Gospel Story Finder

Stacy was thrilled to be with her family at the Nauvoo Illinois Temple open house. “I must remember everything I see,” she reminded herself. Grandma had not been able to come with them, but she had asked Stacy to pay close attention and tell her all about it later.
Stacy studied the beautiful paintings of Jesus Christ on the walls and the carved wooden handrails on the stairs. Even though many people were visiting the temple, she felt a deep peace, as if she were all alone. “I’ll tell Grandma about the peaceful feeling,” she thought.
After visiting the temple, Stacy and her family walked around Nauvoo, admiring some of the other buildings.
Suddenly Stacy realized that she was not with her family anymore. She searched all through a tall brick building, but they weren’t there. She felt a lump growing in her throat. She walked down the street as two fat tears rolled down her cheeks.
Then she remembered that Daddy had parked their car near the temple. “If I go to the temple, my family can find me,” she realized. She looked right and left but could not find the temple. Then she heard a voice in her mind. “Look up.” She obeyed the voice and saw the tall white temple spire with the angel Moroni on top. When she reached the temple, she found her family looking for her.
As she happily hugged her mother, Stacy said, “I’ll tell Grandma about the pictures of Jesus and the peaceful feeling. But first I’ll tell her that if you get lost, you should look up so you can find your way to the temple.”

This was the first youth conference Chris Windham, 14, of the Nacogdoches Ward, Longview Texas Stake, had attended. He had fun at the dances, listened to the speakers, and filled up on good food. But his strongest memory might be when his group came to the final house as they installed their last smoke detector. It was Chris’s turn to talk to the homeowner and explain their purpose. Each group member had taken a turn being the one to handle the screwdriver, hold the ladder, or do the talking.
At this house, it was Chris’s turn to talk. He reached for a picture of Christ. It was supposed to have someone’s testimony written in the accompanying paper. But they had run short, and the paper was blank.
Chris handed the picture to the man they had just met. He said, “I don’t have a written testimony to give you with this picture of Christ.”
He paused. The adult leaders, who were standing behind him, glanced at each other. What was Chris going to do?
As Chris said later, the Spirit was urging him to tell this man what he believed. So, without hesitation, Chris bore his testimony with power and conviction to someone he had just met. “I know that Christ lived, and that He suffered and died for us. …”
As Chris spoke, tears sprang to the eyes of the man listening. He carefully held the picture of Christ, with head bowed, and listened to the words of a 14-year-old boy.
For a few days, the LDS youth in these two stakes didn’t feel so few in numbers. They were a force for good, and they pulled strength from being together. They bore their testimonies, in writing and in testimony meeting.
Melanie Paul, 16, Coushatta Branch, Shreveport Louisiana Stake, said about their written testimonies, “These are going to people who may change their lives. I stressed the influence of Jesus Christ in my life. They may never get another chance to hear a testimony from a member of the Church. When you start writing, you aren’t just saying empty phrases. It’s true.”
This group also wanted to take sides against a chorus of bad influences. “The advertising is all aimed at kids our age,” said John Daniels, 18, Queen City Ward, Shreveport Louisiana Stake, “encouraging us to smoke, to drink, to do other things. We need someone on the other side, warning us, telling us where we can go wrong and how to avoid it.”
The voice of warning against the vices of the world may not be as loud and strident as a smoke detector, but for those with ears to hear, it is just as compelling, a voice of warning that may save someone’s life eternally.

One beautiful morning my family and I passed our bishop’s home. We noticed two enormous trees had been chopped down and the wood was in a huge pile. We have a fire pit at home, and we were almost out of wood. So we asked our bishop if we could have it. He told us, “You can have all of the wood you want.”
I was so excited. We would finally have more wood! When the day arrived to get the wood, we got right to work.
After a long day, our trailers were overflowing with wood. Then our bishop came outside and told us that a less-active family in our ward heated their home with a fireplace and they were out of wood. Mom and Dad decided to give the wood to them. That made me very upset. We had worked hard without any breaks.
I wasn’t quite sure if I should complain and ask if we could keep the wood. If I help give it away, all the work we did would be for nothing. We wouldn’t have the wood, I thought. What should I do?
It took us over an hour to unload all our precious wood. When we finally finished, we went home. We were very exhausted. When we got home, I went to check how much wood we had left. Guess what I saw? No wood at all. I thought we were giving some wood away, not all of it. I started pacing back and forth, thinking about how much work we did for nothing!
Then I remembered how the family heated their home with a fireplace. We just liked to have fires. It would have been really, really nice to have a surplus of wood. But the other family absolutely needed it. We just wanted it to do things like cook hot dogs and s’mores.
Giving the wood to the other family was hard, but I knew it was the right thing to do. After all, what would the Savior do?

It was a real feeling of fear, she explained, that gave her “more than the usual desire to be ‘in’.” When Pat Terry Holland was 16, she moved with her family from a small rural town to a larger city. Recalling the anguish of that experience, she said, “I felt overly sensitive, very awkward, afraid, and unaccepted. I remember being really hurt at that time because my fear and hesitancy was mistaken for conceit and stand-offishness. It hurt so much to have people think I was stuck-up just because I was afraid to be outgoing and friendly.”
This timid young girl, in spite of her beauty, her intelligence, and the strength of her family, experienced the anguish of feeling left out and alone. She was hurting inside. “If I could just be really popular,” she had thought, “that would help me feel confident and happy. If I could just be a class officer, if I could be a cheerleader, if I could enter a queen contest and win, then I would be a really happy teenager.” These thoughts kept flooding her mind at that time when it appeared to her that no one else was suffering those terrible left-out feelings.
Years later, and still looking like a queen, but now more confident and happy, this young mother recalls those times as she relives and suffers a bit with her own children who are now facing the challenges that are so much a part of growing up. “You know,” she said happily, “all of those things did eventually come to me (class officer, cheerleader, and campus queen), and they did bring a lot of attention. But to my great surprise, I discovered that they, in and of themselves, were very empty experiences.”
She now draws strength from a more lasting and dependable resource, she explained: “Those honors, while rewarding, did not bring the real confidence and happiness that I was sure they would.”
There is unquestioning evidence that somewhere along the way Sister Holland has found the key, the source, and the secret to confidence and happiness. Her dark brown eyes radiate joy, peace, anticipation, and enthusiasm as she shares her thoughts and feelings so freely.
“What is it?” I asked, eager to hear her tell of what is better than those things she had one time yearned for so much.
“Well,” she said, her expression intense, her voice soft, but confident, “I remember once being very inspired by a talk given by President N. Eldon Tanner. He quoted from the scriptures, ‘Seek ye first the kingdom of heaven.’ I realized then, even at a rather young age, that if I would seek first the kingdom of heaven, everything else would be added unto me. That left a great impression on my mind,” she explained. She also remembered the theme from Mutual that year and recited it with conviction: “‘Be thou humble; and the Lord thy God shall lead thee by the hand, and give thee answer to thy prayers’ (D&C 112:10). That I clung to like it was gold,” she said, clasping her hands in front of her.
Sister Holland spoke of another very memorable experience that became “a real turning point in my life.” She said, “My parents had allowed me to come to Salt Lake City and live with a group of girls for the summer while I worked. They were all about my age. We had many happy times together, but in our apartment at one time we felt despondency and discouragement, and I remember feeling it so strongly one day that I decided to fast and pray about how to be happy, how to find the peace and security and confidence that a person needs. That evening my roommates and I decided to go to a movie. We first went to a grocery store to get some treats to take with us. At the store we pulled our car in right next to Elder ElRay L. Christiansen, then an Assistant to the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. He walked right over to our car. He chatted with each one of us. He seemed very interested and asked us our names. I was so excited, I couldn’t believe this was happening to me.”
As if she were reliving that experience and sensing again the impact of that memorable occasion, she bore testimony: “Just before Elder Christiansen got ready to leave, he paused, looked right at me, and said, ‘Pat, the only way to be happy is to be obedient.’”
There was silence for a moment, each pondering the magnitude of this simple counsel and the direct answer to fervent prayer. She recalled her feelings on that occasion, “First of all, just to see a General Authority was a highlight in my life. It was the first time I had ever had any personal contact with Church leaders like that.”
This young girl, anxious to find the right answers and inspired by the counsel of a General Authority, had no way of knowing then that later, as the wife of Jeffrey Holland, former Church Commissioner of Education and now President of Brigham Young University, she would find herself in close and frequent association with many of the General Authorities. “To have my prayers answered so directly was another turning point in my life,” she said. “I realized right then and there that truly the greatest thing that I could cling to, the only way to be confident and happy, is to be obedient and live by the Spirit.”
While yet a teenager she discovered “there is just no substitute for obedience.” While obedience had not been a struggle for Pat, still the impact of receiving such an immediate and direct answer to her earnest supplication, and to receive it from one of the Lord’s chosen servants, a General Authority in person, was just more than she had ever hoped for.
Pat met Jeffrey Holland between her junior and senior year at high school. With a twinkle in her eye, she expressed much more of that sweet relationship than was spoken. “And that continues to be the best thing that has ever happened to me,” she said enthusiastically. “He continually amazes me, and it’s a wonderful privilege and blessing to be his wife.” Feeling the joy and happiness that she was expressing made it difficult to realize that she had ever had youthful feelings of discouragement or fear.
Speaking of their early friendship, she recalled that when he left for his mission, they so wanted to have a “forever kind of love.” Together they decided that they would do three things that would unite them even in his absence: (1) Read the scriptures every day. (2) Fast once a week. (3) Pray really often. “These have become habits that we have continued to this day,” she said humbly and gratefully, thinking of the far-reaching rewards of that early decision that kept them close while they were far away.
Her countenance and the tone of testimony in her voice gave me reason to believe that the unlimited reservoir from which she now draws strength and confidence has been filled through diligent obedience to this early commitment that has now become a habit. “And has that taken away all of the difficult times?” I inquired, since the spirit in her home seemed to be so peaceful and void of any stress. “Oh, no, not always,” she said, smiling. “I remember one time I had become very concerned,” she confessed. “I felt the pressures were great. For the first dozen years of our married life, Jeff was either a student or a teacher. We moved 12 times in 13 years. One of those moves was to Connecticut.”
At this time her young husband was a student at Yale University working on his Ph.D. He felt the pressure to do well as one of the very few Mormon students there. He was called to serve as counselor in the stake presidency, which required considerable travel within the boundaries of a very large stake. He also taught institute at Yale, which helped supplement their meager income. Sister Holland was called at that time to be the ward Relief Society president. She had two small babies. “The pressure was so great, I really wanted to give up,” she admitted. “It wasn’t easy.” Thinking back to her husband’s counsel, which seemed so hard to follow at that time, she explained: “He knew of my concerns and gave me direction.”
“Read your scriptures more meaningfully,” he gently but fervently counseled his young wife. “Because,” he said, “the only way we will survive (feeling considerable pressure himself) is through spirituality. We will survive through the strength of the Spirit.”
She said, “I tried hard to follow my husband’s counsel in righteousness, but I remember thinking, ‘That’s easier said than done.’” With the lesson on obedience deeply anchored in her soul, she was prepared to try. In an attempt to do just what he said, hard as it was, she told of fasting and praying one day. “His words kept coming to my mind about reading the scriptures more meaningfully. I remember walking over to my scriptures with the attitude, okay, we’ll just see if there’s something to this. And of course there was. The answers were there.”
Now, leaning forward, she spoke reverently of that very special experience: “That’s how the Lord uses the scriptures to talk to us,” she said. “He can’t be everywhere in person, but he guides us as we diligently search the scriptures, and he knows at what point in our lives certain passages will have meaning for us. That way he can provide the answers to things we earnestly seek.” Again she repeated, “That’s how the Lord uses the scriptures to talk to us.
“Truly, that was another turning point,” she said. In following her husband’s counsel, the scriptures had provided the answers she so much needed at that time. “It’s not always easy,” she explained in a cheerful, happy tone. “We’ll continue to have challenges and we’ll continue to be purified, but the time of greatest challenge is also the time of greatest spiritual blessings.”
“What kind of blessings?” I asked.
She paused thoughtfully, and while I waited for her response, I observed the beauties of her home and thought of her many and varied accomplishments. Her beautiful grand piano reminded me of her exceptional musical gifts and talents. She began her musical training very young and at one time was encouraged to go east and study, which she did briefly. But then she realized that she had to make some important choices.
“I faced what a lot of young women face—the choice between a career and marriage. I made the right decision. I have a wonderful husband, three beautiful children, and some music. My music alone would be a poor substitute for my family I love with all my heart.”
Speaking of that incident she said warmly, “Jeff was my first choice!”
Of his wife Brother Holland says, “She’s incredible! Absolutely stunning! She can lift an entire day’s burden with the curl of her smile and dry a child’s tear with one touch. She refuses to speak ill of anyone, trying always to understand and empathize and forgive. She’s funny and free and full of faith. I’ve never known a more spiritual, more disciplined, more gentle woman all rolled up in one beautiful package.”
Now interrupting the brief silence, Sister Holland was ready with her response. “About the blessings,” she said, “the greatest ones are really not tangible. It’s that peace and happiness and confidence that I was speaking of before.” Then, clasping her hands together to give emphasis to her response, she explained, “It’s a oneness with each other, with our children, with our neighbors, and with God. It’s as though the windows of heaven have been opened.” She glanced upward. The spirit of her message could be felt. She spoke of all the gloriously happy times with her husband and her beautiful children.
To be near Sister Holland is to experience the radiance of a truly good and happy person. She seemed so confident and at peace, I was prompted to ask just one more question: “Sister Holland, do you have any particular concerns at this time?” Her countenance changed. “Yes,” she said, “I’m saddened by some of the philosophies I hear. I hope our young people and everyone can sacrifice enough to receive the blessings, to give up things that might seem important right now for the greater things. I hope we will always be willing to pay that kind of price and in return receive the boundless blessings that are promised.” There was evidence of her intense desire for everyone to be happy, and her personal knowledge of the key to this great blessing is something she is so anxious to share.
Sister Holland, as a leader and teacher of youth, reaches out with deep love and understanding. She has genuine concern for their confidence and happiness—just as she had for herself at that age. As a final expression by way of testimony, she emphatically concluded, “Sacrifice brings forth the blessings of heaven; there is no other way.”

I know of a returned missionary who thought he could take a peek at some pornography and not be hurt. One peek led to another and another. Pretty soon he was staying late at work and telling his wife he had a project to finish. His thoughts soon turned into actions. Before long, his life was destroyed. He could find no peace. He lost his job. He nearly lost his wife and children. He lost his temple blessings, his priesthood, and his membership in the Church. After nearly seven years of missed blessings, he was rebaptized and a year later had his priesthood blessings and ordinances restored. It was a rugged eight-year road he had to walk – all for a peek. None of us can afford to peek. As disciples of Christ, we must stand firm for the values and virtues of clean living that the Gospel of Jesus Christ teaches.

The New Era has given my family many uplifting moments. Thank you for choosing quality stories, poems, and songs. A special thanks for printing the song “Walk Tall, You’re a Daughter of God” in the April 1979 New Era. I would like to express a special thanks to Jamie Glenn and Raya Jones, who wrote the words and music. Their song affected one young woman deeply, and through her love for the Savior and this song, many lives have been touched.
My daughter, Shannon Clark, died one year ago today at the age of 16 from a rare type of bone cancer. But in her short time on earth she taught me how to live and how to die. I am so proud of her and shout for joy because she is eternally ours.
After the New Era printed “Walk Tall, You’re a Daughter of God,” our stake gathered together a special group of young women and taught them the song. My daughter and I heard them sing it at a stake Mutual event. This song touched Shannon deeply. She heard it again at girls’ camp that year. At the close of that camp an event took place which I shall remember as long as forever. We closed camp testimony meeting singing this wonderful song. As we sang “Walk Tall, You’re a Daughter of God,” Shannon and I embraced each other, crying and singing all at once. Thank you for that memory! I had less than a year left of holding my daughter. At the last she was in too much pain to be touched, and finally she was paralyzed so she couldn’t hug me anymore either.
We have a small organ at home, and as soon as Shannon could she had the New Era opened on the music rack trying to play “Walk Tall.” It was contagious. I had to have a go at it too. We never got good at it, but we enjoyed singing along as we struggled with the notes.
When the time came to plan my daughter’s funeral, I knew one song that had to be on the program. You guessed it. “Walk Tall, You’re a Daughter of God” was sung beautifully by the stake Young Women’s choir. Shannon’s funeral was held in her high school gymnasium to accommodate the large crowd. We attend a small LDS branch, so only a small percentage of those attending were members.
The special part of this story is how “our” song touched the lives of all those who attended that day.
Many nonmembers asked for copies, and I provided them. The Lake Chelan Christian Church Choir sang it at a special meeting with hundreds of people attending. A nonmember friend who attended later told me that many of her faith had been touched by the song. The keynote speaker at that meeting changed his topic to include references to the song.
Last June I couldn’t bring myself to attend girls’ camp, but the reports I have received are beautiful. Shannon’s group of fourth-year girls performed “Walk Tall, You’re a Daughter of God” at the first night fireside and dedicated it to my daughter. Every night thereafter they used “our song” as the closing song at the campfire meeting. The new Beehives did not know Shannon, but they could feel the Spirit as the tears flowed and the notes were sung.
I am lonely some days because not only did I give back to Heavenly Father my only daughter but also one of the best friends a woman could have. When I feel down I remember my favorite song and the words, “He’s closer than you know—reach up, He’ll take your hand.”
I hope this letter isn’t sad, because I’m not sad. I have two nice-looking sons and a loving husband. Life is good to me. And most important to me—I have an eternal family, if I but live worthy.
Thank you, Jamie and Raya, for using your God-given talents. If Shannon has any say in heavenly matters she has joined one of the heavenly youth choirs and they are singing “Walk Tall, You’re a Daughter of God.” I know your song will live eternally and will give strength to many more. You touched one 16-year-old, and that was just the tip of the iceberg. God bless you.
Roberta Clark
Manson, Washington

Every time Jared Burton Ikihega, 12, of New Zealand, looks up a telephone number in the directory, he sees something familiar—his artwork on the cover.
Jared was one of 20 winners in a national competition to produce a picture for the local telephone directories. His artwork, a linoprint which he called “Looking over the East,” is a view of houses in Porirua East from his school.
Jared’s entry was selected from nearly 600 entries in his area. But this isn’t the first time his art has been recognized. One of his pieces was included in an exhibition of New Zealand school children’s art in Paris. Another work was chosen for a brochure for the Wellington Social Welfare Department.

I have been blessed with much. But one blessing always seemed to escape my grasp—a sense of self-worth. I know it did not help that I constantly compared myself with others. Often I would contrast my greatest weakness with another’s greatest strength. I was competing against the combined population of the world, and I wasn’t winning.
One day at school I had a particularly hard battle. My opponents were classmates who I felt were succeeding marvelously in ways I felt I was failing miserably. Frustrated and depressed, I wandered away from them and sat down in a secluded school hallway. I did everything in my power to fight back the tears trickling down my face.
Finally, I pulled out my Book of Mormon and started reading. I came across a scripture in 1 Nephi 19:9 [1 Ne. 19:9]: “And the world, because of their iniquity, shall judge him to be a thing of naught; wherefore they scourge him, and he suffereth it; and they smite him, and he suffereth it. Yea, they spit upon him, and he suffereth it, because of his loving kindness and his long-suffering towards the children of men.”
The Spirit of the Holy Ghost came upon me and filled my whole being with understanding. Never had a scripture meant more to me than that one did at that time. More tears fell from my eyes.
The world viewed Jesus Christ himself with enmity and spite. Yet he triumphed. He knew who he was and what he had to do. He did not let the world’s rejection affect his self-image, destroy his relationship with his Father, or stop him from doing what he knew was right. I left my secluded hallway determined to succeed no matter how I am—or think I am—received by the world.

As our hearts and minds turn at Eastertime to thoughts of our Savior’s suffering at Gethsemane, his crucifixion, and his resurrection, I recall an experience at an open house in the Arizona Temple following a complete renovation of the building. Nearly a quarter of a million people saw the temple’s beautiful interior. On the first day of the open house, clergymen of other religions were invited as special guests, and hundreds responded. It was my privilege to speak to them and to answer their questions at the conclusion of their tours. I told them that we would be pleased to answer any queries they might have. Many were asked. Among these was one which came from a Protestant minister.
Said he: “I’ve been all through this building, this temple which carries on its face the name of Jesus Christ, but nowhere have I seen any representation of the cross, the symbol of Christianity. I have noted your buildings elsewhere and likewise find an absence of the cross. Why is this when you say you believe in Jesus Christ?”
I responded: “I do not wish to give offense to any of my Christian brethren who use the cross on the steeples of their cathedrals and at the altars of their chapels, who wear it on their vestments and imprint it on their books and other literature. But for us, the cross is the symbol of the dying Jesus, while our message is a declaration of the living Christ.”
He then asked: “If you do not use the cross, what is the symbol of your religion?”
I replied that the lives of our people must become the only meaningful expression of our faith. I hope he did not feel that I was smug or self-righteous in my response. He was correct in his observation that we do not use the cross, except as our military chaplains use it on their uniforms for identification.

New snow had fallen during the night, and Judi heard the scraping of a snow shovel as she walked to school with her friends Andrea and Sandy. When the girls turned the corner, Judi caught sight of a little old lady working behind a high shrub.
“Good morning, Mrs. Kraus,” Judi called.
The woman looked up and smiled. “A fine morning to you, Judi.”
“How is Mrs. Mueller this morning?” Judi asked.
“Some better, thanks,” Mrs. Kraus answered. “She hasn’t had as much pain in her back these past few days.”
“I’m glad,” Judi added before hurrying to catch up with her friends.
When she finally reached them, Andrea turned and looked strangely at Judi. “Why did you stop?” she asked. “Are those funny old ladies your friends?”
“Brigitte Kraus? And Helga Mueller? Yes, I know them. I often talk to them when I go past their house.”
“I don’t know why,” Andrea grumbled. “They always talk so different and wear old-fashioned clothes!”
“I guess they are a bit old-fashioned,” Judi agreed. “They’re sisters, and when their husbands died, they decided to live together. They don’t have much money, but they work hard to make things look nice. Last summer they had some of the prettiest flowers in our whole neighborhood.”
“Well, I don’t see why you bother,” Andrea insisted. “Everybody thinks they are just funny old women!”
“I heard that one Halloween the boys put a scarecrow on their porch,” Sandy laughed. “And those two old women came flying out the door so upset that they started scolding in German a mile a minute!”
“Now when the boys go past and see one of those old ladies outside,” Andrea went on, “they make noises to sound like they are talking German too.”
Just then the bell rang, and the girls hurried to class. It was the last day of school before Christmas vacation, and Judi was so excited about the program and party that she didn’t think about the two sisters again until she was on her way home.
I’m really glad we’re friends, she thought as she passed their house on her way home from school.
Then she decided she would visit them during the Christmas holidays, and she began to think about some little gift she could take to them.
Last year Grandma had liked the Santa Claus face Judi had made from felt with two small bells sewn on the red ties to fit over her front doorknob. Judi decided to make one of those for Brigitte Kraus. And for Helga Mueller she would make a pincushion shaped like a snowman. She would sew black buttons on for eyes and a bit of red felt for a mouth.
When the gifts were finished and Judi went to see her two neighbors, Brigitte Kraus opened the door.
“It’s the smiling girl,” Brigitte called over her shoulder. “Please come in,” she invited Judi.
“How nice that you would come,” Helga Mueller greeted.
“I wanted to wish you a Merry Christmas,” Judi smiled. “Now that winter has come, I don’t see you outside very often.”
“No, cold days keep old ones beside a fire,” Mrs. Kraus explained.
“I’ve brought something for you, just little things I made,” Judi said shyly, “but—“
“If you’ve cared enough to make, we will like,” Helga Mueller nodded.
Judi explained to Mrs. Kraus how the Santa Claus face should be placed over the doorknob. The two women smiled when they heard the bells. They were both pleased with the pincushion.
Mrs. Kraus looked at her sister for a moment. Then she looked at Judi. Her eyes were shining when she said, “Only today Helga and I were wishing there might be children near us for this time of Christmas, as once there was in our old country. And now a child has come to us to say ‘Be merry for the time of Christmas.’”
Brigitte Kraus put a hand on Judi’s arm. “Could you stay or come again to help two old ones make marzipan in honor of Christmas?”
“What is marzipan?” Judi asked.
“Of course, you wouldn’t know!” Mrs. Kraus shook her head as if laughing at herself. “It’s a treat from Germany. A candy.”
“Candy? That should be fun!” Judi said eagerly.
Judi learned that marzipan was a very special candy. She was glad as her two friends showed her how to form the almond candy into shapes of flowers, leaves, animals, birds, tiny Christmas wreaths, and toys.
“In Germany marzipan is always made for children,” Mrs. Mueller explained. “It goes on the tree.”
“It tastes as good as it looks,” Judi smiled. “Thank you for letting me help.”
When they had finished, Mrs. Kraus looked at the big plate of candy and laughed. “So much we made in the joy of remembering. You must take some candy home with you,” she said. “I’ll fix a box.”
“My family will like that,” Judi told them.
“And your friends?” Mrs. Mueller asked. “The pretty girls who go each day to school with you must also have marzipan for the time of Christmas.”
Judi suddenly remembered how Andrea and Sandy had laughed at the two women. If only Andrea and Sandy could get to know Mrs. Kraus and Mrs. Mueller. But how? Judi wondered. Then an idea came to her.
“Thank you,” Judi said, “but I think they would like it even more if they could visit you and see how marzipan is made. May I bring the girls to your home sometime soon?”
“Oh, yes,” chorused the sisters, “if you think they’ll want to come.”
“I know they will!” Judi answered.
And suddenly she knew that even if it weren’t the time of Christmas, both Andrea and Sandy would like it very much!

Now, around the fire in Whitehorse after a Sunday of worship and a delicious meal with the Whitehorse Saints, we were reliving the experience one more time before starting home the next morning. As the fire died away, the chill went unnoticed in the warmth of the Spirit. A theme of priesthood and prayer threaded the testimonies.
“The last day as we were rushing to meet the train, we stopped at a rock outcropping to rest, and Brother Woolley asked me to say a prayer. As I knelt upon the earth, tears streamed down my face and an overwhelming feeling of sweet humility filled my being. I felt an overpowering desire to always be close to my Heavenly Father and live so I would please him. The words poured from my mouth and I prayed publicly for the first time in my life by the Spirit. I was prompted to ask for strength and that we might make the train on time. We did. I also asked for a special blessing upon the girls behind us. It was incredible, but they reached the station only 15 minutes to a half hour behind us. I’m so very thankful I had this camping experience and the opportunity to rely so heavily on the Lord.”

Hip: I had a roommate who was engaged. One day we were talking about his upcoming marriage, and someone asked, “What are the commitments you two think will help you stay strong?” His answer was, “Not keeping the law of chastity could destroy our relationship. So we decided that we wouldn’t do anything we would not feel comfortable doing in front of the bishop or our parents.” That still has an influence on me.

Excitedly Tommy called out to his father, “The creek has overflowed and the back wheels of the wagon are standing in the water!”
Tommy’s father was out of the wagon in an instant. When he saw the situation, he helped Tommy pull the bed out from under the wagon and then hitched up both teams of oxen to pull the wagon out of the water. The ground was so slippery the oxen could not get a foothold.
“We will have to build a corduroy road,” said Tommy’s father.
To do this, Tommy and his father cut down many trees. They trimmed off the limbs and laid the poles side by side, close to and in front of the wagon; then with willows they bound each log tightly to the next one so they would not roll. When this was finished, they packed tough grass and pine needles on top of the poles so the oxen’s hoofs could not slip into the cracks.
Finally they coaxed the frightened oxen up onto the corduroy road and hitched them to the wagon. Father spoke to the oxen in a soothing tone, “Steady now, pull together.”
The oxen did pull together. The heavy wagon wheels rolled out of the mud, onto the tough grass, over the corduroy road, and up onto the road that the Camp of Israel would be traveling that day.
Tommy shouted, “Hooray!” and he could see by the look on his mother’s face that she was proud of her two “men.”

John Halliday’s name appears on several documents relating to the Church in Wiltshire in the middle of the nineteenth century. Born in Trowbridge in 1819, he was the oldest child of Stephen and Jane Halliday. In 1836 he emigrated to America. Sometime between 1836 and 1842 he was baptised a member of the Church.
Sometime in 1844 John was sent back to Britain as a missionary, bringing his wife, Emily, and their youngest child with him. They would remain in Britain until the spring of 1850.
Two main sources provide information on John’s activities during those years: the Millennial Star and records from Salisbury Diocese, which detail applications to register ‘dissenter’ places of worship. ‘Dissenters’ were any denomination other than the Church of England.
The following applications were made by John Halliday to register places of worship in Wiltshire: [Table 1 Inserted as image)
Steeple Ashton was something of a stronghold of the Church in the mid-nineteenth century, as shown by the number of different locations registered for worship, and several histories have been written about the village residents who converted.1 As the list also shows, meeting places were most commonly family homes, particularly in villages. Many of the early converts emigrated, so by the end of the century most of the branches had been disbanded and no purpose-built Church meetinghouses are known to have existed in Wiltshire until the twentieth century.
John Halliday made the applications to register places of worship for the Church because of the leadership role he held in the area during his missionary service. Halliday was responsible for a total membership of 350 spread across eleven congregations, in three counties.
In May 1848 Halliday reported continuing success in a letter to Orson Spencer, then president of the British LDS mission. The letter was printed in the Star:
“Indeed I have never travelled so much and preached so often with so much satisfaction since my arrival in England; and what is better, I have never felt in better spirits for the battle, either in-doors or out in the public Market-place.“2
In October of the same year, he also reported:
“Large additions have been made to the kingdom of our God. I think we have baptized since conference over 100, and the elders and officers feel ripe and ready for the harvesting.”3
The work of John Halliday and his fellow missionaries, with the associated growth in Church membership, did not go unnoticed or unopposed. Writing to Franklin D. Richards (1821–1899) in December 1847, Halliday stated, “Since I wrote last to you, the officers of the law have interfered in our behalf, and last week we had quietness again,”4 showing that opposition was serious enough for Church members to seek police protection to be able to worship as they pleased.
John Halliday was central to the mission and growth of the Church in Wiltshire in the mid-nineteenth century. He was evidently a man of faith and conviction, and was willing to put that conviction to work, to help spread the good news of the restored gospel which he and his wife and brother had embraced. He was still a young man when he died, but we can say with some certainty that a wish he expressed in May 1848 was fulfilled: “My prayer to God is, that I may continue faithful.”5

Getting ready to go to church with everyone in the family wearing two shoes that matched was a major accomplishment at my house. But somehow it seemed worse when I needed to be somewhere on time.
“What’s the matter with you?” I shouted at my younger sister as my father finally started the car and sped out of the driveway toward the church. “Can’t you keep track of your shoes for even one Sunday?” My mom and dad looked at each other with faint smiles as I continued: “I can’t believe this family. Nobody thinks about anybody but themselves! Nobody understands how I feel around here! I’ll be late for sure now!”
When we got to the church, my family quickly piled out, and I hurriedly moved over behind the wheel, anxious to leave as quickly as possible. Mom started telling me to drive carefully and not get home too late because it might storm. Dad was trying to tell me the fastest way to get to the other ward.
“All right,” I said to both parents talking at the same time. “Good-bye!”
“How am I supposed to give a spiritual talk when I’m feeling like this?” I thought as the wheels of the car screeched out of the church parking lot, and I sped toward another meetinghouse.
The meeting had already begun when I got there, and I had to walk to the front of the chapel alone. The bishop looked relieved when I finally sat down. The meeting sped by, and soon I heard my name announced as the next speaker. My heart suddenly began to beat frantically as I walked toward the pulpit. My shaky voice hardly seemed my own as I looked up momentarily at the strange faces in the congregation and began my talk.
“I’m going to talk about bridges,” I said quietly. “We need to build bridges to others if we want to come close together.” I cleared my voice twice and continued, “All the everyday things we do with each other can build bridges if we let them. Just eating and laughing or talking or working or going through the same hard times can be ways of building bridges if we communicate that we care and share our feelings.”
My nervousness made me glance at my paper much more often than I had at home when I had practiced my talk.
“We can build bridges by realizing that we are all basically alike. We all have many of the same fears and problems and desires and hopes.”
My words seemed insincere and forced. My mother had suggested my topic and supplied me with the material for my talk. I was glad to sit down when my talk was over.
After the meeting was over, I quickly jumped in the car and headed toward the mountains near my home. I just wanted to be alone for a while. My family had arranged for a ride home from their meeting, so I wouldn’t be missed for a while. It was always so noisy, and I never felt like I had the privacy I needed at home. The hills seemed an excellent escape for now.
That night the setting sun cast an orange tint over the white softness of snow capping the mountains. Slowly snowflakes began to dance off the windshield and whirl around the car as I headed up the small mountain road. The orange haze of the sun turned to blues and purples as I drove on. In the peaceful winter evening, I felt alone and yet not lonely. Night shadows drifted across the road, and slowly a few stars began to glimmer in the velvet blue sky. I drove on, oblivious of the increasing frenzy of the snowfall.
Soon the snow began to drift high against the sides of the small mountain road. Still I drove farther and farther into the mountains, unwilling to release the peace of the moment.
I began to notice that the storm had become a blizzard outside the car, and the road was beginning to become impassable. I decided I would turn around and start toward home the first chance I got. At a wide spot in the road, I turned the car for home.
The car began to skid out of control, and it rolled slowly over an embankment and hit against a tree. The sudden jolt brought me quickly back to the reality of the situation.
“What a dumb thing to do!” I shouted at myself as I tried to open the door and see how badly I was struck. The snow was almost covering the wheels of the car, and the incline back up to the road looked pretty steep. I started to dig the snow away from the tires and later crawled back, shaking, into the car.
I tried to start the motor again. The wheels spun with a futile sound. I gunned the motor, trying to get the car to move at least a little. But no matter how hard I pushed the gas pedal, there was only the same spinning sound of the wheels, and I could feel the car settling deeper into a hole.
I crawled out of the car again and anxiously worked at the snow around the tires. The wind was mercilessly blowing snow against me. I hadn’t bothered to wear a coat. I hadn’t told anybody where I was going. My high-heeled shoes and white lace dress hardly seemed fitting now. I crawled back into the car and tried the motor again and again. Finally the motor refused to turn over at all. The dead thud as I turned the key made me shiver.
“Well, I can’t stay here all night,” I said to myself.
I crawled out of the car and climbed back onto the road. The stupidity of my situation embarrassed me. I knew better than to start up a lonely mountain road at night with a storm brewing. It hadn’t seemed dangerous until now.
I folded my arms tightly around myself and began to shake as I looked down the long stretch of road. The wind and snow billowed and howled around me as I started to walk down the lonely dark road.
“How stupid can you be!” I began to shout out loud.
The strong storm wind was at my back, pushing me down the steep incline of the road and causing me to continually slip on the icy road. The heels of my shoes wobbled and made even upright walking hard in the wind.
“Just look at the mess you’re in, and it’s all your fault! There’s no one else to blame!” I continued to shout.
The wind continued to blow me down the hill. My dress was completely wet now, and it stung against my skin as the wind whipped it against me.
Farther down the road, I noticed a large piece of wood protruding through the snow. I wrapped my arms around the wooden pole and felt along its side. It seemed to be a large wooden rail of some sort. I thought it was probably part of the bridge that I could remember driving over on my way up the canyon. I held onto the bridge railing and slowly pulled myself forward. As I neared the end of the bridge and the last of its support, I saw a light glimmering in the distance.
“Hey!” I shouted. “I’m over here! Please help me!”
The light came closer and closer, and soon I saw an old man, clad warmly in winter clothes, peering at me as I hung onto the bridge for support. He put his arm around me and helped me walk farther down the road. He was silent as he edged me toward his home, hidden from view off the main road.
Once we were inside, the warmth from an open fire surrounded me. An old woman walked toward me from the kitchen when the old man called.
“Emma, come here. Got somebody in trouble.”
The old woman placed her warm wrinkled hands on my shaking shoulders.
“You just come right in here,” she said as she guided me to her bedroom and shut the door. “You can take off those wet things and wrap up in this and sit by the fire if you like,” she continued as she handed me a handworked quilt. “I’ll go get you something warm to drink.”
“Thank you,” I answered as she left the room.
The old woman smiled warmly and nodded as she shut the door. Later, after my wet clothes were hung up to dry and my cold body was full of hot chocolate, I wrapped up in the warm quilt by the fire. My companions had been strangely quiet, not asking any questions, only offering me anything I needed. I was glad of it. The old man and woman sat together on the love seat in front of the fire, silent and restful.
“I guess you’re wondering who I am and what in the world I’m doing up here in the middle of a storm. I guess you must think I’m pretty foolish. I should have had more sense, but well …”
“Oh, hush now. You don’t have to make any apologies to us,” the old woman interrupted. “We’re just glad we found you. It’s a long way back down this mountain you know.”
“What were you doing on the road at the end of that bridge?” I asked as I turned to the old man.
“Well, Emma and I were just going to bed when we thought we heard a voice in the wind. Sounded like somebody shouting. It was awfully faint, but we both thought we heard it. I took the light and went out on the bridge to see if I could see anybody. That’s where people have had trouble before. Emma and I built part of that bridge ourselves years and years ago. Seems people were always driving off or falling over the side into the river when it got dark or when it stormed. Emma and I built the railing on the bridge with old railroad ties, and nobody’s fallen over the side since then.”
“That shouting you heard,” I interrupted, “that was probably me shouting at myself for being so stupid. I hope you didn’t hear everything I said.”
“Just heard you on the bridge asking for help,” the old man answered. “There’s been quite a few others like yourself up here in the same predicament. All seem embarrassed like yourself too,” he continued.
“Well, I better call home before my family gets too worried about me,” I said as he finished.
“Phone’s back in the kitchen,” the old woman said as she stood up and guided me to the rear of the small house. “Most people who get stuck up here don’t have anybody to call. They just stay the night, and then Ben takes them down to town when the road is opened. One fellow though, he had a family worrying about him like you. He was one of my favorites.”
“Well, I guess I ought to be glad to have a big family that worries about me, but there’s so many of us, they probably haven’t even missed me yet,” I said.
The old woman smiled.
“Dad,” I said as the phone connection was made, “is that you? Looks like I need your help.”
The old woman slipped from the room as I finished telling dad where I was and how to get there. Dad seemed strangely brief and hung up before I could start apologizing. I walked back into the warm living room by the fire and started planning a good comeback for the inevitable lecture I would get from dad on the way home.
“Your father will be here before long,” the woman said as she headed for the bedroom. “You better put on some of my dry clothes to go home in. I’ll put your wet things in a bag for you.”
It seemed only minutes before dad came clanging up the road to the cottage in our neighbor’s four-wheel-drive truck with chains on the tires. He quickly knocked at the door and began hurrying me out of the house before I could say anything.
“Thank you,” I said as I hurried out the door. “I’ll be back to see you soon when the weather’s better. I promise I will.”
“Well, that’s why I gave you my clothes to wear home,” the old woman said. “It’ll give you a good excuse to come back and visit us. Most people need an excuse,” the woman said as she looked at my dad.
“Be careful of the turn at the bridge, John,” the old man shouted at my dad as we started to get into the truck.
“How does he know your name?” I asked dad. Dad interrupted me as he answered, “Oh, I will Ben. I nearly skidded into the river on the way in here. You’d think I’d know better by now. If it hadn’t been for the railing on the bridge that stopped the car, I would have had to spend another night up here.”
I crawled into the truck and sat confused, as far away from the driver’s seat as possible. Dad hopped into the truck and started slowly down the road.
“Dad,” I asked again, “do you people know each other? Have you been up here too? You mean, you did the same thing? Dad?”
My dad brought his broad arm over the back of the seat and coaxed me to slide over next to him. He smiled as I looked up into his face, and then he put his warm arm around my shoulders.

It was a cold, blustery Sunday afternoon. I was away from home serving in the South African army, and the 10 men of our section had gathered in our tent to visit and relax after having just completed some chores. Unfortunately, much of the conversation became crude, as often happens among young men in such circumstances.
I was uncomfortable and thought about leaving. My eyes turned toward the tent door, which was flapping wildly in the wind and failing to hold back the chill of winter. The sight immediately convinced me it would be foolish to leave, so I decided to remain inside and read my scriptures. Although it had not been uncommon for me to read from them in the presence of these men, on this day it would prove to be difficult. The discussion soon took a turn for the worse as my friend, something of a ringleader in the group, began telling some dirty stories.
My immediate impulse was to object out loud. However, I was checked by the thought that others might consider me self-righteous and accuse me of trying to spoil their fun. After a few troubling moments, I decided to do the only thing I thought possible under the circumstances: shut my ears and concentrate on my reading. This approach worked somewhat. Yet I could not shrug off a feeling of uneasiness.
Time has a way of clouding our memories, and within a few weeks I forgot about the experience. Then, two years later, my friend did something that brought the memory of that day back into focus. We were in the presence of a number of soldiers who were drinking beer. In the group was a man I didn’t know. He began teasing me for not joining them in drinking a little alcohol. My friend rose to my defense and added with an earnestness that surprised me, “Chris Golden is the only true Christian in our group.” Others who knew me joined my friend in defending me, which silenced my critic.
Later, as my friend and I walked back toward our foxhole on a gray, half-moonlit night, he suddenly stopped and looked at me with a seriousness I had not been accustomed to during our friendship. He recalled the event of earlier that evening and said, “I meant what I said. In fact, I have never met an individual who has been more true to his faith in God than you, Chris!”
This was unexpected. Even though I had always tried to live the gospel, I felt I had not done more than many Latter-day Saints would have done in similar circumstances, and I had always tried to do it without drawing attention to myself.
Still, he had more to say: “You have let me down only once.” My shock at his matter-of-fact accusation was matched only by the speed with which my mind raced through all of the events we had shared together. I finally remembered that blustery, cold Sunday two years earlier. My friend’s words exposed painful memories of a day I would rather have forgotten.
He continued, “Do you remember that cold Sunday afternoon when we were sitting inside our tent and telling stories, some of which I now feel quite embarrassed about?”
I nodded a little numbly in acknowledgment. Standing opposite him, I hoped that the shadows of the night hid my discomfort.
He said, “While I was talking, I had been silently praying that you would ask me to stop telling those dirty stories—but you did nothing.”
During the long silence that followed his stinging condemnation, a deep sense of disappointment welled up within me. I had let not only him down, but I had failed the Lord—and myself.
Ever since that day, I have tried not to make the same mistake. I was taught an important lesson about the true meaning of the Lord’s command to “let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven” (Matt. 5:16). Observing that “no man can serve two masters” (Matt. 6:24), the Savior counseled us, “Seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness” (Matt. 6:33).

This story took place in Tonga in 1981.
Silioti walked home from school past trees of yellow papayas and rosy ripe mangoes. When she saw the fruit, she remembered how hungry she was. She also remembered that today was a special day. Today everyone in her stake in Tonga was fasting for the prophet, President Spencer W. Kimball. The prophet was sick and needed an operation. Tonight everyone in the stake would meet to pray and end their fast together.
When Silioti reached her house, she smelled food cooking in the ‘umu, the pit oven. Her stomach grumbled. Silioti was glad she was old enough to fast now, but fasting on a school day was so much harder than fasting on a Sunday.
Silioti tried to forget how hungry she was. She found firewood and cleaned up the leaves that had fallen from the tall breadfruit trees that shaded her yard.
Heavenly Father will understand if I take a tiny sip of water, Silioti thought as she washed her hands after chores. Then she thought of how much she loved President Kimball. She wanted him to be well again. She decided she would wait.
Silioti sat down on the porch and laid her head in her mother’s lap. She was so tired.
“You can end your fast if you need to,” Mother said.
“But I want to fast,” said Silioti. “I can do it.”
When Father came home from work, everyone in the family helped uncover the ‘umu. They took out the pork wrapped in leaves, the fish, and the breadfruit baked in coconut milk. Then they wrapped the food in cloth and carried it out to the road to wait for the bus.
They met other families on the road, all with their own bundles of food. They all smiled and talked as they climbed on the bus together. Silioti found a little space next to Mother. She smelled the good food as the bus bumped along.
It was dark when the bus reached the chapel. Inside, Silioti knelt with her parents, her brothers and sisters, and hundreds of other members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
During the prayer, Silioti prayed in her heart, Please let President Kimball get well again. She knew every person in the room was praying for the same thing. A calm feeling inside told her that President Kimball would be OK.
When she opened her eyes, she saw tears on the faces of the people around her. All of these people had fasted, and she had fasted with them. It had been hard, but she had done it!
President Kimball survived his operation and served as the prophet for four more years.

It begins as a big, fleecy bundle. Ruth Kandler, 14, and her sisters, Helga, 17, and Petra, 11, are often waiting at the door when their father brings the wool home. He has traveled high into the Austrian Alps to purchase it from the shepherds, who have already sheared it from the backs of their flocks, washed it, and carded it to remove burrs and align fibers. Straightening the fibers allows the wool to be spun into yarn.
This time, there is a surprise. Along with the usual white and gray wool from the milk sheep, Brother Kandler has brought back a smaller bale of dark brown wool, the wool of the mountain sheep. The young ladies are excited, because even though the short black fibers are more difficult to spin, they add variety and color when the homespun yarn is knitted into clothing for school and work.
One of the most prized possessions in the Kandler household is an antique spinning wheel more than 100 years old. There are several other spinning wheels of varying ages to accompany it, enough so that everyone in the family can spin at the same time and still invite one friend to join in.
The spinning itself, once learned well, is not a difficult art. “I learned to do it in three days,” Petra says. Brother Kandler, watching his wife teach his daughters, learned the technique in just one day and seems to enjoy spinning as much as the rest of the family.
“It’s relaxing just to sit and spin,” Ruth says. “You can talk or just think and still be making something at the same time.” It’s also obvious the daughters enjoy spending a little time occasionally practicing the craft with their parents. They smile, laugh, and tell jokes. When Petra’s yarn doesn’t seem to wind quite right, her older sisters help her remedy the problem as Sister Kandler nods her head approvingly.
Electricity is expensive in the small town of Eugendorf where the Kandlers live, so the work is done by the sunlight that filters through the windows and reflects from the walls, setting the room aglow. Helga strums her guitar as the others pump foot pedals up and down and carefully twist the wool through their fingers, guiding it onto spools. Her chord patterns and clear voice seem infinitely more appropriate than a blaring radio or a chatty television set. “We share the real experience of doing things together,” Brother Kandler says, “We don’t have a T.V.” Sometimes friends, like 11-year-old Michele Make who lives nearby, come over to join in the fun.
Today, because it’s a special occasion (a photographer has come to take their picture), the entire family has put on costumes typical of their region. Like most Austrians, they wear the traditional clothing from time to time during the year as part of their regular wardrobe. But it is fairly rare to find all of them in costume on the same day. Helga says that having the costumes is practical, “It’s handy, because they never go out of fashion,” she adds. “Teenagers, children, parents—everyone wears them. But we wear other things, too, like dresses and jeans.”
The wool is for making sweaters, gloves, mittens, and stockings. Helga says it’s enjoyable to be able to wear homemade clothing to school, “Most of the other children are enchanted by it,” she says. “They go home and try to make theirs in the same way.” Sister Kandler, who began spinning just a few years ago (she learned how from friends), says hand-knit clothing is popular throughout Austria, but buying it in the stores is much too expensive. (It costs about 2,000 shillings, or $150, to buy a handmade sweater in a store. Brother Kandler buys an entire kilo of wool in the mountains for 500 shillings.) The Kandler’s make their yarn from pure, natural wool (it’s not dyed, so the lanolin, which waterproofs the fiber and makes it a good insulator, is preserved). Add to that the fact that the clothing they make serves as a constant reminder of hearth and home, and it becomes nearly priceless.
Helga says the Kandlers have found that their talent has helped them make friends and fellowship Church members in the Salzburg (Austria) Ward, Germany Munich Stake, where they attend church, and elsewhere. During the winter, which is the season when most of the spinning is done, a group of Church families from Germany and Austria (Eugendorf, near Salzburg, is about 30 kilometers from the German border) gathers for instruction and for the pleasure of working together. “Many people return home with a new skill and with a more valuable way to spend their spare time,” Helga says. Sister Kandler also features spinning instruction as part of her Relief Society homemaking lessons, and her daughters help her demonstrate.

Three years later I went to Rome, Italy, to visit my uncle. He kept telling me about this church he went to. One Sunday, he took me with him. I will always remember walking toward the church’s doors for the first time and feeling the love of Heavenly Father when I went in. It felt like home.
I started going to church every single Sunday and to every activity during the week. I loved being with the youth of the Church. They made me happier. They thought and believed in the same things that I did. Then, after three months, my summer holiday finished and I had to go back to Albania.
When I returned home, I told my dad about the feelings I’d had and how happy I’d felt during those three months going to Church activities. He didn’t like it. He told me he wouldn’t allow me to continue to go to church. So I would have to be patient for the next three years until I turned 18 years old. Then I could decide for myself and be baptized.
During this time I was blessed with so many people who would tell me about what they learned each Sunday at church. One of those people was Stephanie. She’d been living in Italy when my uncle joined the Church, but she had returned to her home in the United States. My uncle thought it would be good for us to write to each other, so I added her as a friend on Facebook.
Even though we’d never met in person, I will always be grateful to her for helping me build my faith and learn more about the gospel of Jesus Christ. She wrote to me almost every Sunday and told me everything she learned in church and then would answer my questions. She was a great friend to me.
Finally, after years of being patient, I was baptized just two days after my 18th birthday. And soon I will share with my mother the happiness I felt that day, because I will be baptized for her. I know she will be proud of the life I have chosen.
I feel blessed by Heavenly Father because He was with me during my entire journey in so many ways. I just had to wait and be patient because He had a plan for me. He’s the one who gave me strength to go through all the challenges I faced. He was always there, helping me be happier.

The first day I saw Frances, I knew I’d found the right one. The Lord brought us together later, and I asked her to go out with me. I went to her home to call on her. She introduced me, and her father said, “ ‘Monson’—that’s a Swedish name, isn’t it?”

I said, “Yes.”

He said, “Good.”

Then he went into another room and brought out a picture of two missionaries with their top hats and their copies of the Book of Mormon.

“Are you related to this Monson,” he said, “Elias Monson?”

I said, “Yes, he’s my grandfather’s brother. He too was a missionary in Sweden.”

Her father wept. He wept easily. He said, “He and his companion were the missionaries who taught the gospel to my mother and my father and all of my brothers and sisters and to me.” He kissed me on the cheek. And then her mother cried, and she kissed me on the other cheek. And then I looked around for Frances. She said, “I’ll go get my coat.”

My sweet Frances had a terrible fall a few years ago. She went to the hospital. She lay in a coma for about 18 days. I sat by her side. She never moved a muscle. The children cried, the grandchildren cried, and I wept. Not a movement.

And then one day, she opened her eyes. I set a speed record in getting to her side. I gave her a kiss and a hug, and I said, “You’re back. I love you.” And she said, “I love you, too, Tom, but we’re in serious trouble.” I thought, What do you know about trouble, Frances? She said, “I forgot to mail in our fourth-quarter income tax payment.”

I said to her, “Frances, if you had said that before you extended a kiss to me and told me you love me, I might have left you here.”

Brethren, let’s treat our wives with dignity and with respect. They’re our eternal companions. Sisters, honor your husbands. They need to hear a good word. They need a friendly smile. They need a warm expression of true love.