Gospel Story Finder

At the age of 12 years Anders Peter Anderson was orphaned. He had begun working in a woolen factory at age 10 because his family was poor. When he was 14 he heard the message of the missionaries, and in January 1878 he was baptized. As soon as it became known that he was a Mormon, the family that had taken him in when he was orphaned and treated him like a son drove him out. Called as a local missionary, Anders was frequently summoned before the Lutheran Church councils. In one city he was sentenced to 14 days in prison on bread and water, but he secretly moved to another area and escaped the punishment. During his mission he baptized 85 people. In the company of 270 other emigrants he came to America in August 1881. In 1889 he left America for another mission to Scandinavia, eventually serving as president of the Stockholm conference and baptizing 66 people.19

“Way to go, everyone! Great job on our presentation!” Nathan smiled as he held up their first-place ribbon. The other members of the farming club high-fived each other. “We’d better head out so we won’t get home too late,” Nathan said. He was the club president. The group had a two-hour drive ahead of them, and after leading his team to victory, Nathan was looking forward to getting home in time for Sunday.
“We talked to Mr. Wimple, and he said we could stay another night and go back tomorrow,” Rand said.
Nathan looked at Mr. Wimple, one of the group advisers. “But we’re supposed to be back before Sunday.”
Mr. Wimple shrugged. “Well, everyone seemed to want to stay, so I thought it would be OK this time. I’ll call parents for permission.”
“What’s the big deal, Nathan?” Rand asked. “We can stay and have fun tonight and go home later tomorrow.”
The other club members had gathered around to listen. They looked at Nathan to see what he would say.
“But … we were supposed to go home tonight,” Nathan said. “And I need to be back for church tomorrow.” Nathan liked going to church with his family. Plus, tomorrow he was going to pass the sacrament for the first time! He couldn’t do that if he was stuck here with the club.
“Come on, Nathan, you’re going to ruin it for all of us,” Abby complained. “There’s stuff we wanted to do tonight.”
“Well, maybe not this time,” Mr. Wimple said. “I guess we’d better head home.”
The kids all groaned as Mr. Wimple and his wife led them outside.
On the bus ride home, Nathan sat alone. The others had pushed past him and said some rude things as they headed to the back of the bus. Nathan felt hurt and sad. But he was still glad they were going home.
As Nathan walked into the chapel the next morning, he thought about what had happened yesterday. It felt good to be at church. The Holy Ghost was telling him that he was in the right place on the Sabbath. And he was excited to pass the sacrament!
On Monday, Nathan felt a little nervous going to school. The farming club was meeting early to talk about their next competition. Would they still be mad about what happened on Saturday?
“You’re late, Nathan,” Rand called out from the front of the room.
Nathan looked at the clock. Actually, he was five minutes early.
“We changed the meeting time,” Rand said. “And we changed the president. I’m the president now, and I’ll actually listen to what the rest of the club wants.”
Nathan almost dropped his bag. He couldn’t believe it! He knew the others had been angry, but he hadn’t thought they would find a new president. At least they hadn’t tried to kick him out of the club.
“I wish you’d waited for me so I could at least be part of the vote,” Nathan said as he found a chair and sat down.
“Too late,” Rand said as he turned to the other kids.
Maybe too late to make a choice on the vote, Nathan thought. But he could always choose how to act. Even though he felt sad, he felt peaceful inside too. When it came to choosing where to be on the Sabbath, Nathan knew he’d made the right choice.

Young Matthew Kelsay stared gloomily out the window at the drifts of deepening snow, and listened to the icy wind moan like an ill-bearing minstrel. “Can’t go out and play,” he grumbled to himself. “Maybe I should have gone with Mom and Dad to the genealogy library like they wanted me to.” But he thought there wouldn’t have been anything to do at the library except thumb through a bunch of old dusty books, trying to find the name of someone who was born one year and died another. Uuchhh! How boring, he thought with disgust.
Turning away from the misted glass, Matthew stared bleakly across the room at the stairway. “Nothing to do inside, either,” he murmured. Then his eyes suddenly brightened. Jumping off the sofa, he sprinted up the steep stairs.
The boy hadn’t explored the attic for a long time. The last time he had been up there, he had played an innocent prank on Methuselah, their old tomcat, who sometimes slept there on a dusty featherbed. Now to a very bored eleven-year-old who had nothing better to do, it seemed like a good place to escape a humdrum afternoon.
Matthew squeezed inside, waded through the piles of clutter, and posed clownishly before a cracked mirror with one of his father’s old hats piled on his head. Then he saw something reflected in the mirror that distracted him—an old chest caught in a shaft of wintry light that slivered through a tattered curtain covering the single attic window.
Plopping himself down beside the big box, Matthew creaked open the lid. A warm, musty-sweet smell floated out like a trapped ghost set free. He reached in and pulled out a pair of old boots—boots Matthew was sure must have walked a thousand miles! Next he discovered a faded photograph of a white-haired man with a Moses-like beard and a dusty smile. On the lower corner was written—Josiah Kelsay 1905.
“It’s Great-Grandpa,” whispered the boy. Tucked next to the photograph was a little worn red book. Matthew picked it up and opened it carefully so as not to tear the pages, and the scent that emanated from it tingled him. “Must be Great Grandpa’s diary,” breathed Matthew with awe and reverence. He turned to the inside cover and read: “The diary of ten-year-old Josiah Kelsay, recorded as he crossed the plains with a party of wagons on their way to the Great Salt Lake Valley in the spring of eighteen hundred and forty-nine.” Matthew looked up, his eyes big and round. “Wow! Methuselah, 1849!”
Matthew gingerly fingered a few pages into the little book, stopped, and began to read aloud: “March 18. Our Conestoga left without Ma’s piano. There just wasn’t any room, and the oxen were put upon enough as it was. Baby Jess nearly took a joyful fit when a butterfly lit on her cradle in the back of the wagon.”
The boy turned a few more pages. “March 29. Saw some Indians not too far from our camp today. Brother Ezekiel said they were Crows. They didn’t look as though they meant us any harm, but Ma took on fearful and then became prayerful. Pa tried to comfort Ma and told her not to worry because God would see to it that all of us got to the valley in one piece.”
Digging into the diary a little deeper, Matthew read: “April 3. It rained some today. Old Sister Weber died this morning. Found me a real arrowhead in the skull of a dead coyote. Brother Beacon’s boy said he’d give me his gold watch for it but I’d rather keep the arrowhead. Baby Jess has taken to coughing something fierce.”
More pages were turned. “April 19. We only made about a mile today. Pa took time out to bury Baby Jess. Didn’t see Pa cry but he put his arms round Ma in the holdingest kind of way. Then he walked off somewhere by himself for the rest of the day. Once I thought I heard someone crying off aways. Maybe it was just the wind coming down off the butte.”
“April 20. Brother Ezekiel shot a wild pig that came into a place where Sister Gunnerson was digging some Indian Soapweed. The pig was acting crazy and bubbling at the jaws like he had a devil in him. And before it was killed it horned a place across Ma’s leg—just a scratch but there’s some folks looking unusually mournful. Pa and Nephi Cole administered to Ma. Flora Clanton found some berries and said she’s going to work up something special for the one that sings the loudest tonight at the camp sing.”
Matthew fingered ahead. “May 2. They had to tie Ma down in the wagon today.”
“May 3. Ma died this morning. Just before the end she told us good-bye. I think I heard her tell me to be strong and to praise God.”
On another page Matthew read: “May 4. Cold all day—colder than ever before. We found some little wild flowers to put on Ma’s grave.”
Matthew rubbed his arms, looked up at the snow falling against the little attic window, then he flipped the page. “May 6. We’ve been trying to catch up with the rest of the wagons. Pa told me to try to stop looking so stretchy-faced over Ma being gone. He says we’ll all get to the valley, only we’ll have to take Ma and Baby Jess with us in our hearts. He said they’ll live forever because things eternal never die. And maybe it’s so.”
Matthew turned one more page. “May 7. The wind is most howly and wild today, guess that’s why Pa’s been holding me tighter than I can ever remember.”
Matthew closed the book respectfully, wiped a tear from his cheek, and stared at the diary a long, proud moment. Looking at old books isn’t so boring after all, he decided. And it certainly isn’t dumb.
“You know what, Methuselah?” he said to his sleeping cat. “The next time Mom and Dad ask me to go to the genealogy library, maybe I’ll go with them to see if there are some other diaries that will be as interesting as Great-Grandpa’s.” The old tom’s paws twitched in undisturbed sleep. Matthew laughed. He was thinking that if Methusalah ever tried to find out about his ancestors, he would have to rely on dreams!

Many years ago my children and I hiked to the top of South Sister, a 10,358-foot (3,157 m) mountain in Oregon. After several hours we encountered a long 45-degree slope of tiny volcanic pebbles. With the summit in sight, we pressed on, only to find that with every step, our feet would sink in the pebbles, causing us to slide backward several inches. My 12-year-old son forged ahead as I stayed with my 8-year-old daughter. Fatigue and discouragement soon set in, and she was heartbroken, thinking that she might not join her brother at the top. My first impulse was to carry her. My spirit was willing, but sadly my flesh was weak. We sat down on the rocks, assessed our situation, and devised a new plan. I told her to put her hands in my back pants pockets, hold on tight, and—most important—as soon as I lifted my foot to take a step, she should quickly put her foot in its place. She mirrored my every move and relied on the lift that came from hanging on to my pockets. After what seemed like an eternity, we made it to the top of the mountain. Her expression of triumph and satisfaction was priceless. And yes, she and her brother were, in my estimation, real hikers.
With the current conditions of the world, we desperately need real learning and teaching in our homes, meetings, and gospel classes. I know that your quest to improve may seem overwhelming at times. Please do not become discouraged with your progress. I think back on my experience hiking with my children. We agreed that every time we stopped to catch our breath, rather than focusing exclusively on how much farther we needed to go, we would immediately turn around and look down the mountain. We would take in the scenery and say to each other, “Look how far we’ve come.” Then we would take a deep breath, quickly turn, face uphill, and start climbing again one step at a time. Brothers and sisters, you can parent, lead, and teach after the manner of the workings of the Spirit. I know you can do this. I testify you can do this, and lives will change.

Another intervention and profound tutorial in my life I have spoken of before from this pulpit. As a stake president, I was counseling an older lady from the community who by her oppositional and combative personality had successfully irritated and alienated nearly every one in our community, bishops, police officers, and neighbors. As she was unloading her complaints on me, I too started to feel irritation and began to formulate in my mind a sharp rebuke for her negative attitude and complaining spirit. At which moment, words came forcibly to my mind, as if spoken from Heaven: "This is my beloved daughter, listen to her." Can you imagine how swiftly I was brought to attention and began to listen with true empathy?

I rejoice in this tutorial moment, because it clearly affirmed what so many of us forget, namely, that Heavenly Father loves all his children, even those, perhaps especially those, who may annoy us, we who are so comfortable in our own self righteousness.

“Let’s go,” the voice of our group counselor rang out. My week at a college program in Idaho had barely begun, and it was already the end of the first day. We walked a short distance from our campsite with the bright blue of the sun’s disappearance just fading below the horizon. Our counselor stopped us all on the dirt road in the center of a field and told us we could go off alone to try to get in touch with the Spirit. I had already chosen my spot—behind us and down a hill, in a stand of trees.
As I slipped away from the rest of my group, I sat down in the grass and began to think. I began to hear the noises of small insects in the grass around me. I then picked up a small pink flower, noticing the details and intricacies that made it. As the sky grew darker, I looked up, noticing the perfectly clear field of millions of stars hovering above me. As I sat thinking, the scriptures about God’s creations popped into my mind. God had created worlds more numerous than the sands of the sea, and yet I looked down at the flower in my hand, at how intricately formed it was. The rest of the week I felt grateful for God’s creations and His care for even the smallest of them.

I loved your article on the Idaho School for the Deaf and Blind (Jan. 1995). When I was in middle school, a class of mine learned some sign language and then we visited ISDB. It was a great experience to communicate with the deaf kids there and try to understand one another. I learned they are just like us, despite their disability. Thanks for your great, inspiring stories.
Merissa WilsonAlta, Wyoming

Most of you, if not all, will be familiar with Frank Capra’s film It’s a Wonderful Life (1946). Someone years ago neglected to renew the copyright on this movie, which, in my opinion, was a very fortunate oversight, because without copyright, the movie is much more widely available and viewed than would otherwise be the case.

The Jimmy Stewart character, George Bailey, is a common man whose life and deeds, it is revealed, have been a significant force for good in his hometown of Bedford Falls. Toward the end of the story, George’s future is put in jeopardy by the disappearance of $8,000 in funds belonging to his building and loan company. Although George is unaware, we know that the funds accidentally fell into the hands of the villainous Mr. Potter, played by Lionel Barrymore. Mr. Potter unjustly keeps the funds, and his crime never comes to light. George, however, is rescued financially by gifts of money from the multitude of people he has helped in many different ways throughout his life—a wonderful life.

I find this movie endearing for several reasons, and one of them is the fact that George Bailey’s success and happiness do not depend on retribution for Henry Potter. In contrast to the dominant theme of vengeance in much of today’s movie fare, Mr. Potter is never made to account for the harm and distress he creates. The storyline leaves the ultimate accounting to God, and Mr. Potter is left for now a bit richer but still unhappy and friendless in his pinched and less than wonderful life. George Bailey and his wonderful wife and family can still be happy, enjoying their life of love and service.

“You be good and mind your aunt and uncle,” Dad said.
Sammy gave his dad a big hug and then gave his mom an even bigger one. “I will,” he promised, waving good-bye as his parents left for a weekend out of town. Sammy was happy to be spending Saturday and Sunday at his cousin Joey’s house. There were so many fun things to do. There were board games and video games. There was a swing set, a trampoline, and a barn with a loft. Playing in the loft was Sammy’s favorite thing.
Sammy had a great time. He and Joey played catch in the morning. After lunch they bounced high on the trampoline and soared even higher on the swing set. Later in the afternoon they played hide-and-seek in the barn. For dinner they had sloppy joes, Sammy’s favorite. After dinner, Joey and Sammy watched one of their favorite movies and then fell asleep in the family room.
The next morning, Sammy enjoyed going to Primary with Joey. Brother Clark, the CTR 5 teacher, was kind. Sammy liked hearing the stories in the lesson.
After church the boys changed their clothes. “What should we do now?” Sammy asked.
Joey thought for a minute. “What if we play at the park? Or we could watch a movie or take turns riding my bike. Or we could play video games. What would you like to do?”
Sammy wondered what to say. None of those activities seemed like the best ones for Sunday. Sammy’s parents had taught him that the Sabbath was a special day that should be different from other days. But his parents weren’t here, and he didn’t want to offend Joey. Maybe it would be OK. Joey’s mom and dad must think so.
Sammy decided to tell Joey that all the ideas sounded fun. He started to form the words, but he just couldn’t say them. He knew it wasn’t right. “What if we color the pictures we got in Primary today?” he asked instead. “Then maybe we could draw pictures and send them to Uncle Nick on his mission in Chile.”
“Yeah, I guess that sounds pretty fun,” Joey agreed. “Let’s go get my crayons, and we can color at the kitchen table.”
Sammy gave a silent sigh of relief. He knew that Mom and Dad would be pleased, and he was glad that Joey wasn’t upset. But most important, he knew that Heavenly Father was happy with his choice. That was what really counted.

It was a cloudy day at the end of the summer of 1994. My friend Iveta and I were going to the older part of our city of Mladá Boleslav, Czech Republic. At age 16, the two of us had spent a lot of our vacation from school trying to find members of the Church who had been converted before World War II. During the Communist rule in our small country of Czechoslovakia (now the Czech and Slovak republics), many of the Church members had died. The information on survivors was sometimes very hard to get, and we hadn’t found very many people. We tried to pursue every possible lead.
Finally the day came when we had checked all the names on our list but one. We hoped that we would find someone at the remaining address who could lead us to more information and more names. But when we told the woman who answered the door that we were members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and asked about her mother, she dashed our hopes by replying, “There is nothing I can say. It’s too far in the past.” Both Iveta and I walked away from the closed door frustrated, wondering if our efforts had been for nothing.
As we started for home, Iveta remarked, “I believe that other people who participated in the Church or who had friends who were members are still alive. Maybe we could ask some senior citizens if they remember anything about the Church before the war.” I wasn’t sure that her suggestion would help, but I agreed to try. We began to ask every older person we met if they knew anything about the Church. Not surprisingly, none of them did.
Finally we decided to ask one more person before going home. That next person, a woman who looked about 65, answered our question with, “Yes, I used to know a lot of Mormons. They were very good people. Unfortunately, they are all dead now.” But before we said good-bye she told us about her very old aunt who, she said, would definitely like to talk to us.
The next day when we rang the bell, a middle-aged woman opened the door and let us in. The person we were looking for, her grandmother, entered the room. She was so happy to see us—she was a Church member! She told us lots of stories about the Church before the war. Then she showed us an old picture of the Salt Lake Temple.
“I’m 93 years old,” she said. “For almost 50 years, I have been waiting for the missionaries to come back to our country again. I knew they would come before I died. Once, I thought they were at my door, but I quickly realized they were not from our church. I didn’t feel the same spirit from them that I had felt with our missionaries 50 years ago. I sent them away.”
Her words gave me reason to think about my own life. Would I be able to distinguish the Spirit so easily after 50 years without contact with the Lord’s church? My heart was full of respect for this wonderful woman—and gratitude to Heavenly Father for leading us to her.
She was able to attend church with us. As she partook of the sacrament for the first time in all those years, her eyes were full of tears. On our most recent visit, I took her some copies of the Liahona, the Church magazine in Czech, and we talked for a while.
“After the Church members weren’t allowed to meet any more, the police came to our house very often and took all the gospel books and materials we had,” she said. “But I was able to preserve one book. I have been reading it all these years, and it has helped me and preserved me. It tells how the world should be. I hope it will be like that one day.”
Then she took a book from her table and showed it to me. It was the Czech translation, published in 1938, of The Articles of Faith by Elder James E. Talmage, who served as a member of the Quorum of the Twelve from 1911 through 1933. I was amazed. I had never read the book, but I had a strong testimony of the good it had done in this woman’s life.
Doing missionary work in my spare time that summer taught me many great lessons. As a 16-year-old boy, I learned the meaning of the word patience. I now understand that the Lord will never forsake those who believe in him.

Such courage and faith characterized this determined, resourceful pioneer mother. Mary Fielding was born July 21, 1801, in Honidon, Bedfordshire, England. When she was thirty-three years old, Mary moved to Canada, where her brother and sister were living. In 1836 they were all baptized by Parley P. Pratt. One year later they moved to Kirtland, Ohio, to live with the Saints there.

On December 24, 1837, Mary married Hyrum Smith, the brother of the Prophet Joseph. Unselfishly she cared for Hyrum’s five small children, whose mother had died earlier. Hyrum and Mary also had two children of their own—Joseph F. Smith, later the sixth President of the Church, and Martha Ann.

Recognizing the importance of her husband’s work, Mary supported Hyrum through all the persecutions he suffered for his belief in the Gospel. Shortly before the birth of Joseph F. on November 13, 1838, Hyrum, along with his brother, Joseph, were imprisoned at Liberty Jail. Despite her many trials—she was very ill for four months following the birth of her son, her husband was in jail, and a mob had broken into her home to steal her husband’s possessions—Mary never ceased to believe in the Lord.

Even later, when Hyrum was martyred with Joseph on June 27, 1844, Mary’s faith still did not waver. She wrote to her brother, “Though I have been left, for near six months, in widowhood, in the time of great affliction, and was called to take joyfully or otherwise the spoiling of almost all our goods, … yet I do not feel the least discouraged.”

It’s time for another family gathering in Hooper, Utah. All the cousins scramble onto the big hay wagon, drawn by a team of Grandpa Parker’s Clydesdale horses, for a ride around the small farming community. During the ride Grandpa says, “This isn’t much different from the way the pioneers traveled across the plains.” The children smile because they know that Grandpa’s bay horses aren’t much like oxen.

Now the horses are ready to take the family for a ride. They trot as though they love to pull in their harnesses, and they are lucky to have someone who loves to train them.

After an enjoyable ride over to the park and back, Grandpa pulls on the right rein for the horses to turn into the area by the corral where he can unhitch them by reversing the harnessing process.

The children slide off the wagon, already looking forward to the next time that they come for a visit to Grandpa’s farm. It was a fun ride, but they are glad that they don’t have to ride on a wagon day after day or walk all the way across the plains as many pioneers did.

“My mum fell seriously ill one morning, and I was home alone with her. Her condition got worse. My dear mother was suffering. Her tears and screams were too much for me to bear.
“Our neighbors came rushing into our house. They suggested that I should take her to the hospital, but none of them could help me. My stake president and bishop were not at home. I was completely confused.
“Deep within me I pondered in my heart what to do. I asked my Heavenly Father to deliver me out of this situation. Just then my mum called me and asked, ‘Have you been ordained to the higher priesthood?’
“I answered, ‘Yes.’
“‘Then bless me,’ she said.
“I was very surprised, because when the missionaries taught her about the priesthood, she didn’t believe it was true. Now I was the only one around commissioned of Jesus Christ to act on behalf of God. I examined myself and found myself worthy to perform such a great task. I excused myself for a while and offered a short prayer to my Heavenly Father to heal my mother.
“After my prayer I felt something within me. Immediately I knew that it was the power of God. I returned and gently helped my mother sit up. I laid my hands on her head and blessed her. Soon after the ordinance she fell asleep. She slept about eight hours. I never heard any screams or moans from her again.
“How great was my joy when my mum woke up. I inquired of her condition. She replied, ‘I am very well, my son. I thought the priesthood was not real, but when I was suffering and prayed for help, I suddenly realized that the priesthood was true. So I asked for a blessing, and I was able to sleep.’”—Amos Kwame Tofah, Ghana

Joseph was always willing to help children in need. Once, in Nauvoo, Illinois, Margarette McIntire and her brother Wallace were walking home after a rainstorm. The ground was very muddy, and the two children became stuck in the mud. Unable to get out, they began to cry. Soon, they looked up and saw the Prophet Joseph. He got them to higher ground, wiped the mud off their feet, and took out his handkerchief to wipe away their tears. He spoke kind words to them and sent them home with smiles on their faces.

With one of my daughters, I was baptized a member of the Church on 25 July 1993. One of my other daughters, however, listened to the missionary discussions with us but was not baptized. She later took the discussions again but still was not baptized. I eventually decided to give her a subscription to the Liahona (Spanish). This added help opened the way for the Spirit to witness to her, and a few months later she was converted. Now I wait eagerly for the messages that inspire and uplift the spirit.
Mireya Josefina Almea de Rodriguez,Bolívar Branch, Barcelona Venezuela Stake

Maren Nelson, 16, of the Alma Branch, was helping her mother make a salad for dinner. When the house started to shake, she automatically dove under the table, pulling her mother with her. Huddled together, they could see cupboard doors flying open, dumping dishes out. The refrigerator fell over, spilling food everywhere. The built-in oven was wrenched from the wall, kitchen cabinets tore loose and fell into a messy heap on the floor. A massive china cabinet tipped over against the table, crushing the chair between. “After the shaking stopped,” Maren said, “I remember the terror in my father’s voice as he yelled into the house to find out if we were safe.”
The Nelson home was one that was heavily damaged. Maren was grateful her family was uninjured. “Even though our home was destroyed, I have learned and continue to learn from the experience. The most important thing is that we are all alive and together.”

Illustration by Julie Rogers
I was excited to participate in the Church’s 2016 “Light the World” Christmas campaign. I looked forward to completing the daily challenges, particularly for day five: “Jesus helped the sick, and so can you.”
That day I left work and walked through the gray city streets planning to visit my grandparents. I felt great. It was Christmastime and the world was beautiful. The peal of a charity bell rang through the air. As I neared the streetcar platform, the sound of the bell was drowned out by a homeless woman yelling at the bell ringer.
“You’re a fake!” she screamed. “I’m hungry, I’m cold, and you take it all for yourself! You’re a fake!”
Most people ignored her, and the bell ringer continued ringing his bell. I put my headphones on, but I could still hear the woman yelling, “You’re a fake! I’m hungry. I’m cold.”
I remembered I had a 20-dollar bill in my pocket. I considered giving it to the woman. “No,” I thought. “If I’m going to give this to someone, I should give it to someone nice.” Then the Spirit reminded me of the challenge and whom I was trying to be like. Jesus was the King of kings, yet He served the lowest of the low. I knew what I needed to do.
I walked toward the woman. She wasn’t yelling now, but her eyes were closed and tears ran down her cheeks. I took the 20-dollar bill from my pocket and handed it to her.
“Rough day?” I asked.
She looked up at me. “Yeah,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” I said. I wrapped my arms around her, and she cried into my shoulder until the streetcar came.
“Thanks,” the woman said when we said goodbye. “And not just for the money. Thanks for the hug. I needed a hug.”
Hugging a random person on the street was not something I had planned on doing, but I know it’s something Jesus would have done. I am grateful the Lord gave me the opportunity to serve as He would have. Jesus helped the sick, the poor, and the needy. So can I.

How about our general health? Health is one of the criteria the bishop will look at, but most missionaries find themselves capable of doing the task. Sister Winona L. Armstrong of Arimo, Idaho woke up one morning with a terrible migraine headache. But she didn’t want to cancel the five discussions she and her husband, Ezra, had scheduled, so she prayed, knowing that the Lord had the power to remove it. “Before I got up from my knees, the headache had gone.”

SAN FERNANDO, CALIFORNIA—At 6:01 A.M. February 9, an earthquake shook southern California. Within minutes a major population center in North America had been seriously affected. More than one thousand persons were injured, over sixty persons killed—two of them Latter-day Saints—hundreds of homes and business buildings were destroyed and many others greatly damaged. In the following twenty-four hours, more than a hundred tremors were felt. Hundreds of Latter-day Saints spent the next several days with other Latter-day Saint families who had opened their homes to them. Many home teachers immediately went into action. Fifteen-year-old Crystal Berrett of Sylmar Ward, San Fernando Stake, gives a firsthand report of what it was like to be caught in the quake.
I rose from bed at 5:00 A.M. as usual to get ready for seminary. There were no special feelings or fears that morning, only the usual “Hope I’m ready on time,” “I hate this last-minute rushing,” and “Have I studied enough for the test in history?” Just another day.
My ride came and I was ready, although something bothered me. While I had been getting ready, my small poodle had whined and pawed at my leg. I had tried everything to calm her but it was impossible, so I had just left, not knowing what else to do.
We reached the chapel (that’s where we hold seminary). We were quite early. We got our books and were seated. The other kids staggered in with half-opened eyes. I love seminary as I know all my friends do, and we wouldn’t miss it—but it sure is early!
Most of us were seated and just waiting for our teacher, Varge Christensen, to quiet the usual last-minute whispers and begin. Suddenly I heard a great rumbling sound like a wave—only it was ten times greater! My chair began rocking back and forth. I turned to my girl friend, Cindy Kelley, and said, “Wow! This is really outasight!”
I had never felt a real earthquake before. People now and then would talk about them, and I had wanted to experience one. The next thing I knew the lights went off and I was lifted in the air and dropped violently on my back. I felt someone underneath me and attempted to get to my feet. I was tossed toward one wall, then toward the other wall, all the while trying to dodge flying chairs. My one thought was to escape from the building. It wasn’t so outasight anymore!
Our teacher told us later that he had yelled at us to get out onto the lawn, but I don’t recall hearing anything but that great rumbling. It was the most terrifying experience I have ever been through, and I immediately began praying. I was unable to get up off the floor, and I was afraid that any second the walls and ceiling would come down on me.
We all finally made it to the safety of the grass outside the chapel, and we lay there watching the building sway. With the exception of some bruises, no one was hurt or injured. All the kids were great, trying to help and calm each other. Our one thought now was to get back home to our families.
I knew it was an earthquake, a bad one, but I didn’t realize how bad until some of the parents came rushing to the church in tears, saying that their houses were in ruins, that there hadn’t been one thing left on a wall or shelf or one piece of furniture left in its original position. After I heard this I didn’t even think to cry; I just looked into the sky, now filled with smoke from fires, and asked the Lord to please let me get to my family.
As we started out from the chapel and saw the various buildings and shopping centers that were for the most part totaled-out, many thoughts crossed my mind, and I wondered if my family and home would even be there. As I think back, I’m sure Clyde Cowan and Cindy Kelley must have had the same thoughts, because we rode in complete silence.
There were big cracks in the road, and a big light fixture fell from a pole just after we had passed under it. As we turned up my street, I could see that there had been a shake, but the houses appeared to be undamaged—at least I thought they were fine until my mother, half-crying, half-numb, showed me the inside of our house. It was unbelievable. It looked as though everything in the house had been piled up, crushed, and then stirred. But our family was alive, without injuries, and our house was at least livable.
The home of my best friend, Becky Christensen, was completely demolished. It was a two-story home that was almost made into a one-story in less than a minute.
I talked with Becky later and asked her how she felt about her house. She answered, smiling, “They’re only material things. My family and friends are all right.” Becky’s family has been camping out in the backyard since the earthquake, and she said to me, “Chris, campcrafter is really worthwhile. You really need it.” (Campcrafter is a proficiency level to which MIA girls may attain in camping expertise.)
When we finally got the news on a transistor radio, we learned about the destruction of the Olive View and Veteran’s hospitals. They were in ruins. I have been a candy striper at Olive View for the past two months, and I was going to miss school that very morning in order to watch surgery. If the earthquake had struck just one hour later, I might have been in ruins with the hospital.
This earthquake is by far the most terrifying experience I have ever had, yet in other ways the most rewarding. I’ve learned that such things as houses, cars, furniture, and clothes are only material things and not so important after all. They may take twenty years to get and pay for, yet in less than one minute they can be destroyed. Many people cried over the loss of their beautiful mirrors and expensive china. My mother said that she and Dad had invested most of their time and money in their seven children, and the Lord had preserved them, so they were very grateful. We haven’t had water or gas or electricity or phones, but we have our year’s supply of food stored for just such an emergency, so we haven’t really suffered. It’s been kind of fun sitting by the fire in the darkness at night.
The greatest lesson I’ve learned is what a wonderful blessing it is to be able to pray to God when you are really scared and to have the feeling that he is there and that he hears you and will help you.

Like Bishop Caussé, I lived in a small branch of the Church during a good part of my teen years, and I was often asked to fulfill assignments and callings that would normally have been done by adults. For example, those of us in the youth program often took the lead in helping organize and run our activities and special events. We wrote plays, formed a singing group to entertain at branch activities, and were full participants in every meeting. I was called to be the branch music leader and led the singing in sacrament meeting each week. It was a great experience as a 16-year-old to stand in front of everyone in the branch each Sunday and lead them in singing the hymns. I felt needed and knew I had something to contribute. People depended on me to be there, and I loved feeling useful. That experience helped build my testimony of Jesus Christ, and just as it did for Bishop Caussé, it anchored my life in gospel service.