Gospel Story Finder

Clinical depression was something I never wanted to face again. But after I had been free of it for 12 years, it returned.
I was scared and distraught. I questioned Heavenly Father and prayed for the strength to make it through my trial. I also pleaded with Him that my depression would not last five years, as it had the last time.
My husband and I have three children, two sons and a daughter, who have blessed us with 13 grandchildren. Knowing the despair I faced, my daughter organized the family for a day of fasting and prayer. All the grandchildren, ages 1 to 10, wanted to pray for Grandma, and the three who had been baptized wanted to fast. It was such a comfort to know that my husband, children, and grandchildren would fast and pray on my behalf.
The next day when I awoke from a nap, the feeling of depression didn’t seem so strong. The next day it lifted even further. By the fifth day my depression had lifted completely. That evening, while I was contemplating how this miracle had happened, a voice touched my soul and said to me, “I heard the children.” Heavenly Father had heard them in their innocence and had answered their prayers of humility, faith, and love.
The Savior taught:
“Except ye be converted, and become as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven.
“Whosoever therefore shall humble himself as this little child, the same is greatest in the kingdom of heaven” (Matthew 18:3–4).
I have corresponded with my grandchildren and thanked them for fasting and praying on my behalf. I told them how much I love them. I told them Heavenly Father had heard them and answered their prayers.
As my grandchildren grow in the gospel, I hope they will remember the time Heavenly Father said to their grandmother, “I heard the children.” And I hope that experience will strengthen their testimony and help them stay strong in the gospel.

Victor Vallecillo is a co-worker of Pedro Aviles, president of the Managua Nicaragua Stake. When Victor was seeking religious truth, President Aviles gave him a Book of Mormon. Brother Vallecillo feels so joyful about the gospel that since his baptism in November 2004 he has adopted the habit of inviting friends to hear the gospel, and he often goes out with missionaries to teach. His wife and two children have the spirit of missionary work too. One night, Brother Vallecillo recalls, his teenage son was studying a map of Nicaragua, looking at the northern part of the country where Brother Vallecillo grew up. “Papa,” his son said, pointing to places on the map, “the gospel is not here, and it is not here, and it is not here.” How soon, he wondered, would missionaries be able to go to those places so that others could share in the blessings of the gospel?

House Build D:
Nancy, a recent college graduate, was living in a rented home about the size of a small bedroom. For years she had two great desires: to teach elementary school and to own her own home. The dream of teaching was close to coming true, and now (after she had volunteered 500 hours helping build houses for others, by the way), Nancy’s dream of a home came true. Tears of joy flowed steadily down Nancy’s face as she expressed her deep thanks.

Having earned some ready money with the orchestra on the ship, Howard bought a Ford roadster. It was neither fancy nor new, and it gave him trouble the day after he bought it. But being an excellent mechanic, Howard spent the next two days fixing it. He has been “Mr. Fix It” ever since. In the 1980s when he was in his midseventies, he drove a large white car that was reaching antique status, and as the parts would wear out, he could find no replacements. The car held great sentimental value, so he machined the parts himself with home equipment.

The Fairbanks live in Bethesda, Maryland, just a stone’s throw from downtown Washington D.C. And the Fairbanks love to ride bicycles. As a family, they have benefited from the exercise and recreation cycling has given them. But they have also found their bikes to be a key means of access to the city. “There’s a bike path all the way into town,” explained 18-year-old David, the oldest son. “It follows the old Chesapeake and Ohio Canal route along the banks of the Potomac River, down into Georgetown, and eventually out onto the Mall.” (The Mall is the large, grass-covered rectangle running two miles from the Lincoln Memorial to the Capitol.)
From Bethesda, the route is mostly downhill, shady, and picturesque. “We’ll ride into town sometimes for exercise or fun, and then mom will come pick us in the station wagon,” Lisa, 16, added. “But if she can’t come, then we have to ride uphill all the way home.”
Sometimes the entire crew (half a dozen in all) makes a Saturday excursion to the landmarks in town. “I remember dad showing us the statue of Abraham Lincoln and telling us how he fought against slavery,” eight-year-old Galen said.
“Do you remember how many times you wanted to stop for ice cream on the way there?” Jeff, who is 14, kidded him. Washington in summer is a humid, sweltering steambath, and bicyclists soon learn to carry water with them or to stop at concession stands that line the Mall.
“A lot of times we’ll stop at a fountain or a pool to cool off, too,” Lisa said. There are fans of water outside the National Art Museum that mist the air with chilled vapor, and the Reflection Pool down the hill from the Washington Monument offers another site where the sun-soaked cyclists can escape the heat.
On special occasions some of the family members may take a few minutes out from a pedaling excursion to ride the elevator to the top of the Washington Monument. From the observation deck of the 555-foot pillar, it’s possible on a clear day to see all the way to Kensington, Maryland, where the Washington Temple raises its spires in solitude through the trees. “Lots of people know where the temple is,” Jeff said. “It’s really becoming a landmark, too. A lot of people have found out about the Church because of the missionary work members have done inviting people to the visitors’ center.
“The temple symbolizes a lot of things to me,” David said. “The way it rises out ot the woods reminds me of the goals the gospel puts into our lives, things like going on a mission. A goal like that towers over things that might seem important without the influence of the Church.”
The Church plays a major role in the family’s life. They are members of the Chevy Chase Ward, Washington D.C. Stake, where Jeff is teachers quorum secretary; Lisa (the only Laurel in the ward) was recently released from the Mia Maid presidency; David works regularly with the full-time missionaries; and Galen is a sterling Sunday School student. Both Brother and Sister Fairbanks are active in Church callings as well.
But Church involvement doesn’t stop when the Fairbanks step out the chapel door. They are a missionary family that doesn’t cease sharing the gospel. One of their primary means for so doing is the Fairbanks Family Band, a bluegrass ensemble that includes everyone from Galen on up.
“We’ve performed for other churches’ social gatherings, for community family weeks, even for a program honoring the family that was held in the President’s Park just behind the White House,” Brother Fairbanks explained. “We got a thank-you certificate from the President for that show.”
“We feel it’s our way of doing some missionary work,” Sister Fairbanks joined in. “We always make it a point to tell our audiences how important families are and we explain about the family home evening program of the Church.”
When the Fairbanks aren’t cycling or playing music, you can still usually find them together. When David graduated from high school, his friends came over for a celebration dinner. Brother Fairbanks served as waiter, and the rest of the family helped prepare the meal.
Our friends always want come visit us at home,” Lisa said. “It’s probably because we make them part of the family when they come.” It might also be because of the ice cream everyone’s helping to churn on the back porch, or the fresh rolls Lisa and her mother just pulled from the oven, or because of the friendly warmth that pervades the entire household. Even when they chop wood or do housework, the Fairbanks do it together.
In a city full of monuments, they are building a living monument that shines—a family full of love.

One evident blessing that immediately showered me during this project was the immense peace I felt—not only during the session but also in my life in general. To share a bit of my story, a few weeks before our pilot recording, I was still reeling from the aftermath of Typhoon Kristine. Our house was flooded, and many of our belongings were damaged beyond repair. Chaos and uncertainty surrounded me, leaving me restless and worried.

Despite all this, I never once hesitated to attend the recording session, knowing that I would be edified and strengthened as I gave my best efforts. Throughout the session, we enjoyed what we would consider as among the happiest times of our lives. We worked hard, but it didn’t feel like work: we laughed, joked around, and helped each other while recording the songs in Tagalog. Truly, the Lord is in the minute details of our lives. He knew I needed to step back and experience the peace His music offers, shared with wonderful people.

On May 15, 1942, Piet Vlam kissed his wife good-bye and said, “I’ll see you tomorrow.” As the train carried him through the springtime countryside toward Arnhem, a Dutch city near the German border, his mind was full of his pressing duties as second counselor in the Netherlands Mission. He was impatient to get back to them.
Unfortunately, this trip was unavoidable. As an ex-naval officer in occupied Holland he was required to register in Arnhem with the other Dutch officers.
These all-too-frequent registrations had become a routine, though irritating, part of his life—nothing to worry about. He didn’t suspect as he watched green fields flash past his window that his one-day trip to Arnhem was to be a three-year journey into captivity.
In Arnhem the Dutch officers were informed that they were prisoners of war and were loaded onto trains bound for Germany. As Piet rode through the darkness of discouragement and night on his way to the prison compound at Langwasser, his mind stood somewhere apart from the sweat and metal world around him, wrestling with an unanswerable question: “Why?” The Lord had called him to the mission presidency, and he was needed badly. Why was he being taken away? Every click of the railroad tracks seemed to ask again, “Why?” But there was no answer.
But Piet’s faith was strong. He didn’t really need an answer. He would wait and see.
He didn’t realize till much later that his imprisonment constituted one of the clearest though most unwelcome mission calls in the history of the Church.
One day not long after his arrival at Langwasser, Piet was lying outside the lice-ridden wooden barracks on the camp’s one anemic spot of grass when a fellow prisoner sharing it with him started asking questions about religion. Piet knew exactly how to answer, and this became the first of many religious discussions.
Soon there were many other prisoners who wanted to hear about the Church. Piet couldn’t talk to them in large groups because the guards wouldn’t allow it, so he took two men at a time and walked with them around the camp, mile after mile.
After a few months at Langwasser, the prisoners were transferred to Stanislaw on the Russian-Polish border. Piet made a walk-talk schedule and continued to teach the gospel.
A group of Piet’s most interested investigators asked if they could hold LDS services. They found an empty barracks in a far-off corner of the prison, put a blanket in front of the window for privacy, and set up an old soapbox for a pulpit. They had to do all this in secret because the guards didn’t allow extra meetings.
These services were filled with the Spirit, but they were a little unorthodox. The opening and closing songs were read, since the congregation didn’t dare sing out loud for fear of alerting their guards, and the worshipers had to sneak away afterwards one at a time.
Gospel principles were strictly observed inside the barbed-wire compound. The men observed fast Sunday by giving their meager cup of beans to someone else even though they were already hungry themselves. Many men received a testimony of the gospel while praying through the long nights made sleepless by hunger. One of the most skeptical investigators received a testimony during such a night of fasting. He stood weeping the following day and told of an indescribable feeling of peace that had come over him. He humbly asked that he too might have some small task to help prepare for the Sunday meetings. When Piet asked him to sweep the floor each week, he replied that it would be an honor. “You enter this room,” he said, “and with you the holy priesthood.”
When the men heard about the Mutual Improvement Association, they wanted to hold one of their own, so Piet organized one, calling prisoners to serve as the presidency, secretary, and teacher. They studied the Doctrine and Covenants in their meetings, and Piet later reported that he had never heard that book taught better than it was by these nonmembers.
As the months wore on, the long walks around the camp continued, and men grew strong in the gospel. Their faith helped them to endure. The men developed a deep love for Piet, and one Easter morning they surprised him with an original song entitled “Faith.” It was later included in the official songbook of the Netherlands Mission.
Near the end of the war, the prisoners were moved to Neubrandenburg, Germany, where the Church activities continued. On April 28, 1945, a Russian tank ran down the barbed wire fence, and the camp was liberated. A few weeks later Piet was home with his wife and children. Those of his fellow prisoners who had been willing to receive it took home with them a gift that made the hunger and cold and bedbugs well worth it to them.
Seven of them were later baptized into the Church, and with them many family members. One of Piet’s prison converts later became the first president of the Netherlands Stake.
Piet Vlam was a hard man to distract from his duty. When he was taken away from his mission field, he simply took his mission with him, and many people will be eternally grateful that he did.

I'd like to share the experience of one young couple who were married shortly after they each returned home from their missions. In their case, keeping the commandments went against all logic and reason and required tremendous sacrifice on their part.
When they were 26 years old, the husband graduated from college with a degree in agriculture, and with their two little children, they moved home to manage the 500-acre family farm.
The crops were doing very well, and in August they had the prospect of an excellent harvest, so they borrowed $65,000 and purchased 400 head of yearling calves. They knew this was a good investment because of the profit they would make from selling the calves after feeding them from this bounteous harvest. Several of the other farming families in the community also borrowed money to purchase calves.
Normally they begin harvesting in this part of the country at the beginning of September, and the date of the first snowfall is around September 20. On September 1, they were ready to harvest, and it began to rain. It rained all week and began to dry out at the end of the week. On Sunday it was dry enough to start harvesting, but since it was Sunday, they delayed until Monday. On Monday it started raining again, rained all week, and began to dry out by Sunday. This continued for three weeks, and the window of time to harvest was almost closed. Each Sunday they would go to church in this farming community, and the bishop would remind the ward members that the Lord would bless them if they would honor His day, but it was still hard to see their neighbors harvesting on Sunday.
In late September, all of their crops went under the snow, and they tried to harvest in areas where the snow was not very deep, but it was useless.
Meanwhile, their yearling calves needed feed, but there was none. About Christmas time, they were forced to sell them and made a meager profit from the small weight gain.
So with a college degree in hand, the husband had to find odd jobs to provide for his family.
The first week of January, hoof and mouth disease broke out in the area, which is a very serious and infectious disease in cattle. As a result, the price of beef cattle dropped overnight from 40 cents/pound to 11 cents/pound. This was a devastating financial blow to those who had harvested their crops on Sundays and had sufficient feed to keep their cattle. The young family that had kept the Sabbath day holy and were forced to sell their cattle for a small profit suffered very little financially.
Twelve years later, this couple welcomed me to their family as their youngest child. I'm sure, during that harvest season, my parents didn't realize the impact their choices would have on their entire life nor that there was a higher purpose to that experience that has shaped the lives of their children, grandchildren, and a never-ending posterity.

Two scenes from Brigham Young’s apostolic years give an insight into his continuing dedication to this goal. Both are from the year 1839.

The first occurred in February. Joseph Smith was imprisoned in Liberty Jail, and Brigham Young was directing the affairs of the Church as President of the Quorum of the Twelve. The problem at hand was to move the Saints from Missouri to Illinois. Few persons were well equipped for the move; many were destitute, and in their haste to leave, the temptation to run for one’s own life was strong. But in Brigham Young’s mind, this was not a course of action for true Saints of God. Surely society would never endure unless men could learn love, compassion, and concern for each other.

Accordingly, a meeting was called and a covenant drawn up, stating in effect that the signers would never leave until they had aided all of the poor to leave with them. Brigham Young and his family, accompanied by the family of Heber C. Kimball (Elder Kimball having remained in Missouri), set out in the cold February climate, with their wagons aimed toward Illinois, in one of the strangest processions in the entire Mormon emigration experience.

After traveling as much as thirty-two kilometers across the frozen Missouri plains, Brigham would stop, establish a temporary shelter for his wife and five children, and then retrace his journey to its point of origin. There he would load up some of the poor and destitute Saints and return to his family. In this way he actually covered three times the distance of most of his fellow travelers. Later, at the ending of their journey—Quincy, Illinois—an impressive meeting was held. The Saints in Quincy learned that fifty families were still in Far West and were too poor to leave. They pulled together once more, offering to sell what little they had left—their hats, coats, and shoes—to raise funds for this movement. Brigham Young comments:

“We broke bread and partook of the Sacrament. At the close of the meeting $50 was collected in money and several teams were subscribed to go and bring out the brethren. Among the subscribers was Widow Warren Smith, whose husband and son had been killed at the massacre at Haun’s Mill. She sent her only team on this charitable mission.”

Through these experiences and many others like them, Brigham Young was buoyed up in his conviction that people can be drawn together in love, that they do have the ability to create a more Christian society founded on love and concern for others.

One day at recess, Isabella saw a girl who was crying because someone had said something mean to her. Isabella felt bad for the girl and walked over to comfort her. “Would you like to play with me?” she asked the girl.
That day Isabella served with her heart. She followed the example of Jesus Christ and showed love to someone in need. We can show our love for Heavenly Father by serving others with our heart, our might, our mind, and our strength. We can serve with our whole selves!

Unfortunately, my life was disrupted when my parents decided to split and divorce. Life was in complete disarray for the next two years. My siblings and I were separated and moved around to different family members. My grandpa, uncles, and aunts all took turns having us in their homes, but nothing was stable. I rotated through living in cities in California, Utah, and Hawaii, never spending more than six months in one spot. I attended many new schools, which made it really hard to make friends. I missed living in the same home as my siblings. During this time, my parents were still trying to figure out their plans with life and college. I missed them. I missed my family and my life. Dealing with divorce in a household is difficult, which, unfortunately, some of you may know through experience. I was broken, and I didn’t understand what was happening. I questioned everything and often blamed myself. I was lost and desperate for answers that never came.

Eventually, my father decided it was time for me and my siblings to live together with him in Utah. I was attending Cascade Elementary in Orem, and it was my fourth-grade year. At this time, the BYU football team was the only thing that brought joy in my young life. It happened to be 1984, the undefeated national championship year. I felt like God answered all my prayers every week for every game. I remember specifically asking Heavenly Father to bless the players and their health, especially Robbie Bosco, because he was always limping for some reason.

When the school announced that the national champions were coming to visit Cascade Elementary, it felt too good to be true. The BYU football players and coaches were amazing. They took turns speaking to the entire school. Afterward, they signed autographs and took pictures. They also participated in different activities and games. I was amazed at their presence and their kindness, as they interacted and laughed with the students and teachers.

Although it was exciting that they were there, I was still sad. I had no confidence and very low self-esteem. I was in a lot of pain: I missed my home. I missed Laie, Hawaii. I missed my friends. I missed my mom. So I sat on the side, satisfied to just watch from a distance.

One of the players noticed me on the side and motioned to me to come join them. I made sure it was me he was motioning to, and then I quickly shook my head no. He then started walking toward me. I froze. This was a big-time player. In fact, he was my favorite player. I didn’t know what he wanted—and why was he coming to talk to me? He asked me a couple of questions and did most of the talking for a quick minute. Before he left to go rejoin the group of students and players, he gave me a hug. It was different than I had ever felt before: I felt warm, and I felt safe. During the embrace, he said, “Everything is going to be fine. I love you and God loves you.” I had heard the words “everything is going to be fine” or “everything is going to be okay” probably a thousand times before, but this was the first time I actually believed them. My heart was full of joy and love. That hug fixed something in me that was broken, and during that hug, I decided that I would play football for BYU and be just like that player, Vai Sikahema.

Vai Sikahema wore the number 23 at BYU and played running back and kick returner, and I wanted to be just like him. Ten years later, as a BYU freshman in 1994, I wore the number 23 in his honor and played running back—just like him—to show my appreciation to him for having such an impact in my life. He became the first Tongan to play in the NFL, and he had a fantastic career as an All-Pro returner. Elder Sikahema is currently serving as a General Authority Seventy for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

Years later, I asked him if he remembered this moment. To my surprise, he didn’t specifically remember meeting a shy nine-year-old at Cascade Elementary in Orem, Utah. But to me it was everything! He was “responsive to spiritual promptings.” As Elder Rasband reminded us, “The Lord’s hand is guiding you. By ‘divine design,’ He is in the small details of your life as well as the major milestones.” For Elder Sikahema it was a small detail; but for me, it was a major milestone.

Through a series of tender mercies as a young doctor coming out of medical school, I was accepted for pediatric residency training in a high-powered, competitive program. When I met the other interns, I felt like the least intelligent and least prepared of all. I thought there was no way I could measure up to the rest of the group.
Early in our third month, I was sitting in the nurse’s station in the hospital late one night, alternately sobbing to myself and falling asleep as I tried to write the admission orders for a small boy with pneumonia. I had never felt so discouraged in my life. I didn’t have any idea how to treat pneumonia in a 10-year-old. I began to wonder what I was doing there.
Just at that moment, one of the senior residents put his hand on my shoulder. He asked me how I was doing, and I poured out my frustrations and fears. His response changed my life. He told me how proud he and all of the other senior residents were of me and how they felt like I was going to be an excellent doctor. In short, he believed in me at a time when I didn’t even believe in myself.

How can following the prophet help us? Elder L. Tom Perry of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles told a story about his father, who worked and lived in the home of President Joseph F. Smith (1838–1918):
One night Elder Perry’s father came home very late and tried to open his bedroom door. The door would not open. He pushed and pushed, and it still would not open. He gave up and turned to sleep on a rug that was in the hall. As he turned, he bumped into a nearby, partially opened door—and woke up the prophet!
Although it was midnight, President Smith came over and showed Elder Perry’s father how to open the door by pulling instead of pushing, and how to get around in the dark: “Keep your arms in front, but hands together.”
Elder Perry teaches us what a prophet does to help us. He said, “Isn’t a prophet someone who teaches us to open doors we could not open ourselves—doors to greater light and truth? Isn’t a prophet like a pair of hands clasped together in front of the body of the Church, helping members navigate [find their way] through the dark [hallways] of the world?” (Ensign, Nov. 1994, 18–19.)

Saturday was finally here. It was time for our surprise adventure!
“I hope we’re going to the trampoline park,” I shouted from the backseat. Mom wouldn’t tell us where we were going, but the street we were on looked familiar. …
Then it hit me. We were going to the care center. Our school class had gone there a few times. We each had a “grandparent buddy” to talk to and play games with. My buddy was named Bill, and he was pretty cool.
But not as cool as a trampoline park, I thought as Mom pulled into the parking lot. When my brother saw the red and tan building, he groaned.
“This is going to be the worst day ever!” he grumbled. “This isn’t a fun adventure at all.”
Mom looked at us from the rear-view mirror. “Oh come on, give it a shot. By the time we’re through, you just might change your mind.”
I didn’t say anything. I wasn’t so sure. I helped Mom carry bags of small quilts into the lobby. It felt calm and peaceful inside.
“Do you know why I like coming here?” Mom asked. I shook my head.
“I feel the same way here as when I see new babies at the hospital,” she said. “Like I’m close to heaven.”
Close to heaven. I liked that.
We showed the receptionist at the front desk the quilts we wanted to hand out, and he led us to a room where we could visit.
“Is Bill still here?” I asked. “The one who’s married to Ruth and likes baseball?”
One of the workers nodded. “Oh, yes! Bill is still here. We sure love him.”
We started talking with some of the people, and it was actually pretty interesting hearing about their lives. And after a while, I saw Bill sitting in his wheelchair.
“Hi, Bill!”
He didn’t look like he remembered me, but that was OK. I picked out a small quilt with a baseball pattern and laid it on his lap.
“He gets cold a lot, and that will really help him,” said one of the workers standing nearby. “His wife will be happy to see it. She comes to visit him every day.”
Our visit wasn’t long, but it was long enough to see Bill smile. On our way out, we read a piece of paper posted on Bill’s door that told some fun things about his life. We learned that he grew up on a farm and learned to play baseball from his stepmother.
“Hey, Mom, look!” I pointed to a line on the paper. “He was so good at baseball that he was going to sign on with a professional team! But then he served in the military instead.” It was neat to learn a bit more about Bill.
Soon we were back in the van, buckling our seatbelts.
“So?” Mom asked us. “What did you think?”
I smiled. “I actually had fun. And I feel really happy. I think it’s because we helped Bill.”
As Mom drove home, we talked about different ways we can show people love and how the Spirit tells us when we are making good choices. We were all feeling so great that we decided to go back and visit another day.
What a great day! I thought as we pulled into our driveway. It was a fun adventure after all.

I would like to share with you at this moment a highly personal experience. I will not mention the name of the man involved. I mention the experience only because of one of my own tendencies (those on the stand and elsewhere who know me know that I am often too verbal and silence does not come easily to me). Fortunately, on this occasion there was a kind of mute comprehension on my part that the most important thing I could do was to be still.

A few days after April conference, a very bright, able professional man called my secretary for an appointment. Fortunately she gave it to him, and fortunately it was of sufficient duration that there was time for the chemistry of this experience to operate. He came in and we greeted each other. I, frankly, was not sure of the purpose of his visit. I assumed it might even be that he had come to complain about something. There are portions of our time as General Authorities that are given over to being ombudsmen. But I said little and sat down. I resisted the temptation to fill the silence that then ensued. Tears welled up, filling his eyes. It seemed to me we must have sat there for ten minutes, but I am sure it was only three or four. I kept still, resisting the natural temptation to rush in with supporting words, and simply let the Spirit operate. Then out it came—a marvelous, manly confession, in which he said for him to become active in the kingdom again it was necessary that he set certain things right. Over the years he felt he had been unfair to me and unkind to me, and he wanted to come and to ask for forgiveness. I again largely resisted the temptation, which by then was strong, to rush in with some quick reassurances that might put him at ease. As thoughts tumbled on thoughts and verbalizations on verbalizations, this sweet man cleansed his soul. Indeed, I had not felt injured by him. I was not aware of his concerns, but it would have been folly for me to have so said before there was full closure in the matter at hand.

He is a marvelous, sweet man. I admire his courage. He said even that morning he had wondered if he could come, or if he shouldn’t cancel his appointment. I love him. We embraced and have stayed in close contact since. He is able and is making marvelous progress in the kingdom. I’ll always be grateful for that sensing of mute comprehension that something special was about to happen which I couldn’t describe but in which my role for that occasion was mostly to be still and to listen. There are times when life will visit us with challenges in which we will have a mute comprehension of what is underway but cannot transmit it fully to someone else.

We of the Valley View Sixth Ward Aaronic Priesthood MIA would like to thank you for giving us a great idea for a service project. We built a dollhouse from the plans you published in the December 1972 New Era and donated it to the Festival of Trees, which is a charitable benefit. The house was sold for $500, and the money went to the Primary Children’s Hospital. We are enclosing a picture of the finished product. Thanks again.
Myrna Ure, Terrie Anderson, Helen Biesinger, Tina Waldram, Marianne Gronning, Ellen Cannon, Jan Currey, Kathy Clark, Helen Pergler, Lloyd BerentzenSalt Lake City, Utah

My late father-in-law worked as a foreman in Pearl Harbor much of his career. The most horrific scenes of his life happened while supervising part of the clean-up operation in Peal Harbor following the bombing.
He never would talk about the carnage and suffering he witnessed. I took a historical interest to learn wisdom about his war-years.
It was on December 7, 1941, at 7:02 AM, at a small north-Oahu radar station. Privates Joseph McDonald and George Elliott noticed a large group of planes approaching from the north.
They called in and told Lieutenant Kermit Tyler about the planes. When questioned by another soldier at headquarters, Lieutenant Tyler responded, “Well, don’t worry about it. It’s nothing.” At 7:55 AM, on this idle, laid-back Sunday morning, a surprise attack on Pearl Harbor left 2,330 casualties and 1,145 wounded.
That morning the United States military was caught unprepared to counter a surprise air strike. They paid an awful price. War was declared and over the course of the ensuing four-year conflict, thousands were lost, wounded, or maimed in a struggle for control of the Pacific.
I learned here that being flippant, casual, or dismissive with true ‘voices of warning’ could be disastrous in our life – especially when our Prophets warn us of the danger of allowing pornographic air-strikes (stealth air-attacks that come through invisibly transmitted electrons to invade and destroy minds and lives) to come into our life.

We six Brazilian missionaries had just landed in Argentina and were awaiting flights to our missions. As soon as we entered the waiting area for our departing flights, we wanted to take photographs of the airport runway with the city in the distance. While the other five went to take pictures, I stayed nearby watching our luggage.
After they returned, I looked around and saw a place from which I wished to take a picture. “I’ll be right back,” I told the others.
After I had taken the picture, I heard someone call, “Elder.” I quickly looked around but did not see anyone. Then the call came a second time: “Elder.”
When I looked around again, I saw an old man seated on a nearby bench. When I approached him, he said, “Elder, I would like to receive a priesthood blessing for the sick.”
His request startled me. A man I had never met had asked me for a blessing on my first day in a country where I could hardly speak the language.
In fumbling Spanish, I asked him several questions: “Do you have faith? Do you believe in the power of the priesthood? Do you know The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints?”
Somewhat confused by my questions, he responded, “I am a member of the Church, Elder. I am from Salta, in the north. I am alone, I am ill, and I need a blessing.”
I went to get the other missionaries. We introduced ourselves and visited with the man for a minute. Then my companion and I took him to the restroom, where we gave him a blessing.
On that occasion, I had no time to think much about what the man had said to me other than that he needed a blessing. But later, his words “I am alone” deeply touched my heart. He felt alone, but he had a Heavenly Father who knew where he was and that he was ill. Rather than forsake him, Heavenly Father sent missionaries to comfort him, give him a blessing, and remind him that he was not alone.
That experience strengthened my testimony that we have a Heavenly Father who knows us and will never forsake us.

Our new home on Plymouth Road in Ann Arbor had everything a mainland home should have—a basement, two sets of stairs, a fireplace, and stately trees that promised to shower us with autumn leaves. I’d soon be raking them, just like the children in my books. The early chill of fall was invigorating but also a reminder that we had no warm clothing. I had never owned a coat or a pair of boots in my life!

Because my father was on a sabbatical leave, his salary was cut in half that year. Mom proclaimed that her budget would burst if she tried to buy new winter wear for seven children and two adults. A helpful ward member steered us to “The Tree,” a second-hand clothing shop.

Mom, a native of Los Angeles, California, was as ignorant of winter fashions as we were. Naive as Eskimos buying swimsuits, we shuffled through the racks of slightly faded clothing.

I spotted a rather large, knee-length plaid coat with shoulders twice the size of mine. Slipping it on over my tall, skinny frame, I looked hesitantly in the mirror.

“It’s lovely, darling,” the elderly saleslady said. “It will be very warm.”

Polly, one year my elder, was told she looked stunning in a red wool coat, which also was large and very fuzzy. We left feeling pleased with our purchases and stopped at J. C. Penney’s on the way home for knee socks and transparent rubber galoshes. We could hardly wait to wear our new clothing to school at the junior high across town.

Then, shortly before school was to begin, I was playing “see-who-can-leap-over-the-most-stairs” on the front porch with Polly and Philip, my ten-year-old brother. I took a wild jump and landed in a heap at the bottom of the stairs, my sparkly pink glasses shattered at my side.

But the real tragedy occurred when I went shopping for replacement glasses with my father and Philip. They had about as much fashion savvy as my mother in the second-hand store. And even if I’d had a little savvy of my own, it wouldn’t have made much difference because I couldn’t see without my glasses.

I only knew I was tired of sparkly pink frames. This year I would wear sophisticated black. The frames I selected had wings curving elegantly upward on both sides. Cocking my head to achieve an air of mystery, I glanced at my fuzzy reflection in the mirror.

“How do you like them, Daddy?”

“How much do they cost?”

“On sale this week,” the saleslady said.

“In that case, they look terrific.”

Two weeks later we returned to pick up my cosmopolitan frames. I was trembling with anticipation. But as my face appeared in sharp focus in the optician’s mirror, I stared in horror. The longer I stared, the sicker I felt. The curving black wings that had seemed so sophisticated in my hands looked garish on my thin face. They threatened to leave me and fly around the room. I wished they would.

Mom gave Dad a hard look when we got home but told me I looked nice. Nobody else said anything until Polly came flying down the stairs.

She stopped abruptly and gaped.

“You look like Catwoman on the Batman show!” (For the next two years, I was Catwoman.)

Finally, school started. I had dreamed about the new friends I would meet. But I spent the first few weeks of junior high curiously surveying the school and waiting for classmates to befriend me. The other seventh-grade girls seemed so much older and superior. They wore nylons, earrings, makeup. Some of the rowdy ones smoked and had boyfriends.

Weeks went by, then months. A few kids said hi and asked what it was like to live in Hawaii, but no one seemed interested in being my friend. I was puzzled. Was it my clothing or my personality? In Hawaii we had always been friendly to the new kids.

Still, life was such an adventure that I didn’t have time to feel sad. Each day after school I’d explore the house and the yard. On weekends, my parents packed all of us into our cream-colored station wagon and took us on journeys of discovery.

One weekend we visited the Ford plant and watched cars being assembled. Another weekend we discovered the Kellogg’s cereal factory in Battle Creek and saw them make Fruit Loops and Corn Flakes. Another time we had a picnic in Kalamazoo.

On Saturdays when we had to stay home, we thought up excuses to walk to Bolgos Drugstore a mile down the road, where we would squander our allowance on candy.

And of course there were other adventures all week long. With the heavier chills, our stately trees turned breathtaking crimson, yellow, and orange, just like they did in the books. It was a fascinating contrast to the perpetual green of the islands. No other home possessed such enthusiastic rakers. Naturally I tried jumping into the fresh piles, but all I did was hurt myself and get dead leaves stuck inside my clothes. The books had glamorized the experience.

And I woke up early to wander the brightly colored farmers’ market. Father could never get enough fresh produce. Bushels of Golden Delicious apples, orange pumpkins, and shiny gourds spilled from the booths. Bananas, coconuts, and guavas paled in the face of this display.

It was in the farmers’ market that I tasted my first pat of maple sugar. Wrapped in cellophane, the sugar was molded into fancy leaf and star shapes. I nibbled it slowly, reveling in its smooth texture and the way it melted in my mouth.

On some afternoons, we’d help my mother put up pears. The shimmering jars, pink from the tiny red cinnamon candies Mom dropped into each bottle, were beautiful.

Then one day it was cold enough to show off our winter clothing at school. The thrill was short-lived when I saw the other girls in their snappy, thigh-length coats and knee boots. Skinny, with the weirdest eyeglasses east of the Mississippi, I looked like somebody’s eccentric grandmother. Transparent galoshes and a bag lady coat didn’t enhance the image. Polly in her fuzzy red and I in our plaid were undoubtedly the misfits of Forsythe Junior High. We stared at each other in disgust, yet clung to each other for support.

Lunch period was the worst. Polly and I ate at different times, so we had to eat alone. It was also embarrassing to have to bring a sack lunch. Every day I sat by myself, reading a book so I didn’t have to look up.

One day a girl from one of the tough groups sauntered over on a dare from her friends. Her heavily made-up eyes jeered at me.

“Whatcha readin’?” she said.

I could hear the laughter of her friends. My heart pounded. Maybe if I kept reading she would just leave.

“Is it good?” she tried again, turning to look at her friends. Loud laughter. I kept reading.

“Man, are you dumb,” she said as she walked away.

I was too embarrassed to mention the incident to my parents. I don’t think they ever realized I had no friends at school. I don’t know if it was just the clothes we wore or that we didn’t know exactly what to say or do to be like everyone else, but we never did feel like we fit in.

I wrote in my journal, “I don’t know what to wear. White socks and shoes are out in the winter, and I have the wrong kind of coat and boots. Styles are so different here!”

Church and home were the only two places where I felt accepted. The kids at church didn’t seem to care about my eerie eyewear or my outdated clothing. I loved activity nights. An industrious seamstress, I modeled several of my creations in an MIA fashion show. Another time I participated in an impromptu speech contest and did terribly, but no one seemed to mind. Virginia Webb became a good friend, but she attended a different junior high.

I began to live for weekends and the hours after school spent playing with my brothers and sisters. In Hawaii we had had scores of friends and rarely played together. But here my brothers and sisters became my closest friends. They were there when that long-awaited snow finally fell. We frolicked in it like kittens in catnip. We held our mouths open as it fell. Each flake was a miracle, every snowball another excuse to giggle.

Eventually it dawned on us that we were the biggest kids on the sledding hill across from our home. In Michigan sledding was only for kids. But Alan didn’t care. At age 16, he was six feet, five inches tall, and he loved sledding. Every day after school, he went sledding alongside the grade schoolers. They gawked at him, but since he was so much bigger, no one ever said a word.

The rest of us, still trying to fit in, bought used ice skates. I’d been a good roller skater in Hawaii and ice skating came easy. With all the ponds and lakes in Michigan, we never had to settle for endless circling in a stale old rink. I loved the exhilaration of skating hard and fast across a frozen lake.

In the middle of the winter, a package arrived from my Grandmother Marsh in Los Angeles. I caught my breath when Polly and I tore off the brown wrapping. Inside were two outfits, breathtakingly in style. Mine had a pink flowered top with knee socks to match. Polly’s was identical, except that it was blue. This was our big chance to show the kids at Forsythe Junior High that we weren’t such misfits after all. Boy, would they be surprised!

I was a little nervous about the color because this was no ordinary pink. It was a sizzling, shocking pink. But the outfit was so definitely “in” that I squelched my fear. I slowly hung my oversized plaid coat in my locker and wondered what the kids would think of me appearing in such style.

A sea of eyes followed my dazzling pink presence from my locker to my homeroom. Then the whispering began—but not whispers of envy or admiration, as I had secretly hoped.

“Look what she’s wearing.”

“Didn’t we already have Halloween?”

All day the laughter continued. Resentment and frustration built within me. If only I had a friend to walk with, it would be so much easier. If only somebody who knew what was acceptable would give me some hints. Repeatedly I had tried to fit in and failed. And now even Grandma’s outfit had betrayed me. After that I stopped trying to live by other people’s standards. I warned Polly, and she never even wore her new clothes.

I wish I could say that there was some magic turning point, that we discovered a key that made us popular, that we found friends at our school, and that we became leaders and trendsetters ourselves. Of course we didn’t. In a year the sabbatical was over, and we returned to Hawaii, our scores of friends, our waves and mountain fruit, our mild weather and perpetually green foliage. Never was I happier than when we returned to our beloved island.

And yet now, 20 years later, when I think of Michigan, I smile. With fondness I recall Alan running barefoot in the snow. I grin at the memory of Philip and me raking autumn leaves. My heart soars when I remember skimming across a frozen lake with Polly or strolling through the farmer’s market with my father. Tears come to my eyes when I think about the whole family piling into our cream-colored station wagon, off for a picnic in Kalamazoo.

It isn’t easy to move when you’re in junior high school. It’s even tougher when you’re poor and you’re exchanging a provincial paradise for a bustling college town. There were times when I was sure I would never make it.

But now, given some time and distance, I know what the secret was. I leaned on my family. And because of them I survived.

For example, if you receive a spiritual impression to honor the Sabbath day, especially when it seems difficult, God will send His Spirit to help.

That help came to my father years ago when his work took him to Australia. He was alone on a Sunday, and he wanted to take the sacrament. He could find no information about Latter-day Saint meetings. So he started walking. He prayed at each intersection to know which way to turn. After walking and making turns for an hour, he stopped to pray again. He felt an impression to turn down a particular street. Soon he began to hear singing coming from the ground floor of an apartment building close by. He looked in at the window and saw a few people seated near a table covered with a white cloth and sacrament trays.

Now, that may not seem like much to you, but it was something wonderful to him. He knew the promise of the sacrament prayer had been fulfilled: “Always remember him and keep his commandments which he has given them; that they may always have his Spirit to be with them” (D&C 20:77).