Gospel Story Finder

Oh, kids! All the flowerpots on the porch are knocked over!” exclaimed Mrs. Rossini in a very exasperated voice.
“Petey did it, Mom,” Robbie and Marsha responded in unison.
Of course. Whenever an “accident” happened in the Rossini house, the other children always claimed that “Petey did it.”
The kitchen door swung open, and with every step, three-year-old Peter left a little pile of sand on the kitchen floor. “Mama, come see. I made the biggest mountain in the world in the sandbox. It’s beautific!”
“Petey, please shake the sand off before you come into the house. Now then, is your mountain beautiful, or terrific?”
“It’s both—my mountain is beautific!” Petey grinned as he ran out the door, knocking over the scrub bucket of water his mother had just used to clean the kitchen floor.
Petey “did it,” all right. Everywhere he went, a mess was sure to follow. Mrs. Rossini wiped up the water and sand with a sigh, then went out to view Peter’s sand mountain.
Marsha and Robbie giggled over their little brother’s disasters. It was almost a family joke for them to shout, “Petey did it! Petey did it!” even if little Peter wasn’t around.
It just seemed funny for Marsha to say “Petey did it!” when Mother wondered what had happened to the last cookie in the bag. Or Robbie might smile and say, “Petey did it,” when no one could quite remember how the schoolbooks were misplaced.
When all three children were scrambling to get the first waffle from the big platter on the table at breakfast, the syrup was knocked over. Of course, Marsha and Robbie giggled and claimed that “Petey did it.” When his mother asked, “Peter, did you bump over the syrup?” he answered, “Yes, Mama. I did, and I’m very sorry.”
After breakfast, the Rossini children were sent to sweep the garage. Marsha moved the boxes and straightened things a bit while Robbie started with the broom. Peter tried to hold the dustpan.
“Marsha, I can’t sweep that corner unless you move Dad’s bike. Why don’t you put it in the driveway.”
“Sure. Hey, Petey. Do you want to sit on the seat while I push the bike into the driveway?”
“Yes, yes, yes! Lift me up, Marsha, please.”
“Up you go,” Marsha said as she lifted the little boy onto Dad’s bicycle. “Hold on to me while I push you.”
Robbie quickly swept that corner of the garage, then followed Marsha and Peter. “That looks fun. Let me try it, Marsh.”
Off the children went, down the street, taking turns pushing Peter on the bike. They hadn’t gone very far when one of their friends shouted to them from his yard.
“Robbie! Marsha! Peter! Do you want to see my new kitten?”
Who could resist? Marsha helped Petey jump down, and all three ran to see Kevin’s new kitten. No one thought at all about Dad’s bike. A few minutes later a big garbage truck rumbled around the corner and ran right over the front wheel of the bicycle.
All afternoon the children sat in their rooms and worried about what to tell their father. How could they explain it? Somehow, when Dad came in, before he could even say anything, the words just rushed out of Robbie’s mouth, “Petey did it.”
“That’s right,” said Marsha. “Petey was riding your bike and left it in the road, and the truck ran over it.”
“I did, Daddy. I went to see Kevin’s kitten, and I forgot your bike, and it got runned over. I’m sorry, Daddy,” Petey said with big tears in his eyes.
“Well, we’ll talk more about this later. All of you go wash your hands for dinner now.”
During dinner, Marsha felt terrible and Robbie felt worse. The two children thought over and over about the questions that Dad had not asked them. Dad hadn’t asked how Peter could have gotten on the bike, or how he could have ridden it by himself when his feet didn’t even reach the pedals. Dad knew that Peter couldn’t even open the garage door by himself.
It didn’t feel like a joke to blame Peter anymore for everything. Robbie pushed his potatoes around with his fork and thought how he was really more to blame than Peter. He knew better than to leave a bike in the road.
Marsha stared at her plate. She thought about little Petey telling Dad that he had ridden the bike. It was time to be accountable for her part in the ruined bike. “Dad,” Marsha blurted out, “it wasn’t really Petey. I’m the one who put him on your bike and gave him a ride. I’m really sorry I took your bike and let it get run over.”
“Me, too, Dad,” Robbie hurried to add. “Petey was just riding, and I was pushing too. We all left it in the road. Can I do something to help get it fixed?”
“Thank you, kids, for telling me the whole truth, not just part of it. Maybe we can figure out a way for you to help fix the bike. Maybe we also need a new family rule. From now on the only one in the Rossini family who can say ‘Petey did it’ is Peter himself.”
“And I’ll tell you when Marsha did it,” said a smiling Marsha.
“And I’ll learn to say ‘Robbie did it,’” said a much happier Robbie.

A weary Indian family stepped out of the cool green forest and stood for a moment, savoring the incredible beauty of the place they had discovered. There before them sparkled a placid blue lake, cupped by gently sloping hills. A dense cover of stately evergreen trees protected the water from high winds and scented the clean air with their spicy fragrance. A medley of joyful birdsongs echoed about them. Ferns and delicate wild flowers carpeted a forest that was splashed with blooming trees.
The family watched a large silvery fish leap out of the water; then it shimmied down, sending circular ripples over the calm surface. Across the lake a doe and her spotted fawn quenched their thirst. The doe stared curiously for a few moments and then ignored the human intruders.
The man and woman smiled at each other and unstrapped their heavy backpacks. They helped remove smaller ones carried by the boy and girl.
“It’s the perfect place for our summer home,” Yellow Wolf said with satisfaction. “Game is plentiful and this bountiful land will supply all our needs if we treat it kindly.”
“Yes,” Brown Deer agreed, smiling. “I saw a bee tree for honey and stands of berry thickets. There are also herbs for medicine and cooking. After surviving such a hard winter, the children will grow sleek and well fed in this peaceful, happy place.”
Yellow Wolf and his son Long Pine set snares for small game, then fished for their supper while Brown Deer and Red Squirrel unpacked their belongings. The speckled fish were hungry and could have provided a mighty catch, but the fishermen stopped after catching four large ones for their evening meal.
After their tepee was erected, Brown Deer scooped out a pit for her cooking fire. The pit was safe from breezes that might blow embers into the forest and start a fire that could devastate the area and wildlife.
Red Squirrel was drawn to clumps of brilliant orange flowers growing near the trees. The watchful mother stopped her work momentarily. “Choose only one flower to pick,” she cautioned, “but you may gather many dried seedpods. We will sow them in other spots around the lake, to spread their beauty for those who may come here after we are gone.”
All summer the family lived in the beautiful place they would always remember. Careful to take only what they needed, they nurtured the land. Then the leaves began to change color and the air turned crisp and cold. A heavy frost wilted the orange flowers. “The creatures have reared their young. Bears are fat for their winter sleep, and the birds are winging south. We must leave, too, before the deep snows come and trap us here,” Yellow Wolf said sadly.
Brown Deer nodded and sighed with regret. The family had been very happy here. She and Red Squirrel began to pack for the long journey south where winters were not so harsh. It was sad to think that they would probably never see this place or ever camp here again.
Brown Deer filled in and smoothed her cooking pit last, but the fresh soil looked like an ugly scar in the earth. Yellow Wolf and Long Pine waited patiently as mother and daughter planted sod and ferns to cover it. When the Indian family vanished into the forest, there was no sign to show they had lived here for a whole summer.
Almost 200 years later another family came to Blue Lake. They backed their shiny trailer over the buried cooking pit. “Ugh! The water is so ugly and brown. Why is it named Blue Lake?” Debbie asked her brother, as they read the sign warning that the water was not safe for swimming.
“Who cares?” Robert retorted. He was eager to finish helping his father unload the boat so he could race his new trail bike up and down the barren hills. Soon the noise of it shattered the stillness. Clouds of yellow dust hung in the air as he rode tight circles where a lush forest once grew.
Other trailers pulled in and the area was soon overcrowded with campers.
The air bristled with the noise made by humans. There were no happy birdsongs, and no animals came to the lake to quench their thirst. Safe drinking water had to be carried from faucets many yards away.
Boat motors churned the smelly brown water into foam. Later the lake would be dappled with the white, floating corpses of unwanted fish caught for “sport” and then thrown away.
Trash cans overflowed, and other rubbish had been tossed or blown into the lake.
A small patch of spindly orange flowers bloomed under one of the few remaining trees. Debbie yanked up a handful by the roots, strewing fragile petals and leaves. She broke off the roots and crushed delicate stems as she forced them into a paper cup. Her mother smiled and placed them in the center of a scarred picnic table.
The wind gusted, making a low moaning sound—or was it the haunting sorrow of Yellow Wolf and his family?

After my baptism in 1994, I told my Heavenly Father that I desired to be useful to him and that I would serve in our branch as best as I could. In 1995, I was called to serve as the branch president.
Sometimes my tasks are hard, and there have been many challenges, especially during my first months of service. But when I kneel down and ask Heavenly Father for his help, he never denies me his support.
Michele Bartoli,Lecce Branch, Italy Catania Mission

Years later my husband told me that when he was a child, Brother Joseph went to their home and asked if he could borrow one of his mother’s twin babies. He explained that his wife Emma had been sad and lonely since her own baby had died, and he thought it would comfort her to take care of one of the girls. The Prophet picked up the baby in the morning and brought her back each night.

One evening when the baby was not home at the usual time, Mother Burgess went to see what was the matter. There was the Prophet rocking the little baby by the fire. He had her wrapped in a silk quilt, and he was singing to get her quiet.
—Margaret M. Burgess

Karina’s smile faded. She began to sweat—and not because it was unusually hot that week. She looked around for help. But in spite of the crowd at the open house, no one seemed to notice her alone with the reporter and all her questions.
Until that moment, 17-year-old Karina had enjoyed volunteering at the Kyiv Ukraine Temple open house. Now, with the newspaper reporter waiting expectantly, her tongue seemed stuck.
Karina was afraid that because of past mistakes she was trying to overcome, God wouldn’t help her.
Growing up in the Church, Karina had dreamed of a temple marriage. But like many teens, she craved acceptance.
She wanted to be beautiful and popular like her older sister. She dreamed of standing out and being admired, but she was afraid of sticking out and being ridiculed. Wanting to follow in her father’s footsteps at the police academy only increased the pressure. Out of 2,000 students, there were only 70 women. She both enjoyed the attention and dreaded it.
In her desire to fit in, she made some poor choices. “The pull of the world was strong,” Karina says. “People around me drank and smoked. They pushed and I gave in. I enjoyed being part of a group that felt so carefree.”
She knew what she was doing was wrong, but she wasn’t thinking about where her choices would lead as she followed the crowd away from God (see Matthew 7:13–14).
One day a young man she liked said he respected her church’s beliefs.
Ashamed that she wasn’t living those beliefs better, Karina finally stopped to consider the path she was on (see Haggai 1:5–7). She realized that her decisions were leading her away from God, the companionship of the Holy Ghost, and her dream of an eternal family.
The only way to change her direction was to change the decisions she was making each day.1 But she wondered if she was already too far down the wrong path. Was it too late to change?
Karina decided to begin changing by praying and reading the scriptures daily. She started writing in her journal, which helped her recognize Heavenly Father’s help each day. She changed the topic if conversations turned bad.
Her most difficult decision was to choose no friends for a time rather than choosing friends with a negative influence. She began looking for friends with higher standards.
Over the months that followed, the adversary threw doubt and fear in her face at every decision. Sometimes she wondered if the effort to follow the Savior was worth it. Who she wanted to be seemed out of reach.
But as she watched how her parents and others with strong testimonies lived, she learned that there is something more powerful than doubt and fear—she learned that because of repentance, there is hope.
“I saw it was possible to live the right way,” she says. “We aren’t condemned by our mistakes. Heavenly Father has given us the chance to repent and change direction.”
Turning away from her old choices and trying to follow the Savior each day have taught her that Heavenly Father is patient. “He has given me one chance after another to change and become a better person,” she says. “He has helped me through difficult times.”
Karina squared her shoulders and turned back to the reporter. Her smile brightened. Heavenly Father had done so much for her already that she knew He would help her now.
After the reporter finished asking questions, Karina smiled and waved. The reporter smiled back and walked away. Karina couldn’t remember much of what she said, but she would remember for a long time how she felt, knowing Heavenly Father is always within reach of those who choose to follow Him.

When I was growing up, my parents never took my siblings and me to church. We were not a religious family. For me, Sunday was just a day off from school when we could play. I thought my life was complete. It wasn’t until a friend showed me what I was missing that I realized how empty my life had been.
When I was 11 or 12, my mother was baptized into the Church. She would often ask me if I wanted to go to church with her, and I always said no. When we moved to Texas the summer before my junior year in high school, I still didn’t go to church with her.
At the beginning of the school year I had no friends. After a few weeks, I became friends with Brad. He was in some of my classes. We would talk in class but never did anything outside of school.
One day my mom took me and my four siblings to church with her. I went, hoping to leave as soon as possible. When we sat down, I looked up and saw Brad preparing to bless the sacrament. Brad saw me as well.
The next day at school, Brad came to me and said, “I didn’t know you were a Latter-day Saint.”
I replied, “I’m not.”
Pretty soon Brad was taking me to Mutual, youth conference, and I was even coming to church every Sunday.
Having never read the Bible, I didn’t know much about Jesus Christ. Brad gave me a Book of Mormon, and I started to read it. From that time, there was a visible change in my life for the better. I knew what I was reading was true. The Holy Ghost bore witness of it. It was through the Book of Mormon that I came to know Jesus Christ and all He has done for me. I changed the way I acted. I started living the way the Bible and Book of Mormon told me I should live.
One day Brad finally asked me, “Donny, what do we have to do to get you baptized?” I had never thought about it before, but it felt like the right thing to do. On June 26, 2000, Brad baptized me into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Three months later, I baptized my older brother, Dan. We are both currently serving missions.
Looking back at how I felt about religion before, I have gained so much. Now I know my Savior Jesus Christ. I have the scriptures to guide me. And I have the gift of the Holy Ghost, who bears witness of the truth.

In ninth grade, Tami had a friend who was good at everything. Tami’s friend, Sandy, was popular. She ran track and won. Tami joined the track team just to be like Sandy. But Tami never won a race. Usually she came in last. Sandy could tell a joke. And boys liked Sandy.
Just before Christmas, the school announced a writing contest. Tami decided to enter. She spent her evenings writing her poem instead of talking with Sandy on the phone as she usually did. She worried about entering the contest. It wasn’t the kind of thing Sandy would do. Tami didn’t even tell her friend she was doing it. Sandy might laugh, or maybe even make fun of her. But it was thrilling to find how much she liked writing. When the results were announced, Tami’s poem won second place.
Encouraging herself to try something on her own wasn’t easy. But Tami discovered something—deciding for herself what she wanted made her happier than trying to imitate her friends. It gave her strength to make more decisions on her own.
In the next few years, as some of her friends began making choices that were against Tami’s standards, it was easier to make her own choices, even when they were less popular.

I give my aloha to Kahoku Haverly, my wife, my love and companion; she is quite literally the reason why I am standing here in this suit and arguably with this stress, speaking to you in this capacity as stake president.

I have lost many a Gospel discussion with this woman. From the days where I'd ask, “You don't REALLY believe that Joseph Smith actually SAW God do you?” and her calm and confident responses, I'm not gonna lie, they kind of irritated me. Not because she was sharing them as a “know it all,” but more because I could feel her answers were correct, and fought it. Other questions; as an active Protestant, I'd ask, “Well in Revelations at the end of the Bible it says that you can't add to this Bible, and here's your church adding this whole other book, The Book of Mormon. Explain that.” And with calmness and confidence, she'd explain that well, that same promise was stated in Deuteronomy; the word Bible means collection of books; Revelation was written much earlier chronologically than other books in the New Testament; John meant that no one should add to the revelations of what he was describing… ugh. Again, it was irritating yet convincing. My spirit told me she was right. I knew she was right. Again. And again.

The discussions turned from, “Why does your church…?” to “Tell me about…?” Notice the difference in tone. A young woman's prayers of faith to be that instrument in conversion of a friend were now prayers being answered to soften that young man's heart, demeanor and perspective. I look back at those times with such surprise and awe, knowing it definitely was critical that the prayers of a young woman, True to the Faith8, inseparably connected to the concepts of what is now For the Strength of Youth, followed the Spirit, paid attention in seminary and used her quiver of spiritual tools to help a very hard headed young man allow his heart to be softened. They were so very different. Yet they became the same.

Years later, after a baptism, a mission, a temple marriage, and 6 children, I'd draw upon these experiences as I counseled with many couples as they prepared to get sealed in the temple.

Once you turn 16, group dating is a great way to build friendships. You’ll want to keep in mind a few things. Follow the example below to see what outcomes your decisions may have.
Start
You worked up the nerve to ask someone out. Great job. Your date asks, “Who else is coming?” You answer:
John and Suzy. (Go to #2.)
No one. (Go to #3.)
Good answer. Group dating is important in your teenage years. What do you have planned for the date?
Go to a movie. (Go to #4.)
Go on a hike. (Go to #5.)
It’s time to rethink this one (see For the Strength of Youth [2011], 4). Your date says she won’t go without a group. What do you do?
Make it a group date instead. (Go to #2.)
Stay home.
A nice idea, but maybe not the best option. You enjoyed the show, but you sat next to each other for two hours without saying a word. What do you do next?
Go home; you’re tired. (Go to #6.)
Make a dessert. (Go to #7.)
Sounds fun! And it will give you lots of opportunities to get to know one another. Did you tell your date what the plan is?
Of course! (Go to #8.)
Whoops! (Go to #9.)
You take your date home, and she thanks you for the nice time. It’s too bad you didn’t really get to know her better instead of just watching a movie.
The group gets ice cream at someone’s home. The dessert is good, and you enjoy talking with everyone. It’s almost curfew. What do you do?
Take your date home. (Go to #10.)
Stay a little longer—you’re having fun. (Go to #11.)
You enjoyed the hike and really got to know everyone in the group. What now?
Make a dessert. (Go to #7.)
Take your date home. (Go to #10.)
Your date wasn’t prepared for hiking, so you wait inside the door for a few minutes while she changes. You’re a little late in meeting up with the group, so the hike ends up shorter than you’d planned, but it’s still fun. What now?
Make a dessert. (Go to #7.)
Take your date home. (Go to #10.)
Your date says she had a great time, thanks you for the evening, and says, “We should do that again sometime!” You smile all the way home.
When you return home after curfew, you and your date both get grounded. Even though you had fun, your date’s dad won’t let you go out again.

In my stake as I was growing up, fathers didn’t baptize their children; they assigned the priests to have that experience. So a young man baptized me. Afterward my father took me to a store, gave me some money, and told me that I could buy anything I wanted that would remind me of my baptism.
I remember looking and looking. Finally I found five wonderful pictures of the Savior and His life. One of them showed the star when He was born, and the rest showed other special scenes. I thought those pictures were the most wonderful things! I put them up on the wall in my bedroom. As I looked at those pictures every day, I had a peaceful, happy testimony that Jesus Christ was the Savior and that Heavenly Father loved me. It was a wonderful reminder of my baptism and of the promises that I made to Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ.

“I grew up in the city, but each summer I stayed with a farmer in our branch for two or three weeks, and I learned to enjoy farming. One day while we were working in a field and the cows needed to be brought up the hill to pasture, the farmer said, ‘I’ll take the wagon down to get the cows.’ I asked, ‘Can I do that?’ He replied, ‘Do you think that you can do it?’ I was small for my age, but I was happy that he thought that I could do the job.”

“Hans, Mein sohn, was machst du da?”
“Vater, Ich studiere.”
“Hans, Mein Sohn, das kannst du nicht.”
“Vater, Ich probiere.”
“Hans, my son, what are you doing?”
“Father, I’m studying.”
“Hans, my son, that you cannot.”
“Father, I am trying.”

“That was one of the first readings that I learned in school. Because it included my first name, Hans, it was very meaningful to me then, and it still is. I’m still trying today.”

There was a beautiful moment when Dimick Huntington in a shoe shop was working on the Prophet’s boots. The Prophet recounted things Dimick had done for him, mostly physical and comforting things—rowing the boat across the Mississippi until his hands were blistered, carrying messages, and as the scriptures have it, “hewing wood and drawing water.” The Prophet expressed gratitude and finally said to Dimick, “Ask of me what you will, and it shall be given you, even if it be to the half of my kingdom.” Dimick did not want to impoverish the Prophet. He asked something else. “Joseph,” he said with his whole soul, “Joseph, I desire that where you and your father’s house are [meaning in eternity] there I and my father’s house may be also.” The Prophet put his head down for a moment as if in meditation, and then looked up. “Dimick, in the name of Jesus Christ, it shall be even as you ask.”31

For the past 20 months, our family has been blessed with the privilege of having a very special baby.
Little Paxton, our grandson, was born with a very rare chromosomal deletion, a genetic disorder that distinguishes him, literally, as one in hundreds of millions. For our daughter and her husband, an uncharted, life-changing journey began when Paxton was born. This experience has become a crucible for learning special lessons tied to the eternities.
Shortly after precious Paxton was born, we knew Heavenly Father would bless us and teach us special lessons. As his father and I put our fingers on his tiny head in the first of many priesthood blessings, the words came into my mind from the ninth chapter of John: “That the works of God should be made manifest in him.”
God’s works are definitely being made manifest through Paxton.
We are learning patience, faith, and gratitude through the balm of service, endless hours of intense emotions, tears of empathy, and the prayers and expressions of love for dear ones in need, especially Paxton and his parents.
As described in Mosiah, we have witnessed the Savior’s pure love given to Paxton’s family, which love is available to all: “And now it came to pass that the burdens which were laid upon Alma and his brethren were made light; yea, the Lord did strengthen them that they could bear up their burdens with ease, and they did submit cheerfully and with patience to all the will of the Lord.”

Brother Carlstrom, in his daily journal, narrates the contentment he reveled in one evening: “We made camp. Some of us wanted to sleep on the beach, but after a while we were forced to higher ground by the unusually high tide. … The day’s end caught most of us watching the beauty of the coast as wild fowl flew … before us. As the sun sank … , it filled the sky with all shades of reds and oranges, with slight traces of pink. … It was replaced by the moon, almost full, as it came over the mountains in back of us, painting the ocean’s surface with flickering light. It was soon joined by other heavenly bodies and God’s handiwork was displayed before us. We had just received our compensation for an afternoon of hard, uphill riding, and we all were thankful.”

Sometimes the lessons will come quietly. A while back I was visiting a sacrament meeting at a care facility in Salt Lake City. The priests at the sacrament table were sitting quietly when the opening hymn was announced. A patient near the front of the large room had difficulty opening his hymnbook. Without so much as a question, one of the young men slipped to his side and, gently turning the pages to the correct hymn, placed the disabled man’s finger at the beginning of the first verse. They exchanged an understanding smile, and the priest returned to his seat. This modest gesture impressed me. After the meeting, I congratulated him and said, “You are going to be an effective missionary.” Some missionaries are gifted with the power of expression, while others have a superior knowledge of the gospel. Some, however, are late bloomers who day by day become more proficient and successful.
Entering the mission field can sometimes be an overpowering and frightening experience. President Harold B. Lee counseled, “Remember, whom the Lord calls, the Lord qualifies.”

There it was, rising above the desert like a huge mound of bread dough, but instead of being soft, it was solid rock. The Young Women of the Alice Springs Branch in the Australia Adelaide Mission meant to climb to the top of this natural marvel.
The rock, known as Ayers Rock, is located southwest of Alice Springs. It is one of the world’s largest monoliths because it was formed from one huge, unfractured piece of rock. The steep climb, about two kilometers, was not an easy task, but most of the young women and their leaders made it to the top to see the beautiful view.
The three-day trip also included a hike through the Olgas, a cluster of round-topped mountains near Ayers Rock. The group traveled in all-terrain vehicles because of the rough desert country. The highlight was the testimony meeting held at the base of one of the Olgas as the sun went down.
“We had great fun. The view from Ayers Rock was worth the scary climb.” Joanne Thompson, 17
“We had a testimony meeting at sunset at the Olgas which was really special. It makes you appreciate how beautiful God’s creations are.” Rebecca Clement, 16

I must have stared at his picture a thousand times—sometimes in anger and jealousy, other times with curiosity and wishful wondering. There it sat in the same place, year after year, on the top shelf of the bookcase in our living room. Once again I was looking at it, studying every detail, and searching my memory for any recollection of the laughing face in the picture before me.
I lifted it from the shelf, then curled up on the couch to study it. The boy in the picture was 15 years old at the time it was taken. He had black hair like my father and soft blue eyes like my mother. He had the wide grin that definitely belonged to my grandfather and the perfect, straight family nose that we all have. He had always been big for his age, but in this picture, he was quite thin. I knew that this was taken when he first became sick and at the same time his little sister was born, his little sister who was me.
At times I nearly hated him. Because of him and his sickness, I had a neglected babyhood. There are hardly any pictures of me as a baby in our family photo albums, and my family remembers few “cute” things I did while growing up. No one is sure when I started to walk, talk, or cut my first tooth. You see, at this time, the boy in the picture—my brother Brett—got leukemia. According to my family, he put up a huge fight for two years; but the disease eventually won, and at the age of 17, he died.
Whenever our family gets together for anything, the conversation always works its way back to memories of times with Brett, and then, of course, about his heroic struggle with his illness. But to me, he is a stranger, an envied, wondered about, sometimes resented stranger.
I suppose it’s self-centered of me to feel I was neglected as a small child, but being the youngest, you’d think I would have received a lot of attention. Brett must have demanded everyone’s time, love, and attention. I was sure I always had to take the back seat during my early childhood. My accomplishments—like pronouncing my first words—just weren’t as important as Brett’s accomplishments—like going into remission for a while.
Sometimes I’d feel angry and a little sad when my family would talk about times with Brett before I was born. Last weekend, when my brother and sister and their families came for Mother’s Day, it didn’t take long before I’d had enough of the memories I couldn’t share, so I escaped to the kitchen to scrub the countertops and dishes. Mom followed me into the kitchen.
“Honey, what’s wrong? Don’t you want to …”
I turned from the sink to face her with my arms folded. “Mom, since we always talk about stuff that happened when Brett was alive, I guess no one in this family thinks we’ve done anything interesting since Brett died, right?”
“Honey, you know that’s not true. We’ve had some wonderful times together since Brett died. We’ve had some great times. I know it’s hard for you to have to listen about times that you weren’t part of …”
Suddenly, from the other room, voices became even louder.
“Oh, that reminds me. Remember when Brett started high school?” Chuckling and laughter followed this remark of my sister, Tara.
“He wasn’t anything like the rest of you. He had to be the class clown and make everyone laugh.” That was Dad. “And yet he always managed to get wonderful grades.”
“And don’t forget what he did for the school itself. I remember how the principal and some of his teachers would tell him what a disappointment he was because of the stunts he’d pull. And look what he did—he won the debating awards and helped the football team go to state one year and region the next.” My brother Alex was only a year older than Brett. He remembers a lot of things about Brett that the rest of us never knew.
“I can’t believe how easily he could weasel into and out of all kinds of situations, like sneaking out his window at night and down the tree, and yet always making it back home just in time.” Tara’s voice again.
The conversation had pulled Mom back into the room. “Just exactly where he would sneak off to is something I’d like to know!” Mom laughed.
“Stop—I don’t want to know!” Dad laughed back.
I stood in the kitchen listening. I smiled to myself as I thought about some of the things he’d done that I’d heard stories about. But I couldn’t help the familiar, hollow feeling that grew inside of me. Sometimes I could laugh along with everyone else, but I’d always feel as if I’d missed out on something—and I hated feeling that way.
My family didn’t constantly talk about Brett. In fact, I could go for days, even weeks, without even thinking about him. But then I’d go into the living room and see his picture, and I’d start wondering again.
Today I turned 16. I had a pretty good birthday. My parents gave me lots of nice things, and Alex and Tara and their families came over to help me celebrate.
This evening Mom came into my room and dropped a long, faded white envelope into my lap with only the name “Kitty” printed on it in an unfamiliar handwriting.
“What’s this?” I questioned. Kitty. That had been an old family nickname for me when I’d been really little, but no one had called me that for years.
“Open it and find out.” Mom smiled at me in a funny kind of way, then left me, closing the door quietly behind her.
I frowned at the envelope in my hands. I couldn’t stop looking at the name “Kitty” suspiciously. Who would call me that? I finally ripped it open. Inside was a single sheet of lined paper filled with handwriting that matched the name “Kitty” on the envelope.
Dear Kitty,
If Mom has done what she promised she’d do, then right now, today, you must be turning 16 years old, and I’m probably not around anymore. But at this very second, as I write this letter to you, you’re barely two.
Ever since you were just a little baby, you’ve saved your biggest smile for me. It’s impossible for me to believe that you’ll never remember me. You see, I’m very sick, and I know I’m not going to be here for much longer, so I won’t see my beautiful baby sister grow up. I won’t be there to help you along in your life. It doesn’t seem fair, and as I’ve watched you these past two years, I feel like I’m going to be cheated out of something incredible.
Two years ago, right before you were born, I found out I have leukemia. The fact that from then on, I would never lead a “normal” life made me want to give up and die. And then Mom came home from the hospital with you. The first time I held you and looked into those blue eyes of yours, I knew that now I had a reason to live. I couldn’t give up now—you needed me. And I knew I needed you. I wanted to see you grow up and help you, be there for you, and, hopefully, be your friend. We had a great start. I’ve spent more time with you these past two years than practically anyone else.
I have to thank you for these past two years you’ve given me. I know I wouldn’t have had them if it weren’t for you. Now I can honestly say that they’ve been two of the best. I’ve fought hard, but I know my time is short. The doctors say it’s amazing that I’ve lasted as long as I have, because I’m in bad shape. But don’t think I’m giving up or that I’m just going to leave you now. Not a chance! You helped me through the roughest two years of my life, so I have something for you that I hope will help you as much as you’ve helped me. It’s in the bottom of my gray strong box. Your name’s on it.
I love you,Brett
After retrieving the key for Brett’s strong box from Mom, I found a package covered with faded wrapping paper covered with lots of once-colorful balloons. The package was addressed to “Kitty—for her 16th birthday. With love, Brett.” With trembling hands, I ripped off the paper and carefully lifted the lid of the white box inside. A scarlet-colored book lay nestled in white tissue paper. Not just any book. It was a journal done by Brett, as if he were talking to me, of the last two years of his life, starting with the day I was born and ending on the day he died. He recorded everything we ever did together, including all of my babyhood milestones, along with his own milestones, as well as his feelings as he struggled with his illness. He also added in a lot of advice for me for when I was older, since he knew he wouldn’t be able to tell me in person. And on every page, no matter what happened during the day, he never forgot to write, “I love you.”
I was staring at a picture again today, studying it for the hundredth time. In the picture was the image of a dark-haired boy, sitting under a tree, smiling down at a tiny little girl sitting on his lap, laughing up at him. I smiled myself just looking at it. I placed it back on its spot on my dresser, right by the mirror. I had found it in Brett’s journal on my 16th birthday, so I’d framed it and filled an empty space on my dresser with it. I opened one of the drawers and took out the journal, my special journal from Brett, and hugged it. It too had filled an empty space—an empty space in my heart.
Mother poked her head around my opened bedroom door. “Well, your visitors are here. Are you ready?”
I nodded. “I’ll be right there.”
I quickly returned the journal to its drawer and turned to pick up the book I’d been reading a lot lately off of my bed. My mind raced back a few months to my eventful 16th birthday.
Under the tissue paper in that white box had been yet another book. This one had a midnight blue cover and one of the most peculiar titles I’d ever read. Brett had scrawled a message on the inside cover in his now strangely familiar handwriting:
This book was given to me by two amazing guys one day at the hospital during a particularly bad stay. It brought me a lot of comfort during my darkest hours, and now I’m not so scared to die anymore. If this book brought comfort to me to face death, then surely it should give you strength to face life.
According to what these two guys teach and what is found in this book, I will see you and all my family again someday. So, although our time together on earth was short, we’ll always have forever.
My heart was pounding after reading those words for about the millionth time. It had taken a lot of pleading and persuasion, but I’d finally convinced my parents to let me invite two special “visitors” to our house so that I could learn more about this book. My hands were shaking as I closed the cover, took a deep breath, and walked, clutching the book in my hands, down the hall to the living room.
The two young men in suits and ties stood up when I walked into the room. With huge smiles, they introduced themselves and shook my hand. My heart was still pounding as I nervously smiled back.
We all sat down, and then one of the young men asked if he could offer a prayer. I nodded, and as I did, my eyes found the laughing, smiling face in a picture standing where it always had been, on the top shelf of the bookcase in our living room. Only this time, I could swear the smile was bigger and happier than ever before.

When Harold B. Lee was young, he learned to play many instruments, including the French horn and the piano. In high school, he earned money by joining the Preston Military Band. They played at nearly every community event!
Little did he know that his musical skills would help in the mission field, too.
Harold: I have been called to serve in the Western States Mission! I report to Salt Lake City to be set apart, and then I’ll go to Denver, Colorado.
Harold’s father: Congratulations, my boy. Your mother and I expect big things from you.
Harold didn’t want to let his parents down, but he was nervous. He had never seen a city as big as Salt Lake City.
Harold: Excuse me, but I think I’m lost. I’m looking for the Church Office Building. I have a very important appointment, and I don’t want to be late.
Stranger: Don’t worry—it’s that building right over there.
After being set apart, Elder Lee boarded a train and rode to Denver. The mission president, John M. Knight, and a group of missionaries met him.
President Knight: Welcome to Colorado, Elder Lee. Meet your companion, Elder Woodbury.
Elder Woodbury: Pleased to meet you, Elder Lee. Tell me about yourself.
Elder Woodbury: You play the piano? Wait till I show you my cello! Maybe we can practice together.
They did more than practice! Elder Woodbury began carrying his cello with him everywhere. When someone answered their knock at the door, they would offer to play a duet.
Woman at the door: Yes, I have a piano. I’d like to hear you play. Please come in.
Harold: If it’s all right with you, we’ll share a message about Jesus Christ and the restored gospel, too.
Elder Lee made many friends on his mission through “playing and preaching.” He was thankful that he had taken the time to develop musical talents so he could use them to serve Heavenly Father.

One hundred forty-eight years later, in June 1977, again in a print shop, another step in the coming together of these two sticks occurred.

James Mortimer, long experienced in publishing scriptures, and Dr. Ellis T. Rasmussen, recently dean of Religious Instruction at Brigham Young University, called at the Cambridge University Press in Cambridge, England. Bibles had been printed at this prestigious press for 293 years before Egbert Grandin opened his print shop in Palmyra.

They met with Mr. Roger Coleman, director of religious publishing, to discuss the publication of a most unusual edition of the King James Bible. The printers were quite as skeptical about this proposal as Egbert Grandin had been nearly 150 years before.

The Cambridge Press had been publishing the King James Bible since the first edition in 1611, but they had never been asked to do anything like this. The text was to remain exactly as it was, no changes, not one. But all footnoting, cross-references, chapter introductions, indexes, and so on, were to be replaced. Only the chapter and verse numbering for the sixty-six books would be retained.

And that was just the beginning. This edition of the Bible would be cross-referenced with three other books of scripture: the Book of Mormon, the Doctrine and Covenants, and the Pearl of Great Price. The printers had barely heard of them.

But there was more. A new, innovative system of footnoting was to be used. Instead of progressing from A to Z in each chapter, the letters would start over in every verse, for innumerable verses would have many footnotes in them.

The technical problems seemed insurmountable. Computers could help, but there was always the human factor. How could you cross-reference the Bible with any other book? To cross-reference it with the three volumes was to require tens of thousands of footnotes. Thereafter there would be hundreds of thousands of possible combinations of information. It was too big even to think about. The technical challenge alone was staggering, to say nothing of maintaining accuracy, harmony, and consistency with the biblical text itself. It could not be done!

But in that meeting also was Mr. Derek Bowen, editor, a most remarkable man. A World War II injury had left him unable to hear. Thereafter he devoted his remarkable compensating abilities to the editing, typesetting, and printing of Bibles. He was, perhaps, the one man in the world who could direct such a printing project.

All of the problems mentioned so far related only to the printing part of the project. The actual compiling and organizing of the tens of thousands of footnotes would require many hundreds of workers. This work had already been underway for several years. Without the computer it would be manifestly impossible!

That also was but a beginning. There would be a combined concordance and topical guide, listing hundreds of subjects; a Bible dictionary; maps; and a new format. New chapter headings would be written. All in harmony with the sacred message of the Old and the New Testaments.

Several years into the project we asked for a report. How were they progressing with the tedious, laborious listing of topics in alphabetical order? They responded, “We have been through Heaven and Hell, past Love and Lust, and now we’re working toward Repentance.”

The 750 headings for the Topical Guide were painfully rendered down from a list nearly twice that long. For there was a practical consideration: the book had to be of a size for everyday use.

There was a spirit of inspiration brooding over their work, and those working with the project talked often of how it was blessed. There were humbling spiritual experiences.

After more than seven years of quiet, intensive work, the Latter-day Saint edition of the King James Bible came off the press. Already work was well under way on the Book of Mormon, the Doctrine and Covenants, and the Pearl of Great Price. Over the years manuscripts had come into our hands which made possible the correction of printers’ errors which had crept into early editions.

The work would be seen by more than the sympathetic students and the devoted members of the Church. The cold, impartial eyes of the research scholars would study it, and the angry eyes of enemies and detractors would pore over it. It must be correct in every detail.

Finally, after two more years, the books came from the press, the most accurate we have ever had.

Three months later, Derek Bowen, master editor of Bibles, passed away in England.

Some years ago I spoke to a Mia Maid adviser who told me of an experience she had with one of the young women in her class. This young woman had been tempted time and time again to leave the pathway of truth and follow the detour of sin. Through the constant persuasion of some of her friends at school, she had finally agreed to follow such a detour. The plan was set: she would tell her parents she was going to her activity night for Young Women. She planned, however, to be there only long enough for her girlfriends and their dates to pick her up. They would then attend a party where alcoholic beverages would be consumed and where the behavior would be in complete violation of what this young woman knew was right.
The teacher had prayed for inspiration in helping all her girls but especially this particular young woman, who seemed so uncertain about her commitment to the gospel. The teacher had received inspiration that night to abandon what she had previously planned and to speak to the girls about remaining morally clean. As she began sharing her thoughts and feelings, the young woman in question checked her watch often to make sure she didn’t miss her rendezvous with her friends. However, as the discussion progressed, her heart was touched, her conscience awakened, and her determination renewed. When it came, she ignored the repeated sound of the automobile horn summoning her. She remained throughout the evening with her teacher and the other girls in the class. The temptation to detour from God’s approved way had been averted. Satan had been frustrated. The young woman remained after the others had left in order to thank her teacher for the lesson and to let her know how it had helped her avoid what might have been a tragic outcome. A teacher’s prayer had been answered.
I subsequently learned that because she had made her decision not to go with her friends that night—some of the most popular girls and boys at school—the young woman was shunned by them and for many months had no friends at school. They couldn’t accept that she was unwilling to do the things they did. It was an extremely difficult and lonely period for her, but she remained steadfast and eventually gained friends who shared her standards. Now, several years later, she has a temple marriage and four beautiful children. How different her life could have been. Our decisions determine our destiny.