Gospel Story Finder

The back windows of our home overlook a small flower garden and the woods which border a small stream. One wall of the house borders on the garden and is thickly covered with English ivy. Most years this ivy has been the nesting place for house finches. The nests in the vines are safe from foxes and raccoons and cats that are about.
One day there was a great commotion in the ivy. Desperate cries of distress came as 8 or 10 finches from the surrounding woods came to join in this cry of alarm. I soon saw the source of the commotion. A snake had slid partway down out of the ivy and hung in front of the window just long enough for me to pull it out. The middle part of the snake’s body had two bulges—clear evidence convicting it of taking two fledglings from the nest. Not in the 50 years we had lived in our home had we seen anything like that. It was a once-in-a-lifetime experience—or so we thought.
A few days later there was another commotion, this time in the vines covering our dog run. We heard the same cries of alarm, the gathering of the neighborhood finches. We knew what the predator was. A grandson climbed onto the run and pulled out another snake that was still holding on tightly to the mother bird it had caught in the nest and killed.
I said to myself, “What is going on? Is the Garden of Eden being invaded again?”
There came into my mind the warnings spoken by the prophets. We will not always be safe from the adversary’s influence, even within our own homes. We need to protect our nestlings.

As I was interviewing the young people in our ward as their bishop. I asked each of them: “Are you going out with anyone who is not a member of our church?”
Susan said, “I go out with Bill. We know each other very well. We’re good friends.”
“Do you know him well enough to invite him to our student ward party?” I asked.
Susan brought Bill to our party and our ward missionaries did the rest. Bill is now in the bishopric in Houston, Texas, after having served a mission for the Church. And Bill and Susan’s experience has been duplicated all over the Church.

I used to have nightmares every night after hearing a scary story at Scout camp. I was very scared—it was hard to go to sleep. I prayed every night for Heavenly Father to help me, but I still had nightmares. Then one night I told my dad. I was shaking a little when I told him because it scared me to talk about it. We said a prayer together. Dad suggested I sing a Church hymn to myself, because I share a room with my brother. My favorite hymn is “There Is a Green Hill Far Away” (Hymns, no. 194). Every night after that I wasn’t scared, and I stopped having nightmares. In my personal prayers every night I ask Heavenly Father to continue helping me with my fears, and I still sing my favorite hymn to myself every night.

In the Church we have many opportunities to perform charitable acts. Some of the greatest acts of charity begin with an outstretched hand of friendship. One great example was related by an elderly brother in a ward conference meeting.
This good brother was the Sunday School president and was called upon to bear his testimony. During twelve years of his life of inactivity he had been tossed to and fro with life’s problems and had become filled with deep despair. When life seemed its blackest, hands of fellowship and friendship were extended, first by home teachers, then by the bishop, then by members of the ward. As he returned to activity in the Church and felt the warm spirit of the members extended to him without judgment or reservation, he knew that the gospel of Jesus Christ was true and that there is always room for a repentant soul. The Lord forgives; his true followers also forgive. The hand of friendship is outstretched; the sinner repents; the circle of charity is complete.

Elder Bettridge served his mission close to home in Leeds, before studying economics at university, entering the world of work, and meeting his wife, Jenny, at a work event in Chicago. After she returned to her home in Australia he visited her there, took her to church and introduced her to the missionaries. A few years later, they were married. To this day, he says that “my best missionary moment was introducing my wife to the gospel”.

Having determined to become a bookkeeper, I immediately began to work to reach this goal. I well remember the amusement I furnished my fellow students. One remarked when looking at my books, “What is it; hen tracks?” Another said, “Has lightning struck an ink bottle?”

These remarks and others, while not made to hurt my feelings but in good-natured fun, nevertheless affected me deeply and aroused within me a spirit of determination. I resolved to live to provide an example for penmanship for all who attended the university, and to be the teacher of penmanship and bookkeeping in that institution. Having a purpose and also “the will to labor,” and agreeing with Lord Lytton that, “In the bright lexicon of youth there’s no such word as fail,” I commenced to use my spare time to practice penmanship, continuing year after year until I was referred to as “the greatest scribbler on earth.”

The result was that some years later, I got a job as bookkeeper and policy clerk in an insurance office. Although at fifteen, I wrote very well and it was all that was needed to satisfactorily fill the position which I then held, yet I was not fully satisfied but continued to dream and “scribble,” when not other wise occupied. I worked in the front of A. W. White and Company’s bank, and, when not busy, volunteered to assist with the bank work, and to do anything and everything I could to employ my time, never thinking whether I was to be paid for it or not, but having only a desire to work and learn.

Mr. Morf, the bookkeeper in the bank, wrote well, and took time and effort to assist me in my efforts to become proficient as a penman. I learned to write so well that I often earned more before and after office hours by writing cards, invitations, etc., and making maps, than the amount of my regular salary. Some years later, a diploma at the Territorial Fair was awarded me for the finest penmanship in Utah.

When I engaged in business for myself, there was a vacancy at the university in the position of teacher of penmanship and bookkeeping, and to fulfill the promise to myself, made when a youth of twelve or thirteen, that I would some day teach these subjects I applied for the position. My application was accepted, and my obligation to myself was thus fulfilled.

While he was recovering from his illness, Elder Kikuchi stayed at his uncle’s home in Muroran City, west of Hokkaido. In the spring of 1958, two American missionaries knocked at the door. Because he knew nothing about the real causes of World War II, Elder Kikuchi’s first response was, “No thank you. You Americans killed my father.” The missionaries, out tracting on their preparation day, told the young man that they had an important message for him and that they wanted to tell him a story about a boy his age—Joseph Smith. He said that he would listen for ten minutes.
“They taught me the most beautiful story of Joseph Smith who saw Heavenly Father and the Son,” Elder Kikuchi said. “I felt a sweet spirit. It changed my life immediately, and I requested to study more. After fourteen days I was baptized.” Elder Kikuchi was baptized on April 13, 1958. “Since then,” Elder Kikuchi noted, “I’ve ‘felt to sing the song of redeeming love’” (Alma 5:26).
After his conversion to the gospel, Elder Kikuchi found that his attitude about his father’s death changed. He followed the Savior’s teachings to “love one another” (John 13:34) and to “love your enemies” (Matt. 5:44).

Josh B. didn’t let a lacrosse injury keep him down. When a concussion temporarily prevented him from being able to read, watch TV, or use a computer, he decided to pass the time knitting hats. This led to unexpected opportunities to share the gospel.
How did your friends find out about your knitting? During lacrosse, I got hit in the back of the head with a stick. I got a concussion and had to avoid anything that would stimulate my brain while I was healing—anything with flashing lights or anything that would make me think too hard, like heavy reading or math.
I had to take it easy for about a week. I was really bored, so my mom suggested I could pass the time by knitting a hat. I was going to watch my lacrosse team play that night, so I decided to make a hat using our team colors and wear it to the game. My friends couldn’t believe I had made it myself. Someone asked if they could buy one from me, and that’s when I got the idea to sell hats to help pay for my mission. Since then, I’ve sold about 300 hats.
Has this project had other positive effects? People always want to know where I learned to knit. So I tell them the story, starting with my sister in Beehives, and it opens up questions about the Church. Now, because of these hats, even students from other schools know that I’m a Latter-day Saint and want to ask me questions about my beliefs.
What has this experience taught you? I’ve learned that even bad things can have good outcomes. Getting the concussion wasn’t fun at all, but from that I’ve been able to earn money for my mission and even do some missionary work right now.
Also, you shouldn’t be afraid to share your talents. We are all representatives of the Church, and other people see that. Being in high school is a great missionary opportunity. People have questions, so let them know about the restored gospel of Jesus Christ.

The last day of her fifth-grade year was a day Rose would never forget. She was 11 years old, quiet, and shy. But she loved being with her friends and playing games in which she competed with them.
And that day was a day of outdoor competitions. Rose thought, I can choose to do whatever I want today at the games!
A few teachers had set up games and races for the children. Rose and her two best friends, Tricia and Kelly, decided to help some of the teachers set things up. Rose had a lot of fun helping her own teacher, Mr. Charles, put up signs and get the first-, second-, and third-place ribbons ready for the winners.
Of course, Rose wanted to be one of the winners. In fact, she thought, I sure would like a first-place ribbon to take home!
At last the fun began. Rose, Tricia, and Kelly competed in several games together. Each of them won second- and third-place ribbons.
After a while, Kelly decided she wanted to help the first-grade teacher with the sack race, and Tricia wanted to enter the drawing contest. Rose didn’t know what else she wanted to do, so she decided to walk around.
The peanut race looked like it would be fun. She watched the younger children’s division and saw that it was no ordinary race. She clapped her hands as the winner got to the finish line—it was her happy little neighbor, Andi Marie.
When she signed up for her own division, Rose saw that about nine other girls had entered. She didn’t know any of them very well, but they all seemed to be friends.
The teacher in charge, Mr. Stevens, was one of the favorite teachers in the school. He handed each girl a peanut and a little, flat wooden spoon and explained the rules. “First, place the peanut on the spoon. When I blow the whistle, go as fast as you can toward the finish line, trying not to let the peanut fall off. If it does, stop, pick it up, put it back on your spoon, and continue the race. The first one who crosses the finish line will be the winner. No cheating!”
As Mr. Stevens headed for the finish line, which seemed very far away, Rose saw that many kids had gathered along both sides of the racecourse. Her heart began to pound.
The whistle blew, and off they went! Rose was determined to win, but it was harder than she’d thought it would be. Every few steps the peanut rolled off her spoon. She kept stopping to pick it up, put it back on her spoon, and hurry on. It was fun at first, but then she heard some kids laughing. The laughter got louder and louder. Mr. Stevens was yelling out over the noise, “Come on, keep it up! You can make it!”
When she dared to glance up, she saw that all the other girls had already crossed the finish line. How could they have gotten there so fast? Rose wondered. They were laughing, too—and hooting—at her: “You’re too slow! We all beat you! Ha-ha-ha!”
All eyes were on Rose. The peanut kept rolling off, and she kept picking it up as even the bystanders laughed and made fun.
She was only halfway down the racecourse. Her face flushed bright red with embarrassment, and the next time the peanut rolled off, she stopped, picked it up, and walked off the course. What’s the use of going on? she asked herself. She just wanted to go home or hide someplace.
Feeling a tap on her shoulder, she turned around to see a concerned Mr. Stevens. When he asked why she had walked off, all she could do was shrug. If she had tried to speak, she would have cried.
She never forgot what Mr. Stevens said to her then: “You should have kept going. Even if you had come in last, you would have been the winner. Didn’t you know that all the other girls had their thumbs on the peanuts? They all cheated. You were the only one who was honest. I’m proud of you for that, but you didn’t win the race because you gave up.”
“You gave up” kept ringing in her ears. She didn’t like those words. She felt good about being honest, but she felt bad about giving up. She didn’t believe in being a quitter, but she had quit anyway. If she hadn’t, she would now be a happy winner with a first-place ribbon!

Consider the story of Ximena Martinez. A few years ago, Ximena, her sister Micaela, and her brother Gonzalo were living with their divorced mother in Buenos Aires. Ximena was 15 at the time. She had been assigned the responsibility of taking care of the yard, “but I had neglected it,” she explains. “Daniel Garrido, a nice neighbor who lived across the street, offered to help. A few days later he came, accompanied by full-time missionaries. They worked hard and made everything look beautiful. But this was only the beginning. Daniel and his wife, Elisabet, continued to be faithful friends, and the missionaries offered to teach us about the restoration of the gospel. How could we say no?”
That was the beginning of a journey to understanding. After studying with the missionaries, Ximena’s mother was baptized. The children soon followed her example. “I decided to change my life, to have the kind of freedom only Christ can give,” Ximena continues. “More and more, I wanted to live the gospel. But there was something missing—we needed a father and we wanted to be sealed in the temple.
“One day at a Church dance, I talked to a friend named Martin Morresi. He mentioned that his father was a widower. Jokingly I said, ‘Well, my mother needs a husband! We ought to get them to meet.’ We only had one problem—his father lived 2,000 miles away.
“I began to tease my mother that I had found a husband for her. Then, at a stake choir rehearsal, Martin told me, ‘My father is coming to visit Buenos Aires, and he wants to have dinner with your mother!’ I was stunned, but I won’t even tell you my mother’s reaction. However, she accepted. Martin accompanied his father, Ruben, and I accompanied my mother, Susana, and we had a wonderful evening. Ruben Morresi was attentive and respectful. I could see he was upright and faithful, a man of God.”
Three and a half months later, Ruben and Susana were married in the Buenos Aires Argentina Temple. Ximena, Micaela, and Gonzalo Martinez were sealed to them and moved with them to Ushuaia, where they joined Manuel and Micaela Morresi as new brothers and sisters. (Three older children live away from home.)
“Now I live at the end of the world,” says Ximena. “I am working with all my might to help Zion to grow here. I know the Lord’s kingdom will extend to the four corners of the earth, and this is why He has guided us to one of them.”

Theresa and Reiner Bradley met in a hospital. She was visiting a friend, and he was working his way through college as an orderly. When he walked into her friend’s hospital room, Theresa remembers thinking, “Wow, this guy is tall.” Standing 1.82-meters-tall herself, she was aware of height. Reiner is two meters tall. “He remembered my phone number when I gave it to my friend, and he called me,” says Theresa. They were married a year later. It was while the couple was stationed in Germany, fulfilling an obligation in the army, that Shawn was born. After finishing his schooling as a medical technologist, Reiner moved his young family back to Theresa’s hometown of Castle Dale, Utah. They wanted a small-town atmosphere for their children.

“I wanted my children to become well rounded,” says Theresa. “I wanted them to participate in lots of different activities so that when the time came for them to choose what they wanted to be in life, they’d have a good background. It’s happening. My kids are involved in almost too much. We have animals, and the kids can sort of learn how to work doing chores.”

“No ‘sort of’ about it,” Shawn interrupts. “We do chores. I like doing most chores, but the worst is in the middle of the winter when it’s snowing, and out in the corral it’s really messy. The milk cow is wet and dirty, and you have to go out and milk her at six o’clock in the morning when the temperature is below freezing. It’s got to be the worst chore in the world.”

Shawn may have to face the cow in the freezing barn some mornings alone, but in everything else his family offers encouragement and love. “We were there behind him to support him,” says Reiner, “not to push him. I don’t think he ever felt pressure to play in any sport.”

Shawn loves to play baseball and also played football during his junior high school years until he felt he couldn’t risk injury. He was on the high school golf team, although he’s quick to add that when they organized the eight-member team, only seven tried out. “They had to let me on.” He likes to horseback ride, rock climb, and water-ski with his friends.

“Reiner is very athletic,” says Theresa, “and so am I. When Shawn came home from the hospital, my husband put a basketball in the crib. That was the first thing Shawn saw.”

Shawn laughs and shrugs his shoulders, “I had no chance.”

“We knew quite early that Shawn would be good in basketball,” says Reiner. “I played ball with some men in the ward early mornings at the stake center. I asked Shawn if he would be interested in coming along. He went with me many mornings to the stake center and played with the adults when he was only eleven or twelve years old.”

Some time in his early teenage years, Shawn first beat his Dad in one-on-one basketball competition. “I don’t remember when it happened. When Dad would win, it would make me feel bad, so the next time, he’d let me beat him. I never really knew when I actually could beat him.”

But Shawn is not quite so kind to his younger brother, Justin. Would he like to beat his older brother? Justin answers very quickly, “Yes.”

Theresa says, “That’s Justin’s ultimate goal.”

Under his breath, Shawn mumbles, “It’s never going to happen. I’m not going to let him. When he beats me, he’ll know it.”

Of course, Shawn’s basketball prowess has not gone unnoticed. He has attracted national attention since he was in the ninth grade. His family’s ability to look for the positive really helped while college recruiters visited around Castle Dale trying to persuade Shawn to consider goint to their colleges. Shawn’s dad, Reiner, says, “We were told the recruiting process could become unpleasant. We sat down as a family and said, let’s not let it get that way. Let’s do this from a positive angle. Let’s enjoy it. It was an incredible experience, and the family enjoyed every minute of it.”

From the beginning of the recruitment process, one of Shawn’s requirements was stated clearly, and if schools would not agree, then there was no more discussion. Shawn told them that as soon as he turned nineteen years old, he would be taking two years off to serve a mission. That point was nonnegotiable. All the colleges that talked with Shawn agreed. His family supported Shawn’s decision as he selected a school. Theresa confesses to being delighted when her son chose to go to Brigham Young University in Provo, Utah, just about a two-hour drive from home.

As many prospective missionaries do, Shawn has thought about some of the places he may serve a mission. “I’ll go anywhere,” says Shawn. His mother adds, “We’re hoping he’ll go to a country that feeds missionaries really well so he can gain weight.”

And that brings up the subject of food. Shawn is too skinny for his height. He weighs ninety-five kilos and is consciously working to put on weight. “I eat anything I can get my hands on,” Shawn explains. “It’s like a constant hunger. I can always eat. It’s really hard for me to gain weight.”

But serving a mission is more than living and eating in another place. It is teaching others about your deepest beliefs. Shawn has already had some experiences that have prepared him for teaching the gospel.

When Shawn was fifteen years old, he and a friend attended a national basketball training camp with 120 of the best high school players in the United States. A new friend talking with the two Utah players had some unusual misconceptions about Mormons.

“He asked me, ‘There are Mormons where you’re from, right? Do you see them? Do you live by them?’

“I answered him,” says Shawn. “‘Yes, we go to school with them. We see them all the time. Mormons are just like you and me. They are normal people. They look like us. They dress like us. They act like us. They talk like us.’

“He didn’t believe me until I said, ‘I can prove to you that Mormons are just normal people.’ He said, ‘How?’ I said, ‘We’re both Mormons.’ It really shook him up. A few days later, he started asking more about the Church and our ideals. He couldn’t believe we practiced chastity and that we wouldn’t drink alcohol or smoke. We had a very serious discussion for fifteen-year-olds.

“On that same trip was the first time I had ever had to tell the Joseph Smith story. I was asking myself, how much do I really know? I did not feel satisfied with myself at all explaining what I believe. I ended up bearing my testimony to him. That is the best missionary tool in the world. I just couldn’t find a way of explaining everything I knew. But I knew it was true. It was an excellent feeling to know something is really true.”

Shawn finds himself more and more often talking about the Church. Besides his television interviews with national press, he spends time speaking at firesides. His friend, Corinne Pugmire, says people can sense his testimony. “When he speaks, he never has to take something back that he said about the Church. You can tell that he is not making it up to impress people. He definitely has a strong testimony. He’s adamant about standing up for what he believes and not backing down one bit.”

Friends mean a lot to Shawn. He wants to be able to trust everybody, but he’s already met people who just want to take advantage of him. “Deep down I can sense their motives. I can tell when people want to know me for what I am, not who I am. I think it’s the Holy Ghost saying, ‘Be careful.’”

“People ask, is he conceited?” says Corinne. “He’s not at all. He’s very ordinary. He never gives you the feeling that he thinks he is better than anyone else. He’s always quick to say he’s sorry if he does something wrong.”

In his ward, Shawn’s bishop, Scott Johansen says, “He’s quiet, friendly, and very considerate of others. He goes out of his way to cheer others up. He would be an outstanding young man even if he were shorter than he is.”

When asked to think about someone Shawn has helped, his friend Bill Wright thought for a fraction of a second before answering, “He’s helped me. He’s incredibly caring. He puts everybody ahead of himself. My mother died two years ago, and he was the only one of my friends who came to her funeral. That has stuck with me. He was so caring and thought about me so much. He’s always there for me when I’m feeling bad.”

When asked what advice he would give to young people, Shawn says, “It bothers me when people don’t think well of themselves. They need to have high self-esteem. If I had advice for anyone anywhere, it would be that you have got to think of yourself as the Lord would think of you, as one of His children.” Maybe that’s part of Shawn’s secret, why he treats people with such kindness and courtesy.

And his ability to see the good side to things has something to do with his favorite scripture, 2 Nephi 2:11. “That’s the one that talks about opposition in all things,” says Shawn. “If something goes wrong, I say, well, there is opposition in all things. This is the opposition. You have to put it aside and go on.”

Shawn has learned how to take gospel truths into his life and let them guide his actions and decisions. It is in this way that he continues to grow.

Yes, Shawn Bradley is tall, and he is definitely someone to look up to.

Since this article was written, Shawn has received his mission call. He is now serving in the Australia Sydney mission.

This was not your typical Sunday morning. On this particular February Sunday, members were encouraged to gather after sacrament meeting, and some leaders even ended services early, sending volunteers to help their neighbors.
Over 150 youth and adults from the La Crescenta California Stake gathered with shovels, wheelbarrows, and their bright yellow Mormon Helping Hands vests to help move mud. Torrential rains, combined with mountains of earth exposed because of burned-off vegetation, had sent rivers of mud down residential neighborhoods in their area. Homes had three to four feet of mud surrounding them and several feet of mud inside as well.
Volunteers cleared pathways though the mud so that homeowners could get to their belongings and salvage what had not been destroyed. Katie Callister, a Mia Maid in the La Canada Second Ward, said, “I really wanted to help shovel the mud out of the damaged homes, but when I got there I saw the terrible destruction. Seeing the residents’ faces turn from devastation to gratitude was such an amazing experience. It made me feel so happy to know that I was helping someone so much and at the same time serving the Lord.”
Tons of mud, rock, debris, and people’s belongings were moved that day by the youth and adults wearing those yellow vests. Many residents commented that they were touched that teenagers would give up their Sunday afternoon to help strangers.

The burning testimony of God’s love which still excites my soul came to me when I was only ten years old, at a time when I needed strength to sustain me through a very frightening experience. That testimony, firmly embedded in my soul, became the motivation in my search for truth and led me to a testimony of the gospel and membership in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints years later.
The experience began with Aunt Maggie and a little book called the Ten Commandments which she had given to my youngest sister for Christmas. Because Aunt Maggie came nearer to being an angel than anyone I knew, there was no doubt in my mind that we should live by every word written in that book.
Aunt Maggie loved the scriptures. Her life was one of selflessness, and often in our family gatherings she would speak of the importance of learning Jesus’ teachings and using them as a guide in our daily lives. I felt warm and secure in her home, and that feeling came back to me when I read the little book and looked at its lovely family illustrations. I knew I wanted our family to look like that.
One day my little sister, Edres, and my younger brother, Wade, and I were playing in the sand dunes across the field from our house when we suddenly felt a change in the atmosphere. Looking up, we could see an angry, dark storm approaching rapidly. We had seen such storms before. One had recently blown down our windmill, torn great branches from trees around our yard, and sent small farm sheds bouncing along the ground.
Now we were frightened, and Edres began to cry. I took her by one hand and my brother took her by the other, and we began to run toward home. My little sister couldn’t run that fast for long, however, and we had to slow down when home was still a hay field and an orchard away. As we hurried along, I kept telling them, “Don’t worry. The Lord will take care of us. If we do what he says in the Ten Commandments, he will protect us.”
I must have repeated these phrases to them more than a dozen times, partly to reassure them and partly as a form of prayer. “The Lord loves little children,” I told them. “All he wants us to do is keep the commandments. If we just ask him to help us, he will.” I was scared, but I couldn’t show it because I had to keep them from being scared. I knew we had to reach home before the full force of the storm hit, but Edres’s little legs couldn’t carry her very fast. Still, from all that Aunt Maggie had said and from the things written in the little book, I knew the Lord would help us.
And then the testimony came. We had just passed the peach section of the orchard and were going past the apple trees when a glowing, exciting warmth surged through my body, telling me that the things I was saying to my frightened brother and sister were true. That burning within me I would never forget. I felt 3 meters tall! I was no longer afraid! Although the wind grew stronger and balls of hail and huge drops of rain began to fall, I knew we would reach home in safety.
Mama came running out to meet us. She took Edres up in her arms, and we all hurried back to the house as fast as we could.
Later, alone with my thoughts, I pondered what had happened out there on the orchard road. I knew I had had a spiritual experience and that it had to do with the things written in the Ten Commandments. From listening to religious discussions between my mother, grandma, and Aunt Maggie, I knew there was a lot more to it than that, and that somewhere on earth there was a church that taught what I decided in my own mind was the way the Lord would have us live.
That experience became a treasure to me, and years later when I found the Latter-day Saints that same burning within that had come to me as a child returned. How grateful I am to Aunt Maggie, her devotion to the scriptures, and her gift of the little book.

We all need to know what it means to be honest. Honesty is more than not lying. It is truth telling, truth speaking, truth living, and truth loving. John, a nine-year-old Swiss pioneer child who was in one of the handcart companies, is an example of honesty. His father put a chunk of buffalo meat in the handcart and said it was to be saved for Sunday dinner. John said, “I was so very hungry and the meat smelled so good to me while pushing at the handcart that I could not resist. I had a little pocket knife. … Although I expected a severe whipping when father found it out, I cut off little pieces each day. I would chew them so long that they got white and perfectly tasteless. When father came to get the meat he asked me if I had been cutting off some of it. I said ‘Yes. I was so hungry I could not let it alone.’ Instead of giving me a scolding or whipping, father turned away and wiped tears from his eyes.”

It doesn’t take expensive gifts to make Christmas meaningful. I am reminded of a story told by Elder Glen L. Rudd, who served as a member of the Seventy from 1987 to 1992. One day before Christmas a number of years ago, while he was managing a bishops’ storehouse, he learned from an ecclesiastical leader about a needy family that had recently moved to the city. When he went to visit their small apartment, he discovered a young single mother with four children under age 10.
The family’s needs were so great that the mother could not buy treats or presents for her children that Christmas—she couldn’t even afford a tree. Brother Rudd talked with the family and learned that the three little girls would love a doll or a stuffed animal. When he asked the six-year-old son what he wanted, the hungry little boy replied, “I would like a bowl of oatmeal.”
Brother Rudd promised the little boy oatmeal and maybe something else. Then he went to the bishops’ storehouse and gathered food and other supplies to meet the immediate needs of the family.
That very morning a generous Latter-day Saint had given him 50 dollars “for someone in need.” Using that donation, Brother Rudd bundled up three of his own children and went Christmas shopping—his children selecting toys for the needy children.
After loading up the car with food, clothing, gifts, a Christmas tree, and some ornaments, the Rudds drove to the family’s apartment. There they helped the mother and her children set up the tree. Then they placed presents under it and presented the little boy with a large package of oatmeal.
The mother wept, the children rejoiced, and they all sang a Christmas song. That night as the Rudd family gathered for dinner, they gave thanks that they could bring some Christmas cheer to another family and help a little boy receive a bowl of oatmeal.1

I bought the first one several years ago in a drugstore in Alexandria, Virginia. At 77¢, it was the least pretentious bound notebook I could find. At the time, I didn’t know I was starting a journal. I only knew I needed a place to organize my thoughts.
Before then, I had written ideas on any convenient scrap of paper—on the backs of tithing slips, on church programs, in small spaces on calendars. As I lost those bits of paper, I lost my only record of my best insights. The time had come to make them more lasting.
From grade school through high school I had kept diaries, but the small, hand-size pages didn’t allow for long entries. And the word diary on the front seemed too lofty, like the record an explorer would keep of an Antarctic exploration. I wrote only the activities of my life in them, never my thoughts. (A typical entry: “Today I did horrible on my history test, but tonight Mike in my French class called me.”)
There was little emotional substance to those entries, but at least they were entries. Regrettably, as l attended college, I became “too busy” to keep a diary.
Therefore, when I bought the 77¢ notebook, I wasn’t thinking “diary” or “journal.” I was just tired of losing those insights that would make good Sunday School talks. As I wrote in that first notebook, I was fascinated by how easily words came. I began looking forward to writing in my notebook at night. Sometimes during the day I would write myself a note about ideas to record that night. Some mornings I awoke before dawn and wrote fervently for five minutes or even an hour, undisturbed by the need to get up and get dressed. Some nights I wrote several entries; some nights I wrote none.
I liked the inexpensive notebooks because I wasn’t afraid to make mistakes in them, or to write about the mistakes I made in living. I began setting aside time to write. I wrote in the same place—curled up on the sofa, by the lamp. I recorded in the margins events that were significant, such as a new car or the date of my cat’s vaccinations. The actual writing space was used to record my reactions to the day, my observations and conclusions.
It was only when I went back to the drugstore several months later to buy another notebook that I realized I was keeping a journal. I decided to give the series of notebooks a name: Janet. The first volume, Janet 1, hadn’t exactly assumed journal form, since I had dated few entries, and none mentioned daily activities and impressions. As I realized I was keeping a journal, I modified the format so that I would at least know what day each entry was written.
It became interesting, too, to note where I was each day I wrote. No matter where I went—on trips or to stay with nearby friends—I found that I was the same person, with the same personality.
When I was visiting a friend once, I realized the journal’s potential for encouraging spiritual and emotional growth. After hours of bantering with a philosophy student who wanted to argue about the gospel, I wrote a long entry about my beliefs. Putting it on paper was like testifying. That night, as I wrote with a purple felt-tipped pen, I realized how open and honest I was with my journal—probably more candid than I was with any friend. Because of my frustration with my ability to think and express myself I wrote: “My brain has been like a vacuum cleaner, sucking in all sorts of garbage and dirt. And gold dust. So I must empty the bag and sort out the particles one by one until only the gold dust is left.”
Writing out my ideas gave me a chance to analyze them. Sometimes, in writing, I realized that my attitudes were based on selfishness or faulty judgment. Other times I was glad to realize that my ideas were sound.
Sometimes I found myself laughing out loud at my reactions to the traumas of each day. Once on a bad day I wrote “PHOOEY” in letters 15 spaces high. It helped.
I started titling each entry. One of my favorite titles—and favorite entries—came when I was trying to develop greater faith. That title was “Doubt Creeps in and Janet Strikes Back.” Some titles reflect a calmer attitude. One in Janet 3, “On Days and Nights and Things I Love,” leads into a paragraph I love to reread:
“I love nights that are chilly and clear, when I can see the stars and talk aloud under them. And I love early mornings, being up, being alive, and being outside on a day that is only starting. I love new beginnings that are just getting organized. And clean sheets, clean nightgown, clean body, clean hair, and a reason to be happy. I love the world when my soul brims with hope.”
My soul doesn’t always brim with hope. Sometimes it brims with frustration. When that’s the case, I can look back to the rejuvenating entry I wrote that September night. I can find encouragement from another entry, written soon after that one: “When I can understand what I’m going through, I find that endurance becomes easier.”
Not every entry is profound or even interesting. But each, in its own way, traces my daily conversion to the gospel, my struggles with myself, and my delight with each line-upon-line discovery of living. Each helps the others assume clearer perspective. Not only does each entry reflect my life, but it affects and becomes part of my life.
It was during Janet 4, when my best friend moved, that I wrote: “I hurt too much to write.” And it was during Janet 5, after I had written a thoughtless letter that hurt a friend, that I wrote in my journal: “Through the many confusing voices that ring through my mind, one calming voice pervades and tells me the whole matter will be of no consequence.” After writing about that “calming voice,” I listened to it more carefully. The “voice” was right; when I later asked the friend to forgive me, he said he already had.
One day, when I felt that life was picking on me, I started what has become a tradition. I wrote an entry titled “Things I Am Thankful For.” It amazed me that day, as it still does, how varied and plentiful are my blessings, and how obscure and sometimes even humorous are my trials.
Through moves from one side of the United States to the other, through vacations, through each peak and plateau, the volumes of my journal have been a constant, a friend, tucked on a bookshelf or into a suitcase along with my copies of the scriptures. They have become a vehicle for working out personal answers for the curious challenges of each day.
I thought, at the beginning of the journal keeping, that I would neatly record my most profound thoughts, making them more accessible when I had to give sacrament meeting talks. Once or twice I have used a journal for that, but it’s far from the full benefit. The journal isn’t a reference book about my life, nor does it map my life. It isn’t a status chart; it’s a dynamic, if rough, artwork.
The Janet series is steaming ahead in its 15th volume. Some volumes span a year, and others a few months. I am the only person who has read all of them, and I may keep it that way—for a few decades, at least. The volumes have graduated from inexpensive notebooks to actual hardback books with blank pages. I have to confess—I bought a leather-bound journal last time (but it was on sale). And I did make quite a concession on the journal before that; it actually says “Journal” on the cover!

“Although the pageant was cancelled last year, we still had auditions and a workshop. I loved being part of the community of the pageant, it really felt as if we were one big family sharing love and faith. Living on the temple grounds was fantastic and I felt the Spirit very strongly. We camped on a site nearby, until one night we got flooded out and were blessed when local members asked us to come and stay with them.
“The directors are amazing; it’s not all about speaking with the perfect accent, flawless singing, absolutely perfect dancing—although it is all very professional—it’s more about the feeling. The people whom we depict in the pageant story knew what they were doing. The miracle was that ordinary people were transformed into a supportive community of faith and love, and that is what has been reproduced as the cast members come together to depict this awe-inspiring story. We too are ordinary people meeting together, often as strangers in the beginning, and creating a community of faith and trust.”
Lizzie will play the part of Sarah Ashton, the eldest daughter of the main character, Arthur Ashton. In the story he loses his wife, and the pageant tells of his journey of doubt, belief and faith. Lizzie explains that like many people, she has experienced grief in her family, but has been uplifted by focusing on the promises of the temple, finding comfort in the knowledge that families can be together forever, which Lizzie calls the linchpin of her faith.
“The story is about the hope that the temple gives, and it is wonderful to be a part of this special event; I can’t wait!”

I myself was blessed with an exemplary father. I recall that when I was a boy of about 12, my father became a candidate for the city council in our rather small community. He did not mount an extensive election campaign—all I remember was that Dad had my brothers and me distribute copies of a flyer door to door, urging people to vote for Paul Christofferson. There were a number of adults that I handed a flyer to who remarked that Paul was a good and honest man and that they would have no problem voting for him. My young boy heart swelled with pride in my father. It gave me confidence and a desire to follow in his footsteps. He was not perfect—no one is—but he was upright and good and an aspirational example for a son.

In summer 2017, the Page family participated in the British Pageant at the Preston, England Temple.
Preparations began early in January, with applications to be made, auditions to attend, and accommodations to organise. We were very excited to receive our phone call from Peter Trebilcock (the pageant director at the time). He told us that we had been accepted into the family cast. We were then set apart by our bishop, who said our children were the youngest he had ever set apart for a calling!
Our time at the British Pageant was very busy, with long days of rehearsing, many late nights, and makeshift meals. But it was wonderful— we made some new friends, grew through the expertise of all the directors and had many spiritual experiences and opportunities to give testimony.
One of the highlights was a visit from President M. Russell Ballard, an Apostle. My husband, Matthew, who was working on the security team, had the privilege of ferrying President Ballard around the site in a golf cart! We also had visits from President and Sister Kieron, and President and Sister McReynolds of the Manchester England Mission.
At the end of the performance each night, it was our privilege to speak with our visitors about their experience at the pageant. Many were not members of our Church, while others had not attended for a very long time. There were many positive stories of people feeling the Holy Ghost, as well as compliments as to the quality of the event.
The British Pageant is a truly worthwhile experience, and we wholeheartedly recommend getting involved!

One such family was left by the father when the youngest child was four months old. It was a traumatic time with a difficult divorce, but the courageous mother was full of faith and determined that she would do everything she could to succeed as a single parent.
She found, as many do, that the gospel, when translated into action, not only provides a key to solving many welfare problems but it can also prevent them. Difficulties that could lead to dependency can be resolved and bring, instead, strength and happiness.
This mother gathered her children about her and explained their situation. There were back payments due on the house, current bills of every sort, and no income. They could turn to others for help; but if they were willing to work together as a family, she thought they could keep their house and make it, once more, a happy home. They were willing. Every child who was old enough found a way to help earn some money. They cut lawns, delivered papers, tended babies, collected aluminum cans, did housework. One of the older children took the responsibility for the gas bill, another for the lights; the mother put her earnings toward the house payments. They limited other spending to bare necessities.
In time, the house payments were caught up. They were able to meet their other obligations and actually invest in some small, inexpensive properties they could fix up to generate income. This enabled the mother to be at home. With these ends achieved, the children no longer needed to contribute all their earnings to the family’s physical requirements. With freedom from financial threat, the mother now suggested to her children that if they wanted to continue to work they could attend college, go on missions, and even travel and see the world together. The children did continue to earn and save their money. They learned the value of work and of family, and they have accompanied their mother to places others only dream of.
All this has been done while fulfilling their Church obligations. They are quick to testify that the greatest reward they have received from the experiences of the past few years has been their spiritual growth. Putting such principles as love, work, service, self-reliance, and consecration into practice has brought to this family the dignity of accomplishment, a unity of purpose, and a closeness to one another and to the Lord that is immediately apparent when one is in their company.