m Grace, from school.”
“We hope you can come to our Primary class this week!” said John.
At recess the next day, I was sitting with my friends and saw Samantha. “Hi!” I said. “Do you want to play with us?”
“No,” she said, looking down. “But thanks anyway.”
I smiled at her. Samantha smiled back a little bit. “OK,” I said. “Some other time.”
Later Samantha and her mom started coming to church! Just shows the power of friendship … and brownies!
Samantha didn’t come to Primary that Sunday. I was kind of sad, but I was still glad we invited her. It felt like what Heavenly Father wanted us to do. Samantha wasn’t ready to come to Church, and that was OK. We could ask again another time. And we could definitely keep trying to get to know her. Who knows? Maybe we could all be friends!

When I returned from my mission, I wanted to find an eternal companion and be sealed in the temple. I first met my wife, Rosana, while we served in the same mission. Several months following our missions, we crossed paths at a multistake dance. We started dating, and two years later, we were married and sealed in the temple with the goal of raising our own eternal family.
Rosana and I worked together to create a family focused on the Savior, His teachings, and the teachings of His prophets and apostles. In time, I had the blessing of sealing my three children to their spouses. Seeing them kneel at the altar in the temple was an unforgettable and beautiful experience. Today, our children are raising their children in the gospel—just as my parents had done for my brothers and me and as Rosana and I have tried to do for them. I can see the blessings of the gospel continue eternally for our family!