Gospel Story Finder

One evening when my son Peter was only seven weeks old, I sat rocking him in our living room. I was telling him what a beautiful and precious little boy he was when a question came to my mind: “Who would you want to raise this child if you couldn’t do it yourself?”
I thought “I would choose a loving family who had peace and harmony in their home. They would love and encourage him and help him to know he is a child of God. Even when annoyed, they would speak in quiet tones. They would also be honest in both word and deed. I would want Peter to feel comfortable and secure with them.”
“Yes,” I thought, “I would want such a family to love him and to help and encourage him as they raised him in the gospel.”
Then a second thought came clearly to my mind, almost as if Heavenly Father had spoken to me: That’s how I felt as I passed this little spirit into your care.
I knew then how our loving heavenly parents must feel as they give their children to us to rear in mortality. I realized, too, how precious each child is to them just as my children are to me.
As I thought about the parenting characteristics the Lord would want me to have, I felt humbled, for I knew that I would often fail. But I also felt a sense of great joy as I promised my Heavenly Father that I would try hard to be the kind of mother he would have me be.

Pink has always been my favorite color, so when I first saw the gift under the Christmas tree, I naturally assumed it was mine. The coat-size box was beautiful; silver glitter formed stars against the pink background and twinkled, reflecting the colored lights.
I rushed to the package, but my heart sank as I read the tag: “Merry Christmas, Jill.” My older sister always got everything I wanted—now the pink package, too.
In fact, Jill seemed to have every gift I wanted—from her innate ability to play the piano to her generous spirit. Jill’s talents gave me goosebumps, just like the pink package.
Many years before, after seeing my self-confidence deflate with every attempt at music, my mother had encouraged me to seek something in which I could excel. But even if I became the best rope-jumper in town, I still would not be able to give people goosebumps the way Jill could with her music. I couldn’t understand why Heavenly Father hadn’t given me any talents.
My discouragement worsened through high school as I unsuccessfully tried out for cheerleader, for tennis, for the school play, for dance club, and for class officer. Halfway through my sophomore year, I became so depressed I found it hard to concentrate in class or seminary.
Early one morning, as I stared aimlessly out the window at the ski team boarding a bus, my seminary teacher called on me. “Sister Mecham,” she said, “would you please read that scripture for us?”
“Where was it again?” I asked, trying to act as if I had been paying attention.
“Moroni 10:8–17.” [Moro. 10:8–17]
As the words fell from my mouth I envisioned Moroni sitting next to me telling me himself: “Deny not the gifts of God, for they are many; and they come from the same God. And there are different ways that these gifts are administered; but it is the same God who worketh all in all; and they are given by the manifestations of the Spirit of God unto men, to profit them. …
“And all these gifts come by the Spirit of Christ; and they come unto every man severally, according as he will.”
Suddenly I realized that Heavenly Father had given me gifts, both spiritual and temporal. I just hadn’t looked hard enough to find them. It seemed apparent that he had bestowed upon me the talents I needed the most and those with which I could ultimately do the most good. And best of all, I knew his gifts were given with love.
I rushed to school with a newfound determination—I would find the gifts Heavenly Father had given me.
That morning I picked up my school newspaper and realized writing for it was one extracurricular activity I had not yet tried. I stopped in at the newspaper office and signed up for my first assignment. I learned I had a knack for research, organization, and writing—traits that helped the next year when the adviser asked me to edit the same school paper.
Though Jill has, in my opinion, more visible talents, I feel just as blessed. Heavenly Father has given me the gifts I need the most. My writing ability has helped me through many situations where music couldn’t. And I should have known my mom wouldn’t let me down. She also seems to know my needs better than my wants.
Christmas morning finally arrived and I watched Jill open the beautiful, pink package. As she held her new coat I knew it was made for her.
Then my mother handed me a smaller gift marked “Merry Christmas, Annette.” Although its outward appearance was not as enticing as the pink package, its contents were chosen just for me. As I slipped the pink sweater over the top of my pajamas, I looked at my reflection in the mirror and felt goosebumps. It was my color and size, but more than that, I had learned the importance of gifts given with love.

It was the annual live Nativity. You could walk around and see people dressed up like the Wise Men, shepherds, and Mary with Joseph and the Baby.
We walked over to see the shepherds. The youngest was no more than five, and he was standing by his father. He had his hands clamped tightly together.
My mom came up to me and whispered, “That little boy doesn’t have any gloves. Would you like to give him one of yours?” I looked down at my hands that were double gloved. If I took one layer off, my hands would get cold. I swallowed, took off the best pair, and followed Mom back to the fire.
“Here,” my mom said to the boy’s father. “Some gloves to keep his hands warm.” She slid the gloves onto the boy’s hands.
“Thank you,” the boy’s dad said. “We will get them back to you.”
“Oh, you can keep them,” Mom said as she took my hand. We walked to a big barn where the woman playing the role of Mary stood.
Mary said, “These feet will walk on water, these hands will heal a blind man and raise a child from the dead, and then these hands and feet will be nailed to a cross to pay for our transgressions.”
I looked at the baby representing Jesus in her arms and his tiny hands holding her finger. I looked at my own hands in a worn pair of gloves. I thought of the little boy’s hands with my perfect pair of gloves. Then I smiled to myself. I was glad I had given him my gloves, because I didn’t know what his hands would do someday. They might not do the same things that Jesus did, but his hands would do something good. The least I could do was help keep them warm.

War on the European front had ended in May 1945. But months later, even though Christmas was approaching, the dreary nightmare of years of hate and destruction still stretched a shadowy hand over much of Europe. Austria’s city on the Danube, Vienna the beautiful, lay largely in ruin.
Prized public monuments like Saint Stephen’s Cathedral, the Opera, and the Burgtheater were virtually destroyed. In the city where the Strausses played their waltzes, where Mozart and Beethoven performed The Magic Flute and the Eroica Symphony, where the Fine Arts Museum housed the Hapsburg collection of paintings by the old masters, it was a time for starting over.
It was also a time of want. Food and clothing were scarce, water purity uncertain. Nearly 270,000 Viennese were homeless. Bombed out buildings hovered like specters over potholed streets. And Vienna was a city divided, with Allied forces each patrolling the areas under their jurisdiction. People didn’t venture out at night; there was still a lot of fear in the air.
A number of Latter-day Saints were stationed in the American sector. Local Church members made contact with us and invited us to attend services they were organizing, which we did with joy. We were happy to see them and glad for the fellowship. As Christmas approached, we Americans wrote home to our families and suggested they send us food and other presents we could share with our fellow members of the Church.
A plan was laid out so that all of the Austrian members would have servicemen visit them to celebrate Christ’s birth. Captain Gibson and I were assigned to spend an evening with the branch president’s family, over in the Russian sector.
Captain Gibson had been there before, but I had not. As we crossed the bridge over the Danube, I was impressed that the damage on the eastern side of the city, which included much of the port area, was particularly heavy. Vacant ruins gave no indication of street names or house numbers. There were no street lights to help us find directions.
After several minutes, however, Captain Gibson said, “Stop here. Pull over to the side,” and I did.
He leaned out of the jeep, cupped his hands around his mouth, and clearly, firmly whistled the Primary song, “Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam.”
We waited. The dark, empty street was terrifying. I had misgivings about being in the wrong location. I didn’t know what would happen. I didn’t know if we’d ever get back.
Then, across the street and three floors up, shutters on a window opened. In soft, clear notes that sweet little tune was whistled again, and when I heard it my fears evaporated. It was the response we’d arranged ahead of time. We were to whistle a Church song and the members were to whistle a response if everything was okay.
A minute later we heard footsteps, then saw the branch president’s daughter running across the cobblestones, accompanied by a trusted neighbor. They opened a gate to an inner courtyard, and we pulled the jeep in off the street. They closed the gate behind us and locked it.
The daughter’s excitement was apparent. She nearly danced up the three flights of stairs, where we met her parents and another daughter. We looked around the meagerly furnished apartment. Though the family was in dire circumstances, it was, after all, Christmas Eve, and the table was set for dinner.
It seems strange to say we feasted on salmon loaf and artificial orange drink, but feast we did. And more than food, we feasted on love and companionship. We feasted on the knowledge that God’s son was born into a weary world to bring it hope and light. We feasted on the firm belief that with war’s end the gospel would again be preached in Europe and that the Saints would again be free to gather and worship.
We sang the songs the Saints all sing, hymns and Christmas carols. The family gave us each a handmade Christmas card. We gave them some food and clothing. Together we knelt in a prayer of thanks, and then Captain Gibson and I returned to our quarters, enriched and strengthened.
That was 40 years ago, and the horrors of postwar Europe seem long past and far away. Vienna is once again the beautiful city on the Danube, where Saint Stephen’s, the Opera, and the Burgtheater, all rebuilt, stand as monuments to man’s commitment to overcome the bombs and flames of war.
Even now, though, whenever I hear “Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam”—especially when it’s almost Christmas—my mind floods with memories of a dark street where a gentle whistle reminded me that wherever the Saints gather, there is always faith, rejoicing, fellowship, and hope.

Bloomington, Indiana—Few young Latter-day Saints have ever lived behind the Iron Curtain as has twenty-three-year-old Cenek Vrba, who presently studies violin and music performance at the famed University of Indiana School of Music. Already, Cenek is one of the great young violinists of our time.
What was it like living in Czechoslovakia?
“Most people in Canada and the United States to whom I have talked cannot even imagine what kind of life our family had in Czechoslovakia before escaping in 1968. People outside of Communism don’t even realize the value of their fantastic freedom to do as they wish. Freedom—that is the difference.
“My father was branch president and we had a good Mormon home. But in school we were taught that there is no God. We were taught to hate the ‘class enemy,’ or the owners of small shops and businesses. The USSR was held up as the shining example in everything. In school we were shown movies of how Russia won World War II and how they had given the Czech people their freedom and therefore had the right to occupy the country after the war.
“But at home I was taught love and the gospel and about God. We did not doubt God, even though we could not talk to others about the Church. We could not even tell them of our sacrament meetings. Once we told a trusted friend about our meetings and he informed the secret police. They stopped our meetings and interrogated my father. Although my father has three doctorates, he was released from teaching in the university because, he was told, his Mormon ideas would corrupt the students. He was offered wealth and position if he would join the Communist Party.
“When I was six years old our family had to begin to prepare for my baptism two years later. Since it would have been impossible for me to be baptized in a river or a lake, Father built a font in our garden. He worked on it for over two years so that no suspicions would be aroused. When the secret police asked him why he built it, he said it was to keep the children cool. When I was eight, Father baptized me in our 4? x 4? font in the middle of the night.
“Freedom is the difference between my life in Czechoslovakia and my life in Canada and the United States. Here I have freedom. I didn’t resent studying Marxism and learning about it, but it was terrible to live in it. It takes some principles that are close to the gospel and twists them into force and great unhappiness.”
And about music?
“Music to me is something almost spiritual, even though it can be material—I practice five hours a day and study much. Music lifts people’s spirits. My goal is to be a concert violinist. I look forward to being known as a Mormon. My life as a concert violinist and all the traveling will present challenges when I marry and children come, but I will stay close to the Church and build a good home. I love the Church and know from experience that God answers our prayers. To me, Jesus Christ and his gospel are wonderful.”
Cenek is close to attaining his professional goal. He was concert-master of a symphony orchestra in Czechoslovakia and won first place in the Czech Beethoven National Violin Competition. After his family moved to Calgary, Alberta, Canada, he won the Calgary Music Festival’s top award; the $1,000 grand festival award at the Spokane, Washington, Music Festival; and the top two $500 prizes in Alberta, Canada, music competition.

One Sunday right in the middle of the branch sacrament meeting, a woman walked in the door off the street. She was a homeless woman who was wearing dirty, ragged clothes, coughing, choking, and blowing her nose into a filthy handkerchief. In a loud, hoarse voice she said, “I want to sing! I want to pray!” and walked right to the front row and sat down next to a member who was wearing a white blouse, leaned against her, and laid her head on her shoulder. The member immediately put her arms around this guest and held her in her arms throughout the remainder of the meeting. It happened that the speaker had been talking about the parable of the good Samaritan as the woman had come in. As this woman coughed and choked, the speaker continued telling of the parable. As he came to the end of his talk and was quoting a relevant scripture, suddenly, in a loud voice, this homeless woman finished giving the verse that the speaker had begun. In talking of this after sacrament meeting with the speaker, we thought it had probably been a long time since someone had affectionately put an arm around our visitor. We wondered what better illustration you could have of the parable of the good Samaritan than what we had just seen, and we were reminded of the Savior’s words that preceded His telling of that parable: “Thou shalt love … thy neighbour as thyself.”

After a 61-hour bus ride, our youth group arrived at the Manila Philippines Temple. In celebration of the temple’s 20th anniversary, the Davao stake youth had spent nine months preparing for the trip, attending family history classes, being actively involved in Church activities, researching and preparing family names, and helping to raise funds for the trip. There was excitement in the air as the 63 of us got off the bus that Monday night. At the temple patron housing, we held a very large family home evening, with musical performances and spiritual messages, and then tried to sleep.
During the next two days the youth were baptized and confirmed for over 2,000 of their ancestors, giving those ancestors the chance to accept the restored gospel. We didn’t feel hungry or tired as we worked hour after hour in the temple. The Spirit was very strong. Some youth had glowing countenances; others had tears of joy on their cheeks.
All too soon it was time to go home. A few minutes into our journey, the peaceful quiet of the bus was interrupted by police sirens. Outside, we were surrounded by patrol cars, which forced us to a stop. Then we could see police snipers around us, aiming forward. In those tense moments, we learned that the passengers of a bus a few feet in front of us were being held hostage, and the police were using our bus as a shield!
We leaders did our best to keep everyone calm, but some began to panic. In the confusion the police ordered us all to drop to the floor. After several terrifying minutes, we heard a man yelling for us to evacuate the bus. Following orders, we hurriedly got off the bus and went to a nearby vacant building.
For over an hour, we sat in the dark building, praying and listening for gunfire. Then finally we were told we could go back to our bus. The shootout had ended; two hostages and two hijackers had been killed.
We were badly shaken as we resumed our journey. As the shock lessened, however, we realized we had been protected. Not one of us had been injured, and we knew the hand of the Lord had been over us. We felt a divine presence and wondered if perhaps some of those for whom we had been baptized were close by.
I thought of the scripture that says, “I, the Lord, am bound when ye do what I say” (D&C 82:10), and I was glad the Lord keeps His promises. As we keep the commandments and continue faithfully in our duties, including temple and family history work, we will be worthy of the Lord’s blessings—including His protection when we need it most.

A group of young members of the Church with recommends were going to the Salt Lake Temple to be baptized for the dead. One of them was hesitant because she felt that she didn’t really understand what temples were about. Her teacher said, “If you don’t feel that you’re ready for this experience, maybe you’d be willing to help a young lady in a wheelchair. Would you go with her, help her dress, help her into the font, and take care of her?” The girl said that she would.
In helping the young lady in the wheelchair, whom she hadn’t even known before, this girl became close to the Spirit of the Lord. She was so touched that she asked for the privilege of doing baptisms herself.

Early in my youth, I was counseled in a blessing to stay close to my mother and to keep her advice near me, and I would be safe. I have always remembered that, but I often wondered about it because it was my father who seemed to give most of the advice. Then one winter when I was in the seventh grade, I had blood poisoning and became quite ill. My father was traveling at the time—in the summer he farmed, and in the winter he traveled, selling livestock feed. It was during this period that mother gave me some important counsel. It concerned moral cleanliness, and I’ll always be grateful for that advice. It helped me to set some personal standards early in my life.

Children, develop a testimony of the gospel of Jesus Christ. Pray, and Heavenly Father will send you the help you need. Listen to and obey your parents, who only want what is best for you. And when the time is right for you, get your patriarchal blessing and heed its counsel too.

I met Brother Cerda August 1972 while reporting his nation’s first area conference. I had asked to meet some Latter-day Saint families and learn of the gospel’s impact on their lives. Thus it was that my translator, Jesse Trujillo, and I were driven to Benemerito and welcomed into the home of Manuel and Maria Cerda, parents of five adult sons.
I soon learned why we had been brought to their home. Their story started seventeen years earlier, when missionaries had knocked at their door in Tehuacan, 225 kilometers southeast of their present home. Within six months, father, mother, and five sons were baptized—Víctor was twenty-three, Augustin twenty-one, Moises nineteen, Ramon seventeen, and Gilberto sixteen. In less than a year, the sons began to be called on missions. Before long, there came an extraordinary six-month period when all five sons served simultaneously in the missions of Mexico. Of equal interest was the remarkable coincidence that all five sons had served two or more months as a companion to one of their brothers.
With the turning of his family to missionary service, Manuel Cerda decided it was not enough to send and support, as best he could, his sons. He decided he must be an example. Together, he and his wife María determined that they would be missionaries, too. Were there not nonmember friends and neighbors and relatives all around?
Thus, during the three-year period that five sons served missions, Manuel and María Cerda were personally involved in the conversion of seventy persons into the Church. Letters from Manuel and María went out weekly to their sons, telling of one acquaintance after another joining the Church. The witness of joy and truth from father and mother burned into the hearts of five sons—father and mother doing missionary work at home, father and mother encouraging their missionary sons, brothers serving together as companions.
Soon this family witness flamed into a great fire of faith and energy and love, reaching out farther and farther. At the end of their missions, this was the report of the sons to their father and mother: Víctor and his companions—140 persons baptized into the Church; Augustin and his companions, 106 persons; Moises and his companions, 160 persons; Ramón and his companions, 75 persons; Gilberto and his companions, 233 persons. Total: 784. When I met them in 1972 the family had brought in 53 more—837 eternal friends among the membership of the Church.

When Carol Witt Christensen was called to serve as public affairs director for the Topeka Kansas Stake, she felt “fearful and inadequate” about having to interact with news reporters and editors on behalf of stake leaders.
“The thought of making cold contacts with news people was a little terrifying,” she recalls. And though she majored in English in college, she says that she “didn’t know anything about writing news releases.”
Despite her self-doubt, Sister Christensen decided to rely on her testimony, her familiarity with her community, and the belief that her calling came from inspired priesthood leaders. She says she started with training from the Public Affairs Department and began to “learn [her] duty, and to act in the office in which [she was] appointed, in all diligence” (D&C 107:99).
She began poring over the weekly religion section of her local newspaper to determine what was considered newsworthy. She called the religion writer to find out about deadlines before submitting her first news release.
“I noticed the types of small news items that were printed and began paying special attention at church to activities, interesting people, and accomplishments that seemed appropriate to announce in our newspaper,” she remembers.
Over time, Sister Christensen learned that media relations is much more than merely pitching story ideas. It’s also about knowing the media and helping reporters do their job while at the same time helping them come to understand the Church.
After a series of successes, including an article about her stake’s seminary program appearing in the local paper, she says she gained confidence and “felt on fire with a desire to bring forth the Church ‘out of obscurity’” (see D&C 1:30). Now, years later, Sister Christensen still serves as her stake public affairs director and says “that fire has continued to blaze.”

Elder Perry had a lifelong gift for making friends. When he worked in New York, USA, as a retail executive, he thought his fellow commuters seemed unfriendly. So he decided to shake things up.
One man always stood on the same platform location to wait for the train. He also picked the same seat on the train every day.
To build a friendship, Elder Perry showed up early several days in a row to grab those spots before the man could. At first the man was irritated, but before long, the two were laughing and it turned into a game—a game the whole train station eventually enjoyed as more and more commuters joined in. In time they all grew so close that they sang Christmas carols together at the station. “It livened up the whole platform,” Elder Perry remembered.

Will you imagine something with me? Imagine that I have decided to present to a typical teenager a car such as this, and you are the one who has been chosen. On the evening of the presentation, I see that you are not quite financially able to run such a car, so I generously include free gas, oil, maintenance, tires, anything your car will use. I’ll give you all of this, and the bills will come to me.
How you will enjoy that car! Think of driving it to school tomorrow. Think of all the new friends you will suddenly acquire.
Your parents may be hesitant to let you use this car freely, so I will visit with them. I am sure they will be reluctant, but because of my position as one of the leaders of the Church, they will consent.
Let us imagine, then, that you have your car, everything to run it, and freedom to use it.
Suppose that one evening you are invited to attend a Church social. “There are just enough of you to ride in my station wagon,” your teacher says. “You may leave your car home.” When they come to take you to the party, you suddenly remember your new convertible, with the top down, parked at the curb. You run back in the house and give the car keys to your father, asking that he put it in the garage, for it looks as if it may rain. Your father, of course, obediently agrees.
Later you come home and notice your car is not at the curb. “Dear old Dad,” you muse, “always willing to help out.” But as the station wagon pulls into the driveway and the lights flash into the garage, you see it stands empty.
You rush into the house, find Father, and ask where your car is.
“Oh, I loaned it to someone,” he responds.
Then imagine a conversation such as this.
“Well, who was it?” you ask.
“Oh, that boy who comes by here regularly,” Dad says.
“What boy?”
“Oh, that … well, I have seen him pass here several times on his bicycle.”
“What is his name?”
“Well, I’m afraid I didn’t find out.”
“Where did he take the car?”
“That really wasn’t made clear.”
“When will he bring it back?”
“Well, there really wasn’t any agreement on that.”
Then suppose that your father should say to you, with some impatience, “Now you calm down. He rushed in here. He needed a car. You weren’t using it. He seemed to be in a frantic hurry over something, and he looked like an honest boy, so I gave him the keys. Now relax. Go to bed. Calm down.”
I suppose under the circumstances you would look at your father with a puzzled expression and wonder if some important connection had slipped loose in his thinking mechanism.
It would take a foolish father to lend such an expensive piece of equipment on an arrangement such as that—particularly a car that belonged to you.

You’re listening to a talk from general conference on your MP3 player while you walk to school. A friend asks what you’re listening to. You tell her the truth—you’re listening to the words of a living prophet of God. “What does that mean?” your friend asks. You explain about modern prophets and apostles and then ask your friend if she would like to join you in April to hear what those leaders are saying.

It was the hardest letter I had ever written. Not knowing how it would be received, I struggled to find the right words.
It had been five years since I last communicated with my ex-husband’s mother. I was now remarried and trying to offer the love of four children to a grandmother who hadn’t seen or heard from them in all that time.
“Do what you feel you must do,” my husband said, although he didn’t like the idea too well. “Don’t start something you might regret later,” my mother told me.
But there was something else prompting me—a different spirit that said, “You must let her know that her only grandchildren are alive, well, and happy.”
So I wrote the letter. Offering to put aside our past, I spoke of future visits with loved grandchildren and friendship with our family. I included the children’s school pictures.
Grandmother June was in the hospital when the letter arrived. Following surgery, she had developed an infection that slowed her healing and was the start of a deep depression. She had had an unhappy life, and no one was really surprised when she seemed to give up the will to live. Days went by as she lay there, uncaring and unfeeling.
Bill, her husband, brought her cards and letters as they arrived, but it didn’t seem to help. A few days before Thanksgiving a priest came to administer last rites. There was not much hope for her recovery.
That day, when Bill brought the mail in, June took an interest in one of the letters. He opened it, spilling the children’s photographs onto the bed. Both of them reached at once for the pictures. Bill kissed them again and again. June was too weak to do more than look at the treasure and weep.
Later in the afternoon she told a surprised nurse, “I’m hungry. Please bring me something to eat.” With a new will to live, June sat up in bed for the first time in many days. Soon she was strong enough to answer my letter. She was overjoyed to read about the children, happy to forget about past problems, and excited about seeing her grandchildren again.
We drove to Pennsylvania that summer and visited June and Bill, sharing together a great gift of love and gratitude. I don’t know that my letter saved her life, but I do know that the Spirit of the Lord prompted me to write. And I am deeply thankful that the Spirit urged me to do it when I felt like not doing it.

Lunch period was the worst. Polly and I ate at different times, so we had to eat alone. It was also embarrassing to have to bring a sack lunch. Every day I sat by myself, reading a book so I didn’t have to look up.

One day a girl from one of the tough groups sauntered over on a dare from her friends. Her heavily made-up eyes jeered at me.

“Whatcha readin’?” she said.

I could hear the laughter of her friends. My heart pounded. Maybe if I kept reading she would just leave.

“Is it good?” she tried again, turning to look at her friends. Loud laughter. I kept reading.

“Man, are you dumb,” she said as she walked away.

I was too embarrassed to mention the incident to my parents. I don’t think they ever realized I had no friends at school. I don’t know if it was just the clothes we wore or that we didn’t know exactly what to say or do to be like everyone else, but we never did feel like we fit in.

I wrote in my journal, “I don’t know what to wear. White socks and shoes are out in the winter, and I have the wrong kind of coat and boots. Styles are so different here!”

Church and home were the only two places where I felt accepted. The kids at church didn’t seem to care about my eerie eyewear or my outdated clothing. I loved activity nights. An industrious seamstress, I modeled several of my creations in an MIA fashion show. Another time I participated in an impromptu speech contest and did terribly, but no one seemed to mind. Virginia Webb became a good friend, but she attended a different junior high.

I began to live for weekends and the hours after school spent playing with my brothers and sisters. In Hawaii we had had scores of friends and rarely played together. But here my brothers and sisters became my closest friends. They were there when that long-awaited snow finally fell. We frolicked in it like kittens in catnip. We held our mouths open as it fell. Each flake was a miracle, every snowball another excuse to giggle.

Eventually it dawned on us that we were the biggest kids on the sledding hill across from our home. In Michigan sledding was only for kids. But Alan didn’t care. At age 16, he was six feet, five inches tall, and he loved sledding. Every day after school, he went sledding alongside the grade schoolers. They gawked at him, but since he was so much bigger, no one ever said a word.

The rest of us, still trying to fit in, bought used ice skates. I’d been a good roller skater in Hawaii and ice skating came easy. With all the ponds and lakes in Michigan, we never had to settle for endless circling in a stale old rink. I loved the exhilaration of skating hard and fast across a frozen lake.

In the middle of the winter, a package arrived from my Grandmother Marsh in Los Angeles. I caught my breath when Polly and I tore off the brown wrapping. Inside were two outfits, breathtakingly in style. Mine had a pink flowered top with knee socks to match. Polly’s was identical, except that it was blue. This was our big chance to show the kids at Forsythe Junior High that we weren’t such misfits after all. Boy, would they be surprised!

I was a little nervous about the color because this was no ordinary pink. It was a sizzling, shocking pink. But the outfit was so definitely “in” that I squelched my fear. I slowly hung my oversized plaid coat in my locker and wondered what the kids would think of me appearing in such style.

A sea of eyes followed my dazzling pink presence from my locker to my homeroom. Then the whispering began—but not whispers of envy or admiration, as I had secretly hoped.

“Look what she’s wearing.”

“Didn’t we already have Halloween?”

All day the laughter continued. Resentment and frustration built within me. If only I had a friend to walk with, it would be so much easier. If only somebody who knew what was acceptable would give me some hints. Repeatedly I had tried to fit in and failed. And now even Grandma’s outfit had betrayed me. After that I stopped trying to live by other people’s standards. I warned Polly, and she never even wore her new clothes.

I wish I could say that there was some magic turning point, that we discovered a key that made us popular, that we found friends at our school, and that we became leaders and trendsetters ourselves. Of course we didn’t. In a year the sabbatical was over, and we returned to Hawaii, our scores of friends, our waves and mountain fruit, our mild weather and perpetually green foliage. Never was I happier than when we returned to our beloved island.

And yet now, 20 years later, when I think of Michigan, I smile. With fondness I recall Alan running barefoot in the snow. I grin at the memory of Philip and me raking autumn leaves. My heart soars when I remember skimming across a frozen lake with Polly or strolling through the farmer’s market with my father. Tears come to my eyes when I think about the whole family piling into our cream-colored station wagon, off for a picnic in Kalamazoo.

It isn’t easy to move when you’re in junior high school. It’s even tougher when you’re poor and you’re exchanging a provincial paradise for a bustling college town. There were times when I was sure I would never make it.

But now, given some time and distance, I know what the secret was. I leaned on my family. And because of them I survived.

My dad and I were taking a walk around the neighborhood when I saw a TV remote control lying on the ground. I picked it up and asked my dad if I could look for the owner. He said yes, so I rang some doorbells. At one house the man said, “It’s not mine.” I rang another doorbell, and the man said, “It’s mine,” so I gave it to him. I left feeling good inside. As I was walking home, the man came up to me and said, “Thanks for being honest.” I said, “Thank you!” and went home. I’m glad I was honest.

“I can remember my first big fishing trip. I was ten years old. We went to Mackay, Idaho. My father taught me how to put the worm on the hook, and it was very distasteful to me. I kept thinking, Dad, why can’t you do this? I don’t want to do it. When I asked him, though, he said, ‘If you’re going to learn to fish, you have to learn to do everything.’ And so he made me put the worm on the hook. Then, when I caught my first fish, I didn’t know what to do with that wiggly, slippery thing. My father taught me how to clean the fish: I had to hold it in one hand and cut it open and clean out its entrails, which was a very unpleasant job for me. But I could see my father’s wisdom—without actually doing all that a task requires, we often don’t learn everything we need to know.

Christmas was still a few weeks away, but Truman and his family had already put up the Christmas tree. He was excited as he thought about the presents he hoped to see under the tree on Christmas morning.
A few days later Truman walked into the living room and saw there was one small box under the tree. It was wrapped in red paper and tied with a green bow.
Our first present! Who sent it? Was it Grandma?
No.
Is it from one of my cousins?
No.
Truman was confused.
Well, then who sent it?
You’ll have to wait and see. All we can say is that it is a very special gift.
As days passed, more presents appeared under the tree, but Truman kept wondering about that first red present with the green bow. Where did it come from?
On Christmas morning, Truman raced to wake up his brothers and parents.
Wake up! It’s Christmas!
After arriving at the tree, Truman was excited to see the presents underneath it.
Truman, you may open the small box with the red paper and green bow.
Truman was excited to finally see what was inside.
Truman removed the lid and found a few small items. He pulled them out one at a time—a picture of Jesus Christ, a poem about Jesus’s birth, and a star. Truman showed everyone the picture, and Dad read the poem.
I put the box under the tree so we could remember the real reason we celebrate Christmas.
Truman was happy to remember Jesus.
Dad, you put the box under the tree, but now I know who really gave us this gift.
Who?
Heavenly Father.

However, all was not going to go as planned because precisely one week before preparing to fly to Hong Kong, Sister Berry began to experience lower back pain. She tried to shrug it off, expecting it to heal on its own. Then, a couple of days later, after a volleyball game, she noticed the pain grew to the point where it was difficult to walk.
She was immediately seen by the MTC doctor and was horrified to be told that she would not be able to fly out for her mission but would need to return home to England to have surgery.
She was utterly devastated but determined to find a way to stay on track. She was able to see a surgeon in the USA who specialised in the surgery she needed. So, Sister Berry remained in the MTC for an extra three weeks, waving goodbye to her MTC group as she waited.
Within that time, the cysts on her spine had receded and drained enough to help the surgery process for which she was waiting.
Following her surgery, the recovery programme would take longer than six weeks, and so it was decided she would return home to England, but she went back with the mindset that she would not stay for long, and that her suitcase would remain packed!
To keep herself in the missionary frame of mind, she kept her daily missionary routine, reading her scriptures and studying the mission language. She also met with her MTC teacher online to practise the language.
She said, “I did not give myself the option even to consider staying home. My mind was firmly set that this was just temporary”.
On March 4, 2019, now stronger, she flew from England to Hong Kong, ready to meet with her mission president and his wife, President and Sister Phillips, from the USA (now living in Salt Lake City).