Gospel Story Finder

Sister Tanner: I remember an experience when John was armed with power and holiness after participating in the ordinance of the sacrament. A number of years ago when our family lived in Brazil for a short while, we were in an auto accident. As we drove home from Sacrament meeting in pouring rain, we entered a neighborhood intersection. A car pulled out from behind a parked vehicle and hit us, broadside. Fortunately no one in either of the cars was injured, but the automobiles were both pretty badly dented. As John got out to discuss the accident with the other driver, I kept reminding him that it was not our fault. Soon he returned to the car and slowly drove back to the little farmhouse where we were living, to the sound of metal grinding against the tires on every rotation. The other car followed. All John said was, “I’ll explain later.”

When we got home, John found our little envelope of emergency cash and paid the family to get their car repaired. They happily left. I was astonished. Then John gathered our family together to explain his actions. “You probably think I’m foolish because I know this accident was not our fault. But as I was negotiating with this family, the thought kept coming into my mind that a little over an hour ago I had covenanted with Heavenly Father to always act as Jesus would. I knew that if He were standing in my position, he would have had compassion on this family, who was so poor, and would have done all he could to help them.” That day John hadn’t just taken the sacrament; it had taken hold of him. He came away a holier, better person.

John had had a sacred Sacrament experience, and as Moses says after one of his sacred communications with God, “the Spirit had not altogether withdrawn from me.” It gave him the power to act in holiness.

Lynn dug frantically through her suitcase. “Mom, my teddy bear is missing!”
Mom came in and helped Lynn search through her belongings. “Where did you last see him?” she asked.
“I put Oatmeal in my suitcase before we left Aunt Kathy’s house, but he’s not here,” Lynn said.
“I’ll go call Aunt Kathy,” Mom said. She left the room and Lynn continued to search through her unpacked clothes.
A few minutes later, Mom came back. “Aunt Kathy hasn’t seen Oatmeal,” she said. “But she will keep looking.”
“I bet Kiera did something to Oatmeal,” Lynn muttered. “I bet she gave him to her dog to chew on.”
“Why would you say that about your cousin?” Mom asked.
“Kiera thinks I’m too old to have stuffed animals.”
“Did she say that?”
“No, but she’s only a few years older than I am and she doesn’t have any stuffed animals at all. She doesn’t even have any dolls. She must think they’re silly. Her room is decorated with Mormonad posters, and she has lots of CDs, jewelry, and clothes.”
When Lynn had seen how grown-up Kiera was, she wanted to be like her. She didn’t want Kiera to think she was a baby because she still had a teddy bear, so she kept Oatmeal in her suitcase most of the time.
But Oatmeal wasn’t in her suitcase now. Lynn felt tears sting her eyes. “Mom, will I have to get rid of my stuffed animals when I graduate from Primary?” she asked.
Mom put her arm around Lynn’s shoulder. “Of course not,” she said. “And don’t give up hope. Oatmeal just might be taking the long way home.”
The next day Lynn wrote a note to Kiera:
Dear Kiera,
Thanks for letting us stay with you. I had a good time.
Love,
Lynn
P.S. Did I leave my stuffed bear there? Let me know soon. Please.
Two weeks went by. Then a package came in the mail for Lynn. It was from Kiera. Lynn tore open the attached letter. It read:
Dear Lynn,
I found your bear under my bed! I think my dog took him out of your suitcase. There was a tear on Oatmeal’s arm, but I patched him up good as new. Before sending him home we wanted to make sure he had a good time. He was in a suitcase most of the time you were here and didn’t get to do anything. I think he really enjoyed himself, judging by the photos. Please come and see us again soon. We loved having you. And don’t forget to bring Oatmeal with you. He has a lot of friends here, just like you do.
Love,
Kiera
Lynn opened the package and pulled out Oatmeal. He had a neatly patched arm with a bandage, and he was wearing small sunglasses and a doll-sized Hawaiian shirt.
Lynn laughed. “Mom, look at this,” she said, pulling out a small photo album. “Look at all the pictures they took of Oatmeal. Here he is making sand castles with some kids on the beach. He’s even wearing little swimming trunks. Here he is in a white shirt and tie, eating with the missionaries. Here he is holding a leash and walking the dog. I guess they finally became friends. Looks like Oatmeal had as much fun as I did.” Lynn smiled and hugged her bear.
“Yes,” Mom said. “I’d say your cousin cares a lot for your bear.”
“It’s really me she likes,” Lynn said. “And she knows how much Oatmeal means to me, so she cared for him too.”

Consider my eldest son who, in politically correct language, is "vertically challenged." More directly stated, for most of his life my son has been the smallest one in his class and has been ever since he started attending school. Yet he fancies himself an NBA point guard, a la John Stockton. He asked me the other day if I thought he could make it in the NBA (that is, in professional basketball). My wife and I had worried about what our answer might be if it ever came to a question like this. Well, I decided to be honest. I told him how hard it was to make it into the NBA. I told him how few of the Jr. Jazz players actually got on a high school team, and how few of the high school players actually made it to a college team, and how few of the college players actually made it to the NBA and how few of the NBA players made it to the level of a John Stockton. What I most wanted for him, I said, was that he would grow up to be a good man, have a good family, and have a good enough job that he would be able to contribute to the church and help build the kingdom.

He seemed pensive, and I thought maybe I had made my point. I worried that I might have discouraged him. A few days later I overheard our son talking to his brother. They had just watched Steve Young playing football and he had decided to try professional football instead of professional basketball. So we tend to have inflated expectations and we can also over-react to negative comparisons with others. As a matter of fact, my son often vacillated between feeling elated as he ran the Jr. Jazz team, and being in the dumps because he wasn't good enough compared with his expectations. Either way, our problem is that we too often use external comparisons to define ourselves.

First you’ll have to have a desire to quit. I’m a convert, and before I joined the Church I had this problem myself. After being baptized, I got a strong feeling of meekness, so I pulled the swearing down to zero. But my resolution started wearing thin as I continued being exposed to the world. At that point I had to remind myself that our Savior was always with me. I was his host, and I resolved to do my best not to offend him by my language.
Jeffry Adams, 17Salt Lake City, Utah

Until I was married, I had never heard of Mormons. My grandmother was concerned with my religious upbringing, so she used to read the Bible to me. I grew up as a member of a Protestant church. However, I always thought that the minister did not explain things about Heavenly Father very well.
My father thought that I should make up my own mind and choose my own religion. As I became older, I searched a lot to find the true church. My sister was in the Catholic church and wanted me to join it, but I didn’t understand their beliefs. The same thing happened when I was eighteen years old and learned about the Christian Science church—I didn’t understand their beliefs either.
I always had certain questions that no one could answer, such as: “Where was I before I was born?” and “What is the meaning of life?” Since joining the Church, I’ve learned about the plan of salvation, which answered all my questions.

The most wonderful part about this great Plan of Happiness is the opportunity we have of making the Savior’s atonement effective in our own lives. We know it is there, and may know it works for others, but we must realize that it is there for each one of us on a personal basis. All we need to do is the best we can, and then look to Him for the extra help we may need!
Listen to what James E. Talmage has said on this subject:
Happiness leaves no bad after-taste, it is followed by no depressing reaction; it calls for no repentance, brings no regret, entails no remorse; pleasure too often makes necessary repentance, contrition, and suffering; and, if indulged to the extreme, it brings degradation and destruction.
True happiness is lived over and over again in memory, always with a renewal of the original good; a moment of unholy pleasure may leave a barbed sting, which, like a thorn in the flesh, is an ever present source of anguish.
Happiness is not akin with levity, nor is it one with light-minded mirth. It springs from the deeper fountains of the soul, and is not infrequently accompanied by tears. Have you never been so happy that you have had to weep? I have.
As a matter of fact, I felt that way not long ago as we waited in the sealing room of the Idaho Falls Temple. A young couple came into that room all dressed in white. You could sense the joy and happiness they felt just by looking at their countenances. After some inspired instruction by one who had been called, set apart and given keys to perform these eternal ordinances, they were sealed for time and all eternity. That in itself would have brought great joy to any couple! But what brought even greater joy to them and to all of us was when the door was opened again, and their children, all dressed in white, filed quietly into the room. They knelt beside their parents and were sealed to them forever. Words cannot express the joy and happiness that we all felt.

What happened to Paola Yáñez, her doctors said, was a medical miracle. The Quito, Ecuador, teenager’s condition suddenly improved, her father was able to give her one of his kidneys, the transplant operation was a success, and she had a second chance at life.
But Marco Yáñez, her father, says that what happened to him was equally amazing. He found the gospel, and the change it made in his life gave him a second chance too.
A childhood bout of nephritis had damaged Paola’s kidneys, but medicine had helped her live. When she was 15, however, her condition worsened. One kidney failed, and the other was deteriorating rapidly. Despite dialysis treatments, Paola was slowly dying. She was allowed to drink only a cup of water a day, and her activities were severely restricted because her lungs, pancreas, and heart had been affected.
It was impossible to take her to the United States or Cuba for a transplant—she would have to find a donor in Ecuador. Tests showed that her father could not be a donor. Her mother could, but then doctors found that dialysis had left Paola’s level of antibodies so high that the transplant would be rejected. Paola prayed that somehow her life would be spared.
At this point, in June 1988, the Latter-day Saint missionaries knocked on the Yáñez family’s door. Paola’s mother, Carmen, recalls that she invited them in so she could taunt them. When they told her they had a message that could help her, she angrily said, “How can you help me when my daughter is dying? I don’t believe there is a God!”
Despite Carmen’s initial antipathy, the missionaries continued to visit the family. At first Marco felt that he was simply too involved in his daughter’s care to pay attention to the missionaries. But finally he listened, out of curiosity. He found they had answers to his questions about the purpose of life.
Marco did not believe in a personal God. For him, God was a universal energy source or a great, distant being uninvolved with human beings. But when his daughter’s condition was at its most critical, he prayed, asking God to either heal his suffering daughter or take her. He prayed, “If You exist, please show me. Please give me the life of my daughter.”
Following his prayer, Marco felt strongly that Paola’s condition would change. He asked the doctors to test him and his daughter again. They told him the test would be a waste of time, but they agreed to do it.
They found that Marco actually was a suitable donor—and that Paola’s condition had improved enough that she could receive a transplant!
The day before the surgery, Marco and Paola accepted priesthood blessings from the missionaries.
Both Marco and Paola expected to recover in the hospital for some time after their operations. But Marco was able to leave five days later, and Paola, who expected to stay for two months, left after only 13 days. Marco attributed their quick recovery to their priesthood blessings, and he knew that he had to take the missionaries’ message seriously.

Born in Semarang, Indonesia, in 1914, Julie was one of six children. Her father died when she was eight, and her Chinese mother, who had been disowned by her family for marrying a Dutchman, was unable to take care of her children. Julie lived with a foster family for several years until the family was reunited.
Julie finished school, earning a degree in education, and worked as a secretary until she met Rudolf Jacobs, whom she married in 1938. When World War II started, Rudolf, an experienced pilot, was called into action and soon became a Japanese prisoner of war.
Julie, pregnant with twins, was left to care for her infant son. As she struggled for the next three years to provide for her children, she sold knitting and other handiwork, trading everything she could to obtain food.
Rudolf returned from the prisoner-of-war camp very sick and underweight, and the family decided to move to the Netherlands, where better medical help was available. So in 1947 Julie left Indonesia, not realizing she would never return to the land of her birth.
Six years later, Rudolf Jacobs was killed in a plane crash and Julie was again left to provide for her family—four children ranging in age from five to fourteen. She went to work teaching typing and shorthand. In 1960 Julie suffered another blow when her oldest son was killed in a car accident.
Reeling under the loss—“It felt like part of my body had been torn away”—Julie experienced a crisis of faith.
“I couldn’t understand why I had to go through this,” she says. “I struggled every morning and evening to bend my knees in prayer, as I was used to doing, but I found I could not pray.”
Even though Julie had never attended a church, she had a strong belief in God that pulled her through. “After a while I heard a voice that seemed to repeat, ‘And still God is love.’”
She began to pray once more. “In thankfulness to my Father in Heaven, I searched for a church where I could serve him.” One rainy evening in 1962, two Latter-day Saint missionaries knocked on the Jacobs’s door.
Not long after, one of Julie’s sons was baptized, followed by her sister and mother. But Julie was not yet convinced. The evening before her daughter was to be baptized, a missionary challenged her to pray in an effort to gain a testimony of the gospel.
“I did not promise the missionary anything,” Julie remembers.
“And when I said my prayers that night I did not mention the Church. But in the middle of the night I woke up with an urgent need to ask Father in Heaven if this was indeed the true church where I could serve him.
“Never had I prayed so sincerely or for so long. And never had I felt God’s love and strength as I did on that night. When my prayer was over, I saw the sun shining through the curtains at my bedroom window. As I gazed outside in the early morning hour, I felt a happiness and peace I had not known since before my son’s death,” she recalls, her face reflecting the wonder of that morning a quarter of a century ago. She was baptized that very day, along with her daughter.
For the next twenty-one years, Sister Jacobs served in the Relief Society. For five years she was Relief Society president of The Hague Netherlands Stake. “It wasn’t always easy, but during those years I learned to kneel in prayer often to receive the help and inspiration I needed.”
Three times a year a special week in the London Temple is organized for the Dutch members. “We usually leave at night, driving for several hours,” Sister Jacobs explains. “Then we take the night boat to England, and drive for three hours. Each day we are there, we arrive at the temple before 6 A.M. and stay until 6 P.M. When I get back to Holland I am tired, but happy that I was able to work in the house of the Lord.”
“Life isn’t always easy,” Sister Jacobs admits. “But our final reward will be that God will lovingly take us in his arms when we leave this world. Thinking about that gives me the courage to accept the things that happen in my life.”

Late in 1928 the family moved to Cardston, where Eldon again worked as school principal. To supplement their meager depression income, he sold insurance and custom-made suits, milked cows, raised chickens and a vegetable garden, and served on the town council. He also served in the Church as Scoutmaster, bishop’s counselor, and bishop of the Cardston First Ward.
While serving there as a second counselor he became a hero among the local youth with a piece of innovative leadership. It seems that few of the deacons were attending priesthood meeting. Concerned, Eldon went to each of them and found that they had only overalls to wear and were ashamed to come to meetings. He told them that if they would come to their priesthood meetings, he would attend in overalls too. They agreed, and deacons quorum attendance rose to almost 100 percent.

When I was 11 years old, I had a wonderful Primary teacher. One day in class, she walked in on a discussion among us 11-year-old boys about our mothers and how tough they were on us. Our mothers would insist that we make our beds, help with the dishes, take out the garbage, and even help with other housework.
Our teacher said nothing but went ahead with our lesson. At the end of the class, she said that on the coming Saturday morning we were going to have a special activity at her house.
That Saturday, we peddled our bicycles to her home. She gathered us around her dining room table where she had some liquids in bottles. She also had small, empty bottles for each of us. We poured so much of this and so much of that through a funnel into our bottles. We learned that we were making hand lotion for our mothers.
When we finished, our teacher gave us a small piece of paper on which she had written a verse. We each copied it down and taped the verse onto our bottles. We proudly took the lotion home to our mothers as a gift.
My mother was wise so, instead of using the lotion, she put it on the middle shelf of our bathroom’s medicine cabinet. It remained there through all my teenage years. Every day, as I opened that cabinet to get my toothbrush or comb, there on the shelf was the bottle with that handwritten verse. It was still there the day I combed my hair before leaving for my mission.
That verse impacted my life permanently. It said, “Bless the hands that never tire in their loving care for me.” That message, which I read every day, drove deep into my heart love, respect, and appreciation for my mom.

Allow me to share with you a sweet story from the writings of Elder Vaughn J. Featherstone, one of my brethren in the Quorum of Seventy and a man who has been my counselor in the Young Men presidency and a friend for many years. He wrote:

I made a decision not to tell anyone of my mother’s death as my feelings were especially tender, humble, and close to the surface. I met all day Saturday with the stake leaders and members. After the last meeting, which ended at 9:00 at night, the mission president came to me and asked me to interview a missionary. We met with the missionary, who had been involved inappropriately with a nonmember woman. He had not committed a major transgression but had crossed over the line of propriety. Her husband was offended, and the woman was upset. They no longer had any interest in the Church. The president had counseled the young elder at length. He told me that the elder would not admit he was wrong and would not even say he was sorry. The General Authorities in Salt Lake City had been involved, and I was to make a determination while I was in Florida as to whether or not he could stay in the mission field. I was tender anyway, and I thought that if he would just say he was sorry, I would let him stay. I used every skill I had learned and all the inspiration I could draw upon trying to get him to say he was sorry. He would not. Finally, he promised he would not do it again, but he would not say he was sorry, even though he wanted to stay on his mission.

I said, “Let me ask you two more questions before I make a decision.” I had about decided he would have to go home, and the questions were simply a last-minute stall before I announced my feelings. I said, “What does your father do in the Church?” He responded that his father was inactive, that he fished, hunted, or sat in front of the television all day long on Sundays. His father did not want him to be on a mission; he wanted him to come home and would have been glad if he did. His father smoked and drank, and, as the elder described him, I realized there was no support from the father. I said, “Tell me about your mother; what does she do in the Church?” His face softened, his eyes moistened, and he responded, “She is the stake young women’s president.” Then he talked about her for a few minutes. When he finished, I said, “I am going to let you stay, but you don’t deserve to. However, your mother doesn’t deserve to have you come home dishonored. You are probably about the only joy she has in this life. I imagine every letter you write to her she reads over and over again. I imagine that she takes your letters as she goes around the stake and reads them to the Beehives, Mia Maids, and Laurels. Her whole pride and joy must be centered around you. She doesn’t have much at home, and I couldn’t bear the thought of having this woman have to go to the airport and pick up her son who had been dishonorably released from his mission.” Then the emotion came, and with tears I reaffirmed, “I simply could not do that to your mother. You do not deserve to stay, but she does not deserve one more trial.” He thanked me for letting him stay but still would not say he was sorry.

The next day at the close of the final session of the conference, I said, “I apologize if I have been a little tender and emotional. My mother died Thursday night, and the funeral is tomorrow.” Then I shared for the next fifteen or twenty minutes what she had meant in our lives. I said, “I will miss the viewing tonight, but I will arrive back in Salt Lake by 1:00 a.m. or so and will be able to attend the funeral.” It was an emotional time for me as I shared my innermost feelings.

At the close of the conference, this young elder whom I had interviewed came running up to the stand. With great tears on his cheeks, he threw his arms around me and shuddered with emotion. Then he said, “Now I know why you are letting me stay; it is not only because of my mother but also because of yours.” I said, “You’re right, I suppose it’s because of my mother also.” He said, “I humbly apologize for what I have done. I truly am sorry, and I promise I will be the best missionary in this mission.” Later his mission president told me he was true to his word. [Vaughn J. Featherstone, More Purity Give Me (Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Company, 1991), pp. 96–99]

1 I’m glad you asked for a blessing, sweetheart. Daddy’s calling Brother Simon to come help.
2 I hope you don’t mind my coming, too, Mei Lin. When I heard that one of my girls was sick, I just couldn’t stay away.
I’m glad you came.
4 Thank you, Brother Simon. Thanks, Dad. When you put your hands on my head, I could feel your love.
5 And Heavenly Father’s and Jesus’ love too. The priesthood is their power, not ours, and they’ve revealed that it must always be used with love.
6 My head feels a little better already, and I feel a lot better inside.
So do I, sweetheart.
And so do I.

I knew a man who admittedly lived the perfect life, full of things that went his way and had no afflictions. He was raised by loving parents and had the gospel in his home. His brothers and sisters were nice and sweet and nobody had any major problems. School was easy because he was smart and he grew up active in the church, intelligent, strong and handsome. He was a football star in high school and because he was also smart he went to a large university played football, became a star, married the cheerleader and went on to obtain a graduate degree. Then he was called to be a Bishop and it became the hardest thing he ever has done in his life.
Members of his ward spoke to him of loneliness, sadness, mourning the loss of a love one, desperation, poverty, chronic sickness, abuse, violence in the home, etc. and he was overwhelmed and speechless. He was at a total loss as to what to say and he had no idea that there was so much sadness in the world.

I was almost 13 when my family moved to Pendleton, Oregon, which was a big town to me with about 6,000 people in it. My dad ran the agricultural experimental station for Oregon State University. It was 168 acres in size, and it was fenced all the way around. I had a job hoeing the weeds from under the fence, and initially I hated that job.
One afternoon I was hoeing weeds with a friend named Arlen Jenkins. I was complaining and moaning and groaning about the hard work, but he looked at me and said, “You know, you really need to consider that if we weren’t doing this, we might be doing something worse.” That was his attitude. He was always happy doing any type of work because he knew he could be doing something worse. I have tried to reflect that attitude in every job I have had since that time.

As we have attended the baptismal services for our grandchildren, we’ve shared their happiness in becoming members of the Church. After her baptism, Amy innocently wrote in her journal: “When I was baptized, it was fun because I became a member of the Church … Now it is all over and I don’t have any more sins and I don’t have to worry.” Seeing these precious children reach out to take their fathers’ hands in complete faith and trust as they enter the baptismal font has been one of the most beautiful sights I have witnessed. Then, joining with others in placing my hands on their heads as they have been confirmed and having their fathers give them the gift of the Holy Ghost and a father’s blessing have been experiences I shall never forget.

David D’Arcy, 17, Adelaide. David was at a local shopping center when he and his mates were jumped by “some other blokes. We were fighting,” he says sheepishly. Suddenly the fight was broken up by the appearance of six men in suits, white shirts, and ties.
Later, a school friend introduced him to the missionaries—the same ones who had played peacemaker. David was baptized on his 17th birthday. “Those missionaries,” he says, “I love ’em.” Guess what David D’Arcy wants to be when he’s 19.

I was living up in Canada. I had purchased a farm. It was run-down. I went out one morning and saw a currant bush. It had grown up over six feet high. It was going all to wood. There were no blossoms and no currants. I was raised on a fruit farm in Salt Lake before we went to Canada, and I knew what ought to happen to that currant bush. So I got some pruning shears and clipped it back until there was nothing left but stumps. It was just coming daylight, and I thought I saw on top of each of these little stumps what appeared to be a tear, and I thought the currant bush was crying. I was kind of simpleminded (and I haven’t entirely gotten over it), and I looked at it and smiled and said, “What are you crying about?” You know, I thought I heard that currant bush say this:
“How could you do this to me? I was making such wonderful growth. I was almost as big as the shade tree and the fruit tree that are inside the fence, and now you have cut me down. Every plant in the garden will look down on me because I didn’t make what I should have made. How could you do this to me? I thought you were the gardener here.”
That’s what I thought I heard the currant bush say, and I thought it so much that I answered. I said, “Look, little currant bush, I am the gardener here, and I know what I want you to be. I didn’t intend you to be a fruit tree or a shade tree. I want you to be a currant bush, and someday, little currant bush, when you are laden with fruit, you are going to say, ‘Thank you, Mr. Gardener, for loving me enough to cut me down. Thank you, Mr. Gardener.’”

For many years, Faustina Antwi was living with the effects of a stroke, for which there was no cure. Her husband had taken her to many hospitals, but nothing was done to get her back on her feet. Many friends and acquaintances would often prescribe or suggest medicine to help her. Her husband and family felt as if they should buy everything that was suggested, whether they had the money for it or not. If they didn’t have the money, they would work to get it.
One day, she realized there is a peaceful and healing place called the temple. She wanted to go there. She discussed it with her husband, and even though her husband doesn’t go to Church, he believes in God. He told her to give it a try if that is where her faith was. She prepared herself and left for the temple.
It takes three and half to five and a half hours to travel from Twifo Praso to Accra. She arrived at the temple too late to go inside that day, so she slept nearby. Early the next morning, she entered the temple. She put her faith to work and prayed to her Heavenly Father to heal her from her stroke. She spent three days at the temple and on the last day of her visit, she could feel there was a change in her body.
She is now able to move the arm that had been affected by the stroke. Her mouth has improved, and she is able to speak to her friends at the temple and at home.
She knows Heavenly Father has healed her. She wishes the temple were closer so that she could go there every week. She wants to share her testimony of the temple so that it can strengthen others. She loves the Church and the Book of Mormon and knows they are true. She is thankful for a living prophet.
This testimony was shared by Faustina Antwi of the Twifo Praso District in the Cape Coast Coordinating Council during fast and testimony meeting and later told to Prince Baah for the Liahona Local Pages.

Ashley, a sister I minister to, and I both have cookbooks from our grandmothers. Hers is from her great-grandmother, and mine is a book I put together when I inherited my Grandma Greenwood’s recipe box after she passed away.
Ashley and I both chose a recipe from our cookbooks, and we got together after work one night to try them out. She chose a blondie dessert recipe, so we made it first and put it in the oven. I chose “pink chip dip”—a staple at every Greenwood family party. Ashley’s daughter Alice helped us taste test the food. Then, because Ashley didn’t want her kids to eat all the blondies, she cut them up and delivered them to the sisters to whom she ministers.
The thing I loved most about our recipe night is that as we cooked and baked, we talked about all the regular ministering topics—her struggles and mine. But we also talked about our grandmothers and moms, which was tender for both of us.
Jenifer Greenwood, Utah, USA

Then we have here a sister who tells about her experience. Her husband passed away, and then she writes, “After the funeral services were over, I took my five children and went home, and was left to sink or swim. And I sank; I was all alone. How was I going to look after those five children? Oh, sure, the bishop would see that I didn’t go hungry and that we were taken care of, and we had enough food to eat, and so on, but we needed something more than that.”
And then she said this, “I need Special Interests because I need to know that there are other people in the world with feelings like mine. I need to meet other widows who have managed to raise their children alone successfully, without the hang-ups psychologists insist they will have. I need to know that some people’s problems are worse than mine, so I can recognize and count my blessings. I need people to talk to who fully understand my problems and needs. I need Special Interests because I have to learn how to handle my own problems. The first thing I learned as a widow was that no one else will help except in emergencies, and sometimes not then. As soon as the funeral was over, I repeat, I was left on my own either to sink or swim.
“Then,” she said, “your classes geared to the whole families don’t help us a bit, but a class I took this fall with the Special Interests showed me how I can communicate with my family and friends. There is no way you can fully understand our needs or problems, except you go through it yourself. Do you know what it is like to lose your wife or husband in death? It is nothing like losing your father or even your daughter. I know; I lost both before I lost my husband. Do you know what it is like to go through the hell of a divorce? Do you know what it is like to be a girl over 26, and still be single? You can’t know. We need each other. Some of us need small group activities. Some of us need large group activities where we can go and have to talk to people and visit. Sometimes we don’t feel like talking. Special Interests is not a dating bureau or a marriage bureau. As such it would be a complete failure. There are women in our stake who like to go places, but not alone. They come to our small activities hoping to meet other women with similar interests to go places with. One lady buys a season pass to the symphony every year, and she is still looking for someone to go with her.
“We resent being invited to the Young Marrieds activities. To me it is like a slap in the face to have the Young Marrieds or elders announce that Special Interests are invited to their party. I know you may not understand why I feel so strongly about it, but other Special Interests I have talked to understand, and most of the others feel the same way. I feel like this new Special Interest program is inspired of God. It is what we need, if it is done like it should be. I needed it eight-and-a-half years ago. Thank the Lord my president is working hard on it to do his part. Will you recognize us as a special group of people, long ignored and neglected with special problems and special needs and special interests? Some of us are raising special children, boys without fathers, girls without mothers. They have special problems and special needs. If our needs aren’t met, you are also neglecting some of their needs.”