Gospel Story Finder

Several stakes chose to serve the older members of their areas. In the Salt Lake Holladay North Stake, each Young Women class adopted a “grandmother” or “grandfather” to help throughout the year. They took turns helping with transportation and home cleaning. In addition, the girls arranged to tape record the older members’ personal histories. They transcribed the tapes and made a typewritten copy for each grandmother and grandfather to keep, with enough extra copies to give to their children.

“What did you learn in Primary today, Sasha?” Mom asked as they drove home from church.
“Sister Duffy taught us about special gifts called talents,” Sasha said. “She said Heavenly Father gave us all talents so we can help others. She said when we share our talents, it makes people happy.”
“That’s right,” Mom said. “Jesus taught that we should use our talents to serve others.”
Sasha sat quietly for a moment, staring out the window. “But, Mom, what about Lauren?” she asked.
“What about her?” Mom asked.
“Well, she can’t talk, and she’s in a wheelchair. What kinds of talents does she have that can help others?”
“What is the first thing you notice about Lauren when you see her?” Mom asked.
Sasha thought for a minute and then said, “Her smile. Lauren is always smiling.”
“That’s right,” Mom said. “What else?”
“She’s always laughing. Especially when we sing or she hears the piano. She always gets so excited. And she loves to blow kisses to people.”
“How do you feel when you are with Lauren?” Mom asked.
“Happy. I always feel happy when I’m around Lauren,” Sasha said.
“Me too,” Mom said. “That is one of Lauren’s talents. She shares love and happiness with everyone around her. That is one of the most special talents of all.”

After my parents separated, my mother and brother went to live with my grandmother. A short time later, I was born in Matagalpa, Nicaragua. Two years after I was born, while my mother was dying of cancer, she asked my father to take us in. He refused.

That hurt me deeply. After my mother died, however, my father began to change and to visit us. But I had no love for him. I resented him. Six years after my mother passed away, he died in a car crash.

Because my father had been mean to my mother, I had a bad concept of marriage. When I was 15, I thought seriously about becoming a nun so that I wouldn’t have to get married. But a coworker told me: “There are many other ways to serve God. You can get married to a good husband, and you both can serve God together. Ask Him to tell you which path to take.”

I thought about her words that night during my late shift at the hospital. Whenever I had problems or challenges, I missed my mother. As I was reviewing hospital records, I fell asleep and dreamed about her.

In my dream, I entered an old church and sat down on the front row. When I turned around, I saw my mother. She didn’t say anything, but she had a sad look on her face and motioned for me to leave. I understood that she did not want me to become a nun.

After my dream, my aunt and I began looking for a new church to attend. We visited several. I liked them all, but I did not feel that they were right. We wanted a church where we could feel God’s presence.

As we visited the different churches, I asked their leaders my “great questions of the soul.”1 I asked, “Will I see my mother again? Will she know me as her daughter? Will I know her as my mother?” Most of them told me I would recognize her only as my sister, not as my mother. I did not think that was just.

When I met missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, I finally found the answers I was looking for.

“Will my mother recognize me as the two-year-old baby girl she lost when she died?” I asked them.

“Yes,” they answered, “and you will recognize her as your mother.”

“Will I ever be able to hug her again?”

“Yes,” they told me, “but for that to happen, you have to do your part.”

“What do I need to do?”

“Let us teach you,” they said. “Then you need to pray about what you learn. And if you feel that what we teach you is true, you need to get baptized.”

That same day they also taught me about the temple. We had a very special discussion. I knew that what they taught me was true. My aunt, two of her children, and I were baptized and confirmed two months later.

After we got baptized, I was eager to have my mother’s temple work done but not my father’s work. The missionaries, however, encouraged me.

“It’s part of doing your part,” they said. “Your father is also waiting for you to have his work done.”

I told them I didn’t care. I was still upset with him.

“We have found the gospel,” my aunt told me. “You need to forgive him and do his work.”

Reluctantly, I accepted their counsel. A year after I was baptized, I took my parents’ names to the Guatemala City Guatemala Temple. It was a powerful, emotional experience. I was baptized for my mother and for several other people. Then our branch president prepared to be baptized for my father. I did not want to watch, so I began to leave.

After the branch president entered the font, I heard my father’s name during the ordinance. Immediately afterward, I felt the presence of my father. That experience left me feeling ashamed for not wanting to have his work done.

“Forgive me, Heavenly Father,” I prayed as I began to weep. “I have been selfish.”

When I returned to Nicaragua, I went to the cemetery where my father was buried. For the first time, I visited his grave and placed flowers on it. I asked him to forgive me, and I told him that I loved him. Then I wept again.

My father, like my mother, had been waiting for me to take his name to the temple, where Heavenly Father allowed me to have a wonderful experience. That experience cleansed my heart. In that moment, all of the pain and anger I had felt toward him went away.

For that, I am eternally grateful.

This is the testimony of two wonderful young people I met recently in Mexico, Brother and Sister Alvarez. They told me that since they were baptized eight months ago, rather than the estrangement from family and friends they had feared, they were finding a new love and respect being given to them, besides all the wonderful new friends that they had found among their brothers and sisters in the Church. They had prospered materially, and above all they had found a peace and nearness to their Heavenly Father that they had never known before.

John, David, and Keir wandered along the Fox River hiking trail one beautiful spring day. John and David were brothers, and their friend Keir lived around the corner from them.
“What do you guys want to do?” asked nine-year-old John.
“Let’s go home and get some ice cream bars. Mom just bought some,” seven-year-old David said.
“OK,” Keir said, “race you!” They took off up a dirt path that led back to the main road. Two blocks from John and David’s house, Keir stopped.
“Hey, look,” he said, pointing to something lying along the side of the path. “What’s that?”
It looked like a stack of paper. As the boys got closer, they realized it was a magazine. It was colorful and shiny with lots of glossy pictures. The pages flapped in the soft breeze.
“Cool,” John said as he picked it up.
They quickly realized that it was not at all “cool.” The magazine cover had pictures of naked women. The boys suddenly became very quiet.
“I think this is what’s called ‘porn,’” Keir said.
“What’s that?” David asked.
“Pornography,” John stated. He slammed the magazine closed and folded it in half so they couldn’t see the cover. “We shouldn’t look at it.”
“I think we should tell our moms,” Keir said.
“Or we could just leave it here,” David said.
“No, I don’t want someone else to find it. We’ll take it to Mom. She’ll know what to do,” John said.
David and Keir nodded. The three boys continued up the path. They didn’t want to laugh and shout anymore. They all felt a dull, heavy feeling inside. They were curious about the magazine, but no one wanted to look at it again.
When they got home, John showed his mom what they had found.
“You were right not to keep looking at it. This is not good for us to see,” she said. “I’m proud of you boys for bringing it to me. I’ll get rid of it.”
Later, when Keir got home, he told his mom and dad what had happened. They had a talk about pornography.
“Heavenly Father gave us our bodies to house our spirits,” Keir’s mom said. “Our bodies are very important, and we shouldn’t misuse them.”
“That magazine was showing how some people treat their bodies badly,” his dad added. “Pornography is evil, and the prophet has told us to stay away from it. You boys made a good decision today, Keir. You’ll be blessed for it.”
Keir had a good feeling in his heart that lasted for a long time. He knew John and David felt the same way. All three boys understood that the Holy Ghost had guided them to choose the right.

No doubt about it, I was a bit cocky and thought I was the best missionary to ever hit Switzerland. The Missionary Training Center had humbled me somewhat (the hardest two months of my mission), and in Switzerland my greenie trainer had done a good job of keeping me from rising over the Alps. I realized that I had a language to perfect and discussions to learn, but I was still living on past achievements, sports victories, and pre-mission status. This is probably why a few flames of refiners’ fire were thrown in my path.
After two months in the field, I received a new companion, only one month more experienced than I. We were both excited about the work and full of anticipation and energy. We learned how to teach with each other, practiced the language together, and enjoyed being new as a team. He had also been active in sports and other activities at home. I would relate to him all my hero stories, and if they weren’t too courageous in truth, I would make them sound fine and noble by adding a little spice. He must have thought I was the next one to be translated by the way I carried on about myself.
Both of us could settle for nothing but the best. This soon led to a feeling of pride and superiority. Everything we set out to do became a major competition. I would not be outdone. Whatever the occasion, I was determined to be the best.
It became a question of who would remember more of the discussions, who would get more mail, who could pray longer, who knew the gender to a particular German word, or who could ride his bike faster (that is, longer without something going wrong).
I suppose many companions (or marriage partners) get those negative feelings and think everything they do is better than what the other does. This was at a maximum with my companion and me. It got so bad, at times I would find myself hoping he wouldn’t get in the doors while tracting so I could prove to be better at the next house. I don’t mean to say that our interaction was total strife or anger, but it was not how we should have been acting as a missionary pair.
It was at this time that the Lord chose to send us his way of solving our problems. He placed before us a challenge capable of humbling us: Hans.
We met Hans at a street display. My companion saw him standing back timidly, hoping only to get a glimpse of what some silly Americans were doing. I suppose he must have been a bit surprised when my companion approached him and asked if he could explain what the pictures meant. Hans came and listened intently, and Elder Perkinson secured his address. We didn’t think about Hans until later when we were in that area again.
We made our way to his house on a cool September evening. I was amazed at the size and location of the place; it was a nice, well-to-do area. The condition of the house was another story: weeds, tires, oil spots, rubble, and piles of rotting trash were strewn about the front yard where a garden should have been. I thought that perhaps someone was moving or cleaning, but then again, what I viewed inside changed that opinion all together.
I pounded on the thin and knobless door as my companion tried to connect two wires together where a doorbell had once been. The house appeared to be vacant until a light from the top of the hallway came through a small window and a thin shadow made its way down the stairs. We heard a screech of wood on cement as our new investigator ripped the weakened door back from its frame. There in the bright porchlight stood our man, grinning with excitement at his first visitors in ages. As he opened the door, we were struck by an unsettling smell. This was certainly a challenge I had never expected to find on my mission.
I looked at Elder Perkinson, and he met me with the same puzzled face. We had no choice, so we walked into the front hallway.
The house must have been at one time stately and well-built, but the remains now disguised all appearance of quality. Boxes, trash, dirt, groceries (old and new), shoes, and assorted pieces of junk were scattered in piles along the corridor. The walls, which were once white, now had a coating of grime.
He led us to his room on the top floor, like a kid would show his friends his snake collection. He clearly had no awareness of the disorganized surroundings in which he was living. All of the rooms were filled with old items; however, his room was among the worst in the house. I gulped and tried to act nonchalant, but my eyes couldn’t avoid sweeping back and forth. If my mother had seen this, she would have thought my room back home was a king’s chamber.
There were no chairs, so we sat on the bed. Hans sat on a vacuum cleaner lying in the middle of the room. Undoubtedly it had been there for years without being used.
For the first time, I looked at this young man before me, and it all became clear. He sat there alone, scared, thin, and insecure. He was 33 years old, the age of many aspiring and influential men. I could see in his face the pain and suffering he had endured and the times he had been ignored and turned from. I couldn’t help thinking of the story “Cipher in the Snow.” Right before my eyes I saw that little bright-eyed, white-faced boy who fell in the snow on the way to school.
He related to us some of, the events of his life: his parents had died seven years ago, and he was left the house and all the bills to be paid. From other sources and from looking through some of his old school papers, we gained further insight into his earlier life. The marks and comments on his schoolwork didn’t seem too poor, but his writing and drawing ability didn’t increase from about the eighth grade.
We began the missionary discussion, and I had to concentrate to keep my eyes from wandering. My companion began with the Joseph Smith story, and I finished up with the second half of the discussion. I really felt proud of my companion, and I don’t think I could have done it without him. We felt good; we realized later that it wasn’t what we said, but rather the fact that we were interested in him that made us feel good. He hardly spoke but looked at us bright-eyed and was interested.
It was our practice to pray at the end of each discussion, but as I looked at the soiled carpet below me, I wasn’t sure what to do. I could see myself being stuck to the floor after the prayer, not being able to rise, but I couldn’t think of any valid excuse, so I closed my eyes and dropped. I believe my companion said the prayer, and something told me inside that this lonely man across from me was going to be baptized. It seemed to me then that it would take a miracle for Hans to become a Latter-day Saint and live as an example to others, but the thought remained.
The following Sunday he showed up for church. The meeting had just started, and I walked to the front door to check for late-coming members. There Hans stood in a thin, soiled, turtleneck shirt, shivering from cold and fright. His hands were in his pockets, and he looked as if he were turning to go away again. I called to him, and a big smile made its way across his lips.
We sat in the corner. As the service ended, I stood with our visitor in the foyer. The members were forming in groups all around us, as the Saints do in every ward in the world, but we weren’t getting too much attention. Then my companion and I thought up a good plan. All we had to do was to bring the members to him. We took turns bringing warm and talkative persons to meet him. As one of us introduced, the other looked for someone to talk to our investigator. The members didn’t talk long, but they were open and friendly. For Hans, it was paradise. He had never received so much attention and such feelings of love in his life. He asked us later that week if he could come every Sunday.
In the next two weeks, we taught him most of the discussions. After each evening, he would show us his entire collection of model airplanes, his 500 stacks of airplane magazines, and his photos of airplanes and everything with wings. That was one of his hobbies or fantasies. He had lived his whole life in a fantasy, because he never had enough faith in himself to actually do anything. We knew that the gospel could change him and would give him a good chance to improve his life. The members would accept and love him, and he recognized it.
We challenged him for baptism, and he accepted everything without question. Besides the regular commandments, we felt there should be a few other things to help him. For this reason we prepared the “B” or “Bath Discussion.” This included his house, his yard, and everything else that needed cleaning up. This didn’t appear easy, and we tried to think of the best and most tactful way to say it. I remember rehearsing a dialogue all day, but we ended up just giving it to him straight. He took it surprisingly well.
The week before the baptism was a trial and tribulation for both Hans and us. I don’t know who’s to blame, but someone didn’t want us to baptize Hans. Both my companion and I got terribly sick; his wheel got stuck on my fender while we were riding and all his spokes flew out; I got hit by a train, and came within inches of being killed; and finally we had to look for a new apartment and didn’t know where we were going to stay until the last day. We baptized Hans, however, just three and a half weeks after our first visit. He came to the church showered and shaved and even wore a new pair of socks. I hardly recognized him. We could already see a part of our vision coming true. I had the great opportunity of baptizing him. He had never worn a tie, so we told him he could go without. Having him stand there in those pure white clothes was fancy enough for us.
As with all baptisms, the real work begins afterwards. We began that Saturday with the cleaning of his house. We worked like dogs, digging out the dirt, junk, and refuse. A sister in the ward, who lived just a few blocks away, came to help. I’ve always admired the courage of pioneer women, but I’ll never forget this act of kindness and fortitude. She started washing dishes and then cleaned out the cupboards. She kept scrubbing and washing till all was spotless.
“This is brotherly love,” I told myself. “This is how the Lord expects his children to help one another.”
Hans continued to improve and came to church every week. A year later I saw a picture of him in a suit. He looked fantastic.
I learned a lot of things from Hans and this whole sequence of my mission. I realized how important each one of our Father in Heaven’s children is, and how the gospel can help anyone in any situation. As my mother once wrote in a letter, “The gospel is a hospital for the sick and not a museum for the whole.” It was certainly true in this case. I know our Heavenly Father helped us in the changing of this man’s life.
The vision of Hans didn’t end there, however. He became, in his own little way, an example to his fellowmen. One month later we visited a lady across the street from Hans. She had seen the change in the house and in Hans himself and knew it had to be the Mormons. She called the same member who had helped us with the cleaning and told her to send the missionaries. Five minutes from the time we entered the home of this great family, we had challenged them to be baptized. What a thrill it was to know that Hans was the one whom the Lord chose to show them the fruits of the gospel.
It all started with Hans. We helped him to find a new life and he helped us as companions. From this time on, it was no longer a question of outdoing each other or being the best, but rather how we could help Hans or the other investigators. He was an example for us of true humility and how the Lord blesses his children.
I know now that the Lord loves us and wants us all to be happy, even the meek and the poor in spirit.

Too often we expect our spouse to heal our wounds for us. This is neither logical nor practical. Blair was such a person. His mother was an exceptionally dominating, even unkind, person. An only child, Blair resented his mother’s dominance, even after she died. He fiercely resisted his wife’s slightest expression of opinion or preference. He wanted—and kept—total control over finances, discipline of their three children, housekeeping, recreation, prayer, and church attendance. His wife desperately tried to say or do things that would satisfy or pacify him, but nothing seemed to work. Assuming that she was at fault, she sank into despair.

Blair’s wounds began to heal when he came to see that he was reacting to all women as if they were reflections of his mother. To learn more about his mother, he did genealogy work and interviewed relatives. As he listened with compassion to tapes of oral histories, he began to see his mother as a person, not just as his parent. And he learned to understand her struggles as she tried to succeed in what she perceived as her role as a wife and mother. Eventually he was able to forgive his mother, and by accepting the responsibility for healing his own wounds, Blair was able to relieve many of the pressures that were undermining his marriage.

He soon revived and was on his way with 500 of the Saints under the care of Captain Daniel Thompson of Fillmore, Utah. William’s journal paints a vivid picture of the means of transporting travelers across the plains in those days:
“Eighty-four sturdy wagons pulled by ox-teams met us there on the Missouri. They were accompanied by splendid teamsters and a very fine captain dedicated to his calling. When all was loaded up, including my own things, we departed for The Valley, but not before we knelt and prayed to the Almighty. The days, weeks, and months to follow were filled with events the heart and mind shall never forget. The evenings were filled with singing and dancing which caused the mind and body to forget the hardships of the day. There was also sickness and death of the fragile which grieved us.”
William chose not to dwell on the subjects of sickness and death; nor did he choose to mention much about the “walking blisters” he doctored every night by the light of the campfires. He certainly had found a good use for the healing salve he’d brought all the way from England. He would remove his “foot soldier boots,” wash out his socks, and soak his feet in a bucket one of the good sisters loaned him. His soaking bucket was not exclusively his, however, as there were others who needed it too. After the soaking process, the bucket was gratefully returned to its place in the back of a wagon until the next evening. William took pity on another young fellow with the party whose shoes were in much worse shape than his own. One evening he took his dress shoes from his bag and gave them to his friend. He would get another pair when he reached his destination, after he had worked and earned enough to buy them. Slits had to be made in the sides as they were too narrow for the boy’s feet, but they were a welcomed gift, nonetheless. Not long after that incident and near the end of the journey, someone noticed blood oozing from William’s boots, leaving a marked trail on the sand and rocks behind him. He was ushered to the back of one of the wagons and made to ride for the remainder of the day. It was his first ride, and he felt guilty and uncomfortable for accepting it. He knew the oxen were already pulling their limit and hated to add to their burden. The soles of his boots were gone, but they had served him well as his father had said they would. He would finish the journey with gunny sacks wrapped around his swollen, bruised feet.
He was not one to complain. Instead he wrote: “I was among the best of company. I was treated like a son and brother, which indeed we were brothers and sisters in the gospel. When tragedy or discomfort struck one, and it did many times, it struck us all.”
Emmigration Canyon was ablaze with her fall attire of reds and golds as the weary but rejoicing Saints descended her well-cut and marked paths that first day of October in 1866. The travelers were warmly received by others who fully understood all that had transpired over the past three months for they, too, had endured and conquered the obstacles that arose between the point of departure and the scene of arrival. Now they stood together in the winners’ circle, ready for the next challenge. William must write home to his family who were anxiously awaiting the news that “Zion had been reached!” Little did he know that they had heard his ship had gone down and were grieving his loss. Oh, how welcome his letter would be! It would inspire new faith and hope.

Some years ago while serving in the office of public affairs of the Church in Mexico, we were invited to participate in a radio talk show. The purpose of the show was to describe and discuss the different religions of the world. Two of us were assigned to represent the Church in responding to questions that might be asked during this type of a program. After several commercial breaks, as they say in radio parlance, the program director made this comment: “We have with us this evening two elders from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.” He paused and then asked, “Why does the Church have such a long name? Why don’t you use a shorter or more commercial name?”
My companion and I smiled at such a magnificent question and then proceeded to explain that the name of the Church was not chosen by man. It was given by the Savior through a prophet in these latter days: “For thus shall my church be called in the last days, even The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints” (D&C 115:4). The program director immediately and respectfully responded, “We will thus repeat it with great pleasure.” Now, I cannot remember how many times he repeated the significant name of the Church, but I do remember the sweet spirit that was present when we explained not only the name of the Church but also how it makes reference to the members of the Church—the Latter-day Saints.

There are two ways the Thordersons learned this lesson: one, because they are all different from each other, and two, because as members of the Church, they are very different from most of their friends.
With six kids in a family, you can hardly expect them to all have the same likes or dislikes, virtues or vices. Sometimes this makes getting along with each other difficult, but in the Thorderson family, having different talents was encouraged. Jim said, “Our parents always let us do what we were interested in, like when Kurt wanted to be a photographer, he worked to earn a camera and they helped him. They always helped us pursue what we wanted to do.”
Consequently, Eric, Kurt, and Jim, the three oldest, have grown up to be very different people. Eric is a businessman, Kurt is doing a residency to get his M.D., and Jim is making a name for himself as an artist. But these differences have never stopped them from having a good time with each other. For instance, the year before Jim went on his mission, all three of them played on the basketball team at Wayne State University in Detroit. They know from this and many other experiences that being different doesn’t mean they can’t be friends.
And all of the Thordersons know that being different because of their values is more than all right—it’s the way to set a good example for others around you. Kurt said, “While we were growing up, Eric and I were the only LDS students in our high school, and we were in a graduating class of about 650. And then when I went to Wayne State, the only other Latter-day Saints out of 30,000 people were Eric and Dad (he works as an administrator there). It was hard, but it also made me stand up for what I believe.”
The Thordersons went to seminary at 6:00 A.M. throughout high school, and they all talk about what a great program it is. “Early morning seminary, I think, was a big boost for us,” said Kurt. “It really takes a lot of commitment to go, and I think it’s worth it.” Nels, the fifth child, who is on a mission in Salt Lake City, said, “It starts your day out right to see your Church friends early in the morning before school starts.”
Jed, who is 13, hasn’t started seminary yet, but the example of his older brothers and sister has inspired him to read the Book of Mormon each morning before school with his mother. They read one chapter a day, and they have already read through the book three times. Because of this experience, Jed is sure he’ll have no trouble getting up for seminary when the time comes. As the youngest of this clan he has probably benefited the most from the 3F formula because it was well established by the time he came along. “I think all of these big brothers are great—I get to wear all of their old clothes!” he laughs. You don’t have to ask Jed twice if he thinks the 3F formula works. He has learned its power through example, and it’s not a lesson he’s likely to forget.
So, now that you’ve met the Thordersons, do you believe the formula works?
Maybe you think, yeah, I guess they have a pretty good time together, but I still don’t understand how that little 3F thing can make such a difference.
Well, to tell the truth, it’s not the formula that makes the difference. The formula is just a reminder of the results that come when you apply the truths the Thordersons learned. Add some of your own activities, too. Things like going to your brother’s football game, or living the principles you learn in seminary, or laughing at your little sister’s corny elementary school jokes are what makes the 3F formula work. Those things have more power to change your earthly and heavenly home than you imagine. The 3F formula is powerful—you’ll have a lot of fun with it if you give it a try. Just ask the Thordersons, who are living proof; they’ll tell you they’re working on the 4F formula, too. That’s family = friends = fun = forever.

Some years ago, I met a remarkable family. Each member of the family had an unshakable testimony of the reality of the Resurrection. Each of the children had been born with a rare form of muscular dystrophy. The only daughter, Shanna, was then five years old. All of the children were intelligent and faith-filled.
We visited for a while, and the special spirit of that family filled my office and my heart. Then the parents asked if little Shanna could sing for me. She sang of a brighter future:
On a beautiful day that I dream about
In a world I would love to see,
Is a beautiful place where the sun comes out
And it shines in the sky for me.
On this beautiful winter’s morning,
If my wish could come true somehow,
Then the beautiful day that I dream about
Would be here and now.1
Eventually, Shanna passed away at age 14. At the funeral services, I spoke of the lovely song Shanna sang. I concluded with the thought: “Because our Savior died on Calvary, death has no hold upon any one of us. Shanna lives, whole and well, and for her that beautiful day she sang about is here and now.”

We have seen the manifestation of the Savior’s power in a widow who lost her husband while they were on the Lord’s errand in Bolivia. We have seen it in a young woman in Argentina who fell under a train and lost her leg, just because someone wanted to steal her cell phone. And in her single father, who now must pick up the pieces and strengthen his daughter after such an unexplainable act of cruelty. We have seen it in the families that lost their homes and every possession during fires in Chile just two days before Christmas in 2022. We have seen it in those who suffer after a traumatic divorce and in those who are innocent victims of abuse.

This is the kind of faith we saw when we visited the families after the fires in Chile. Their houses had been burned to the ground; they had lost everything. Yet as we were walking in what used to be their homes and they were telling us about their experiences, we felt that we were standing on holy ground. One sister said to my wife, “When I saw that nearby houses were burning, I had the impression that our house was going to be burned, that we were going to lose everything. Instead of desperation, I experienced a sense of indescribable peace. Somehow, I felt everything was going to be OK.” Trusting God and keeping our covenants with Him bring power to our weakness and comfort to our grief.

I learned this lesson while working and studying chemical engineering in college. I was asked to be the activities planner for a singles ward. This was my nightmare calling. Still, I accepted, and at first it was drudgery. Then at one activity a beautiful girl was smitten by the way I served the ice cream. She returned three times, hoping to catch my attention. We fell in love, and she proposed to me just two weeks later. Well, maybe it wasn’t quite that fast, and I was the one who proposed, but the truth is this: I shudder to think of missing out on Heidi had I said no to that calling.

War clouds covered America. South Carolina threatened to secede from the republic. The crisis deeply troubled Joseph Smith. He said that on Christmas Day 1832 he “was praying earnestly on the subject.” In answer, a voice revealed to him a “Revelation on Prophecy and War” (D&C 87), which begins: “Verily, thus saith the Lord concerning the wars that will shortly come to pass, beginning at the rebellion of South Carolina, which will eventually terminate in the death and misery of many souls.” Warfare and bloodshed, it added, then would become common throughout the world.
The Prophet wrote the revelation down. He told Church members about it. But it was not printed. Saints wanting copies had to hand copy from Joseph’s copy. Orson Pratt, the energetic young missionary, obtained a handwritten copy, which he frequently pulled out and read to people during his travels. In February 1832 he started, on foot, on a 4,000-mile mission that would continue for several years, preaching in Ohio, Pennsylvania, New York, New England, and Canada, during which he converted 104 people. Every year for the next five years he walked east and filled missions. Of those preaching days he later recalled:
“When I was a boy, I traveled extensively in the United States and the Canadas, preaching this restored Gospel. I had a manuscript copy of this revelation (on civil war), which I carried in my pocket, and I was in the habit of reading it to the people among whom I traveled and preached.”
How did his listeners respond? Did they say, “Well, it takes no prophet to see war will start in South Carolina”? No. Said Orson: “As a general thing the people regarded it as the height of nonsense, saying the Union was too strong to be broken; and I they said, was led away, the victim of an impostor.”
When South Carolina’s secession threats cooled down after 1832, did Orson begin to doubt the prophecy? No, because “I knew the prophecy was true, for the Lord had spoken to me and had given me revelation.” But year after year passed away without war, and now and then “some of the acquaintances I had formerly made would say, ‘Well, what is going to become of that prediction? It’s never going to be fulfilled.’” Orson replied, “Wait, the Lord has his set time.”
Perhaps doubters chided Joseph Smith too that the prophecy had “failed.” For just before his death the Prophet restated it:
“I prophesy, in the name of the Lord God, that the commencement of the difficulties which will cause much bloodshed previous to the coming of the Son of Man will be in South Carolina. It may probably arise through the slave question. This a voice declared to me while I was praying earnestly on the subject, December 25th, 1832.”
Then, more years of unfulfillment passed. But Elder Pratt, an Apostle since 1835, still felt such confidence in the prophecy that he helped arrange for its publication in England in 1851. This was the first time the prophecy appeared in print.
Orson had to wait only a decade more. In December 1860 South Carolina voted itself out of the United States. Other southern states soon did the same. On April 12, 1861, secessionists’ cannons opened fire on the United States’ fort, Fort Sumter, in Charleston harbor, and South Carolina thereby started a bloody war that would last four years and claim 600,000 lives.
After the Civil War, Elder Pratt said, “This is another testimony that Joseph Smith was a Prophet of the Most High God.”
Interestingly, the printed prophecy had circulated far and wide. When war broke out in April 1861, 28 years after the prophecy was pronounced, the PhiladelphiaSunday Mercury newspaper carried a lengthy article entitled “A Mormon Prophecy.” “We have in our possession a pamphlet, published at Liverpool, in 1851, “the article began, referring to the civil war prophecy. “In view of our present troubles, this prediction seems to be in progress of fulfillment, whether Joe Smith was a humbug or not.” The article reprinted the entire prophecy, then noted how events were fulfilling it, and concluded regarding Joseph Smith: “Have we not had a prophet among us?”
As Fort Sumter surrendered, others, like the Mercury’s editors, remembered hearing about the prophecy. Perhaps some of those who once scoffed when youthful missionary Orson Pratt pulled the prophecy from his pocket and read it now had cause to wonder, to worry, and to wish they had listened more closely to what the rest of the prophecy said.

I know I was excited about moving, but I really miss my friends. Today before science class began, a girl two rows over called out, “Trisha, are you a Mormon?”
Suddenly the chatter stopped. All eyes turned to me. I said yes.
One of the boys asked, “What’s a Norman?”
The girl said, “Not Norman, Gregg. Mormon. It’s a church.”
“They don’t believe in Jesus Christ,” someone piped up.
“Yes, we do,” I protested, but the bell rang and drowned out my words.
I heard someone across the room say, “My dad says Mormons are really weird.”
I’m the only Mormon in this whole school. Will I ever have any friends?

When I first saw the old barn, I figured that it had to be at least a thousand years old. The gray slate roof was half gone, and the huge side doors wouldn’t shut. Inside I could see mounds of hay heaped so high that I knew that there had to be rats living in them—and bats flying around the rafters at night! My pa told me that I could explore the barn as long as I was careful. But every time I thought of that barn, the hair on my arms stood straight up. I spent a lot of time sitting on a rail fence near the garden, just staring at the sagging barn. I felt like it was staring right back at me, daring me to come inside.
I met Doughnut the summer that we moved to the farm, the same year that I turned ten. His real name was Teddy, but everyone called him Doughnut because he was heavier than most kids and his face was round. We played baseball together or walked along the fence, pretending that we were high on a trapeze.
Doughnut and I had a lot of fun together—until one day when he said, “Hey, Elliot let’s go inside the barn and make a fort.”
“Nope,” I said. “That barn is alive.”
“Alive?” Doughnut laughed. “Elliot, you’re just chicken.”
My face felt real hot. I had never been called chicken in my life. “Well, OK,” I said reluctantly. My knees began to shake as I marched up the small path leading to the barn. When I reached the doors, I stopped and tilted my head back to see just how high the barn was. “Wow!” was all I could say.
“Come on.” Doughnut nudged me closer. “Let’s go in.”
Doughnut followed me inside. I was glad that the doors didn’t shut—I might want to make a quick getaway. The beams that supported the roof were as thick as tree stumps. And the wind whistled through the open cracks in the walls.
“Wow!” Doughnut exclaimed. “Our barn isn’t nearly this big.”
“Or this scary,” I told him. I felt my heart pound hard against my chest.
Doughnut climbed the ladder to the loft and grabbed a thick hemp rope. “Come on, Elliot, let’s swing across and drop into the hay.”
“Are you crazy?”
“You’re just a red-bellied chicken.”
I climbed to the loft and pushed Doughnut so hard that he rolled across the floor. I was furious at him for calling me a red-bellied chicken.
Doughnut got up, grabbed the rope, and whooped as he sailed across the barn and dropped into the hay.
Before I knew it, I was swinging across the barn and landing in the hay too. We decided to build forts and tunnels on each side of the barn. Everything about it became new and exciting. I never wanted to leave.
Every morning, when I got out of bed, I hurried and did my chores. I wasn’t afraid of the barn anymore, and I couldn’t wait to play in it. It was wonderful. Some afternoons Doughnut would come over and we’d play in the barn the whole time. I liked it best, though, when I was alone in the barn and could bounce my voice off the rafters or just listen to myself think. I began to think of the barn as a friend. I started taking care of it. I made repairs inside, swept up the scattered hay, and even stuffed hay in the draftiest chinks in the walls.
Early one morning I was eating my breakfast as fast as I could so that I could go out to the barn and tighten the hinges on the side doors. I wasn’t listening to my parents’ conversation until I heard the word barn.
“We’ll start tearing down the barn Saturday afternoon,” Pa said to Mother. “The Amish people will come load up the wood. I told them that they could have it for nothing. It isn’t worth much.”
My mouth dropped. “You can’t tear it down, Pa,” I choked out. “I have it all fixed up inside. Maybe we could rebuild it.”
“Elliot, it would cost more than it’s worth.” He gave me an inquiring look, then said, “Now, finish your breakfast.”
I felt miserable and angry. And I felt sorry for the barn. Was I a normal kid to think that a barn had feelings? I curled up in a chair in my room and drew pictures of how the barn could look if we fixed it up.
All week Doughnut begged me to let him come over. I told him no. I told him that I didn’t feel like playing in that stupid barn anymore. Anyway, it was going to be torn down. I think that that was the only time that I was ever really mad at my pa.
Saturday morning I did my chores and decided to stay in the house. I peeked out my bedroom window to take one last look at the barn. I tried to convince myself that it was just a broken-down building.
After lunch Pa came into my room. He sat down on the edge of my bed and looked me straight in the eyes. “Did I ever tell you about the oak tree that I used to play on when I was about your age?” he asked.
“No, Pa.”
“Well, I found this old tree that had fallen across Miller Creek. The trunk of that tree was about as big around as this room. My folks always knew where to find me in the summertime. I would play on that tree until dark. I pretended that I was shipwrecked and that I was the captain. I fought off dangerous pirates and enormous sharks. I had the greatest adventures on it that I could imagine.”
I hadn’t really known much about Pa when he was a kid. It felt strange to imagine him as a little kid on that tree, letting his imagination run free. I wished that I could have been there with him.
“My adventures on that fallen trunk are some of my happiest memories,” Pa continued. He looked over at me. “I think that every youngster ought to have something happy to remember about growing up. Something he can hold on to.”
“Yes, Pa,” I said.
“So,” he said with a crooked grin, “I’ve thought a lot about what you said and how you feel about that barn. Maybe that’s what you’ll remember when you’re older.” Pa leaned down and picked up the drawings off the floor. “Do you still want to try to rebuild that old relic out there?”
“Oh yes, Pa!” I hugged him as hard as I could.
Pa stood and walked toward the door, then stopped, held out his hand, and said, “Well, come on then. We’d better get started.”

When I was a teenager, I set the goal of getting a degree in sports. I prayed a lot, asking the Lord to make it so practices would be on Saturdays. However, my team’s practices were scheduled on Sundays. I had to make a choice: give up on my goal or skip church. Since both were important to me, I compromised. I would go to practices for two Sundays and then go to church on the third Sunday. Unfortunately, this little deviation from my faith led to sin, causing much suffering.
It did not take me long to realize my mistake. I asked to be on a different team. However, it was too late; the wrong had been done. I had half opened the door, and Satan had pushed it wide open. Eventually I gave up competitive sports.
I learned two valuable things. The first is that when we seek to compromise with the Lord, we are in great danger. The second is that I had made the mistake of believing my faith was strong enough that I could do without Sunday meetings. Our spirits need nourishment just as our body does. If we were to eat only one meal and then skip the next two meals, we could not remain in good health.
I love Sundays now. The Lord has blessed me in my studies and my health above measure.

The next place of gathering for the Saints was Nauvoo, a city they built on land reclaimed from an Illinois swamp. Newcomers came seeking refuge (1) and to help build the new temple (2, 3).

One group of Latter-day Saints who gathered to Nauvoo was led by a free black woman who had embraced the gospel in Connecticut and shared it with her relatives. When the Saints in that area prepared to leave for Nauvoo in 1843, Jane Manning and eight members of her family joined them. Unfortunately, when the group boarded a boat in Buffalo, New York, authorities denied the Manning family passage. Rather than turn back, the party began walking toward Nauvoo, 1,300 kilometers away. It was October, and the weather was turning cold.

“We walked until our shoes were worn out,” Jane said, “and our feet became sore and cracked open and bled until you could see the whole print of our feet with blood on the ground. We stopped and united in prayer to the Lord. We asked God the Eternal Father to heal our feet and our prayers were answered and our feet were healed.”

The group arrived in Nauvoo late in the year, and the Prophet received them with gladness. “You are among friends now,” he told them, “and you will be protected.” “You mustn’t cry,” he told Jane specifically, “we dry up all tears here” (“Biography of Jane E. Manning James,” LDS Church Archives, 2, 3–4).

Sandy was a Primary child who showed that she could be a missionary too. When she was five years old, she invited her best friend, Craig, to go to church with her on Sunday. Craig wanted to go with Sandy and was excited to ask his mother. But Craig’s mother had other plans, and she said no. When Craig asked his mother the next week if he could go to church, she said no again. Because Sandy was a good missionary, she asked Craig a third time to go to church with her family. Craig got up early on Sunday morning and put on his best clothes. Then he woke up his mother and asked if he could go to church with Sandy. When she said no for the third time, Craig started to cry. Craig’s mother decided that if he wanted to go so badly, maybe she should go too. Craig and his mother went to church that day with Sandy and her family. That evening they began learning about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints from the full-time missionaries, and soon they were baptized.
More than 20 years later, when Craig tells this story, he likes to count all the people who are members of the Church because of five-year-old Sandy, who invited a friend to church. He can count more than 100 people. Craig says, “I don’t know how many others Sandy invited to church. … I do know that I owe her more than I can say” (Friend, Oct. 1998, 36–37).

Caregivers need support in the efforts they make to help others. Many families have learned how to support a caregiver in marvelous ways. For example, my wife’s parents lived near the ocean in Chiba Prefecture, Japan. However, as they got older, their children started to be concerned about their health.
One of their older daughters invited them to move closer to her home, in Osaka, where she would be a primary caregiver to them. But all the children joined together to support their parents and their sister—finding and remodeling a house, understanding the parents’ needs, and respecting their independence so that they could fully receive joy and happiness in their new life at the new location.
My wife’s father, who has dementia, started attending a day-care center nearby, where he enjoys the company of other seniors rather than randomly wandering around his neighborhood. Even though we are far away, my wife enjoys having a doctrinal discussion with her parents every Sunday via the internet, where they encourage one another and share love. And she often checks on her sister to see how the caregiving is going.