Gospel Story Finder

Kristin: “Trying to get acquainted in a new ward can be hard, even in the best of circumstances. But it can be truly stressful when you move in as a part-member family. People often think that because our spouse is not a member, we can’t be very active either. I started believing that myself once until my husband said to me, ‘Sometimes I don’t understand it when you talk about how much your church means to you—and then you don’t do the things you say you want to. I think that maybe you’re not as committed as you claim.’

“I was surprised, but then I realized he was right. All too often I haven’t attended meetings that I knew I should attend because I was tired or feared possible conflict with my husband’s plans. Not only was I missing the blessings of attending the meeting, but I was also giving my husband the impression that the gospel was something I could accept or leave alone!

“Since that day, I have earnestly striven to seek first the kingdom of God. (See Matt. 6:33.) Although I still fail at times, I have found that when I put the Lord first, the rest of my life is easier to handle.”

Percy “Chappy” Winstanley, who presided over the first Durban stake created in 1981 and came up from Johannesburg to attend the Durban dedication, recalled Church members putting their lives on the line regularly—sometimes in helping with routine meetings and activities.
“We had a high councilor down in the Eastern Cape who would have to run the gauntlet of rioters throwing rocks at his car to go open the meetinghouse in the morning,” he said. “Then he would have to go back [to lock the building], and here came the rocks again.”

María Coj was a 17-year-old member of the Church in Guatemala, the oldest of eight children. She was sick with cysticercosis, a parasitic infection that comes from eating contaminated food, that with time spread to her brain, causing terrible headaches and then blindness. To give her relief from the pain, it was necessary to move her from her home in Sololá to Guatemala City. Because of convulsions caused by the advances of the illness, her condition worsened, and it was only with life-support systems that she was kept alive. It was evident that she could not live long under those conditions.
At this same time, Erika Alonzo, 12, a partially blind member of the Church, traveled 22 hours by bus from Honduras to Guatemala City to receive an eye operation. For two weeks she waited for a cornea from the United States to be transplanted to her eye, but none was available.
At this same time María died. Because her blindness was caused by pressure on her brain, her corneas were healthy. María’s father and mother authorized the cornea donation. The operation was a success.
On the 12th of July 1993, Erika traveled to Sololá to meet the Coj family for the first time. The surprised family asked her, “Can you see?” She answered, “I see everything clearly.” It was a spiritual meeting. Sister Coj, who did not understand much Spanish, because her native language is Cakchiqúel, felt the love and the spirit of the conversation. Because of the donation of María’s eyes, Erika can now see and enjoy everything around her. The death of one person and the love of her parents blessed the life of another. The medical miracle of one person being able to look through eyes of another is a surprising reality.

Kayla Walker followed in her father Kay’s footsteps as he approached the river. Their friend, Tim McCormick, also moved out onto the ice. But even though she was excited to make the crossing, she was a little scared. Their guide, Jerry McLeod, had already warned them both that if they felt the ice crack beneath their feet to spread out their arms to catch themselves from falling in completely. Kayla said, “He told us to try to stay above the ice. If you fall below, the current will carry you under the ice, and they wouldn’t be able to get you. That was sort of scary.”
Kayla stepped out on the ice. Exactly 150 years ago that month, the first pioneers to leave Nauvoo crossed on the ice of the Mississippi to the other side, leaving behind their beloved and beautiful city with the white temple shining on the hill. Kayla was reenacting that night with her father and a friend. (Any unauthorized activity on the river ice is prohibited.)
“I was wearing three pairs of pants, a turtleneck, and a sweater. Then I had on a big ski coat, a hat, a scarf, and gloves. I had on two pairs of boot socks and hiking boots, and I was still cold. It was, like, minus-20 degrees. That’s why the ice was so thick. It was frozen 18 inches down. I could see cracks in it, but all you could see was more ice because it was so thick.
“It was dark. It was slippery, but we kept a steady pace. There was snow on top of the ice, so we did have some traction. We hit some slick spots where it was hard for me to keep up. I just didn’t want to stop. I wanted to get across. It took us 18 1/2 minutes.
“Brother McLeod’s wife met us on the other side in her van and drove us back home. I was very glad to get in that van with the heater on high and hot chocolate waiting. It was neat to think about my ancestors doing the same thing. Only they did it with long dresses and their children and some people who were sick. They did that, with no questions asked, because they believed in the Church. What a strong testimony they had. I think I would have gone hesitantly. I would have been asking, Why can’t I just wait? Just doing what they did so long ago was a big testimony builder.”
Kayla, 17, is a member of the Nauvoo Ward in Nauvoo, Illinois. She and the other youth in the ward have heard the stories about the pioneers who built their town at least a thousand times each. They all know that Nauvoo means the City Beautiful. And they know every street, every house, practically every flower and blade of grass in the city that they are helping to make beautiful once again. After all, many of their service projects and a lot of their summer jobs involve planting those flowers and mowing those blades of grass.
The city of Nauvoo today still occupies a gentle bend in the Mississippi River. It is a small town with only slightly more than 1,000 residents. In its day, 150 years ago, Nauvoo was a booming city of 10,000 residents. Now the streets of the old part of town on the flats are mostly filled with visitors. Pioneer homes, made of the local red brick, are slowly being rebuilt and repaired. When the youth are asked to come help decorate the Kimball home for Christmas, they immediately know it isn’t the home of one of the local ward members. It’s the home of Heber C. Kimball, an early leader in the Church.
Although there are no ghosts, it’s easy to feel the presence of those early settlers and how happy they were living gathered together, worshipping together, and just being where the Prophet Joseph was so they could see him and hear him often.
The Nauvoo teens know well the feeling of being in the presence of a prophet. They have had the last two presidents of the Church visit Nauvoo. Dustin Powell, 17, said about President Hinckley, “When the prophet came to speak, I was really paying attention to him. Everyone was more attentive. Everything was quiet so everyone could listen to him. I thought it was amazing.”
Trampas Powell, 16, added, “You just felt good to be where he was.”

In addition to the LDS recipients, there was at least one Scout recognized who came from an LDS-sponsored troop but who is not a member of the Church. John C. Eisenhart received a Medal of Merit for saving his grandfather’s life when the grandfather fell from a six-foot ladder and fractured his skull. John used a handkerchief compress to stop the bleeding, and then called an emergency squad. The wound required 61 stitches. “I was glad that I had had my Boy Scout first aid training,” John said. He is senior patrol leader of Troop 51, Newark Ward, Columbus Ohio East Stake.

My wife and I attended a sacrament meeting near Recife, Brazil. A young boy, possibly 9 or 10 years of age, wearing his new blue suit on a very hot day, went to the pulpit and in a very relaxed way looked at the congregation. He said, “Our family has been studying about moral agency.” He then read: “Wherefore, men are free according to the flesh. … And they are free to choose liberty and eternal life, through the great Mediator of all men, or to choose captivity and death, according to the captivity and power of the devil.” The boy then said, “Some of my older friends are choosing to smoke and use drugs, but we all will have to accept the consequences of our actions.” He finished with his testimony, saying, “I can see that this is true.” This testimony from one so young was powerful and touched our hearts deeply.

But the Lord was much more interested in who I was becoming. Sometimes becoming requires discomfort. It requires loneliness, sacrifice, and sometimes becoming requires heartbreak. For many years, life felt full. Busy. Beautiful. And absolutely normal. But then in 2020, everything changed.

My Sione passed away during the COVID-19 pandemic while we were locked out of our home in Tonga. Our daughter, Lose, was serving her mission in San Jose, California, and my two younger children were adjusting to a new life in Utah. One moment, I was a wife building a future with my eternal companion. And the next moment, I was a widow trying to figure out how to breathe again. There are no words strong enough to describe that kind of loss.

In the middle of that heartbreak, I came to understand that testimony is not built only in moments of success. It is built in moments when all you can do is hold onto the Savior. And when my world fell apart, those truths became my lifeline.

There were days after Sione passed away when I honestly did not know how I would continue. I remember one particular moment very clearly. The day after Sione’s burial, I had to turn in the final paper for my master’s degree. I remember sitting there staring at my computer, wondering what I could possibly write. Nothing came. My mind was exhausted. My heart was broken.

During the month Sione was in the hospital, I struggled to attend Zoom group calls. I struggled to complete quizzes and assignments. Most days, I was surviving on three to four hours of sleep, going back and forth between home and the hospital, praying for a miracle, trying to be strong for my kids while quietly falling apart inside.

I was fasting almost every single day, barely giving myself enough time to eat a small bite before beginning another fast. And yet, somehow, with the Lord’s help, I kept moving forward one small step at a time. But the hardest moment came after the burial. The house felt quiet. The future felt uncertain. And I remember thinking, “I do not know if I can do this.”

Not long after Sione passed away, I remember receiving a phone call from Elder Gary E. Stevenson. During that conversation, he reminded me of a truth that I have carried deeply in my heart ever since — that the Lord would consecrate my afflictions for my gain.

At the time, I could not fully understand how something so painful could ever become part of God’s plan for my growth. But over time, I began to see the Lord’s hand in ways I could not recognize in the middle of my grief. Through Jesus Christ, we really can do hard things. Not because we are strong on our own. But because He strengthens us. In the midst of trials and tribulations, grief and heartache, the Lord again prevailed in His own way.

I was able to finish my paper and graduate with my Master of Business Administration. At the time, all I could see was pain and uncertainty. But the Lord could see who I was becoming. And once again, He was helping me become. This led me to opportunities that have blessed not only my life, but also my children and those I love dearly.

A Primary teacher shared the following example. “Today,” she said, “our five- and six-year-old class made love necklaces. Each child drew pictures on strips of paper: one of themselves, one of Jesus, and some of members of their family and loved ones. We glued the strips into circles that looped through each other to make a chain that we turned into love necklaces. As they were drawing, the children talked about their families.
“Heather said, ‘I don’t think my sister loves me. We are always fighting. … I even hate myself. I have a bad life.’ And she put her head in her hands.
“I thought about her family circumstances and felt that maybe she did indeed have a hard life. But after Heather had said this, Anna, down at the other end of the table, responded, ‘Heather, I am putting you in my necklace between me and Jesus because He loves you and I love you.’
“When Anna said that, Heather crawled under the table to get to Anna and threw her arms around her.
“At the end of class, when her grandmother came to pick her up, Heather said, ‘Guess what, Grandma? Jesus loves me.’”

When McKay Hatch of Pasadena, California, and his friends started middle school at age 12, he was bothered by the increase in bad language. “I think what bothered me most,” says McKay, “was that they were using it every other word. It wasn’t just that they used a cuss word when they stubbed their toe. It was becoming part of their everyday language.”
McKay got up his nerve, spoke to his friends, and basically said that if they wanted to continue hanging out with him, they had to quit using bad language. He wondered if he would lose all his friends, but they stuck with him and cleaned up their language. McKay came up with the idea of starting a club—a No Cussing Club.
The first club meeting was held June 1, 2007, at the end of the school year. “A lot of people came,” says McKay. “I was surprised. We talked about what our goals were going to be and what we could do.” Since that simple beginning, McKay reports having members or branches of the club in all 50 states and in 35 countries. They now have T-shirts, wristbands, and a Web site.
The club wanted to have a cuss-free week in their city. McKay wrote to the city council, who agreed, and last year, March 3–7 was declared Cuss-Free Week. In March 2009, the county of Los Angeles, home to over 10 million people, is also going have a Cuss-Free Week, with McKay receiving the proclamation.
It hasn’t all been smooth sailing. At first, McKay almost quit because of negative response. Sometimes people would yell bad words at him. Or they would accuse him of trying to take away their freedom of speech. McKay points out that he isn’t making them do anything. He asks them to challenge themselves to improve. “I’m just trying to bring awareness about people’s language.”
McKay is often asked to talk at elementary schools. He tells the younger kids that their words become their thoughts, their thoughts become their actions, their actions become their character, and their character becomes their destiny. “I tell them it all starts with your words.”

When I had just turned deacon age, my family moved from our home in Wyoming to a new home in Great Falls, Montana. My father, older brother, and younger sister climbed into our pickup truck and led the way. They were towing a large red trailer we had borrowed for the move. The rest of the family, with Mom at the wheel, climbed into the family van.
We had crossed the state line into Montana when the driver of a car in front of the truck suddenly stepped on his brakes. My father braked to avoid hitting the car and the trailer jackknifed. The weight of the trailer then caused the pickup truck to whip back and forth across the road. The force of the motion caused everything to shift, and the trailer’s back doors flew off. The trailer’s contents then spilled out onto the highway.
Luckily my father was able to bring the pickup under control without further incident. A crowd of at least 20 people, including my family, climbed out of their cars to help clear our things off the highway.
Suddenly, in the middle of the mess and confusion, I heard my father shout. A large truck was going too fast to stop. There was no room for him to go around and no time to slam on the brakes. The truck barreled through the debris and into the small crowd of people. Nearly everyone moved when they heard my dad’s cry, but seven-year-old Charlie hadn’t heard. Steven, who was about to turn ten, had started to move out of the way. But when he saw Charlie in the truck’s path, he turned back to save his brother’s life.
Charlie was killed instantly. Steven was hit by the truck and thrown to the side of the road. He died two hours later in a Billings, Montana, hospital. Steven literally gave his own life trying to save his brother’s. His example made me think how lucky I was to have a brother who loved others so much that he was willing to give his life to save them.

Material blessings are a part of the gospel if they are achieved in the proper way and for the right purpose. I am reminded of an experience of President Hugh B. Brown. As a young soldier in World War I, he was visiting an elderly friend in the hospital. This friend was a millionaire several times over who, at the age of eighty, was lying at death’s door. Neither his divorced wife nor any of his five children cared enough to come to the hospital to see him. As President Brown thought of the things his friend “had lost which money could not buy and noted his tragic situation and the depth of his misery,” he asked his friend how he would change the course of his life if he had it to live over again.
The old gentleman, who died a few days later, said: “‘As I think back over life the most important and valuable asset which I might have had but which I lost in the process of accumulating my millions, was the simple faith my mother had in God and in the immortality of the soul.
“‘… You asked me what is the most valuable thing in life. I cannot answer you in better words than those used by the poet.’” He asked President Brown to get a little book out of his briefcase from which he read a poem entitled “I’m an Alien.”
I’m an alien, to the faith my mother taught me.
I’m a stranger to the God that heard my mother when she cried.
I’m an alien to the comfort that, “Now I lay me,” brought me.
To the everlasting arms that held my father when he died.
When the great world came and called me, I deserted all to follow.
Never noting in my blindness I had slipped my hand from His.
Never dreaming in my dazedness that the bubble fame is hollow.
That the wealth of gold is tinsel, as I since have learned it is.
I have spent a lifetime seeking things I spurned when I found them,
I have fought and been rewarded in many a winning cause,
But I’d give it all, fame and fortune and the pleasures that surround them,
If I only had the faith that made my mother what she was.
“That was the dying testimony of a man who was born in the Church but had drifted far from it. That was the brokenhearted cry of a lonely man who could have anything money could buy, but who had lost the most important things of life in order to accumulate this world’s goods” (Continuing the Quest, Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Co., 1961, pp. 32–35; italics added).

My father, Parley W. Newman, served as a paratrooper in World War II. On more than one occasion, he parachuted behind enemy lines in the South Pacific and was under fire. He lost close friends in combat and was eventually wounded himself.
When I was a child, I suffered from excessive fears over the evils that exist in the world. My good parents made great efforts to help me overcome those fears, but the fears persisted.
One night, my father came into my room and told me of the tremendous fear he had daily experienced during the war—an entirely justifiable fear in the face of real and imminent danger. He told me that throughout his time in the war, he carried with him a verse of scripture printed on a card and received comfort from the promise of that verse. He then handed me a card on which he had printed that same scripture, Joshua 1:9.
I slept that night—and for many nights—with that card under my pillow and carried it with me, as my father had, until I no longer needed the card itself, for the Lord’s promise in that verse was imprinted on my mind and heart. My father’s gift of the Lord’s words was the beginning of my learning to replace fear with faith.
As a young woman I searched the scriptures for similar promises and assurances of the Lord and relied upon them with all my heart. I still do. In time, I arranged some of those scriptural promises into a poetic text that my brother, Mark, has set to music—music intended to convey both the power and peace of these promises.

A few years ago, our little family went through what many families face in this fallen world. Our youngest son, Tanner Christian Lund, contracted cancer. He was an incredible soul, as nine-year-olds tend to be. He was hilariously mischievous and, at the same time, stunningly spiritually aware. Imp and angel, naughty and nice. When he was little and was every day bewildering us with his shenanigans, we wondered if he was going to grow up to be the prophet or a bank robber. Either way, it seemed that he was going to leave a mark on the world.
And then he became desperately ill. Over the next three years, modern medicine employed heroic measures, including two bone marrow transplants, where he caught pneumonia, requiring him to spend 10 weeks unconscious on a ventilator. Miraculously, he recovered for a short time, but then his cancer returned.
Shortly before he passed away, Tanner’s disease had invaded his bones, and even with strong pain medicines, still he hurt. He could barely get out of bed. One Sunday morning, his mom, Kalleen, came into his room to check on him before the family left for church. She was surprised to see that he had somehow gotten himself dressed and was sitting on the edge of his bed, painfully struggling to button his shirt. Kalleen sat down by him. “Tanner,” she said, “are you sure you are strong enough to go to church? Maybe you should stay home and rest today.”
He stared at the floor. He was a deacon. He had a quorum. And he had an assignment.
“I’m supposed to pass the sacrament today.”
“Well, I’m sure someone could do that for you.”
“Yes,” he said, “but … I see how people look at me when I pass the sacrament. I think it helps them.”
So Kalleen helped him button his shirt and tie his tie, and they drove to church. Clearly, something important was happening.
I came to church from an earlier meeting and so was surprised to see Tanner sitting on the deacons’ row. Kalleen quietly told me why he was there and what he had said: “It helps people.”
And so I watched as the deacons stepped to the sacrament table. He leaned gently against another deacon as the priests passed them the bread trays. And then Tanner shuffled to his appointed place and took hold of the end of the pew to steady himself as he presented the sacrament.
It seemed that every eye in the chapel was on him, moved by his struggle as he did his simple part. Somehow Tanner expressed a silent sermon as he solemnly, haltingly moved from row to row—his bald head moist with perspiration—representing the Savior in the way that deacons do. His once indomitable deacon’s body was itself a little bruised, broken, and torn, willingly suffering to serve by bearing the emblems of the Savior’s Atonement into our lives.
Seeing how he had come to think about being a deacon made us think differently too—about the sacrament, about the Savior, and about deacons and teachers and priests.
I wonder at the unspoken miracle that had impelled him that morning to respond so bravely to that still, small call to serve, and about the strength and capacities of all of our emergent youth as they push themselves to respond to a prophet’s call to enlist in God’s battalions and join in the work of salvation and exaltation.

The following year I left Barranquilla, Colombia, to go to Bogotá for a month with my mother because she needed chemotherapy. During that time I prayed constantly and felt close to the Lord. I decided to change my university major, and through inspiration, I learned that the Lord wanted me to devote my life to teaching children. When I returned to school, I began working on a degree in special education.
I knew that Heavenly Father had given me my calling in Primary to prepare me. As I served, I discovered my true vocation, and as I lived the gospel and lost myself in service, I felt that I was in the Lord’s arms.

In the spring of 1837, Erastus and other missionaries revisited places from his previous trip and entered new areas of Pennsylvania, Maryland, and Virginia, “baptizing and organizing a number of branches.” In Bridgeport, Pennsylvania, he was pelted with rotten eggs and driven from town. At Leitersburg, Maryland, he held a 12-hour discussion with a Campbellite preacher, one of many long theological debates the young missionary said he won during his trip. In Pennsylvania two sisters, nearly dead, were healed by his priesthood administration. After preaching 147 sermons in seven months and baptizing about 40 people, he returned to Kirtland on December 5, 1837, a month after his 19th birthday.

Helen gazed through the window as the snow swirled outside, and shivered. “Brrr, Mama, it’s cold!” she said. She thought about Daddy, who was out working at whatever job he could find on this cold, windy day. “I hope Daddy is all right.”
“I’m sure he will be fine,” Mama said. “Come help me finish kneading this bread before your sister wakes from her nap.”
Helen climbed on a chair and watched Mama push, pound, and roll the ball of dough. She looked over at the beans that had been boiling on the stove all morning, and frowned.
Mama saw her frown and said, “Helen, we are lucky Daddy has work so we have food. And I have a secret,” she whispered. Helen moved closer.
“I have raisins, walnuts, and a little honey for our leftover dough. Let’s make cinnamon rolls!”
“A Christmas gift for Daddy!” Helen said, clapping her hands. Together they rolled the dough and spread the honey. Helen carefully placed each raisin and walnut as Mama sprinkled cinnamon.
Then Mama said, “Let’s go to the barn while we’re waiting for the rolls to rise and see if the chickens laid any eggs.”
The wind whistled around them as they ran to the barn. When Mama finished placing the last egg into a basket, Helen counted each one. “Nine eggs, Mama!”
When they got inside, Helen checked the cinnamon rolls. “Look! They’re perfect,” she said as Mama placed them in the oven.
Then they heard a knock at the door.
“Who could that be?” Mama asked.
Helen followed Mama and hid behind her skirt as Mama opened the door. Behind it stood a tired-looking woman holding a couple of red wooden chairs. Helen peeked out from behind Mama.
The woman stepped forward. “I’m selling these little red chairs for one dollar each,” she said.
Helen let go of Mama’s skirt and touched one of the chairs. She thought how she and her sister would love those chairs. Something behind the woman caught Helen’s eye. A daddy and little children were waiting in an old truck.
Mama wiped her hands on her apron and invited the woman inside. “With these hard times, I don’t have any money to give you,” Mama said. “But I will make you a Christmas trade.”
Mama picked up the basket of eggs and added potatoes to it. Then she took out a clean bucket and filled it with the cooked beans. Helen’s heart felt warm as Mama took out a hot loaf of bread and put it in the basket.
“Thank you,” the woman said softly.
Helen smiled at the woman. The woman put down the red chairs as Mama put a finger over her lips, “This is our Christmas secret, Helen.”
Tears rolled down the woman’s face as she walked with Mama to the door and they wished each other “Merry Christmas.”
On Christmas morning Helen and her sister each unwrapped a little red chair. One leg on Helen’s was a little shorter than the other three. “Look, my very own rocking chair!” This had been the very best Christmas.

There was a recent court case called “Infant Doe.” It took place in a midwestern state. Infant Doe—you notice how lawyers tend to divorce all passion, all emotion and meaning from things—calling him “Infant Doe.” This little child had parents with names. I guess he himself never got a name, though. He was born a mongoloid child, retarded, but no one knows how severely. You do not find out the degree of severity until the child gets older.

Infant Doe also had a correctable physical defect. His esophagus was not connected to his stomach, and he couldn’t eat. So the doctor said, “We’ll go in, do an operation, and connect the esophagus to the stomach. It’s a serious operation, but it can be done.”

The parents said, “Wait a minute. This child is retarded. It would be better if he didn’t live, so we don’t want you to perform this operation.” And, of course, the doctor could not operate without their consent.

Some well-meaning people said, “We’ll go to court and get an order that forces them to let the child have the operation.” They went to court, and, to the disgrace of the American judicial system, the court said, “We cannot order this.”

So Infant Doe died. What was his crime to deserve capital punishment? He was retarded. What was it his parents didn’t want? “It would have been inconvenient,” their lawyer said. “It would have been inconvenient to raise this child. This child wouldn’t have the same quality of life others have.” What do we know about quality of life? Does a bird have no quality of life because it doesn’t think like a man? No, it is a finished work as the God of heaven intended and its life has all the quality God assigned to it.

What do we know about a retarded child’s quality of life unless we can be that child? Many retarded children are happier and more loving than the so-called “normal child.”

We cannot know what Infant Doe’s quality of life might have been, but we do know the difference between life and death. So his parents never made the sacrifice that would have taught them to love Infant Doe. Thoreau said that every deed goes into the great sea of cause and effect and remains there throughout eternity. Who knows what effect that one death has on the quality of life of all the people in this generation and those to come?

Frank Siedel (Si) Peterson of Edmonton, Alberta, Canada, is a typical young Latter-day Saint.
He studies; goes to institute classes; attends his church meetings; does his home teaching; and goes to Education Days, Know Your Religion lectures, ball games, concerts, and movies. He is six-foot three-inches tall, sandy-haired, blue-eyed, slender, and unassuming. He is even the coach of the ward slow-pitch softball team. How much more typical can you get?
But although Si may be typical, no one would ever accuse him of being average. He is an acknowledged superstar in the difficult field of lifting spirits and touching hearts. His talent is people, and he does not hide his talent.
“Si definitely has an exceptional effect on people,” says Russ Brailey. “He’s also a most reliable home teaching companion. Mind you, I had to get accustomed to having his mother go with us.”
“Right. I know what Russ means,” states Glen Hudson, captain of the men’s slow-pitch softball team. “When Si first became our coach, it seemed strange to always have his mother there.”
Si is no mama’s boy; but somebody, usually his mother, Anita Begieneman, always accompanies him because he has been almost totally paralyzed since March 1, 1975, when he fell from a high bar. He can only see, hear, think, mouth words, and smile.
Prior to his accident, Si had been a fairly typical Latter-day Saint teenager. Almost 17, the oldest of six children, he loved all sports; tolerated school; played the piano; and teased his brothers, his sisters, and his mother. His one big goal was to go on a mission as soon as he turned 19.
In one instant Si went from full healthy activity to total paralysis. He lost all movement. He could not breathe, speak, or eat. He was on a respirator 24 hours a day.
Usually when people are suddenly handicapped they experience denial, anger, resentment, and even bitterness before they finally accept their condition. Si’s medical team was amazed because he did not experience anger, depression, or a sense of hopelessness and panic.
He did get pneumonia, however, and his mother called Si’s former bishop and good friend, Robert S. Patterson, to give Si a blessing. President Patterson said, “Your accident has a definite and important purpose. You are to become an instrument in Heavenly Father’s hand to help bring many people who do not presently believe in God to a knowledge of him. This is to be your mission. You agreed to it before you came to the earth, and if you fulfill it well, you will thank your Heavenly Father for it every day throughout eternity.”
Si’s mother also received a witness of the Lord’s love. Si remembers, “Mom asked me what I would do if I could never again walk, talk, play the piano, or participate in sports. It was something that I had thought about a lot. I said, ‘It’s okay, Mom, I did those things the best I could when I could do them, and now I’ll learn to do something else.’
“She told me that the day after my accident she had gone down to my room, sat on the bed, and cried, ‘Heavenly Father, why? Why did this happen to my son?’ In answer, thoughts flooded into her mind. She realized that it was the Holy Ghost, so she grabbed a pencil and paper off my desk and recorded what came to her: ‘This life is a training ground for godhood. How we meet the trials that come and how we let them affect our lives are very important. We must see them as instruments of growth. All things can be for our good if we but let them. This life is the time to prepare to live again with our Heavenly Father, to grow in spirit and character and strength to meet the challenges and tremendous responsibilities of the celestial kingdom. This time of Si’s life will be exciting and challenging as new experiences come to him. None of the talents he has developed will be lost. They are just temporarily set aside while he develops others.’”
As the months passed, Si learned that he did not have to live a passive life simply because he could not move. There was still much he could give. He even learned that one way of giving was to accept help from others with love and gratitude. And he has received from many, many people.
To mention a few: His mother visits his hospital room each day and spends many hours with him. Other family members also show their love and support. Doctors and nurses at the hospital provide constant care. The Primary children of his stake raised $2,000 to buy a hydraulic lift to raise his wheelchair into his van. The Edmonton Singles Ward produced a musical comedy, and his four talented stepsisters presented a musical program to raise funds for a personal computer.
Brother Bob Layton, the early-morning newsman of CHED radio, produced a two-part documentary on Si. The response was so overwhelming that the station had to repeat it many times. Eventually this soundtrack was combined with a series of slides to form an audiovisual package. Brother Layton has, on request, taken this to firesides, schools, and service clubs many times. The letters that have poured in to Si, many from school children, are evidence that he has truly been an instrument of bringing people to God. One girl wrote, “Your faith and your acceptance of your accident help me to believe too. I love you.”
Some gifts Si has received were not altogether welcome at first. One day in 1977 a young man named Duane Simpson walked into Si’s room, snapped off the TV set, and demanded, “What are you doing with your life, Si? Why are you wasting your time watching TV? There’s nothing wrong with your brain—Why aren’t you using it?”
Si was stunned. His mother was furious. But Duane continued, “Si, I’m here to help you any way I can.” He explained that he had been assigned to Si as a tutor.
Beginning then, Si’s life changed dramatically. “I guess I needed Duane to bawl me out like that. I wasn’t doing anything because I never really thought there was anything I could do. But he helped me to change my attitude.”
Since then Si has worked off all of his grade 11, and is now completing grade 12. His aim is university entrance and a degree in social work.
How does someone in his condition study? He listens to tapes and his tutor. The tutor then reads him the questions, he figures them out in his mind, then answers “orally.” His tutor reads his lips, writes down the answers, and sends them to the Alberta Correspondence School to be graded. It is a slow, tedious way to study, but Si quips, “I’m getting better marks than I ever did before.”
While Si has learned to receive graciously, he has also learned to give unselfishly. He has counseled with many depressed and troubled people who are struggling to face their own handicaps and difficulties, and all have gone away lifted.
His deep empathy for the feelings and problems of others has also helped him reach out and bring people into the Church or back into activity.
One of them, a nurse in the hospital where Si lives, remembers, “I first heard about the Church during my 3 A.M. discussions with Si. He gave definition to many basic feelings I’d had all my life. Then he asked me if I’d be willing to listen to the missionaries, and I did. I was baptized in August 1983.”
David McTavish is another of the many whose lives Si has touched. “Coming back from inactivity, at first I felt uncomfortable with Si. But the example of his acceptance of the Church and his faith, plus my many discussions with him, have helped me to handle the obstacles between me and the Church. He has also given me a freedom not to be afraid of the kind of person I am.”
If you were to stop by Si’s room unannounced, you would probably find him working on his computer or with his earphones on, listening to one of his many tapes: the standard works (he’s listened to them all at least four times each), conference talks, great books from the Library for the Visually Impaired, course tapes, or music ranging from the Tabernacle Choir to classics to popular.
Si’s independence was greatly increased by the TOSC-2 control unit, which the Alberta Rehabilitation Council installed for him in 1978. By touching the control lever with his lower lip, he can turn on or off everything that is hooked into this touch-operated system control unit. He can even call a nurse with it. Now he has a modified personal computer that can be merged with the TOSC-2. This allows him, for the first time in ten years, to write his own messages. “This opens up lots of things that have been closed to me,” he says. “I can use it to work on my education. Then I’ll write a book about my life. Also, after more training, maybe I’ll compose some music.”
Undoubtedly much of Si’s strength comes from the gospel. He has been an elder since November, 1977. And on June 22, 1982, he traveled over 300 miles to the Alberta Temple in Cardston to receive his endowments.
Si calmly accepts his paralysis, but it is not easy to live as he does. Aside from the obvious discomforts and limitations, he also endures the side effects of it all. For example, because he is constantly on the respirator, his blood gasses get out of balance, causing him severe hallucinations. He has had many, many near-fatal moments when his respirator has failed. He has suffered cardiac arrest, pneumonia again and again, kidney stones, stomach ulcers, and strokes. But his faith in his Heavenly Father is unshaken.
So is his sense of humor. There is usually a smile on Si’s face, and he loves a good practical joke. When his mother went to the hospital recently for her daily visit, she was in for a shock. Two orderlies were sitting grim faced near Si’s room, and his door was closed. She opened the door and went in.
Si’s room was darkened, and he was covered with a white sheet. Anita’s heart faltered. She walked over and pulled back the sheet. Si was laughing! Then the orderlies came in, and they were laughing too.
Si had struck again! No one is safe from his jokes, and no one would want to be, because they are as full of fun and laughter as he is himself.
Si is an inspiration to his whole family. His youngest sister, Barbie, reflects, “Sometimes I wish I could make him better, but then I think no, because he’s blessed so many people’s lives.”
Si’s father, Dr. Frank Peterson, concludes, “It’s too bad that he’s immobilized, but everything else about this has been positive. I’m proud of him.”
Si has a firm testimony, and he bears it frequently. His mom reads his lips and then gives voice to his feelings to the accompaniment of the rhythmic hum of his respirator.
“One of the main purposes of this earth life is to be tried, to prove ourselves worthy to return to our Heavenly Father, and so trials that come to us are an important part of our lives. Every one of us will be tried in one way or another. The important thing is how we accept our trials and grow from them. They can be stumbling blocks or stepping stones.
“I am grateful for my membership in the true and living Church, and I am grateful for the priesthood that I hold. I am grateful for my family who loves and supports me, and for the many others who help me so much. I know that my Heavenly Father lives and that he hears and answers my prayers. I am grateful for my Savior, Jesus Christ, and for his sacrifice for me. I know that my accident had a special purpose in my Heavenly Father’s plan for me.
“I feel fortunate that the trial I have been given is so apparent that I receive a lot of encouragement and help from many people. Your trials may be just as difficult as mine, but perhaps not as apparent, and so I pray that you will be able to accept them and have the strength to endure and grow from them.”
This thought is typical of Si Peterson. Trapped inside the prison of his own motionless body, with every possible excuse to turn his thoughts bitterly inward, his mind reaches out to others in prayer and service. Even lying flat on his back, he is a giant. If you’re ever in Edmonton, do yourself a favor and meet him. Si Peterson—a typical young Latter-day Saint and a one-of-a-kind human being.

In the general Relief Society meeting of September 2006, President Gordon B. Hinckley related an experience shared by a divorced single mother of seven children then ranging in ages from 7 to 16. She had gone across the street to deliver something to a neighbor. She said:

“As I turned around to walk back home, I could see my house lighted up. I could hear echoes of my children as I had walked out of the door a few minutes earlier. They were saying: ‘Mom, what are we going to have for dinner?’ ‘Can you take me to the library?’ ‘I have to get some poster paper tonight.’ Tired and weary, I looked at that house and saw the light on in each of the rooms. I thought of all of those children who were home waiting for me to come and meet their needs. My burdens felt heavier than I could bear.

“I remember looking through tears toward the sky, and I said, ‘Dear Father, I just can’t do it tonight. I’m too tired. I can’t face it. I can’t go home and take care of all those children alone. Could I just come to You and stay with You for just one night? …’

“I didn’t really hear the words of reply, but I heard them in my mind. The answer was: ‘No, little one, you can’t come to me now. … But I can come to you.’”2

Illustrations by Alessia Girasole
“It’s scripture time!” Lila said.
Lila loved reading to her little sister, Ánika, and her baby brother, Svetan. Soon Lila would be getting baptized! To be ready, she wanted to read the scriptures every day.
Lila opened the scripture storybook to the first page. Ánika and Svetan snuggled close so they could see the pictures.
“Listen carefully because I’m going to ask you questions after,” Lila said. Then she started reading the first chapter.
“Before we were born, we lived in heaven,” Lila read. “We didn’t have bodies yet. We were spirits.”
Lila, Ánika, and Svetan looked at the pictures of people dressed in white.
“Ready for your first question?” Lila turned to Ánika. “Where did you come from before you were born?”
Ánika clapped her hands. “Heaven!”
“That’s right,” said Lila. “And where did Svetan come from?”
“He came from heaven too,” Ánika said. Svetan giggled and put his fist in his mouth. Lila and Ánika laughed. Svetan was the cutest one-year-old in Argentina!
“Our whole family came from heaven,” Lila said. “Jesus did too. He came to help us so we can live with Heavenly Father again.” Lila pointed to the picture of Jesus on the page.
After she finished reading, Lila kept thinking about what it must have been like to live with Jesus in heaven. She wanted to be like Him. She wanted to always choose the right!
The next day at school, Lila’s tummy rumbled as she waited in line for breakfast. She could almost taste the empanadas as Señora Ruiz slid them onto her plate. They smelled so good!
Then Señora Ruiz poured Lila a cup of milk. Uh oh, Lila thought. The milk looked darker than usual. Sometimes her school added coffee or tea to the drinks.
“Is there any coffee or tea in the milk today?” Lila asked.
Señora Ruiz waved her hand. “A little coffee,” she said. “You won’t even taste it.”
Lila thought for a moment. She remembered how she wanted to be like Jesus and choose the right. She knew drinking coffee was something the prophets said not to do.
“No, thanks. I won’t have milk today,” Lila said. She gave Señora Ruiz a smile. Then she sat down to eat.
That night, Lila helped Papi wash dishes in the kitchen. She was still thinking about the scripture story. She was thinking about the milk too.
“Papi?”
“Yes?” Papi said.
“Why did Heavenly Father want us to have bodies?”
Papi thought while he rinsed another plate. “Well, He gave us bodies so we could become like Him,” he said. “Your body is a home for your spirit. That’s what we mean when we say our bodies are temples.”
Lila nodded. She sang a song about that in Primary sometimes! “So that’s why Heavenly Father wants us to take care of our bodies?”
“Exactly,” Papi said.
“Today at school, they put some coffee in the milk,” Lila said. “I didn’t drink it, though. I’m trying to take care of my temple.”
“I’m proud of you,” Papi said. He dried his hands on a towel and gave Lila a hug.
Lila hugged Papi tight. She was happy to take care of the body Heavenly Father had given her.
The family in this story lives in Argentina. Turn to page 10 to learn more about their country.