Gospel Story Finder

My mind wanders back to another year and very different circumstances. I visited a man in a hospital. He was in an iron lung, a type of therapy that is rarely used today. He had no control over his body from his chin down. We talked of the disease that had rendered him in that condition and of his occupation. He was an insurance man, dialing the telephone with his nose or with his tongue, explaining to people that he could not come into their homes or into their offices but that he would like them to visit him at his address, which was the hospital, so he could talk with them about perhaps saving a few dollars on their car or life insurance.

Most hung up on him before he even had a chance to deliver his message, but a few would come to the hospital and sit next to that remarkable man as he would look into a series of reflecting mirrors, analyzing their insurance policies and telling them of ways they could have more effective coverage. He had decided before disaster struck that he was going to do everything he could to be self-sustaining. Of course, the Church was helping him, and the state of Utah was providing some assistance, but so much of his self-care was being provided through the courage he was displaying then and had displayed earlier.

Have you ever wondered about this mantle which comes upon a bishop? He can sit in a sacrament meeting and look out at his flock and know who is in trouble, look at his Aaronic Priesthood—the deacons, the teachers, and the priests—and know which ones need his counsel. There is a hopeless feeling when you are released as a bishop to become a General Authority, and then return to your home ward where you have been serving and realize you have lost the power of discernment with the ward members. You can’t do what you did as a bishop.

We think of the disciples waiting outside the Garden of Gethsemane and not having the discerning nature to know what the Savior was going through. And yet, the Savior himself embodied that characteristic which a bishop and all of us should have. He said, “What, could ye not watch with me one hour?” (Matt. 26:40.) They did not understand.

Sometimes, experience is the best teacher of discernment. We are reminded of President Harold B. Lee having to lose his sweet companion so that he might understand the agony and anguish of a single person who has lost his or her companion, turning his attention as a prophet to the singles of the Church. It is in moments like this that we learn.

I remember, too, my mother as she went through eight years of being paralyzed. The last year and a half she needed care around the clock, and my dear father cared for her. One night, a few weeks before she passed away, I knelt at her bed after a word of prayer and she said, “I would like to go to heaven to see Papa.”
I said, “Mother, why have you gone through this pain?”
She said, “To learn patience.”
“Mother, have you learned enough patience?”
Then, with a mother’s kind way of teaching, she looked at me and said, “I have, but have you?”
At such moments we begin to understand that the difficulties and problems of others, if we will feel them, will make us grow, if we will but lend a hand.

There are many priesthood leaders here from all over the world. These stake presidents, Regional Representatives, and General Authorities know the truth of the counsel once given us by one of the Presiding Bishops of this dispensation, Elder LeGrand Richards. After a weighty discussion in the temple with all the General Authorities, he said, “Now, Brethren, I understand all that we discussed, but until the bishops move, nothing will happen. Everything above the bishop is all talk.” He taught a great lesson.

Each priesthood leader who is here this day must go home and make sure the bishops understand the messages which we have heard, for it is in their interviews with the youth, it is in their interviews in calling the people to positions, it is in their compassion for the needy and the widows that the important spiritual things happen in the lives of the Saints. The bishop who utilizes the resources at his hands—the auxiliaries, the priesthood—to fulfill the needs of his people, is a true bishop, not one who follows slavishly a handbook to the detriment of his people.

Having said this, I would like to ask the youth and adults who are here, and all within the sound of my voice, that every night and morning you pray for your bishop. He needs your help. He cannot carry the responsibilities on his shoulders without your help and prayers.

The story is told of the young child who misbehaved in sacrament meeting. Father and Mother were embarrassed by his actions. Finally, Father was a little disturbed and took the child out. As he went down the aisle, he gave the child a little squeeze. The child knew he was in trouble. As the father turned to go out of the chapel, the child, now up over his father’s shoulder, said, “Bishop, help me!”

All members of the Church can turn to their bishops when they are in need of help and can feel secure in his love for them and can have confidence in following his counsel. Bishops learn not to judge people against a standard of perfection. A bishop learns that he will rejoice with those over whom he presides in any progress they make.

Let’s listen in on a conversation and the thoughts of a traveler.

While driving through California, I decided to take a detour across Death Valley. I had been warned not to risk getting stranded. So before tackling the valley itself, I pulled into the last lonely filling station to stock up with gas.

The solitary proprietor of the gas station was long, lean, rangy and laconic. His face had been tanned to saddle leather.

I reached my hand out of the window to feel the side of the car and withdrew it sharply with smarting fingertips.

“If it’s like this in April,” I said, “how high does the mercury go in summer?”

“Hundred-forty, hundred-fifty, mebbe.”

“Do you mean in the shade?”

He grinned, his eyes screwed up in a sardonic twinkle, “Ain’t no shade,” he said.

Looking around, I had to admit he was right. “Don’t suppose many cars come through here in the summer?”

“Nope. That’ll be three forty-five.”

“What do you do, then, in the summer?” I asked, fishing a five-dollar bill out of my wallet.

“Prospectin’,” he answered. “Gold, silver, pumice, anything I can find. Reckon I put in around fourteen, sixteen hours a day at it, all summer long.”

“My,” I said, “that sounds like pretty hard work. “

“Tain’t,” he replied. He hesitated as though to add something but then went to get my change. By the time he came back he had evidently corralled his thoughts in words.

“Guess nothin’s really hard work,” he said, “unless you’d sooner be doin’ somethin’ else.”

He counted out into my hand a silver dollar, a quarter, two dimes and two nickels. I must have been too hot to take in what he said. It wasn’t until I’d driven as far as Badwater and got out for a few moments to peer into the small stagnant pool which must have dashed the hopes of so many thirsty pioneers, that I realized that he had handed me, along with those fugitive coins, a lasting piece of wisdom—a nugget of purer gold than any he had ever dug out of the hills.

“Guess nothin’s really hard work,” he said, “unless you’d sooner be doin’ somethin’ else.” [Jan Struther, This Week]

“Are we going to make this marriage work, or not?” he asked.
Seven months married, six months pregnant, I sat on the bed, tears streaming down my cheeks and spotting my nightgown. I couldn’t give my husband an answer!
Jim, a nonmember, and a lieutenant junior grade aboard a U.S. destroyer, sailed out of San Diego, California, harbor every other week. He loved his duty, his friends aboard ship, and coming home to his sweetheart. But I was miserable! Because I was alone every other week and living in a strange city with no friends, no family, and (since I was inactive) no Church affiliation, I sank often into a state of despondency. Morning sickness, nausea, and a growing waistline did not improve my attitude. I felt trapped!
At the end of each “out to sea” week, Jim would return, ever the optimistic, expecting to find a happy, smiling wife. But after too many days of lonely vigilance, I was anything but sunshine. A dark gloomy cloud settled over our little rented bungalow. Doubts assailed me. I wasn’t sure I loved him. He didn’t seem to understand me or my needs. Was this what wedded bliss was supposed to be like? We had tried to talk it out before, but each time we satisfied only surface deficiencies, never the real problem.
Now we sat facing each other across the bed, our relationship teetering seriously. What were we going to do? The word divorce arose. Is that what we wanted? It carried a sound of finality, of permanency, and made us involuntarily shudder. But how could we change?
We sat in silence, pondering. Then Jim looked up. “Judith,” he said, “I think our problem is one of selfishness. Are you willing to make an honest effort to try an experiment? For the next thirty days, I’ll think only of you and your needs, and you think only of me and my needs. If at the end of that time our marriage has not improved, then we’ll talk about … about another solution.”
I agreed. I wanted—hungered for—happiness.
“But we must guard against one thing,” Jim warned. “We must not predetermine each other’s actions judging them against what we would like. Our wants may be out of proportion to what we receive, and disappointment may occur. This is to be a total concentration of what we can do for each other.”
The next morning I slipped out of bed early, fighting nausea and bleary eyes. Jim loved large hot breakfasts; I preferred sleeping later, with a light morning snack. Nevertheless, I cooked a large breakfast for him. Jim smelled the food and came into the kitchen smiling. So much for sleeping in! Even though every morning I still fought nausea, I cooked special breakfasts.
“Honey, I can hardly wait to get up in the morning just to see what exciting menu is on the table,” Jim said. “You’re a marvelous cook and I love it!” With this encouragement, my breakfasts continued to improve—and so did my willingness to prepare them.
The second big change came during those week-long assignments when Jim was out to sea. I took walks every day, started conversations with the local grocer and his wife, immersed myself in uplifting books and music, and shut every thought of self-pity out of my mind. Fridays required long preparation. I knew his optimism envisioned me running out the door and into his arms—so I ran! And then I led him back into the house to a carefully prepared meal. Romance blossomed again!
One night he said, “I feel like seeing a movie. Would you like to go?” Actually, I was tired and thinking about retiring early, but I remembered the commitment and grabbed my coat. Perhaps the hardest part is doing what you don’t feel like doing, without minding. The key, I’ve found, is attitude. Discomfort becomes insignificant when you have a genuine desire to please each other.
Of course I didn’t do all the changing in our marriage. Jim, too, kept his part of the commitment—and he did it in ways he knew would be most meaningful to me. His largest contribution was personalized attention. Five-minute rubdowns to my aching limbs and back expanded to an hour, soothing my nerves as well as my body. He provided more opportunities for talk and relaxation—taking me away from our four walls on weekends into the sunshine, to the beach, or to the park for archery or picnics. And he listened more attentively to what I was feeling and going through. He perceived how easily my feelings of confidence could fail, and so he reminded me of my positive traits during those periods to bolster my ego.
Even though he was only twenty-three years old, Jim commanded one hundred men aboard ship—men who saluted and followed his orders daily. Sometimes I had suspected he unconsciously desired the same behavior from me. But, happily, during our thirty day experiment, that harsh edge disappeared. In a matter of two weeks, I began to feel cherished, appreciated, and loved.
Our “extreme” commitment meant keeping each other’s needs always in the background of our thoughts; it meant asking ourselves each day “What can I do for him/her? How can I show I care?” It meant—for both of us—literally eliminating the feelings and thought of “I demand!” and “What about me?” and “Why doesn’t he/she … ?”
At first changes in our marriage were changes of attitude, but they were based upon the true principle of unselfishness, and our understanding and acceptance of the principle dictated our actions. We paid the price to please each other, and in that process discovered the beginnings of true love. All it took was to give instead of take; to be thoughtful instead of thoughtless; to desire to please rather than be pleased.

I would like to relate the experience of an ancestor of my wife, Jeanene. Her name is Sarah DeArmon Pea Rich. Her commentary shows the impact that the temple can have in our lives. When she was 31 years old, she received a calling from Brigham Young to work in the Nauvoo Temple, where all the ordinances possible were performed before the Saints had to abandon that temple. This is what she wrote:
“Many were the blessings we had received in the house of the Lord, which has caused us joy and comfort in the midst of all our sorrows and enabled us to have faith in God, knowing He would guide us and sustain us in the unknown journey that lay before us. For if it had not been for the faith and knowledge that was bestowed upon us in that temple by the influence and help of the Spirit of the Lord, our journey would have been like one taking a leap in the dark. To start out on such a journey in the winter as it were and in our state of poverty, it would seem like walking into the jaws of death. But we had faith in our Heavenly Father, and we put our trust in Him, feeling that we were His chosen people and had embraced His gospel, and instead of sorrow, we felt to rejoice that the day of our deliverance had come.”

In the April conference of 1951, at the age of seventy-eight, David Oman McKay stood in the tabernacle on Temple Square and spoke to those assembled. He had just been unanimously sustained as the prophet, seer, and revelator by the Saints.
“Brethren and sisters, brethren of the General Authorities, God keep us as one, overlooking weaknesses we see, keeping an eye single to the glory of God and the advancement of his work.
“And now to the members of the Church. We all need your help, your faith and prayers, not your adverse criticism, but your help. You can do that in prayer if you cannot reach us in person. The potency of these prayers throughout the Church came to me yesterday when I received a letter from a neighbor in my old home town. He was milking his cows when the word came over the radio which he had in his barn, that President Smith had passed. He sensed what that would mean to his former fellow-townsman, and he left his barn and went to the house and told his wife. Immediately they called their little children, and there in that humble home, suspending their activities, they knelt down as a family and offered prayer. The significance of that prayer I leave for you to understand. Multiply that by a hundred thousand, two hundred thousand, half a million homes, and see the power in the unity and prayers, and the sustaining influence in the body of the Church. …”

Every year the North Ogden 14th Ward, North Ogden Utah Ben Lomond Stake, puts on a super service project, but last year’s was something special. They decided to provide a party and presents for the residents of an adult mentally handicapped facility.
Each family with a teenager was assigned one resident, so it became a family project as well. Each family provided a stocking with their friend’s name on it and several gifts.
The program included a puppet show of “The 12 Days of Christmas,” carols, a slide show with the residents’ pictures, and the reading of the Christmas story from Luke. It also included the making of many new friendships.

Near my home in the north woods of upper Michigan, there once stood an old turn-of-the-century home. For years it had been abandoned, its black, weather-beaten frame cracking with age and crawling with snaky tendrils of ancient vines that wrapped and coiled themselves across the windows and around the doors. Various out-buildings were scattered here and there, but they were barely distinguishable beneath the creeping tangle of brush and brier. The house towered three stories high and cast a forbidding shadow on the bleached and withered ground. This shadow had spread throughout the community and entered the fearful heart of every child around.

When I entered the ninth grade, however, I decided it was time to get over being frightened of the old place. I wondered if perhaps I couldn’t use it for a party. Now, being the only Latter-day Saint in my high school, I had heard and tolerated some pretty cruel things. I figured I could stand up to jokes and criticism for not smoking and drinking, but what I couldn’t take was hearing over and over again about how Mormons just didn’t know how to really have fun at parties. Because of that, my bishop (who was also my dad and a biology professor at the nearby university) came up with an idea to prove my friends wrong. On Halloween night he would temporarily move into the local neighborhood haunted house. But by then—thanks to the efforts of my dad, brother, and missionaries—it would be transformed into a terrifying realm of horror and fright. According to plan I invited about 20 of my closest nonmember friends. Since all of them lived in town, about six miles away, I assumed none of them had ever heard of the old Sutinen home. I assumed correctly.

At 7:00 the party began at my house; and after about an hour of games, pizza, and root beer, I suggested we visit a poor old man named Toivo. I explained he lived alone but always had treats ready for any trick-or-treater who dared venture down the lonely, overgrown trail that led to his home. My suggestion was enthusiastically received until they saw Mr. Sutinen’s home. Even I, who knew my dad waited within, felt a shiver of fear creep along my spine, like a spider on a web of nerves. We approached cautiously toward where the house loomed up, outlined starkly against the moonlit sky. To add to the eerie effect, a single light flickered from behind the drawn curtains. Ghostly wisps of fog clawed at our legs, and branches whipped wickedly against our faces. We were considering bravely marching on, when shrill laughter split the tomblike quiet. Some of the group turned, running wildly for home, while the rest huddled near and bombarded me with questions. “Are you sure this is the right house?” “How long have you known this man?” “Are you positive he’s harmless?” and finally, “If this is a joke, you’re gonna be sorry!”

Reassuring them that everything was fine, I boldly knocked upon the blistered door. Like something out of a horror movie, the door slowly creaked open, and I gazed into the red-rimmed eyes of a madman. With a start I realized this white-haired maniac was my father!

“Trick-or-treat,” my friends whispered as Toivo Sutinen ushered us into his parlor. This room was dimly lit by two flickering candles perched on large polished skulls. Nice touch, Dad, I thought as I gazed at the skulls, the cobwebs, and the coffin set back in a corner.

“Wall now, ain’t dis a surprise. Ten purdy gerls cum ta visit ol’ me,” muttered Mr. Sutinen in a slurred drawl. “Ah was jist gunna eat ma supper. Join me, hey?”

Carol, the Good Samaritan of our group, slapped “old” Toivo on the shoulder and heartily agreed. The rest warily glanced around. And Mary, still hovering near the door, asked the question on everyone’s mind. “Uh, Mr. Sutinen, what were you planning to eat?”

“Why, ma favorite,” happily responded Mr. Sutinen, “barbecued bat wings!”

Too late we noticed the dozens of murky specimen bottles crowding the counters and shelves of the kitchen.

“Unless, of course,” finished Mr. Sutinen, whacking something near him, “you want ta wait until Mabel here thaws out.”

Looking up, we saw a row of frozen cats hanging stiffly from the rafters!

This, of course, made sense when one remembered my dad was a professor of biology and used such things in his labs. But to my friends it was a ghastly spectacle and required a hasty exit by the nearest door—which was locked! Mary promptly began to cry, and several others looked like they wanted to. I begged my friends to stay and humor this crazy old man a little while longer, and they agreed.

“Wall, ah kin see yer not hungry,” cheerfully said the old man, picking up one of the candle skulls. “Why don’t ah take you on a tour of ma home?”

Happily accepting any excuse to leave the kitchen and its occupants, we followed Toivo Sutinen up the rickety, wooden steps and into a narrow hall.

“First room on the left here was ma dear Mildred’s” explained Toivo opening the door wide and allowing us to enter.

Except for a dusty end table on which lay a bloodstained knife, everything in this room was covered with enormous sheets. Avoiding eye contact with the knife, we halfheartedly listened to Mr. Sutinen reminisce about his dear departed wife. Uncomfortably we began to realize he was talking about Mildred as if she were still alive.

“Yep, ma heart was near broke, couldn’t stand it no more. So went out late one night and brought ma Mildred back home.”

With a flourish, Mr. Sutinen pulled back the bed sheet. And there, in all her skeletal beauty, lay the former “Mrs. Sutinen”!

That was too much; my dad had gone too far! Screaming frantically we ran from the bedroom and down the stairs. We must have triggered something because as we ran ghosts in Victorian dress swooped past, bats squeaked, and howls echoed through the empty corridors. The door was now wide open, but as we bounded down the steep steps, something huge and hairy jumped out from behind a nearby tree.

I don’t remember much after that except a lot of screaming and running. Within minutes we were safely back in the security of my home, breathlessly reliving each terrifying moment. My mother insisted I tell my friends the truth, but it took some doing to convince them crazy Toivo was not only my father but the “minister” of my church.

Later, when my dad, brother, and the missionaries returned, everyone wanted to ask them questions. I’m not sure that much gospel doctrine got discussed that night, but all in all the experience had a positive effect on my friends. Two of them later joined the Church and four others seriously considered it. The greatest result, however, was that from then on there wasn’t a single Church activity that wasn’t attended by as many nonmembers as members.

“Do you know where I met Martin?” she asked them, coming to the kitchen entrance to talk. “At the five and ten store in Missoula. I was only 18 then. He was home from the army on a 30-day leave. It was a couple of days before Valentine Day, and I was working at the jewelry counter. After about a half an hour, he finally picked out something. He thrust it into my hand, paid for it, and asked if I’d gift wrap it. Well I did, but when I gave it to him, he just looked down, shook his head, gave it back, and mumbled, ‘It’s for you.’ And that was the beginning. Since he was going overseas in just a few weeks, we ended up getting married before he left.”
They listened to the records while they ate their snack.
“When Martin came back from the war, he worked at various jobs for a few years, and then we got a chance to get this place. It had belonged to his father. We’ve been here ever since.”
After the last record on the stack had played, she showed them the necklace. It was a tiny chain with a small silver heart in the middle. “I think it cost all of two dollars. Oh, there’s an inscription on the back. Can you still read it?”
“It says, ‘Love is forever.’” Cathy slowly read the worn inscription.
“I haven’t thought about that necklace for years.”

My youngest son swallowed caustic poison when he was three (he is now 22). The hospital took X-rays of his lungs, and the doctor or technician said he was fine and was going to send us home. I said, “What is this cloud in the lower left lung?” Please understand I am not a medical professional in any capacity; I should not have known anything about X-rays except for what a doctor told me. Another doctor walking by heard me, stopped to look at the X-ray, and shortly, we were admitted with a team of doctors and nurses streaming in and out of the room. The gas from the poison was solidifying in Chase’s lungs. If they had sent us home, he would have died in the night. I could not have told you at the time that I received revelation to question the X-ray, but after acting on inspiration, learning how the Lord communicates with me, and listening to Elder Dushku’s examples, I now know I received revelation to save my child.

It started out like any other day at school. Our teacher, Miss Blackstock, was writing on the chalkboard while I sat daydreaming at my desk. Then our principal walked in with a boy I had never seen before. The principal whispered something in Miss Blackstock’s ear, and everyone got quiet trying to listen.
The boy stood at the front of the classroom while the other kids stared at him. His faded plaid shirt hung loosely. There was a hole in the knee of his pants. With slumped shoulders, he dug his hands deep into his pockets and stared at the floor.
After the principal left, Miss Blackstock said, “Class, I would like you to meet Caleb Sanders. He recently moved here from Montana. That is quite a distance from here! Caleb, you may take the seat next to Luke.”
She pointed to the seat next to mine, and the class watched as Caleb nervously made his way down the aisle. As Miss Blackstock turned back to the chalkboard, whispers filled the room. Some of the kids were saying mean things about the way Caleb was dressed.
“Look at those weird boots,” someone said.
“He could hike up the Himalayas in those!” another boy chimed in.
I glanced over at Caleb, but he just sat there staring at his blank notebook page and clutching his pencil. I knew that he must have heard them because I saw him shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Then a couple of boys snickered so loudly that Miss Blackstock stopped writing.
“I see that everyone is eager to talk to Caleb, so let’s have him come up here and tell us a little bit about himself,” she said.
The class got quiet and stared at Caleb. I felt sorry for him. The boy who sat behind him kicked the back of Caleb’s chair and jeered, “Go ahead, mountain boy.”
Caleb slowly made his way to the front of the class. His hair partly covered his eyes, and his boots scuffed the floor when he walked. The kids around me snickered again. I knew that Miss Blackstock was trying to help, but I was afraid this would only make things worse.
One boy raised his hand and asked, “Where did you live in Montana, under a rock?”
The class burst into laughter.
The girl on the front row asked, “Does everyone in Montana dress like you?”
I felt my face getting hot as anger welled up inside me. If someone didn’t stop this, I knew Caleb would remain an outcast for the rest of the school year. But if I stuck up for him, the kids might laugh at me too.
Then I remembered what my stepmom told me when I tried out for the soccer team. She told me about David in the Old Testament. David was the youngest of all his brothers, but the Lord chose him to be king. It didn’t matter what he looked like. Sometimes people judge others by their appearance, but the Lord looks on the heart.
I knew Caleb needed help, so I raised my hand. Miss Blackstock called on me. Caleb didn’t look up. He probably expected me to make fun of him too.
“I’ve heard that there are some cool parks in Montana with great hiking trails. What are they like?” I asked.
The class got quiet. I felt my face turning red again, but Caleb smiled. I could see that he was relieved to answer a kind question. In a quiet voice he started to speak.
He told us that his family had lived on a large ranch in Montana, and he had even owned a horse. He told about his favorite trail in Glacier National Park and how he had encountered a real live bear. As he told more and more about his home, the other kids began asking questions about the bear, the hiking, and the rock climbing.
After school I wasn’t sure if anyone would sit by me on the bus. I held my backpack close and stared out the bus window. Suddenly, I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was Caleb.
“Can I sit here?” he asked shyly.
“Sure!” I said, moving over to make room.
I never would have guessed how that day would turn out. I am glad I had the courage to be nice to Caleb. Now he has many friends—and I’m proud to be one of them.

I recently read the article titled “Last on the List” in the November 1997 issue. I especially love this article because I can relate to it. I have just been chosen to serve as the new Beehive president in our ward, and I faced the same challenges Lisa did in the story. It was a hard choice because everyone was so perfect for the spots. I prayed and asked my Heavenly Father to help me make the right choices. I was given the answer to call as my second counselor a girl who doesn’t have very many friends. Now I know that she is truly right for the position. Thank you once again for that wonderful message.
Name WithheldUtah

Elder Gerrit W. Gong, recently called to serve in the Presidency of the Seventy, remembers a prompting that came to him while he was serving as a missionary in Taiwan.
An investigator came into sacrament meeting. “I felt inspired to write him a short note in Morse code which said something like, ‘Welcome to sacrament meeting. Happy to see you here!’”
The investigator happened to be a radio operator and was delighted to receive the message. “I was amazed that something I had learned years earlier could help me … to reach a certain individual in a particular way,” says Elder Gong.

In fast and testimony meeting, Brother Johnson told of an experience he’d had while driving across a lonely stretch of highway. The still, small voice had told him to take a different route home, one that would add about ten miles to his trip. Although he had been eager to get back home from his business trip, he obeyed the prompting. On his detour, he came across a rollover accident. A young family had been traveling a long way to visit relatives. When the father, who was driving the car, fell asleep, the car had drifted too close to the side of the road and had rolled off a steep embankment. Brother Johnson was able to help the young family by calling for help on the phone he carried in his car and by administering first-aid to the father, who had some serious cuts and bruises.

“When I was six, I had an experience that is very important to me. I’m afraid that I didn’t come out of it as a hero—exactly the opposite. Most of the time we’re not heroes. We are learning, progressing, correcting our mistakes. This incident really taught me about the consequences of dishonesty. In Germany at that time, if teachers wanted to send information to parents, they sent home a letter. Such a letter was always sent in a blue envelope, and so it was nicknamed the ‘blue letter.’ A blue letter always contained bad news! I must have done something wrong at school, because I got a blue letter. I put it in my backpack, and when I got home, my mother asked, ‘What’s wrong with you?’
“I lied. ‘Nothing. Nothing’s wrong.’
“She said, ‘Well, I see by the tip of your nose that something’s wrong.’
“That made me angry and very defensive, so after lunch I went into the living room and opened up my backpack and put everything on the desk. I must have been careless, because the blue letter fell out. My mother immediately saw it and asked, ‘What’s that?’ I tried to grab the envelope and hide it, but Mother had already picked it up and was opening it.
“I will never forget the feelings of pain that came over me while she was reading that letter. To make a mistake is one thing, but it isn’t a really grave mistake if you admit it, ask for forgiveness, and make a commitment not to do it again. But to try to hide a mistake, hoping that nobody will find out, that’s a serious mistake.
“And so the lie caused me much more sorrow than the original mistake. I can’t even remember what was in that blue letter, but I still recall, in vivid detail, the awfulness of lying to my mother.

Do you know what an “oma” and an “opa” are? Jenneke and Amberley Kurtz do. “Oma” and “opa” are Dutch for “grandma” and “grandpa.” Jenneke (8) and Amberley (10) know even more than this about their family history, including their Dutch ancestors.
They live in the Tawa Ward of the Wellington New Zealand Stake with their parents, Julie and Dick Kurtz. They have an older brother, Ben (15), and an older sister, Desiree (13). The Kurtz family’s favorite game to play is Family History Bingo. You probably have never heard of that game before, because the Kurtz family made it up. Playing it helps them learn the names of their ancestors, a little bit about them, and how they are all related.
Jenneke loves Family History Bingo. She loves her oma, too, and was really happy when she came from Hamilton, New Zealand, to play the piano at Jenneke’s baptism. Because her grandma doesn’t live nearby, they don’t get to see each other very often.
For her baptism, Jenneke received a set of scriptures, which she has started reading with her family in the mornings—on her own, too.
Amberley also loves to read. “She could read a book all day,” her father says. Actually, she could read a book a day for 150 days! That’s how many books she’s collected so far.
Amberley likes to cook, especially pasta. Her mom says that she should have been born in Italy instead of New Zealand because she likes to cook pasta so much.
Both girls enjoy doing things with their family, such as going on walks, going on vacation, and fishing.
The girls like to do some things by themselves. Jenneke likes to take care of plants. She grows sunflowers in the garden and likes to work outside. Last year, some of her sunflowers grew to be even taller than she is!
Besides gardening, Jenneke likes to spend time with animals—especially her orange cat. With Desiree’s help, Jenneke runs a cat-feeding business. She visits many cats in the neighborhood to feed them for other families.
Amberley likes animals, too—especially rabbits. She wants to be a veterinarian when she grows up. She keeps two rabbits in large cages behind her house. She takes good care of them and feeds and cleans them regularly. “Amberley is really kind,” Ben says—and not just to her animals. Desiree says that Amberley is generous with everyone.
Amberley likes to play cricket with Ben. She also enjoys shooting a netball outside her house. (Netball is something like basketball and is played with a soccer ball.) She is a good netball player and has been player of the month at her school three times. When she first started playing, she was having trouble catching the ball. But as she listened to her coaches and kept trying, she became a lot better at it.
Both girls play musical instruments. Amberley is in her fifth year of piano lessons, and Jenneke is learning to play the recorder. Sometimes they play duets.
Like most sisters, Jenneke and Amberley are alike in many ways, different in other ways. Amberley is quieter and likes sports; Jenneke is more outgoing and likes to garden. But even though they are different—as different as a piano and a recorder—they play together in harmony. They both hope that someday their descendants will learn about them and about how much they love their family and the gospel. Maybe their descendants will learn those things in a game like Family History Bingo.

David Eves discovered life can change quite quickly when, on 20 September 1997, he and his friends were riding an off-road vehicle in southern Utah.
“We hit a bump and lost control,” explains David. “I remember flying through the air, then waking up in excruciating pain. When I saw my friends looking down at me and I told them I couldn’t feel my legs, I knew I would never be the same.”
David was flown to a hospital in Salt Lake City and underwent eight hours of surgery. He spent the next three months fighting for his life.
David, a member of the La Verkin Second Ward, La Verkin Utah Stake, had been a sports star, but now he faced new challenges. He couldn’t keep food down or speak, and he was in extreme pain. His weight dropped from 170 to 100 pounds (78 to 45 kilograms) in two months.
The days and nights were long and hard to endure. “I wanted to get off the painkillers, but the pain was unbearable,” David recalls. “I asked my dad to read to me from the Book of Mormon, and as he did a miracle happened. The spirit of that book brought so much peace, I was able to rest.”
But David was not improving. Jill Eves became alarmed at her son’s severe weight loss. She prayed for inspiration and felt impressed to call a specialist. The new doctor repaired a hole in David’s esophagus. Two weeks later, David came home from the hospital.

Last summer, I was baptized. The water was very warm. When my dad lifted me out of the water, I felt very good inside. The Holy Ghost testified that I was doing what Heavenly Father wanted me to do. I was very happy.
When I was baptized, I made a covenant, or a two-way promise, with Heavenly Father that I would follow Him and keep His commandments. He promised to help me and guide me with the gift of the Holy Ghost.
After my baptism, the bishop welcomed me as a member of the Church and taught me a lesson. He asked me to stand on a chair and look at a picture of Jesus Christ that was hanging on the wall. I could also see a reflection of myself in the glass of the picture’s frame. It taught me that Jesus will always be with me when I need Him.
I know that getting baptized is a great thing. I am so glad I made the decision to get baptized, and I know you will be happy if you do so too!
Illustration by Simona Love

Countless are the reports we have heard during the past three and a half weeks of those who were touched in some way—either directly or indirectly—by the events of that day. I should like to share with you the comments of a Church member, Rebecca Sindar, who was on a flight from Salt Lake City to Dallas on the morning of Tuesday, September 11. The flight was interrupted, as were all flights in the air at the time of the tragedies, and the plane grounded in Amarillo, Texas. Sister Sindar reports: “We all left the plane and found televisions in the airport, where we crowded around to see the broadcast of what had happened. People were lined up to call loved ones to assure them we were safely on the ground. I shall always remember the 12 or so missionaries who were on their way to the mission field on our flight. They made phone calls, and then we saw them huddled in a circle in a corner of the airport, kneeling in prayer together. How I wish I could have captured that moment to share with the mothers and fathers of those sweet young men as they saw the need for prayer right away.”

On a recent sunny summer day, the noise and excitement that 75 young people can generate brought life back to the area. The youth and leaders of the Highland Utah Ninth Ward came to help clean, fix, paint, weed, clear wood, scrub, and repair what they could of the old town. They wanted to participate in a service project that really meant something. Their bishop, LaMar Hatch was born in Gem Valley. He knew that the history foundation working to preserve the Mormon ghost town of Chesterfield needed a lot of donated muscle power, so he suggested the project to the Young Men and Young Women class presidents. They loved the idea.
As the caravan of cars and vans pulled into the valley, loaded with youth and leaders ready to work, the group was a little surprised by what they saw. Somehow they imagined a ghost town like they saw in the movies with swirling dust blowing tumbleweeds down the streets. On this day, the valley was lush and green with alfalfa to feed the cattle that are still grazed in the area. More than one person described it as looking like a big, green golf course.
The group scattered among the old buildings doing things some of them had never tried before. Several girls were enthusiastically sloshing white paint on themselves and on the outhouse behind the old chapel. After lunch the same group, with the paint thoroughly dried on their clothes, was dusting all the old framed photographs lining the back wall of the chapel.
Heather Nelson was fascinated by the faces she saw in the black-and-white photos of the people who once attended church here. “This is more fun than painting, and I had a blast painting.”
Some of the young men helped pour new concrete steps in front of the school. It was the first time they had ever tried their hand at pouring concrete. Of course, they had plenty of expert supervision, and they weren’t shy about getting into it up to their elbows when holes needed to be filled or excess moved from one place to another.
Many of the jobs that needed to be done were just plain hard work, like clearing dead wood away from old houses. But you didn’t hear many complaints. Everyone was busy.
While resting for a minute after lunch, Scott Sheffield said, “I thought we’d come up here and no one would be working. I thought we might end up destroying the ghost town instead of fixing it up.” But as they started clearing away the weeds, it almost immediately started looking better.
When the group was gathered on the benches inside the little one-room chapel, they couldn’t help noticing how some things about the Church were very much the same as they were one hundred years ago.
A hundred years ago, the young people would push back the benches and hold a dance after working hard all day. Today, this group was looking forward to the dance that evening hosted by the Chesterfield Ward. A hundred years ago, the youth might get together for ice cream after sending a wagon covered with canvas into the mountains to bring back snow to use in the ice cream freezers. Today, the youth would cool off with ice cream from the drive-in and a swim in the big outdoor pool at nearby Lava Hot Springs.
And one hundred years ago, young people gathered in their chapel to be taught about a Heavenly Father who loves them and the way to return to him. Today, the Highland Ninth Ward enjoyed being together to learn about those same gospel truths.