Gospel Story Finder

It took me a long time to convince Vickie that she could change things. But now, after all that’s happened this last year, she will never again doubt—nor will I—that within one individual is the power to change the lives of many.
I first met Vickie about two years ago when she was a junior in high school. The circumstances that brought us together were such that I knew immediately she was in need of a little friendly direction. How to do it in a subtle way was a problem I solved the first day she and her friend Pat came to my home. I was trying to convince them they needed to get involved in some interesting activities.
“Hey, you guys, I’ve got a deal for you,” I said. “How about free drama lessons in exchange for some baby-sitting?”
They thought about it, and giggled, and decided it would be fun. Little did they dream that that weekly committed hour was just a ruse to keep them coming. Oh, I carried out my part of the bargain, but I was much less interested in their theatrical potential than in their lives.
About five weeks later, right between Our Town and Peter Pan, we gave up the “drama lessons,” mostly because it was impossible to emote properly with my three preschoolers on the premises. But the lessons had served their purpose, and Vickie and Pat kept coming. Pat’s story is a good one, too, but this one is about Vickie. So it’s into her life that we now go.
Life was a drag to her. School was boring. Church was boring. Home was boring. Home—that’s what I started asking questions about. For I had learned enough to know that’s where most things start, good and bad. As she described her home to me I had a feeling she could have been talking about thousands of homes throughout the Church.
“Are your parents active in the Church?” I asked.
“Oh, sort of. They were married in the temple but haven’t been back for a long time. They go to church sometimes, but they drink coffee, and sometimes we find beer cans around.”
“Do your parents seem to enjoy one another? Are they happy together?”
“Yeah—I guess so. I mean, they don’t really fight or anything, but they’re not happy in the way that Mormons ought to be happy.”
“What do you talk about at your house?”
“Oh, nothing. Nothing interesting. Oh, they talk about our debts a lot, and how much we owe on different things, and that kind of stuff. But nobody ever talks about the way we feel about something, unless it’s to get mad and yell.”
“Vickie, do you think your parents love you?”
“Oh, I’m sure they love me. They even tell me so. And they do lots of things for me. Like—Dad will work an extra four or five hours to get a new dress for me. But sometimes they won’t go out of their way to be with me. I remember having to go alone to things like Laurel standards nights. It’s sort of weird—I know they love me. But sometimes—I don’t feel like they love me. You know what I mean?”
“Yes. I know what you mean.”
Vickie found herself depressed a lot. She couldn’t sleep. A lot of her friends at the high school were getting into drugs. Not too long before a friend had committed suicide, and sometimes Vickie found herself envying her. But it was the drug thing that had us worried for a while. I gave to her and to some of her friends a copy of a book that tells the story of youth and drugs. And I took them to The Group, a Church-affiliated organization dedicated to helping young people find a better way. I’m happy to report that Vickie did not take any drugs, but there were times when she thought it might be the answer.
The real answer, as I was trying to convince her, lay in coming to grips with the problems of reality and doing something, however small, toward solving them. On a long-into-the-night phone call, she told me she hadn’t been able to sleep for days and would just lie awake thinking of all her worries. I guess that was the first time I gave her an assignment.
“Look, Vickie,” I said, “go get a pencil and paper right now and make two lists—one of all the things you are worried about that you can’t possibly do anything about—and the other of all the things you are worried about that you can do something about. Then put a cross through the first list and say, ‘Lord, this part is yours,’ and next to each item on the other list write down one simple little thing you can do as a beginning to solving the problem. Then put a check by the one thing you’ll start on tomorrow, put it away, say a good prayer, go to bed, and go to sleep!” Next day she claimed to have slept better.
I started giving her other assignments then, each geared to one of the worries that she did have some control over. After a few afternoons of lonely concentration in my writing room, she gradually improved her study habits. I assigned her to try out for the school play, and she had a wonderful time in a small part in Green Pastures.
But things at home were not getting a lot brighter. She claimed she couldn’t talk to her folks about anything. Once over the phone she said to me, “Wow, we’re learning the neatest things in seminary these days—all kinds of stuff about Church history that I never heard of before—it’s really exciting!”
“That’s great, Vickie,” I said. “Have you told your mom that?”
Silence. Then a nervous laugh. “Of course not. I couldn’t tell them anything like that.”
“You can’t tell them the bad stuff or the good stuff, huh? Just the ‘what are we having for supper’ kind of stuff.”
“Yeah. Guess so.”
I then determined to persuade Vickie that she was as much a part of the problem as her parents were. True, they were older, and it is the responsibility of the parents to set the tone of what’s going on at home. But parents inherit their own set of problems from other parents who also have inherited problems. Not that they are exonerated from what they as parents do or don’t do, but simply that by the time a child approaches adulthood he must assume some of the responsibility of deciding what kind of a home he wants to live in and how he wants to relate to his parents.
Mother’s Day was coming up. “Here’s your next assignment, Vickie,” I said. “Invite your mom out to dinner, and make yourself talk about some things that are really important to you.”
“All by myself?” she gasped.
“Take Pat and her mother along.” Finally I convinced her that it was a good idea, and when it was over I got the report.
“We were driving in the car when I invited her,” Vickie said. “She slammed on the brakes and looked at me like she was going to faint. But I could tell she was really happy about it.”
One dinner. One nice moment together. One step in the right direction. But there were so many more steps that needed taking.
It was the dedication of the Provo Temple that prompted Vickie to take the big step. She was the only one in her family who wanted to go, and she felt embarrassed about letting them know she was going to the bishop to get the necessary ticket. A few days after the dedication she came over to see me.
“It was so beautiful,” she said. “But to me it was so depressing. I mean, temples are all about family. That’s why they exist—so we can be together as families forever and ever. My family isn’t even a family now. I sat there all alone and just wished that we could be what we’re supposed to be so that we can be together forever. Because I do love them!”
“Vickie,” I said, quietly and firmly, “if that’s what you want to have happen, then you’re responsible for doing some things to make it happen. And you can. If you really want to, you can change the eternal destiny of your whole family.”
“But how?” She was overwhelmed at the very idea.
“Okay, here’s your next assignment. Next week your family is going to have a family home evening, and you’re going to be in charge of it.”
“Me?” she asked weakly. They had made a few unsuccessful attempts at holding family home evenings in years past, but somebody had just read from the manual, and the whole idea was quickly dropped.
“If you suggest it and volunteer to take charge, will they go along with you?”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“Well, what do you have to lose?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “Not a thing.”
“All right. We’re on,” I said. “In five days I’ll call you and expect to hear that you’ve got it all set up. Okay?”
“Couldn’t we just have drama lessons instead?” she asked weakly, as I pushed her out the door.
Two days before I was due to call her, Vickie called me.
“Carol Lynn?” she said, with overtones of terror in her voice. “We’re having it tonight! This was the only night all week that we could all be home, so we’re going to have it in just two hours.”
“Great!” I replied.
“But what am I going to do?” she wailed. “I got out the manual and decided to use the first lesson, the one about making home into heaven. And my little brother and I are going to make cookies. But I’m scared!”
“Now, calm down, Vickie. Just use what you can from the lesson and don’t worry about it. Talking about your home is a great way to start. But don’t scare your parents off. Be sure you first of all tell them some of the things you like about your home and some things they do that you appreciate.”
“Yeah, yeah, I could do that.”
“And then start talking about some of the things you could be doing that would make your home a better place to be.”
“Yeah, yeah, okay.” Some of the terror had left her voice.
“But above all, Vickie, make it a pleasant time for the family tonight. Make sure you have fun together. After your lesson do something like—like play charades.”
“Yeah! Uh—how do you play charades?”
I gave her a quick over-the-phone lesson on charades and suggested that they use titles out of the hymnbook.
“Have a good time, Vickie, and call me when it’s over.” I hung up the phone and said a little prayer for her.
At nine o’clock the phone rang.
“Carol Lynn?” Her voice was an excited whisper. “Wow! Wow—it was so neat!”
“Hooray! What happened?”
“It was so neat!” she repeated. “They’re still in the other room playing charades and really having fun. I did it, just like you said, about the lesson. We talked about the things we like about our home. Then I asked them what we could be doing to make it a better place. And Dad said—I couldn’t believe it—he said we should be having one of these family nights every week! And then Mom said that we ought to be having family prayer too. Wow—we’ve never had family prayer! But we’re going to tonight, in just a few minutes. I can’t believe it!”
I told Vickie the next day that she couldn’t expect completely smooth sailing from then on—that there would be times when she would think nothing had really changed. And there were those times. But gradually we could not deny that things had changed. Her home became a different place, a place that she sought to be in as much as she had sought to avoid it before. She got up earlier in the mornings in order for them to have family prayer. Gradually her father took more responsibility for conducting the home evenings. She found herself spending hours with her mother, just talking, about big things and little things. Her parents became happier people. They started attending church more consistently and getting rid of certain things on the kitchen shelves. Her little brother thought it was terrific that they had family night now just like some of his friends had. The whole world took on a little brighter shade.
Vickie is away at college this year. A few weeks ago she came back for a visit and found us out in the backyard, cleaning up the winter debris. As we all pitched in, we talked about the joys and the problems of college. And then I asked how things were going with her family. Her face lit up with a brightness that some college freshmen would reserve for talking about the prom.
“Just great,” she said, “really, really great. I love to come home. And something happened just last week—I practically bawl every time I think about it. My dad was ordained a high priest. We’re so happy. My mom’s so proud of him—and she sure lets you know it. The other day my dad and I drove into Salt Lake alone. On the way back he bore his testimony to me for the very first time. It was so beautiful.”
Just the other day I got a letter from Vickie. The last paragraph said, “Carol Lynn, thank you so much for making me hold that first family home evening. I know it was that night that started all the good things that have been happening in our family.”
The power that is within us to change the destiny of our own lives and the lives of others is incredible. And once that power is felt by enough people, the world will never be the same again.

A missionary district leader was wondering why Elder Parker, who was about to conclude his mission, was successful in spite of his inability to memorize the discussions. To understand, he teamed with Elder Parker to give a discussion. Elder Parker’s presentation was so disorganized that by the end of the formal lesson, the district leader was confused and surmised that the family being taught felt the same way.
It was then that “Elder Parker leaned forward and put his hand on the arm of the family’s father. He then looked him straight in the eyes, told him how much he loved him and his family, and bore one of the most humble and powerful testimonies that the district leader had ever heard. By the time he finished, every member of the family, including the father, and both elders had tears running down their cheeks. Next Elder Parker taught the father how to pray, and they all knelt down while the father prayed that they might receive testimonies of their own and thanked Heavenly Father for the great love that he felt. Two weeks later the whole family was baptized.”
Later, Elder Parker apologized to his district leader for not knowing the discussions. He said he struggled with memorization, even though he spent hours each day working on it. He said he knelt in prayer before teaching each family and asked Heavenly Father to bless him when he bore his testimony so that people would feel his love and the Spirit and know they were being taught the truth (see Allan K. Burgess and Max H. Molgard, “That Is the Worst Lesson I’ve Ever Heard!” in Sunshine for the Latter-day Saint Soul [1998], 181–83).

I was 19 years old when my older sister, Jan, was baptized. I was absorbed in my own thoughts as I sat uncomfortably on a folding chair waiting for the baptism to begin. My sister introduced me to the missionaries who had taught her the gospel, and they attempted conversation. But since I was naturally shy and had a lot on my mind that day, I wasn’t in the mood to talk.
Despite my resistance to conversation with the missionaries, when the opening hymn was sung, a warm feeling began to stir inside me. I paused to think about the prayers I had offered as a young child, prayers to Heavenly Father to help me find the true church.
After the opening prayer, a man spoke quietly, but with conviction, about Jesus Christ. Tears flowed down my face, and even though I was embarrassed, I felt warm and comfortable inside.
Jan looked radiant when she came out of the water. I was happy for her, so why was I crying?
When the meeting was over, one of the missionaries asked me, “What do you know about the Mormon Church?”
“Not much,” I said.
The other missionary asked, “Would you like to know more?”
Up until the beginning of the baptism, I hadn’t had any real desire to know more about the church my sister was joining. But now that feeling of peace and calm prompted me to answer the missionary’s question, “Yes, I would.”
Arrangements were made for me to hear the first discussion, and just a few weeks later, I felt those same warm feelings as I was baptized. Now, as long as I am worthy, I have that same peaceful feeling with me at all times—the feeling that comes from the Holy Ghost.

This story took place in the USA.
It’s too hot. I think I’m going to melt!
Don’t worry, we’re almost there.
The wind feels nice.
This is much better!
Grandma, do you love Jesus?
Yes! I love Jesus a lot.
Me too. I just wish I could see Him. Then I’d know He’s real.
Oh sweetheart, Jesus is very real. He’s a real person, like you and me.
But how do you know? Have you seen Jesus?
No. But I feel Him every day.
Do you remember the wind we felt while we were walking?
It felt so good! I was really hot, but the wind was cool.
We can’t see the wind. But we can feel it. And even if we haven’t seen Jesus, we can still feel His love.
How can we feel Him?
I feel His love when I look at His beautiful creations. I see His love in the flowers.
I see His love in the rivers He created.
And I see His love when I look at you!
Can I help you look for Jesus again tomorrow?
Of course!
Illustrations by Pauline Gregory

White Bear jumped down from his horse and raised his hand in greeting. Running Wind eased down from his own mount and lifted a beautiful wooden bow to show his friend. White Bear took the bow and examined it carefully. He pulled an arrow from his quiver, placed it in the new bow, and pulled the string taut. Thud! The arrow smacked into the center of a tree, just where he had aimed it. He nodded his head. The deal was made. White Bear traded his favorite horse for the excellent bow, made from the wood of a unique tree.

Susan was eight years old. She had just been baptized. She was playing out in the yard with her sisters and some friends, and she went into the house to get a drink of water. Her mother said, “Susan, dinner’s ready. Will you please call your sisters to eat?” So she went to the door and called to them.
They really didn’t want to go in, so they argued and said, “Oh, no, it isn’t time for dinner. You are just teasing us.” And they accused her of not telling the truth.
Well, she gathered herself up in all of her eight-year-old dignity, put her hands on her hips, and said, “It is dinnertime. I’m telling you the truth, and you can believe me because I have been baptized.”
She knew that her baptism required of her a certain standard of behavior. Her choice was that she would tell the truth, and she was willing to commit to that.

While President O’Donnal spoke, my thoughts drifted back to the many missionaries who had come to this land and the hardships they endured, the sacrifices they made, and the lives they blessed. The experience of one describes the devotion of all. While I have, on a previous occasion, mentioned the experience of this missionary, following my recent visit to Guatemala I felt impressed to share it with you once again.

While serving in Guatemala as a missionary for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, Randall Ellsworth survived a devastating earthquake, which hurled a beam down on his back, paralyzing his legs and severely damaging his kidneys. He was the only American injured in the quake, which claimed the lives of some eighteen thousand persons.

After receiving emergency medical treatment, Elder Ellsworth was flown to a large hospital near his home in Rockville, Maryland. While he was confined there, a newscaster conducted with him an interview that I witnessed through the miracle of television. The reporter asked, “Can you walk?”

The answer, “Not yet, but I will.”

“Do you think you will be able to complete your mission?”

Came the reply: “Others think not, but I will. With the President of my church praying for me, and through the prayers of my family, my friends, and my missionary companions, I will walk, and I will return to Guatemala. The Lord wanted me to preach the gospel there for two years, and that’s what I intend to do.”

There followed a lengthy period of therapy, punctuated by silent yet heroic courage. Little by little, the feeling began to return to the almost lifeless limbs. More therapy, more courage, more prayer.

At last Randall Ellsworth walked aboard the plane that carried him back to the mission to which he had been called, back to the people whom he loved. He left behind a trail of skeptics and a host of doubters, but also hundreds amazed at the power of God, the miracle of faith, and the reward of determination.

In Guatemala, Randall pursued his responsibilities. He walked with the use of two canes. His walk was slow and deliberate. Then one day, as he stood before his mission president, Randall Ellsworth heard him speak the almost unbelievable words, “You have been the recipient of a miracle. Your faith has been rewarded. If you have the necessary confidence, if you have abiding faith, if you have supreme courage, place those two canes on my desk—and walk.”

Slowly, Randall placed one cane and then the other on the mission president’s desk, turned toward the door and toward his future—and walked.

Today, Randall Ellsworth is a practicing physician. He is a stalwart husband and a loving father. His mission president was none other than John Forres O’Donnal—the man who helped bring to Guatemala the word of the Lord, the leader who on Sunday, March 5, 1989, addressed the throng assembled for regional conference.

Forres O’Donnal visited my office not long ago and, in his modest manner, recounted his experience with Randall Ellsworth. He then said to me, “Together we have witnessed a miracle. I have kept one of the two canes placed upon my desk that day when I challenged Elder Ellsworth to walk without them. I would like you to have the other.” With a friendly smile, he departed the office and returned home to Guatemala.

This is the cane given to me. It serves as a silent witness of our Heavenly Father’s ability to hear our prayers and to bless our lives. It is a symbol of faith. It is a reminder of courage.

“I can remember my first big fishing trip. I was ten years old. We went to Mackay, Idaho. My father taught me how to put the worm on the hook, and it was very distasteful to me. I kept thinking, Dad, why can’t you do this? I don’t want to do it. When I asked him, though, he said, ‘If you’re going to learn to fish, you have to learn to do everything.’ And so he made me put the worm on the hook. Then, when I caught my first fish, I didn’t know what to do with that wiggly, slippery thing. My father taught me how to clean the fish: I had to hold it in one hand and cut it open and clean out its entrails, which was a very unpleasant job for me. But I could see my father’s wisdom—without actually doing all that a task requires, we often don’t learn everything we need to know.

After 11 years of school I enrolled in a two-year technical college. I was 16, active in a singing group, and had lots of friends, but somehow I could never fit in. I wouldn’t smoke or drink with my friends, and their language upset me. I didn’t like to hear what they did late at night after their dates. They were my friends, but as I looked at them, I couldn’t help thinking, “What’s wrong? Why is the world this way?”
As if responding, my friends would ask me, “Why don’t you start living? It’s human nature to do what we do.” I told them the person in my dream could not have meant human nature to be that way. Their response was usually the same: “You’re crazy, Anna! You belong to another world!”
Often I prayed to my Heavenly Father, asking him to help me find people who thought as I thought or, as my friends put it, who were of “my world.”
Turning on the television one afternoon as a break from my studies, I saw a group of boys singing. I’m a serious-minded person and have never had a pop music “idol,” but something about these boys made me stay and listen. They were dressed in white, and as they sang, “Is the answer up above?” my heart responded, “Yes!” I learned they were the Osmonds and that they were Mormons. I decided to read some books about the Mormons, but I couldn’t find any.
One afternoon as I was upstairs studying, I heard a knock at the door. My mother answered it, and I could hear her talking to two young men. As I went downstairs, I heard mother try to give them some excuse and turn them away, but I said I wanted to talk with them. She let them in, closed the door, and went back to her work. The missionaries gave me the first discussion that very afternoon, and I began to get the same feeling I had experienced as a little girl as I ran into the arms of my Heavenly Father.
A week later they came to give me the second lesson, but my mother met them and told them they were not to come again. She told me later the missionaries were only after my money. That night I heard my parents arguing about the Church, and I decided I would not see the missionaries again.
Just before I turned 18 I finished school and decided to go visit one of my friends. She had married my uncle, and they had moved from England to Switzerland. The week I arrived in Switzerland, two Mormon missionaries knocked on their door.
I eagerly asked them to teach me and decided to be baptized after only three visits. Two weeks after my 18th birthday I was baptized. I had found my people, my world, and was in the arms of my Heavenly Father again.

As a young person, I had the opportunity to be in Palmyra, New York, one summer evening. I found myself in the Sacred Grove, alone. I knelt down to pray, asking Heavenly Father to provide me some manifestation or indication about what I truly already knew had occurred in that sacred place. I prayed with great sincerity, for a long time, in an attitude of reverence. And I did not receive any answer or any prompting from the Holy Ghost. Nothing came. Finally, I gave up and left disappointed, wondering, “What didn’t I do right? Why? What more was needed?” It seemed to me that with the surroundings, there could not be any better place to receive an answer to such a prayer.
I learned from that experience that we cannot demand things from God. We cannot say, “You have to answer me in this way, right this moment.” It is up to Him to decide how and when and what He will communicate to us. Our responsibility is to always be in the right condition to receive the promptings or whisperings, the revelation, the inspiration of the Spirit. But He makes the decision of how and when.
What I was seeking at that time—which did not come then—did indeed come to me five or six weeks later. I was at home reading the Book of Mormon. And without my asking, there came upon me a strong impression, feeling, and communication through the Holy Ghost that confirmed my belief and testimony.
It was such a strong communication that it made me cry. It was also such a pure communication that it had no need for words. The Spirit does not need to be limited to words; He can communicate Spirit to spirit with a language that is unmistakable because it has no words. It is a communication of pure knowledge and intelligence from the Spirit, and I have come to know that it truly is the best way to acquire knowledge. It is stronger and longer lasting than touching or seeing; we can come to doubt the physical senses, but we cannot doubt when the Holy Spirit speaks to us. It is the surest witness. Because of this, the unforgivable sin is to deny the Holy Ghost or the testimony of the Holy Ghost.
I truly feel fine that the Lord did not give me an answer in the Sacred Grove because I might have come to think that one must make a pilgrimage to Palmyra in order to be able to receive a testimony of the Prophet Joseph Smith. Now I know that it can come at any place. You don’t have to go to Jerusalem in order to receive a testimony of the Lord Jesus Christ. That testimony can come to any ordinary person, wherever he or she may be, because our Heavenly Father and the Holy Ghost know each one of us intimately. They know where we are and how to find us. And They don’t need visas. In fact, They are acquainted with the entire world! They already know.

My family joined the Church in 1977, when I was 11 years old. At that time a violent civil war was beginning in our native land of El Salvador. The political situation was serious, and there were constant armed confrontations between the army and the rebels, forcing the government to order a curfew of 6:00 p.m. for all citizens. There was no freedom of assembly or freedom of speech, and we felt threatened by both the army and the rebels.
These events caused many people to look for ways to emigrate to wherever they could. My family was no exception. My father accepted an offer of employment in Venezuela, hoping he could get us out of danger. For a time my mother was left as the head of our household.
The war made it a difficult time for the Church. The same flight that took my father to Venezuela took the last 15 missionaries out of El Salvador. This meant the end of any chance to receive the messengers of the gospel of Jesus Christ for a long time.
At the end of 1979 we and other members of the Church, especially the youth, began doing missionary work of our own. We organized small choirs and sang in the streets to give people hope. By doing this we found many people wanting to learn about the gospel.
Meanwhile we learned to live in danger. Whenever the confrontations or shelling occurred, we threw ourselves on the floor and hoped it would all be over soon. Mama would cover us with our mattresses for protection. What brought peace to us in these difficult moments were the hymns. Lying on the floor, we would hold our hymnbooks, and Mama would encourage us to sing “Come, Come, Ye Saints” (Hymns, no. 30), “How Firm a Foundation” (no. 85), “Joseph Smith’s First Prayer” (no. 26), “High on the Mountain Top” (no. 5), “O My Father” (no. 292), “I Stand All Amazed” (no. 193), and many other hymns that comforted us in our adversity. We often cried from the stress, but singing the hymns gave us the courage to face such a terrible situation.
Some time later Papa succeeded in bringing us to Venezuela, where we began a new life. We thanked our Heavenly Father for keeping us together and alive. Through this experience, I learned that the hymns invite a spirit of peace during difficult times.
Ana Gloria Hernández de Abzuela, Venezuela

Steve Hammond, 14, of King Salmon, Alaska, is an Eagle Scout, but he didn’t have a troop to help him reach his goal. Steve was following in the footsteps of his 16-year-old brother, David. Both boys earned their Eagle badges as Lone Scouts.
Their father became a registered Scoutmaster so he could supervise their work. He wanted his sons to do their work the right way. He says, “I was probably tougher on them than another Scoutmaster would have been.”
Steve had a wonderful time earning his fishing merit badge. He hooked a 36-pound king salmon.
Steve and David made something of a competition out of earning merit badges. They received their awards together in a special court of honor. As an Eagle project, Steve and David took on the restoration of a nearby Russian Orthodox church cemetery.
Steve and David are in the King Salmon Branch, Alaska Anchorage Mission.

“I was born in China,” Angel explains. “There was a one-child policy at the time, and girls were not always wanted. When I was born, the doctors said I would have health problems. They recommended that my life be terminated.” Angel’s parents were repulsed by such a suggestion and rushed their firstborn child to the safety of their home. The doctor’s ominous prediction proved false. Angel grew up strong and healthy. When she was six, her family emigrated to Canada. Today, Angel has one younger brother and three younger sisters.
Angel’s family has supported her since before she was born.

“In this new school year I want each of you to take a turn at the beginning of class in discussing with us the book that has impressed you most in life,” said our literature teacher, Mrs. Protschka.
I wondered what book I should present. Mother and I were living in Bonn, West Germany then, and I had just started ninth grade. I thought maybe I would introduce Lew Wallaces’s Ben-Hur. But was that really the book that had impressed me most in life?
No. I knew it was the book the two young missionaries who had baptized my mother and me had given to me a few years before—the Book of Mormon.
But I was the only Latter-day Saint in the school; could I dare to introduce this new scripture in my class?
I remembered how I had read this book, prayed about it, and received a confirmation that it was holy scripture.
When I told my mother about my idea, she encouraged me to do what I felt was right. The hard work began. I decided to start by explaining the Book of Mormon like a story, beginning with Lehi and his family’s departure from Jerusalem. After much prayer and thought, the right words began to flow into my mind. God was answering!
As I waited for my turn, I noticed that many of the other students presented books that in some way dealt with Satan and the dark side. Now more than ever, I wanted to be the Lord’s advocate to these people.
At last it was my turn. Usually the students wrote the titles of their books on the chalkboard at the beginning of their presentations, but I asked our teacher’s permission to save it until the end. I told her I wanted it to be a surprise.
Mother told me later how she had spent almost the entire morning of my presentation praying that my report would go well and that the class would be receptive. And indeed her prayers helped. At the beginning, when I started explaining Lehi’s vision and his travel through the desert, some students wanted to make fun of it, “It’s the Bible! It’s the Bible!” But suddenly the class became quiet, and I related the history of the Book of Mormon smoothly and calmly, bearing testimony of its truthfulness. The Spirit of the Lord was so strong it seemed almost tangible.
After about twenty minutes I finished, leaving my teacher and the class speechless. Then Mrs. Protschka asked what they thought. They all began to speak very highly of me and expressed admiration for my courage in presenting such a religious book at school.
I was asked to talk more about the Church and my mother’s and my conversion. After class, some of the students even asked me for a copy of the Book of Mormon.
From that day, I made friends to whom I still feel very close, friends who defended me later in front of others. They even wrote and supported me years later when I served a mission in Spain.

When I was growing up, each summer our family would drive to Provo Canyon, about 45 miles (72 km) south and a little east of Salt Lake City, where we would stay in the family cabin for several weeks. We boys were always anxious to get on the fishing stream or into the swimming hole, and we would try to push the car a little faster. In those days, the automobile my father drove was a 1928 Oldsmobile. If he went over 35 miles (56 km) an hour, my mother would say, “Keep it down! Keep it down!” I would say, “Put the accelerator down, Dad! Put it down!”

Dad would drive about 35 miles an hour all the way up to Provo Canyon or until we would come around a bend in the road and our journey would be halted by a herd of sheep. We would watch as hundreds of sheep filed past us, seemingly without a shepherd, a few dogs yapping at their heels as they moved along. Way back in the rear we could see the sheepherder on his horse—not a bridle on it but a halter. He was occasionally slouched down in the saddle dozing, since the horse knew which way to go and the yapping dogs did the work.

Several years ago, I went on my first assignment as a newly called General Authority Seventy. Elder Ronald A. Rasband of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles was my senior companion and it was a chance for me to observe and to learn as he presided over a stake conference in Minnesota. On Saturday, we had a meeting with many wonderful sisters from the auxiliaries in the stake. The chapel and cultural hall were filled as these sisters came, anxious to be taught and edified by an apostle of the Lord. The teaching by Elder Rasband was inspired and focused on Christ. At a certain point, while Elder Rasband was conducting this session in a question-and-answer format, I felt a strong spiritual impression as a sister asked a question, recalling a personal experience that would have been a perfect response. At that very moment, while Elder Rasband was standing at the pulpit, he turned to me and asked, “Elder Palmer, is there something you want to say?” I marveled and asked myself, “How did he do that?”
A couple of years later while in a question-and-answer session with leaders and wives in Johannesburg—led by Elder David A. Bednar, of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles—I once again had the exact same experience. A long time after the meeting had started and while sitting quietly some distance away, I again felt a spiritual prompting regarding a question asked and felt an impression that it should be shared but did not want to interrupt. At that precise moment Elder Bednar turned to me and asked if there was something I wished to add. Once again, after giving my response, I silently asked myself, “How did he know to do that? How did he know at the very instant an impression had been received by someone else, that he should turn to them and invite them to share it?” The next day I told Elder Bednar what had happened and asked, “How did you do that?” He simply smiled and said, “You know the answer.”
Earlier in the week, we had been together in Kinshasa for an amazing young adult meeting, which filled every room in the stake center and overflowed into a large outdoor seating area. The questions were excellent and the teaching so inspired. I was sitting off to one side when—during the second hour of the meeting—Elder Bednar came over and quietly whispered for me to go into one of the other rooms where young adults were watching by broadcast, and ask if anyone had a question they would like to ask Elder Bednar. I entered one of the rooms where they were reverently watching, and as I began to ask if anyone had a question, they pointed to a bishop who was walking up to me and who then handed me half a dozen pages of questions he had already collected from all the rooms. I was astonished and asked why he did that (knowing no one had told him to do so). He simply said he knew we would be coming and felt it was the right thing to do. The Lord is in charge and through His Spirit clearly orchestrated all aspects of that extraordinary experience with thousands of excited young adults so anxious to see and learn from an Apostle of the Lord.
These personal spiritual experiences and many others have affirmed to me the divine nature of the calling held by those we sustain as prophets, seers and revelators. Time and time again I have watched as they are clearly moved on by the power of the Spirit of the Lord. I am thankful for this personal witness.
This personal witness is available to each of us as we listen to the words of our prophets and apostles in general conference and read and study what they have prepared for us under the influence of the Spirit. I invite all to gain this witness and promise that the Spirit will confirm that their teachings, their warnings, their invitations and their promises are from the Lord. After all, it was He who said: “What I the Lord have spoken, I have spoken and … my word … shall all be fulfilled, whether by mine own voice or by the voice of my servants, it is the same” (D&C 1:38).
Several years ago, for a couple of months I had the privilege and blessing of almost daily associating with His chosen servants in various councils and assignments, so I found myself thinking often of the sacrifices and great service given by these humble servants and their families. At that time, I remember coming across this powerful testimony given by Elder Spencer J. Condie of the Seventy in 1993. This testimony moved me deeply as it so beautifully describes the feelings of my heart as I have come to know, respect, love and revere our prophets and apostles:
“I am grateful for these Brethren whom we sustain as prophets, seers, and revelators who forewarn us … [They] preach ‘not with enticing words of man’s wisdom, but in demonstration of the Spirit and of power’ (1 Corinthians 2:4). Their motives are pure as they strive to build the kingdom of God and to uplift and edify the Saints of God. In the words of the Apostle Paul, they have become ‘prisoners of Christ’ (see Ephesians 3:1, 4:1; Philemon 1:1, 9; 2 Timothy 1:8), whose only desire is to do the Lord’s will. Nothing more. Nothing less. And nothing else. These are men of God! May we heed their warning voices”.

Illustration by Joel Castillo
I was introduced to the Church by my aunt and uncle, who live near my home. I was only seven years old at the time, and I loved going to church to be with the other children. My parents were not members, but they did not mind that I went to church every Sunday with my aunt and uncle. My parents said that it was much better for me to be involved with a church that taught of Jesus Christ than to be out in the streets getting into trouble.
The missionaries came often to our home to teach us. My parents loved the discussions, but they did not want to embrace the gospel. They said that they were not ready because entering the waters of baptism is a serious commitment. The missionaries continued to come to our home, but they always left disappointed with the answers my parents gave. I knew, however, that one day they would be baptized.
When I turned eight, I was ready to make the baptismal covenant. My mom asked me if that was what I really wanted. She told me that once I was baptized, I could not change my mind and that baptism would change my entire life. I said that being baptized was something I had dreamed about since I first started going to Primary.
After I was baptized and confirmed, I continued to go to church, but my parents rarely came to our Primary activities. It was painful for me to see all the other children with their parents. But I hoped that one day they would be baptized and we would be sealed in the temple, and my greatest dream would become a reality.
When I was a teenager, the missionaries continued to teach my parents, but they still did not want to be baptized. However, they would occasionally come to church, which gave me a little hope. I still dreamed that my parents would join the Church, but I began to think that it would never come to pass in this life.
Then one beautiful Sunday morning when I was 17, my mother again went to church with me. On our way home she told me something that I can still hear in my thoughts and in my heart. She said that she had decided to be baptized. I was shocked! After waiting for so long, I wondered if this was real. In May 2010, my mother entered the waters of baptism. It was such a happy day.
After the baptism I looked at my father and said, “You’re the only one left now.” He responded that it would not be soon because he didn’t feel the desire to be baptized. I was again sad—part of my dream had come true, but the rest seemed far away. Although it was hard, I was certain that things would change. To my great happiness, my prayers were again answered two months later when my father entered the waters of baptism. It was the greatest joy of my life. I felt as though the heavens were singing.
After my parents joined the Church, I realized that another part of my dream had come true but that we needed to be sealed for eternity in the house of the Lord. My parents told me they didn’t feel ready, that they didn’t have enough money for the long trip to the Recife Brazil Temple, and that they didn’t have anyone to watch our home while we were gone. I was sad, but I kept praying for that blessing, knowing that the Lord would answer my prayers.
In time my mother began to feel a strong desire to go to the temple, even though my father continued to put it off. After many conversations with the bishop, they both decided to go. I felt so much joy I could barely contain it!
In September 2011, my mother, my father, and I went to the temple for the first time in our lives. I was sealed to my parents the next day, and I can truly say that, after 11 years of waiting, it was the best day of my life.
I am very grateful to Heavenly Father for everything He has given to me, especially for answering my prayers and fulfilling my greatest dream: the dream of seeing my whole family in the house of the Lord.

Their journey to the gospel began during a work trip to Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, where they were introduced to and joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. At the time, there was no Church branch in their hometown of Debra Zeit, and attending church required a 47-kilometer weekly journey to Addis Ababa. Despite the difficulty, the family made the effort to travel every week. Eventually, they were able to worship closer to home, gathering with other members in the house of President Ayele Asfaw Kelkaye, a fellow Latter-day Saint. The early years of their conversion were marked by this dedication to the gospel, but the path was not always easy.
For eight years, the Waji family rarely attended church, facing spiritual and personal challenges. It was during this time that Elder and Sister Moyer, senior missionaries, visited their home. That visit marked a turning point in their lives. Ada Worq, one of Waji and Emebet’s daughters, recalls the significance of that moment: “I will never forget what they said when they visited us. They asked, ‘What can we do for you?’ and then spoke to us about Christ’s love and faith. Everyone was crying, touched by the Spirit.”
This visit ignited a renewal of faith within the family. They recommitted to the gospel and returned to full activity in the Church. However, their path to the temple remained challenging. For Waji and Zenbech, being sealed in the temple for time and all eternity became a cherished goal, but their journey was met with multiple setbacks. Their planned trips to the temple failed three times. Despite their best efforts, unforeseen obstacles prevented them from making the journey. But through faith and divine intervention, their trip was finally made possible. With the support of the mission leaders, President Oliva Cowley and Sister Rebecca Cowley, they made their way to the Accra Ghana Temple.
On June 17, 2024, after 25 years of membership and waiting, Waji and Zenbech entered the temple and were sealed together. The day marked was filled with deep spiritual meaning. Mekonnen, their eldest son, reflected on the experience: “I saw how much the people have been blessed because of having the temple in their country.”
Waji, moved by the power of the temple, said, “The temple is like a compass—it directs us to the way of eternal life. It is my prayer that there will be a temple in Ethiopia one day.”
Sister Zenbech shared her profound feelings from their temple experience, saying, “I felt the love of Heavenly Father and the love of the people while I was in the temple.”
For both Waji and Zenbech, being sealed in the temple was not only the culmination of years of faith and sacrifice but also the fulfilment of a promise they had longed for.
Following their sealing, the family continued to grow spiritually. Their renewed dedication led them to serve in various callings in the Church, building their testimonies and further strengthening their faith. Their daughter Bemnet, inspired by her family’s experience and her own faith, began preparing to serve a mission, contributing to the ongoing legacy of commitment and service within the Waji family.
The Waji family’s journey serves as a powerful reminder that faith, patience, and perseverance in the gospel yield great blessings. Though Waji and Zenbech faced numerous obstacles, their dream of being sealed in the temple became a reality, demonstrating the power of the Lord’s timing. Their story offers hope to all those striving for the blessings of the temple, showing that through faith, anything is possible.

Nick Martindell shut off the engine of his pickup truck and grimly tromped down the dirty concrete steps leading to the basement apartment he shared with his best friend, Gordon. He pulled the screen door open. It whined and clattered shut behind him. He wrinkled his nose as he reluctantly took a breath of air. Even for late July the air was hot and humid and the heat in the kitchen was especially stifling, compounding the stale smell of pizza, chips, and unwashed dishes. The apartment was quiet except for the buzz of a dozen fat, lazy flies and the annoying drip of the water faucet.
Bread crumbs littered the table. The trash can in the corner was full and spilling over. A pair of his tennis shoes lay in the middle of the floor, which had not been mopped, and rarely swept, during the last two months that he and Gordon had been there.
He strolled to the refrigerator, pulled it open, and glared inside. A carton of milk, several slices of bread, a half bar of butter spotted with bread and jam, a half bottle of mustard, and several wilted vegetables were all he found. He grabbed the carton of milk, smelled it, grimaced and poured the contents down the sink.
“Gordon,” he called out after slamming the fridge door and kicking his tennis shoes under the table, “you home?”
There was no answer. Nick walked down the narrow hall leading from the kitchen to the bedroom. He pushed the door open. Two boxes and a suitcase partially blocked his way. Gordon sat on the edge of the bed, which was stripped bare to the mattress. He stared up at Nick without moving or speaking.
“What’s all this?” Nick blurted out, pointing down at the boxes and suitcase but making no attempt to enter the room.
“I’m leaving,” Gordon answered, getting up from the bed. He pulled a bulging canvas bag from the closet and set it on the floor next to the rest of his things. “I wanted to tell you before I left.”
Nick straightened up. “I thought we were in this together. This was your idea too.”
Gordon sighed. “It’s no good, Nick. Not for me.”
“It was good enough for you all last year when we planned it,” Nick flared, kicking the boxes aside and coming into the room. “Graduation night that’s all you talked about. You were going to break away from mommy and daddy and get completely away from all that family stuff. You were going to make it on your own as soon as you turned 18. Well, you’re 18.”
“It’s just not my kind of life.”
“It’s freedom. Here we live the way we want to. We come in when we want. We drink and eat when and what we want. Nobody’s telling us what to do. We live the way we want.”
“I guess I didn’t realize life away from home could be so glorious.”
“It’s freedom. That’s what we wanted.”
Gordon smiled wanly. “If this is freedom, slavery can’t be half bad.”
Nick sneered and began pacing the room shaking his head in disgust. “Wanted to be a big man on your own. I guess you found out that someone still had to tuck you in at night and help you say your prayers. All right, what really made you change your mind? I got a right to know. You’re copping out on me, leaving me holding the bag.”
Gordon stared at Nick for a moment, meeting his angry glare. “I was just trying to prove a point. That’s all we’ve ever been doing here—trying to prove a point. I decided the point wasn’t worth proving. We were wrong from the beginning.”
“And what made you decide that?”
Suddenly a crimson anger darkened Gordon’s cheeks and he grabbed at a pile of Nick’s soiled clothes lying in the corner. “I’m sick of this,” he growled, pushing the clothes under Nick’s nose. “I’m sick of yellow sheets that haven’t seen water for two months. I’m sick of dirty dishes in the sink. I’m tired of crumbs and pop spilled all over the kitchen floor. I’m sick of a greasy, grimy, dirty, putrified shower. I’m sick of this whole lousy place. What does living like a couple of pigs prove?”
“Clean it if you don’t like it.”
“It’s not that simple. It’s not like I thought it would be. I just want to …” He paused and added in a quiet voice, “I just want to get out of here. I’m going home.” He stooped and picked up a box and his pillow.
“What really made you change your mind?” Nick challenged. “So the place is a mess. You knew it would be. You told me so yourself when we moved in here. You said we’d probably let things get dirty. Well, we did. Now why are you complaining?”
Placing his box and pillow on the bed, Gordon faced his roommate. “All right. I’ll tell you.” He kicked the closet door closed and leaned against the dresser, looking down at the floor, avoiding Nick’s prying eyes. “You know when we used to plan all this, living away from home and all, I tried to figure out why we were going. You see, I needed a reason. I couldn’t just leave. At the time, finding a reason wasn’t hard. Mom and Dad were too strict. They didn’t understand things. They were always forcing me to do something. There were too many rules. There were lots of bad things about home, and I thought of all of them.”
Gordon glanced up at Nick, who wore a skeptical scowl. “When we came here,” Gordon continued, “I told myself how good it was. I think I believed it then. This was living. We had it made. But there was always something missing. I was kidding myself. Finally I tried to figure out what was missing. I thought about home.” He smiled and shook his head slowly. “I began to remember, not the bad things, not the things that convinced me to come here. No, I remembered the other things, and there were lots of them. Home isn’t so bad, Nick, not half as bad as we’ve tried to prove.”
“You’re quite the preacher. They’ll have you back in church before long,” Nick muttered, falling back on his bed and stuffing his pillow under his head.
“I’ve already gone, two weeks in a row, priesthood, sacrament meeting, the whole bit.”
Nick sat up slowly and swung his feet over the edge of the bed and stared. “I don’t believe it.”
“You know what, Nick? I liked it.” Nick groaned, turned over, and faced the wall. Gordon continued with added enthusiasm. “You know I found out something. I’ve never liked church. You know why? Because I never gave it a chance. I’ve never given a lot of things a chance. I’m not saying home and church and all that is for me, because I don’t know for sure. I just don’t know, not right now. But I tried this way, and this way sure isn’t what we cracked it up to be.” He waited for Nick to respond, but he remained silent. In an act of complete exasperation he slapped the wall with the flat of his hand. “Nick, we’re trying to prove the wrong point! What have we got to show for it?” He snatched the dirty laundry and flung it across the room. “All we got are some dirty jeans, some stale socks and a crumby, sticky, gummed up kitchen. Big deal! I want out. This is …”
“Gordon,” Nick interrupted, “you know what? You depress me. In fact, the last couple of weeks I’ve become depressed every time I’ve seen you.”
Gordon countered with a knowing smile. He shook his head and said, “Nick, you’re always depressed. I don’t have anything to do with it. You’re just mad at the whole world. One of these days you’re going to wake up and find that the world was never mad back and that all this other never proved anything.”
“You know where the door is, or do you want me to take you by the hand?” Nick asked, his face pinched with anger.
Gordon shrugged, bent over, and picked up two of his boxes and walked out of the bedroom. Several minutes later he was back for the rest of his things. As he picked them up, Nick rolled over and asked dryly, “And you’re leaving me holding the bag? What about the rent? Remember this was your idea too.”
Gordon nodded toward the dresser. “There’s an envelope on the dresser. It’s next month’s rent money, all of it, not just half.”
The two stared at each other. Neither spoke. Finally Gordon gathered up his remaining things and turned to go. “Soon they’ll be calling you on a mission,” Nick laughed sardonically. “Elder Patrick Gordon Crandell, all decked out in his white shirt and tie and his hair shaved to the skin.”
Without turning around, Gordon replied calmly, “You know, that doesn’t sound so bad.”
As soon as Nick heard the kitchen door close and Gordon’s departing footsteps, he reared up and hurled his pillow across the room where it slammed into the door, closing it with a reverberating bang.
For half an hour Nick lay on his bed. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, attempting to block the entire day from his mind, but it was too early in the afternoon. Sleep eluded him.
He felt hungry. He sat up and stepped to his dresser where he kept a supply of candy bars, but he slammed the dresser drawer as soon as he had opened it. He didn’t want candy. He was tired of eating candy bars, chips, and cookies. He wanted some real food, something like … But he refused to think of that. That was over, in the past. He wouldn’t follow Gordon back. He opened the drawer again, snatched a candy bar, ripped off the wrapper and angrily crammed the candy into his mouth. No, he wouldn’t go back. He was free here.
He returned to his bed, but an enigmatic hunger persisted, not a mere pang but an annoying desire for something satisfying, something that didn’t really have anything to do with food. He had felt this pang before, but he had tried to hide it from himself.
Eventually he crawled from the bed and went to the kitchen, hoping to find relief. Instead, a flood of nauseating disgust swept over him.
He left the apartment, got into the pickup, and drove, nowhere in particular, just someplace, any place away from … Well, he just wanted to drive, he told himself. He was not running, just leaving for a time.
Soon he found himself out of town, driving into the country along the narrow country road that looped around the foot of the mountain and passed through the small farms. The road was familiar. He’d traveled it often. It frustrated him that he was even driving there now, but he continued. After all, it was just a drive, like any other drive. It didn’t mean anything.
Five miles out of town he stopped in front of a frame house set back a hundred feet from the road in a grove of elm and poplar trees. The station wagon that usually occupied a place under the giant elm tree was missing. No one was home. He could tell.
He sat in the truck for several minutes before finally opening the door and stepping out. He looked up and down the highway furtively and then walked across the road and up to the front door. The door opened. Of course, he knew it would. They never locked it. He swallowed hard and walked in.
A rich, tantalizing aroma of baked bread lingered in the air and soon enveloped him. Unconsciously he breathed deeply, feeding hungrily upon the aroma—and the memories it inspired.
The kitchen sink was clean, no piled dishes there. The floor was swept and mopped to a pleasant glow. The plastic garbage container was empty and free of foul odors. He breathed deeply of the clean air and moved about the house, touching the sink, opening the fridge, glancing into the bathroom, sitting momentarily on the sofa to thumb through magazines. He was unable to explain his behavior. It baffled him, and yet he felt compelled to linger.
In his reverie he almost forgot the time. Half an hour passed. They would be home soon. Suddenly he realized that he didn’t want them to find him here, coming back, even though it was just to see. They would misunderstand, see it as a surrender, a weakening.
As he got up from the living room sofa, he noticed his picture hanging on the wall with those of his parents and brothers and sisters. It startled him. He stared, confused. The picture’s presence seemed so incongruous. He had assumed that when he had walked away, coldly abandoning them, that they would naturally reject him. His picture loudly proclaimed otherwise.
He started for the front door. As he was about to leave, he saw the loaf of homemade bread lying on the table next to a jar of strawberry preserves, his favorite, some she had made. There was a note under the bottle. He pulled it out and read: “Nick, we went to the park for a picnic. Come and join us if you can. We would love to have you with us, but we will understand if you can’t. Take the bread and jam. We love you, Mom.”
The note fluttered to the floor. “How did she know?” he whispered angrily, feeling as though he had been observed during his surreptitious visit. He picked up the note and read it again. There was no rebuke, no mention of his weeks of silence, no mention of his absence, his rebellion, his complaining. There was merely a quiet, subtle invitation to … He was not coming back! He crumpled the note. He didn’t need them. He would not give them the satisfaction.
He started for the door, leaving the bread on the table, but he stopped before going out. The old hunger returned and coaxed him. He glanced back. Taking the bread didn’t mean anything, he thought. A loaf of bread was a loaf of bread. He could buy one at the store if he wanted to. A loaf of bread didn’t mean he had given up. So he did come back. It was just a visit. He didn’t have anything to do. What was wrong with taking a ride and stopping someplace? He was independent.
Amid his own personal debate, he returned to the table and roughly grabbed the bread and preserves. He held them in his hand, pondering. Finally he turned and left.
Almost an hour after he left, a station wagon pulled under the elm tree. Doors burst open and seven children tumbled out. The five younger ones raced for the house. The two older ones walked, loaded with blankets, a jug, and a picnic basket.
An older man and woman stepped from the car. Exhausted but satisfied smiles touched their lips as they watched the young ones storm into the house.
The woman was the first to enter the kitchen. As she did, her gaze went to the kitchen table, as it had done so many times during the last two months. At first she disbelieved, wondering whether she had forgotten in her rush to get away to the park. Then she saw the crumpled note. The bread and the preserves were gone!
Trembling, she sat down at the table and looked up at her husband who now stood behind her. “I knew it,” she whispered. “I knew he couldn’t forget forever.”
“It doesn’t mean he’s coming back,” he cautioned. He remembered too well the hurts she had suffered. He didn’t want her snatching at elusive hopes.
She smiled and nodded with maternal intuition. “I know,” she replied, “but he was here. For now that’s enough.”
When Nick arrived at his apartment, he tossed the bread and preserves on the table and looked in the fridge. It was as bare as when he had left. Ignoring the bread, he went into his bedroom, turned on the radio and tried to wash away the memory with music and disc jockey jabber, but his escape was a feeble attempt.
Angrily he jumped from the bed and began snatching sweaty, soiled shirts, pants and socks from the floor and stuffing them into a canvas bag in the closet. He folded his blanket and pulled the sheet on his bed tight. Grabbing a T-shirt from his drawer, he attacked the accumulation of dirt and dead flies on his dresser and on the windowsill.
He returned to the kitchen, determined to push the job to its completion. The dishes went first, and while they dried in the sink, he filled a bucket with water, found a brush and rag and fell to his knees on the kitchen floor.
With his jaw clamped tight, he attacked the loathsome floor, digging and gouging at the sticky pop stains, the ground-in catsup and honey spots, and the two months’ buildup of outside dirt and grease. He became oblivious to time. His thoughts and energy were riveted to one thing—the eradication of the suffocating filth.
It was late when he finally stopped. His knees were tender, his arm and shoulder ached, and his fingers were wrinkled. But the apartment was clean. A grim satisfaction was carved upon his brow as he wandered throughout the apartment, surveying his work. However, his satisfaction was short-lived. Though he had succeeded at imitation, there was a blatant absence of something impalpable but much more substantial. The old craving persisted.
He became desperate. He cut himself a slice of his mother’s bread and smothered it with strawberry preserves, but when he was finished he was still unsatisfied. There was no escape from the pervasive, lonely depression.
Once more he fled from the apartment. This time he didn’t encounter a single car as he drove along the old familiar country road. The whole while he ridiculed himself for returning, but he didn’t turn back. He lacked the will to rationalize, and his mind was bombarded with memories.
He remembered, not the seeming strict discipline, not the rules he had tried to escape or circumvent, not the arguments, not the usual memories he had conditioned himself to conjure when he was tormented by sentimental reminiscence. Instead he remembered the quiet visits with his father, before the contention had developed. He remembered how safe and secure he had felt as his father wrapped a strong arm around his shoulders and drew him close. He remembered his mother sitting by his hospital bed for days after his knee operation. There was little she could do, but she was there, wiping his brow, holding his hand and lending him stability in the midst of strange surroundings. He recalled the vocal cheering section that had followed him to all his football and baseball games. He had been embarrassed at the time, but now he yearned to hear those enthusiastic cheers again.
The pickup slowed to a crawl as he neared the house. The station wagon was parked under the giant elm. The house was completely dark. Except for the lone porch light!
“I wonder who’s still out?” Nick thought instinctively. He remembered that the porch light never dimmed as long as one of the family was out. Even when he worked past midnight at Ernie’s Cafe, he had come home to that beckoning porch light.
“And when you come home,” his mother had insisted gently, “stop by our room and tell us you’re in. I don’t sleep well while someone’s still out.”
Nick looked at his watch. “Almost 3:00 A.M.,” he muttered, bewildered. “Teresa can’t still be out on a date. Not this late. Midnight is as late as she can stay out. And Paul doesn’t work nights. And none of the little ones would be away.”
Suddenly the buried hunger exploded within him and he knew for whom the light burned and he knew that during the last two months the light had never been switched off.
Only then did he begin to comprehend the strange hunger that had plagued him. He knew it had nothing to do with tangibles—clean sheets, waxed floors, and fresh baked bread. With a little effort he could duplicate those. There was something else, something far more significant and fulfilling.
His fierce pride prevented him from making any bold concessions this night, but deep within him there was a quiet serenity. There was still a gap between him and them. Having grown and festered over a period of months, it was deep and wide, but as Nick stared at the porch’s enduring beacon, he sensed that the gap would be bridged and he could return.

My patriarchal blessing, received at age 13 from a beloved grandfather, includes this statement: “[Your Heavenly Father] sent you forth in this last and glorious dispensation that you might be born under the new and everlasting covenant by goodly, righteous parents.” With deepest appreciation I acknowledge that this has been the great foundational blessing of my life. I pay tribute to my parents and with love acknowledge my debt to them and to their parents and generations beyond. Not long after my call to the Seventy, I had occasion to be standing at the grave of one of those ancestors who had died years before I was born. As I contemplated the sacrifices entailed upon him and his family by their acceptance of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ, a sense of gratitude flooded my heart and a resolve welled up in me to honor his sacrifice and that of those who came after by being faithful to God and the gospel covenants, as they were.