Gospel Story Finder

Mingan, the young Mongol boy, fastened his padded collar closely beneath his chin. The icy winds from the plains whistled around the great felt tents and drove dust into his face. He closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, he saw a ball of dust rolling across the plain toward camp and heard a faint jingle of bells. The cloud grew larger and resolved into a rider, his wide belt set thickly with bells, leaning close to his mount. It was a messenger from Kublai Khan!
Turning, Mingan lifted the flap of the nearest tent. “Father!” he shouted. “A messenger from the great Khan approaches!”
Prince Catu, Mingan’s father, pushed past him and shouted orders. Men hurried from their tents. The horseman, with a clatter and a jangle, slid from his snorting mount and handed Catu a scroll. A waiting herdsman seized the bridle of the messenger’s lathered animal and led the horse away to shelter.
Mingan leaned forward. “What does the Kahn say?”
Catu smiled. “We are honored! The new court commissioner will arrive today. Kublai Khan asks us to receive this new envoy with all courtesies and to supply him with an escort to Singui. I have heard good things about this man. They call him Marco Polo.”
“Is he a great warrior like the Khan, Father?”
“No, he is a fair-skinned agent from the kingdoms in the West. He has found great favor at court.”
“But aren’t all great men warriors?” Mingan asked. “The Khan surrounds himself with only great men.”
“Part of what you say is true, my son. The Khan does bring the most able to his court, but not all great men are warriors. You will understand when you meet Marco Polo.”
“He cannot be much if he has not been trained as a warrior,” Mingan muttered as he turned away.
“Wait, my son,” Catu said. “I will need escorts to accompany our honored guest to Singui. You will be one of them.”
“But, Father,” Mingan protested, “you promised I could go hunting with you tomorrow!”
“There will be other hunting trips.”
“But I wanted to show you what a good rider and marksman I am.”
Catu smiled. “I send you with Marco Polo because I know your skills. Now go. Tell your mother to prepare a feast to greet the new envoy.”
Mingan, full of disappointment, slowly headed for the tent. Now it would be many months before he could join the hunters. The journey to Singui would seem long when one had to jog beside a scrawny little man from the West. There would be no racing one’s pony and standing in the stirrups to shoot arrows at moving targets and no practicing turns at full speed—turns that could surprise and defeat an enemy. By the time the lookout sighted a thin dustline approaching, Mingan wished he had never heard of Marco Polo.
The dusty caravan drew up before the felt tents, and the riders dismounted. All the men were dressed in the padded winter clothing of the Mongols. Not until Mingan came closer and saw the fur flaps turned back from their faces could he distinguish between Marco and his companions. The face of this Westerner, bronzed like the rest, was young and smiling. His eager round eyes, resting for a second on Mingan, were warm and friendly. Marco laughed as he pushed back a lock of his curly black hair. How can any man laugh after the grueling journey across the plains? Mingan wondered.
Catu beckoned to Mingan as he said, “Worthy Commissioner, this is Mingan, my firstborn. He will be among the escorts who accompany you to Singui.”
Marco smiled and in the Mongol tongue replied, “I feel honored that the eldest son of Prince Catu will be with me.” He put an arm across Mingan’s shoulder. “He is a sturdy lad, and a fine horseman, I’ll wager.”
Mingan found himself warming to Marco. “I can handle a bow too.”
“Fine!” Marco said. “I shall have need of your skills to keep us in game between here and Singui.”
The feast was a happy one, much pleasanter than Mingan had anticipated. He found himself forgetting his disappointment over the postponed hunting trip as he listened to the many lively adventures Marco described to his attentive audience.
The wind had died down by dark. When the feasting was over, Mingan escorted Marco to his tent. The outside air struck Mingan’s face like an icy hand.
Marco stopped suddenly. “Look at those stars!” He swept his arm in an arc over his head. “Are they not brilliant tonight?”
“They are, indeed,” Mingan replied. “That one in the west is brightest of all.”
Marco spoke softly. “It would be tonight.” He sighed. “In my home in faraway Venice, it is Christmas Eve, a joyful night when everyone celebrates the birth of Jesus Christ.”
Mingan turned and asked, “Was this Jesus one of your great warriors?”
“No, but He was the greatest man who ever lived.”
“How can that be?” Mingan asked. “Great men are always warriors.”
“You are right, Mingan, but not warriors as you know them—men who ride fast and shoot well. Christ never touched a bow or spear, yet He fought evil and injustice. His sword was truth, and His shield was a deep faith in God. He believed in doing unto others as you would have them do unto you, and in peace and goodwill to all men!”
Mingan looked thoughtful. “Those are fine ideas to believe in, like the sayings of our wise men. But how can we live them?”
Marco faced Mingan and placed his hands on the boy’s shoulders. “I wondered the same thing when I was your age, Mingan. I didn’t find the answer until I began to travel.”
“Did the great Kublai Khan reveal it to you?”
“Not the Khan alone, but many people—people like you.”
“Like me?”
Marco nodded. “As I met people and grew to know them, I found I understood and appreciated and respected them. It was easy to do unto them as I wished them to do unto me, and to feel goodwill toward all men.”
Mingan was quiet as he gazed at the bright star near the horizon. At last he spoke. “On the way to Singui, will you tell me more about Jesus Christ, whose birth is celebrated tonight?”
Marco seized Mingan’s hand in a warm grip. “Indeed I will! Good night, my friend, and Buon Natale to you.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means ‘a good Christmas to you.’”
Mingan smiled. The trip to Singui would be long, but it promised much. Softly he repeated, “Buon Natale, Buon Natale.”

Three years ago, I received a calling to be a Community Connections Coordinator in our stake. My purpose was to coordinate resources for any in the stake and community who had humanitarian needs. The resources were items such as household goods, furniture, walkers and wheelchairs, food, clothing, shoes, toys and any donated items for the needy. This involved seeking out, collecting and storing multitudes of these items and having them available when needs arose. I had a committee of about 20 people. One of our humanitarian activities is a Winter Clothing drive. Members of our Stake and others would voluntarily donate approximately 1,000 coats along with shoes, winter boots, scarves, beanies, hats, and gloves in preparation for the Saturday Drive. On that day, these items were displayed in our stake cultural hall and the community would come and shop for whatever they needed, free of charge. Many volunteers assisted in the setup and takedown. We managed to have several other drives or activities during the year such as: Easter Egg Hunt, Food Drive, Bicycle Giveaway, Household Goods Exchange, Thanksgiving Meals, Toy Exchange and our biggest event was in September, the “Share the Harvest Fair.” This calling became my second full-time job! Even though it required a lot of planning and coordinating, I absolutely loved it and enjoyed every minute of it!

About a year or so after serving in that calling, our stake president called me and Todd into his office and asked if I would serve in another stake calling which involved missionary work. I immediately felt overwhelmed and for the first time in my life, I did not accept but asked if I could think about it. That evening as I drove to an appointment by our home, I distinctly remember that crisp and clear feeling of these words penetrate my heart and mind saying, “Why are you thinking about your new calling? I will help you. I always help you!!” Once again, the guidance of the Comforter helped me to do the right thing. I immediately called my stake president and accepted the calling.

Johan and Lisa Koch of Copenhagen could tell them about the long-term rewards of setting the right priorities. The Kochs joined the Church as a young married couple in 1968 and reared their seven children in the Church. In 2004 when they served as guides during the open house for the Copenhagen temple, a man who had gone to school with one of their sons came on a tour. “I had to come,” the man explained, “because I know Christian, and I know what it would mean to him.”
The Kochs first went to the temple in Switzerland many years ago, and they set an example for their family by serving as temple workers when that meant an eight-hour trip to Stockholm. They kept a picture of the temple on a wall in their home. They used every resource to help their children grow strong in the gospel, including family prayer, home evening, and home-study seminary.
After years of having to travel outside their country, “to have a temple so close is a special blessing,” Sister Koch says. Her husband, who was released as president of the Copenhagen stake in 2001, sees the coming of the temple as a sign of growing maturity among members. But the Kochs are also impressed by its effect on those who are not members. When they talked of sealing during the open house tours, Brother Koch says, “you could tell which couples had a good marriage by the way they looked at each other. They would ask, ‘Could we do that?’”

When my wife, Mary Anne, and I served in the Bolivia Santa Cruz Mission, we had a missionary who was an orphan boy. He had no family. The Lord assigned him to be Elder Hawkins’s trainer. I don’t think he was the best trainer, but Elder Hawkins was the best companion for an orphan boy who had become one of the Lord’s missionaries.
Elder Hawkins’s parents wrote to this missionary during his mission and have continued to write to him for the past 15 years. Because of Elder Hawkins and his family, this orphan boy has been loved and cared for and is now happily married, employed, and active in the gospel of Jesus Christ. We all can help change orphan children.

Since 2008, a team of local volunteers have coordinated a Christmas Day luncheon and festivities to ensure no one spends the day alone. This event enjoys fellowship from many different people including new migrant families, international students, those who have left unsafe homes, people experiencing financial challenges, empty nesters and those separated from family due to COVID border closures and other reasons.
Sister Anouck Van Dyck has been the chairperson for the last three years and said this event is a collaboration between local volunteers, the City of Joondalup Council and various businesses to ensure everyone knows they are loved and appreciated on this very special day. The Perth Australia Mission helps with this by providing a setup and pack down service and are now part of the official entertainment program singing carols to invite the Spirit of Christ into everyone’s hearts.
Of their involvement, Perth Mission President Michael J. Stone commented: “What a great delight to be involved in such a deserving community project during this special Christmas season.
“Our missionaries were thrilled to be of service and truly felt the spirit of Christmas as they worked and sang on Christmas Day to those in the community that might otherwise have had a lonely Christmas.
“We are grateful for the opportunity our missionaries have had to give to the community through work and song on Christmas Day. In serving others, their spirits were lifted towards the Saviour—a wonderful day and blessing for all.”

My brother-in-law, Taylor, works in Washington, D.C., for the United States Department of Agriculture. As part of his job, he is expected to attend a number of social functions. These functions almost always have alcohol served to the guests. The people who work with Taylor know of his religious beliefs and commitment to abstain from all alcoholic beverages, and they will often thoughtfully provide something else to drink in their place.
At one particular function, someone had brought a few beverages that claimed to be alcohol free. Taylor was offered one of these drinks, but since the brand and type of drink were unfamiliar to him, he said in a friendly manner, “I’ll have to check that label first.”
Taylor read the fine print on the bottle, and sure enough, the drink contained a small amount of alcohol. “Look,” Taylor said, “it has alcohol in it.”
The person who had offered the drink said, “Let me see that!” After looking for a minute, he turned to Taylor and pointed at the label. “Taylor, it has only 1% alcohol. Can’t you even drink that?”
Not wanting to offend his friend, yet not willing to compromise his standards, Taylor replied, “Well, when you’re 100% committed, 99% just isn’t good enough.” He thanked them for trying to accommodate him but turned down the drink.

Several months ago I left my country to go to one where I knew only my sister and her boyfriend. At church I felt like an outsider. Two or three months went by, and I felt the same feeling of loneliness until I decided to smile at others and ask, “How are you?” Each Sunday that went by, they were saying more to me than the simple “I’m fine.” It also helped to participate in seminary and Mutual and to work on Personal Progress with other young women. Now I feel comfortable at church, as if I were at home.
Vanessa B., 17, La Vega, Dominican Republic

The two towns that these five youth live in are more than 100 watery miles apart, which is the equivalent of running around a high school track 400 times—a little too far to travel each Sunday. But endless miles can’t keep the youth from sticking together. They recently had the chance to meet each other for the first time face-to-face. The youth, along with their parents, flew to Anchorage to perform baptisms for the dead in the Anchorage Alaska Temple. They had never been to the temple before, so it was a great experience for them. “It was fun to introduce ourselves and see who it was we’ve been talking to over the phone,” says 14-year-old Harrison.
As they drove into the parking lot of the temple, each felt the Spirit strongly and knew that the temple was the Lord’s house. “I can’t believe I’m actually here,” says Jaenell as she recalls her experience. “I felt a subtle, peaceful feeling of absolute contentment and happiness.”
The best part of the weekend trip was performing baptisms and confirmations for the dead in the temple. “We helped those people who couldn’t help themselves,” Zach says. He enjoyed looking at the names and dates of each person for whom he was baptized.
“I could feel the Spirit, and it felt very peaceful,” Jennifer says.
“When we were in the waiting room, I read an article by President Monson in the Ensign about the bridges Christ has built,” says Jaenell. “It really made me appreciate the things that the Savior has done, because we can’t build the bridges by ourselves.”
The trip strengthened each person’s testimony of Jesus Christ, a testimony that helps them in their everyday lives. Although they’re miles apart from each other, they’re only a phone call away.

In June 1834 a young mother who was faced with being disinherited by her father wrote a bold and moving letter sharing her conviction of the Restoration. Although she must have known her prospects of changing his mind were dim, Rebecca Swain Williams nevertheless stood firm despite the impending consequences. She declared to her father, Isaac, that the Book of Mormon and the Church were true, just as the Prophet Joseph Smith described, and that she had heard the Three Witnesses “declare in public meeting that they saw a Holy Angel come down from heaven and [bring] the plates, and la[y] them before their eyes.”1
One of Rebecca’s most abiding hopes was that her family, her father in particular, would accept the restored gospel and receive the joyous blessings of the faith. She had, like Lehi, tasted of the love of God and wanted to share it with those closest to her (see 1 Nephi 8:12). With that in mind, Rebecca eagerly wrote to her family about her conversion and testimony and the great joy she felt as a member of the Church.
However, Rebecca’s conversion infuriated her father. In his terse response he demanded that she leave the Church. But Rebecca would not be swayed. She responded, as a family historian describes, that “she was more firm than ever in her conviction of the truth of Mormon doctrines” and included her own powerful testimony.6 To her sorrow this letter did not produce the results she had hoped for. Her father threatened to disown her and vowed to cut off all communication with her if she did not leave the Church.
Still, Rebecca did not yield and continued her efforts to share the gospel. In 1834 she wrote another letter—the only one to survive—to her father, revealing the depth of her faith and the pain she felt that he refused to accept anything of the Mormons.
Her father had read newspaper reports attacking the Church, particularly with regard to the Book of Mormon and the testimony of the Three Witnesses, and tried to dissuade Rebecca on these accounts.
“It gives me pain to hear that your mind is so much disturbed about the Book of Mormon,” she wrote. Quoting scripture from the Book of Mormon and from Joseph Smith’s new revelations, Rebecca shared her witness of the Book of Mormon. She also explained that the book prophesied of the selection of three witnesses to it. As evidence, she quoted the ancient prophet Ether, who said that “in the mouth of three witnesses” would the truth of the book “be established” (Ether 5:4).7
Rebecca then described how she had personally seen the Three Witnesses—David Whitmer, Martin Harris, and Oliver Cowdery—and heard them testify of having seen an angel and the gold plates. After defending their testimonies and character, she urged her father to further investigate the work. For, she wrote to her father, should “you and mother know the circumstances as we do in relation to this work, I am persuaded you would believe it.”8
Echoing Moroni’s promise at the end of the Book of Mormon, Rebecca pled that her family would ask God if “he would enlighten [their] minds in the way of truth.” And then she planned to send a missionary “capable of teaching the Gospel as it is in Jesus,” to further help them.9 In the end her father would have nothing to do with it.
Even her letters to her brother John—to whom Rebecca was particularly close—were returned unopened. On the back of one of the returned letters, John wrote, “Father forbids me read your letter, or to write to you. Goodbye and God bless you always. Your brother, John.”10
No matter the heartache and pain Rebecca felt from her father’s choices, she still loved him. She wrote: “My heart mourns for my relations according to the flesh. … I pray the Lord to comfort you in your last day with his Holy Spirit and may they be your best days. … I hope your mind will be composed concerning this work. Be assured that we feel firm in the cause knowing that the Lord is at the helm.”11

As a boy, President Joseph F. Smith, son of Hyrum, came west in 1848 with his widowed mother. He was called as a missionary to Hawaii when he was 15 years of age. He spent much of the next four years alone. He was released in 1857 at the age of 19 (just the age we call missionaries now). Penniless, he stopped in California to earn money for warm clothes.

With another man, . . . [Joseph] took passage in a mail wagon. They traveled all night, and at daylight stopped near a ranch for breakfast. The passenger and the mail carrier began to prepare breakfast, while Joseph went a short distance from camp to [gather wood and] look after the horses. . . . A wagon load of drunken men from Monte came in view, on their road to San Bernardino to kill the “Mormons,” as they boasted.

The oaths and foul language which they uttered, between their shooting, and the swinging of their pistols, were almost indescribable. . . . They were all cursing the “Mormons,” and uttering boasts of what they would do when they met them. They . . . caught sight of the mail wagon. . . . [His companion] and the mail carrier, fearing for their safety, had retired behind the chaparral, leaving all the baggage and supplies . . . exposed and unprotected.

Just as [one] drunken man approached, [young Joseph F.] came in view . . . , too late to hide. . . . The ruffian was swinging his weapon, and uttering the most blood-curdling oaths and threats ever heard against the “Mormons.” “I dared not run,” says [Joseph F.] Smith, “though I trembled for fear which I dared not show. I therefore walked right up to the camp fire, and arrived there just a minute or two before the drunken desperado, who came directly toward me, and, swinging his revolver in my face, with an oath cried out: ‘Are you a —— —— —— “Mormon?”’”

[Young Joseph] looked him straight in the eyes, and answered with emphasis: “Yes, sir’ee; dyed in the wool; true blue, through and through.”

The desperado’s arms both dropped by his sides, as if paralyzed, his pistol in one hand, and he said in a subdued . . . voice, offering his hand: “Well, you are the —— —— pleasantest man I ever met! Shake. I am glad to see a fellow stand for his convictions.” Then he turned and [left].

As the time to leave Nauvoo drew near, the Brethren redoubled their efforts to help as many Saints as possible receive their endowments. Brigham Young wrote, “Such has been the anxiety manifested by the saints to receive the ordinances (of the Temple), and such the anxiety on our part to administer to them, that I have given myself up entirely to the work of the Lord in the Temple night and day, not taking more than four hours sleep, upon an average, per day, and going home but once a week.”

But it was not just the Apostles who were working hard. Many faithful Saints gave freely of their time by washing the temple clothing each night so the temple work could continue the next morning.

The Brethren planned to stop the ordinance work on 3 February 1846. President Young left the temple to make final preparations to leave Nauvoo, but upon seeing a large crowd gathered to receive their endowments, he returned. This delayed his departure for another two weeks, but it meant that 5,615 Saints were endowed before they left Nauvoo.

I happen to know a girl who did just that. One night in Mutual Janie heard the announcement that the money for youth conference was due by the end of the month and anyone planning to go should turn it in as soon as possible. Janie didn’t think too much about it because she knew that as a Beehive she wasn’t old enough to go to youth conference anyway, but she overheard a girl from one of her classes at school say, “Naw, I can’t go to that. My dad is out of work right now, and we haven’t got that kind of money.” Janie went home from Mutual that night really upset. It just didn’t seem fair that a nice girl like that should have to miss out. She went to her dad and asked if there was something she could do to help the girl—a girl she knew only by name. She and her dad worked out a plan so that she could earn the money. When she had enough, Janie found a way to slip it into the girl’s school books one day with a note that simply said, “This is for you. Have fun at youth conference.” Can you imagine how much fun Janie had with that? I think she enjoyed it more than if she had gone herself. And you know, it’s a funny thing. That girl never found out where the money came from, but she and Janie somehow became best of friends that year in school. Do you see what had happened? Janie had made an investment in someone outside herself, and the returns were a new friend.

I used to be guilty of judging by appearance back in the days when I could see, before I lost my sight because of diabetes. I remember in particular my girls’ chorus teacher in junior high school. She was about as plain as a person could be, and she wore drab clothing. Even in conducting the choir she seemed to be a shy, backward person with about as much personality as a soda cracker. I am ashamed to admit that we girls made many rude remarks and cruel jokes about her behind her back.
One day at the end of the school year, some friends of mine thought it would be funny to leave an anonymous note on her desk telling her what we really thought of her. I was elected to do the dirty work. But as I went into the empty room to leave the note, I couldn’t do it. Instead, overcome by what I now suspect was the Spirit, I quickly wrote a note thanking her for her efforts in leading the chorus and telling her I had enjoyed singing.
As I was leaving the note on her desk, she entered the room. I was frozen to the spot as she walked to the desk, picked up the note, and read it. As I watched, I was astonished to see tears come to her eyes and flood down her cheeks. She clutched the note to her heart and in her mild way said, “Thank you.”
As I looked into her eyes at that moment, I believe I saw her clearly for the first time. I felt like I saw straight into her soul and sensed at once her loneliness, her pain, and her gentle goodness. At that moment, I loved her with a love that was far more powerful than anything I had ever felt for my favorite teachers. The Lord permitted me to see her heart as he sees it.

The Lord moved on wise men to bring his word to England in the 1500s. William Tyndale, a scholar and a Cambridge and Oxford-trained man said:

If God spare my life, ere many years I will cause a boy that driveth the plow shall know more of the scripture than thou dost. [James Frederic Mozley, William Tyndale (Westport, Connecticut: Greenwood Press, 1937), p. 34]

William Tyndale went to the European continent and, of necessity, in secret, began his translation of the Bible into English. When he had completed two-thirds of it, he was betrayed by a supposedly trusted friend, and before he could complete the translation he was burned at the stake. As his last words, uttered just before he expired, he prayed, “Lord, open the king of England’s eyes” (William Tyndale, p. 341).

Unfortunately, as the season progressed, I found myself slowly letting my guard down. One day when I was working the Jupiter Peak rotation, I responded to an accident. My co-worker and I sped down the steep terrain with a toboggan, fighting to keep it steady. Upon arriving at the scene to help the victim, we laughed at the blunders we had made trying to get there. During our storytelling, I slipped in a colorful adjective.
I thought nothing of it until, in a conversation with the victim, he told us he was a BYU student and was preparing for a mission. I realized that to him I was probably just another coarse mountain patrol woman. I had given him no reason to believe otherwise. At that moment I reaffirmed my desire that no matter where I am, I want people to know I am a disciple of Christ. And isn’t that what we do when we take the sacrament each week—take His name upon us and stand as witnesses?
When I slipped in my conduct that day, I was embarrassed that the injured skier wouldn’t associate me with the Church. But I was far more embarrassed that I hadn’t first been ashamed that Heavenly Father had also heard me.

One day a missionary and his companion came to my office to relate a special teaching experience and daunting challenge. Upon referral of a wonderful family in Provo, they had taught the discussions to Viktoria, a foreign exchange student they said came from Russia. This remarkable family had welcomed Viktoria into their home where she was treated lovingly like the other children. At school Viktoria was introduced to their friends who likewise befriended her. Viktoria accepted the invitation to attend Church with them. Again she was embraced with inclusion and warmth. A special spirit came upon Viktoria as she experienced newly-found peace and happiness. Wanting to know the source of this happiness so evident in her friends, classmates, and the host family, Viktoria's inquiry led to meeting the missionaries and having the restored gospel of Jesus Christ unveiled to her. Enthusiastically, Viktoria accepted the invitation to be baptized.

There was a major obstacle, however, that stood in the way. Because Viktoria was under the age of 18, and, additionally, due to a provision in the foreign exchange agreement, baptism could not occur without approval of her parents. Viktoria had written a letter to them twice requesting consent to her baptism. Her parents declined each request. They did not want their daughter to be taken in by what they believed was a strange American religious cult.

The missionaries informed me that the ward members, her friends, and the missionaries were holding a special fast and prayers for Viktoria to soften the hearts of her parents so that they would permit their daughter to be baptized. I was invited to join with them and was pleased to do so. Monday morning the missionaries excitedly came to see me. Victoria had received - not a letter - but a telephone call from her father giving consent by her parents to be baptized and also wishing her a happy birthday.

We all knew that the Lord had responded to the fasting and prayers offered in behalf of Viktoria. Unbeknownst to us, we soon learned that the stake mission president in Provo had been impressed to telephone the full-time mission president where Viktoria's parents lived and inform him of the situation. He requested that the mission president send two of his best missionaries to try and meet with Viktoria's parents, tell them about the Church, and seek to resolve their concerns. The parents were so impressed with the personal appearance and message of the missionaries who came to their apartment that they agreed to her baptism and called their daughter to extend their approval. There proceeded a wonderful baptismal service.

About three years later, Connie and I were touring the Ukraine Donetsk Mission. During an evening meeting with members and visitors in the southern Ukrainian city of Dnipropetrovsk, I felt impressed to tell this conversion and baptism story of Viktoria. At the conclusion of the meeting, a tall man came up to see me. He said he enjoyed hearing the story of Viktoria and thought I would like to know more. He then introduced himself as Viktoria's father. Confirming all that I had said about the positive impression made upon him and his wife by the missionaries, he then revealed further events. They were so impressed with the feelings, attitude, and happiness of their daughter when she returned home from America that they asked for the missionaries to come to their home and teach them. They too were baptized.

Then, with tears in his eyes, Viktoria's father related another amazing event that had recently occurred. The father of the host family with whom Viktoria had lived in Provo, upon learning that this good man would be receiving the Melchizedek Priesthood, had traveled all the way from Provo to Dnipropetrovsk to bestow it upon Viktoria's father and ordain him an elder.

This was truly a testament to the power of faith, prayer, and fasting that brought about everlasting results for Viktoria and her family far beyond the expectations of those involved.

Throughout her life, our youngest daughter, Joéll, has been a good influence on our family. She was the one who reminded us to have family prayer. She was the one who tried to get us excited about family home evening. She devised treasure hunts; she fixed treats; she would do anything to try to get the family excited about having family home evening. Occasionally her older brothers resisted, but even as they were resisting, there was a respect for what she was trying to do.

This kind of family closeness can continue even after you grow up and leave home. While my wife and I were on our mission, our married children did a lot to support us. They stuck together and held monthly family home evenings. They published a monthly family letter that we all sent back and forth. None of them ever complained about our absence, and it was evident that their testimonies brought them closer together as siblings and to us.

Not even death should separate loving family members for long. The First Presidency and the Council of the Twelve Apostles issued a proclamation to the world concerning families. Part of it states: “The divine plan of happiness enables family relationships to [continue] beyond the grave. Sacred ordinances and covenants available in holy temples make it possible for individuals to return to the presence of God and for families to be united eternally.”

“Go outside and play,” the hired girl said. “You know your mother needs to rest.” So Leta, Sina, Nilla, and Clyde walked from the backdoor, past the pretty tulips, and to the field. At one end of the field was a big root cellar. The part of the cellar not filled with potatoes or other root crops was a playhouse for the four children.

“Let’s get ready for dinner,” Leta said in a special voice that meant she was pretending to be Mother. “Sina, help me tie my apron.” She pretended to take an apron out of a drawer and put it over her head.

Sina pretended to tie a bow in the back, hurrying to finish so she could play the part of big sister. “I will set the table,” she said, turning over a wooden crate and draping it with an old dish towel.

“Nilla,” Leta ordered, “you go back to the house and find us some food to eat.”

Nilla was happy to have an important part to play in this game. She was almost back to the house before she remembered that the hired girl had sent them away and might not let her go into the house again. She looked around carefully until she saw the girl talking to a boy who had ridden up on a horse.

Nilla went to the kitchen. The cupboard doors were open, but nothing was inside. They smelled of cleaning soap. On the kitchen table and chairs were boxes and bottles of various sizes and shapes.

One bottle with a worn red and white label caught Nilla’s eye. She did not know that the picture of the skull and crossbones on it meant it was poison. The label was loose, so she tore it off and threw it on the floor. Then she proudly took the bottle back to her sisters and brother, who were waiting in the playhouse.

Leta opened the bottle and looked at the white crystals inside. “Yes, this looks very good,” she said, closing it up again. “It will take a little while for dinner to be ready, so don’t sit up to the table yet.”

Leta pretended to be busy cooking over the stove, then sweeping the floor. She scolded the children from time to time when they were impatient waiting for their food. Finally she announced it was time for dinner.

When the children took their places at the table, Leta poured a little pile of the crystals in front of each of them. Clyde licked his finger, ready to eat right away, but Leta stopped him. “No food until after the prayer. And I will say it.”

This time, she reminded everyone of their father as she prayed. “Our Father who art in heaven,” she began. “We thank Thee for this food and for …” Her voice rose and fell as she prayed on and on. Her words were mumbled much of the time, so no one was quite sure what all she said. The others did hear her say, “Bless this food to our use” and “Bless the missionaries in the field.” Just when Sina, Nilla, and Clyde thought the prayer would end and the feast would start, Leta thought of a ward member she could mention in the prayer, and the prayer continued.

In the house, Mother, sick and weak, awoke with such a feeling of concern for her children that she found herself standing beside her bed before she was even fully awake. Making her way slowly out of the bedroom, she saw the hired girl asleep on the couch.

The kitchen was spotlessly clean, except for a faded red label that startled her as a breeze blew it across the floor. A picture of a skull and crossbones was on it—and the word strychnine. Mother hurried outside as fast as she was able. She saw no sign of her children in the yard, so she went straight to their playhouse in the cellar.

Leta had just said “amen,” and each child was raising a freshly licked finger over the “food,” ready to pick up the powder and eat it, when Mother’s shadow appeared in the doorway.

Mother had found the children in time! In her heart, she said her own prayer of thanks that the lives of her little children had been spared. She did not doubt for a moment that the Spirit of the Lord had awakened her and led her to the children.

That evening at supper, the children waited patiently through the rising and falling tones of their father’s long blessing on the food. It wasn’t hard to remember their own blessing on the play “food” they had almost eaten in the root cellar.

While they were eating, Nilla whispered to Leta, “Heavenly Father really does hear and understand each prayer, doesn’t He?”

“Yes, He really does,” Leta whispered back.

Joseph said that once when he was in his office, he saw two boys fighting in the street. He ran out, “caught one of the boys (who had begun the fight with clubs,) and then the other; and, after giving them proper instruction,” as he termed it, “gave the bystanders a lecture” for egging the boys on instead of stopping the fight, and finally concluded the matter by saying that nobody was allowed to fight in Nauvoo but himself (History of the Church, 5:282–83).

The little girl’s black hair was as shiny as patent leather, and her bright ebony eyes seemed to hardly ever blink. She was always so busy examining something, turning it upside down or inside out, that blinking seemed a waste of time.
Lynette Wood was her name, but she preferred being called Ettenyl. People laughed and nodded tolerantly at one another. And her mother humored her when she remembered to, which wasn’t very often. “What’s that you said your name was?” she would ask. Why couldn’t they remember? Lynette wondered, then decided that there was nothing to be done except to answer to both names. Once in a while even Lynette forgot, especially when she was involved with turning something inside out.
“Lynette! Lynette! I’ve called you to supper five times! If I have to call again, I’m going to give your share to the dog!” her mother threatened.
“You didn’t call me by my name,” Ettenyl muttered, but she hurried inside, anyway.
The little girl was usually happy. Her mother let her take clocks apart, and she laughed when Ettenyl made sand buckets into hats. When she built towers that tottered on one small block with six across the top, her father said that she was smart. Every time she turned around to look, the shapes of things changed. If she walked backward and watched, the trees changed colors and got smaller.
When the leaves grew scarlet and her mother said, “Lynette, it’s time for you to go to school,” Ettenyl was excited and a little scared.
Her teacher, Miss Morris, had beautiful, flowing, golden hair. It fell across her eyes, and great blue circles peered through like discs on a magic screen. Ettenyl was so enchanted that she forgot to answer a question that the teacher had asked her. The teacher frowned and pushed away the golden curtain. Her voice slashed at the little girl. Ettenyl’s stomach tightened up and tried to run away inside her body. She caught her stomach and sat very still with her hands pressed against it.
The next day Ettenyl was determined to do better. She labored hard over the paper, printing her name. Try as she might, she could not get the pencil to make the lovely round circles. Finally she got all the letters copied. She was the last one to finish, but her last letter was the best circle that she had ever made.
“That’s very good, Lynette,” her teacher said, “but this last letter isn’t quite right. Your last name is Wood.” The teacher pointed to Ettenyl’s “perfect” little circle and said, “You have written Woob.” She corrected it with a big, red mark.
Ettenyl’s stomach revolted. She sat still and tight.
The teacher held out a pencil and said, “Please write the d correctly at the end of your name.”
Ettenyl couldn’t move; her hands were stiff from holding her stomach.
“Lynette, please take the pencil.”
She took the pencil and drew a straight line.
“Good. Now put the circle on it.”
Ettenyl bit her lip, and she managed to draw a squarish circle.
“No, Lynette. That’s a b. Your name ends with a d, like this.” The teacher demonstrated.
Ettenyl spent the rest of the week trying to do it right. But each time that she tried, Miss Morris looked so disappointed that Ettenyl started to cry, and the children teased her about it on the playground.
The following week Miss Morris asked Ettenyl’s mother to come to school for a conference after classes were over.
“Don’t look like that, Lynette,” her mother said. “I’m just going to talk with her. Lots of parents visit with their children’s teachers at school.”
Ettenyl went home and waited and waited. Just when she thought that she couldn’t stand it any longer, she noticed the rocket plane that she had made the day before. She had tossed it into the air to make it fly, and now it leaned at a rakish angle against the table leg. Suddenly she had an idea. If she removed the tips of the wings, turned the body on end, and stuck the wings on the bottom, it would be a robot. She was so engrossed with her project that she didn’t notice when her mother came home.
Every night after that, Ettenyl’s mother helped her read and write. Sometimes it took so long that her mother bit her lip angrily. Ettenyl’s stomach hurt, and she hated going to school. The letters floated like the noodles in her alphabet soup. She burst into tears.
“Lynette! Stop crying! You can’t do anything if you cry!” Her mother was cross. Ettenyl cried louder. “Why are you crying?”
“I can’t read. I’m stupid!” she blubbered soggily.
“Oh, Lynette, you’re not stupid. Reading is very hard work,” her mother comforted her.
“You’re mad at me.”
“I’m impatient. Being patient is hard work for me just like reading is hard work for you.”
Ettenyl had an idea. “If you have to help me read, then I can help you to be patient,” she offered.
“That’s a good idea!” her mother agreed.
They worked and worked and worked, and finally Ettenyl put the letters in the right order, even though she knew that there were other ways to see them. After reading, Ettenyl turned her toys inside out. She learned to make one toy into a helicopter, a boat, and even a funny-looking person.
“That’s wonderful!” her mother laughed. “What is it?”
“It’s a ‘twistup.’ I can twist it all up—see?”
As Ettenyl grew up, she invented more twistups, and she became a famous toy maker by turning things inside out and upside down for happy children. Grown-up Ettenyl called herself Lynette and almost forgot her old name. Eventually she married and had a fine son, Kevin, who had shiny black hair and bright eyes that almost never blinked. She read him stories and turned him upside down until he squealed with delight. One day she took Kevin river-rafting. They loved bouncing and swirling in the rushing water, but no matter how she tried, they always went through the biggest rapids backward.
“I can’t see where we’re going,” Kevin complained.
“That’s the way Ettenyl would do it,” his mother answered.
“Who?” he asked.
She just smiled mysteriously and said, “Wasn’t it fun that way? Hold on tight!”
They laughed together as they swooshed backward through another wall of foamy water.