Gospel Story Finder

“You don’t know what you’re talking about!” Larissa yelled to her classmate Eric. She jumped off her bike and raced for the door. Bursting inside, she threw her arms around Mom and blurted, “Eric says I’m not really yours. He says that all of you are white and I’m black, and that we aren’t a real family because we don’t match.” She shoved her arm next to Mom’s to compare. “See!”
Mom hugged Larissa tight. “Maybe Eric doesn’t understand what makes a real family.”
Just then Dad walked in. “What’s wrong? Did you hurt your arm?”
Larissa sobbed. “No! I don’t match you guys, so Eric says we aren’t a real family.”
“Hmm.” Dad held his arm next to Larissa’s. “I guess Eric doesn’t know what makes a real family.”
“That’s what Mom said.” Larissa jerked her arm away. “But maybe he does know. He looks like his family. He says families are supposed to match.”
Allie squeezed through the door, trying to keep the wind and dry leaves outside. “What’s supposed to match?” she asked.
“We are,” Larissa said. “Eric says so, and he should know because his whole family matches.”
“Well, he doesn’t know what makes a real family then,” Allie said.
The door flew open and the wind blew leaves and the twins in together. “Why is Larissa crying?” they asked.
Larissa wailed. “See! Jeremy and Zack match. They look alike, they dress alike, and they even say the same thing at the same time. I don’t match any of you!”
“What?” Jeremy and Zack asked.
“It seems that Eric thinks Larissa doesn’t belong with us because she doesn’t look like any of us,” Dad said.
“Well,” Zack began, “Eric must not know what makes a—”
“It’s true,” Allie interrupted. “We don’t look alike, but there are lots more important qualities for a family to share. We love each other and we help each other. Each of us is special to the other. Isn’t that more important than looking alike?”
“That gives me an idea,” Mom said. “Come to the computer.”
Opening the family history album, Mom pointed to a name on a pedigree chart. “My grandmother, Eleanor Edmonds,” she said. “Let’s see what we can find.” She quickly entered the name “Eleanor Edmonds,” the word “Ohio,” and the year “1882” into the computer.
“Larissa,” Mom said, “please click on ‘search.’”
The computer clicked and whirred and finally, after a few seconds, a box appeared on the screen that read, “NO MATCH FOUND.”
“That’s not right!” Allie said. “Eleanor is your grandmother. How can the computer say there’s no match?”
“What would the computer use to match families together?” Mom asked.
“Names!” the twins said.
“Dates and places,” Dad added.
“Then why did it say no match found?” Allie asked.
“The computer has to have all the right information to match her to us. I entered Ohio as Eleanor’s birthplace. Actually, she was born in Nebraska. Because the computer had the wrong information, it couldn’t make a match. But no matter what the computer says, I have all the information I need to know that Eleanor is my grandmother.”
“Oh, I get it,” Larissa said slowly. “Eric doesn’t think I belong in this family because he doesn’t have the right information.”
“That’s right,” Mom said. “He does not know that Heavenly Father wanted you to be with us and made sure we could adopt you and be sealed as a family in the temple.”
“We match because of more important things than our hair and our eyes and our skin,” Dad said. “We are a family because we followed God’s plan for us.” He held up the family history album and pointed to a photo. “This is Eleanor Edmonds, Mom’s grandmother.”
“Wow!” the twins said.
“She doesn’t look anything like you, Mom,” Larissa said. “Your hair is straight, your skin is dark, and your eyes are brown. Her hair is curly, her skin is fair, and her eyes are light.”
“That’s right, honey. When I was growing up she lived next door. I learned that she and I are a lot alike in ways that are far more important than looking alike.”
“Poor Eric,” Larissa said. “He doesn’t know that looking alike doesn’t even matter.”
“And the best part is that we can be a family forever, no matter what we look like,” Dad said.
“Cool!” the twins shouted.
Larissa smiled. “We’re a perfect match!”

And so it was on Tuesday morning of this week, just after 9:00 a.m. as the Bishopric was beginning a meeting with the Asia Area Presidency, who are here for conference, that I was called to meet with President Monson, along with his counselors. Moments later, as I walked into the boardroom adjacent to his office, I must have looked nervous sitting across the table, as he kindly spoke to calm my nerves. He commented, noting my age, that I seemed quite young and even looked younger than my age.

Then, within a few moments, President Monson described that acting on the will of the Lord, he was extending a call to the Quorum of the Twelve to me. He asked me if I would accept this call, to which, following what I am sure was a very undignified audible gasp, in complete shock, I responded affirmatively. And then, before I could even verbalize a tsunami of indescribable emotion, most of which were feelings of inadequacy, President Monson kindly reached out to me, describing how he was called many years ago as an Apostle by President David O. McKay, at which time he too felt inadequate. He calmly instructed me, “Bishop Stevenson, the Lord will qualify those whom He calls.” These soothing words of a prophet have been a source of peace, a calm in a storm of painful self-examination and tender feelings in the ensuing agonizing hours which have passed day and night since then.

Following my release from my first mission in 1923, I returned home to Whitney, Idaho, on Christmas Eve. It was a joyful reunion with my ten brothers and sisters, and especially with my father and mother.
Father and Mother always made it a practice to hang the stockings, one on each chair, for the children and to place their limited gifts on or under or near each chair. They took me into their confidence that Christmas Eve. We stayed up all during the night. In fact, we didn’t retire at all. We filled the stockings after going to the granary and elsewhere on the farm to get the presents which had been secretly hidden. This took a good part of the night. The rest we spent in visiting together, with Father and Mother telling me of the progress made by each of the children while I was away, and with me reporting to them and responding to their questions regarding my wonderful mission to the British Isles. My love for my parents had never been quite so great before as it was that night.
It was a happy morning. I could not hold back the tears as I watched with pride the reactions of my six brothers and four sisters and the loving expressions of my noble parents as they watched their posterity partake of the Christmas spirit and as they felt of the unity which prevailed in our family circle.
(December 1988, p. 21.)

I started reading the Book of Mormon for the first time when I became a Beehive. I read it from cover to cover and thought that would be the end. But I was so wrong. My life seemed to be missing something. So I decided to start reading it again, this time paying closer attention. As I did, my life was filled with the light that had dimmed since I had finished it. I understood more and came to really love it. Read it all the time, and you are ensuring yourself a life of goodness and light.
Kellie M., age 15, Utah, USA

Jerry Abram came out and sat down. “Rochelle is not a spectator; she is a participant,” he said when I asked him to sum up his daughter. “I don’t know what she’ll contribute to the Church—whether she’ll ever be a Relief Society or Young Women president—but I know what she’ll contribute to other people. She always has time for others.”
For example? “In our stake there was a young man, a ninth grader, who was not participating. So Rochelle went to his house every morning, woke him up if necessary, and took him to early-morning seminary. It wasn’t an assignment; she just did it. I asked her about it, and she said, ‘It’s there to do.’”

Beehive Marianne Miner, of the Salt Lake Valley View Sixth Ward, along with others in her Young Women program, joined in to help make a slide and sound presentation on record keeping. Before this she was unaware that her ward Young Women president, Annette Brantzeg, had a special testimony of keeping records. The presentation explained that when Annette was only nine weeks old her mother died. Annette was raised by her grandparents and was never told much about her mother. Because of unusual circumstances Annette did not see her father for many years. Then when she was 17, he visited her and brought with him a journal that her mother had kept for one year of her life. That journal made it possible for a daughter to come to know her mother. In that record Annette was able to share a part of her mother’s life—her courtship, the discovery of a heart condition, her experiences as a school teacher in Wyoming.
Hearing the story made Marianne think about the importance of keeping records and the many kinds of records we can keep. “I was really moved by Annette’s story. I immediately started my book of remembrance. I’m going to keep things from school and church to put in it. I’m also going to start my life story.”

My name is Nene Quame Nyame S. I’m 14 years old, and I live in Ghana.
When I first went to senior high school, there was one thing I struggled with: when a new subject was introduced, I would find it difficult to understand. One evening I prayed to Heavenly Father to help me understand and overcome that challenge. I had faith, and I was able to understand better. Since then, prayer and faith have been on my to-do list in school and everywhere I go. Being in a boys school is challenging because of some of the immoral things students do. When that happens, the words of my parents come to my mind: “Don’t do something that will drive the Holy Ghost away.” I am grateful to my mum, who always reminds me to listen to the Holy Ghost. When we do what is right, God blesses us.
Nene Quame Nyame S., 14, Ghana.

Before I joined the Church, I tried to make money selling handmade rugs, but I didn’t have money to buy material. I used to tell people, “If you want a rug, go buy your material and bring it to me; then I will make it for you. You can pay me when I’m done.”

Now that I’m here in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, I have learned about self-reliance. The Church has given me more endurance to learn to read, write, speak, and try to do something for myself to be self-reliant. Now I go to the tailor’s shop and ask for the leftover scraps they cut from the clothes and leave on the floor. I buy the scraps for a small price and use them to make my rugs. I now sell more than I ever have before.

“Happy birthday, Heber!” exclaimed his mother as she handed him the most beautiful coat he had ever seen. He hugged it close and his eyes were bright with happiness. He knew how difficult it had been for his mother to make it, and he could hardly wait to go out in the cold and feel its warmth around him.
One day as Heber was hurrying on an errand, he saw a boy in a thin sweater shivering with cold. As he hurried by, the boy looked at Heber’s coat with such longing that, almost before he knew what he was doing, Heber stopped, took off his new coat, and gave it to the boy.
When Heber’s mother saw her son wearing his old coat instead of the new one, she asked what he had done with his lovely new overcoat.
“Oh, Mother,” Heber J. Grant explained, “I saw a boy who needed it lots worse than I, so I gave it to him.”

I’ll never forget a lesson I learned as a young man, age 14, from a great leader. I went up to Scout Camp Kiesel east of Ogden in the summer of 1936. I reported at the lodge to our Scout executive. We called him “Uncle Dil.” You knew him as Elder S. Dilworth Young. Uncle Dil was our Scout executive. He had long legs. He was as tall as a pine tree to every young boy. He didn’t smile much, but he knew and loved boys.
I went up to the lodge and reported to him. I said, “Uncle Dil, I would like to pass my cooking merit badge.”
And then in his encouraging way he said, “Do you think you can cook without killing somebody?” You know, that really builds your self-image to begin with.
I said, “I hope so.”
Then he said, “Have you got a buddy who can run?”
I said, “What do you mean?”
He said, “Well, someone who can run up here to the lodge from your campsite every time you cook something.”
I said, “Well, Bob’s over here.”
“Well, all right, you send Bob up every time you cook something, and the examiner will come down to your campsite and taste it.”
I said, “Great! Who’s going to be the examiner?”
He said, “You’re looking at him.” Now there was nothing in the Scout book that said I had to pass my cooking merit badge to Uncle Dil. I mean, there were a lot of men in camp. Why Uncle Dil? Boy, I went back to my camp and I wasn’t sure that I wanted to become an Eagle Scout if I had to cook for Uncle Dil. I’ll never forget that week.
I had to cook an omelet. I sent Bob up the hill, and down the trail came Uncle Dil. I can see those long legs to this day. He came down to my campfire, tasted my omelet, and didn’t even smile. He just kind of grunted and walked away. Next I baked my oven bread in a reflector oven. I sent Bob up the hill, and down came Uncle Dil again. He tasted it and said, “It’s kind of doughy on one side, isn’t it?” Then I baked a bread twist on a stick over a fire. Then came the stew. I did everything that week, and never worked so hard in my life to try to please somebody. At the end of the week, just as we were breaking camp, I went up to the lodge and I said, “Uncle Dil, did I pass?”
He asked, “Did you do everything, LaMar?”
I said, “Well, remember you came down to our camp, and I cooked those meals for you.”
For the second time he asked, “Did you do everything?”
“Well, yeah, Uncle Dil, there was the omelet, the oven bread, the stew, the twist.” I enumerated all the things I had prepared.
For the third time he asked, “LaMar, did you do everything?” By then I was a little exasperated, I took my Scout book, opened it to the cooking merit badge, and went down every requirement, reading aloud and checking it off. I got down to requirement number ten. Number ten said, “Carve and serve a complete meal.” He looked at me and I said, “Well, I’ve done that many times at home.”
Then he said, “You’ll have no objection, then, to coming to my home a week from Sunday at noon to carve a roast and serve dinner for us.” I could have died right on the spot. I mean, no way did it say that I had to go to Uncle Dil’s home to carve a roast and serve a meal.
I prepared all week—we never ate so well in all our lives as we did that week. It was during the depths of the depression, but every day that week my mother had a different kind of roast, and I would carve it and make it look nice.
I got up on Sunday morning, nervous as could be. I went to priesthood meeting and Sunday School. Then I got on my bike and rode the two miles up the foothills to 24th Street and Taylor Avenue. Uncle Dil lived in a great big, three-story, red-brick house. The lawn kind of sloped down at the front. I took my bike and put it up by the old wooden porch. I climbed up on the porch and nervously knocked on the door. No answer. So I knocked a little louder. No answer! I said to myself, “Good, he’s forgotten all about me.” I got on my bike, and started to ride off of the lawn, and I had just reached the sidewalk when he came around the corner in his car with his family. They were just returning from church.
He asked, “Where are you going, LaMar?”
I said, “Just to park my bike over by a tree.” I didn’t dare tell him that mentally I was halfway home.
He got out of the car and invited me to go into the kitchen with Sister Young, “Aunt Gladys.” “She’ll have things there for you to do.” I went into the kitchen, and we began to get out the food that had been cooking during Sunday meetings.
Do you know that when you carve meat you carve it across the grain? Well, she brought out the roast. I had never seen a roast like that in my life, before or since. I couldn’t even find a grain. I went to work on it and tried to make sure that I got the slices even. I never worked so hard in my life. That roast had more gristle and bone than I had ever seen. Finally I got it all together and took it to the dining room.
We sat down at the table, and then Uncle Dil had the nerve to say, “LaMar, will you say the blessing, please?” Now there was nothing in the merit badge book that said I had to say the blessing at Uncle Dil’s house. Oh, I’d done it at home all right, but this was a little different. I said the blessing on the food, not sure if I was being judged on my cooking merit badge or my ability to pray.
Things went pretty well until halfway through the meal. Uncle Dil said, “LaMar, we’ve run out of bread. Will you go in the kitchen and slice some more bread?” Now that’s where I almost met my Waterloo.
I got into the kitchen. Aunt Gladys had baked fresh bread the day before. I was sure that Uncle Dil hadn’t sharpened his butcher knife for several years. I took that butcher knife and started on that bread, and the harder I sawed, the flatter that bread got. I’d get a slice off, and then I’d stretch it back to size and place it on the plate. Then I’d slice another slice and stretch it back. I sliced a third one and stretched it also. Then I got the fourth piece and stretched it. Let’s see—there was one for Uncle Dil, Aunt Gladys, Leonore, and young Dil. I decided that I didn’t want any more bread. I decided that four slices of bread were enough.
I took the bread back into the dining room, and we finally got through eating. Then I had to help clear up the table and do the dishes. When I got through, I said, “Uncle Dil, did I pass?”
He said, “LaMar, did you do everything?”
I said, “I surely hope so.”
My cooking merit badge was the toughest merit badge I ever passed in my life—lots tougher than lifesaving. But Uncle Dil was trying to teach me a correct principle. He was teaching me to do my best, to never take a shortcut, and I have never forgotten that lesson. I don’t think he did either.

Suddenly, we find the summer is nearly gone, and all too fast Labor Day is here. The family gathers for one last fire of the season. The activities are the same as always, but our feelings are different. Each ritual is cherished and lengthened because it is the last one of the season. The children are allowed to stay out just a little longer.
As the night draws to a close, we all gather around the fire for the moment we’ve all been waiting for. Grandpa stands up and, with eager shouts of encouragement from the children, tosses this season’s straw cowboy hat into the fire. It is quiet as we watch the hat slowly curl up and disappear, knowing it is the end of summer, and it will be many more months until the next bonfire. We all stand quietly, reflecting on the summer and feeling that we are the luckiest people alive. We all appreciate our grandfather for making it possible for us to have these times together.
The last embers flicker out, and all that is left is a thin curling wisp of smoke that follows us as we reluctantly file into the house.

Instinctively Danny fled to his favorite fishing spot to hide. How strange it looked, all icy and frozen over. The forest and winding creek were beautiful in spring and summer when trees were leafed out and wild flowers bloomed along the steep clay banks.
He swept snow off a log and sat down, remembering happier days. I’ll bet Gramps and I have taken over a hundred pounds of big catfish and perch from this spot over the last four years, Danny reminisced. He threw a pebble and watched it skid across the ice and splash into open water where a swift current had kept ice from forming.
When fish weren’t biting, he and his grandfather often selected flat stones and skillfully skipped them across the surface of the water. Danny’s never skipped as many times as Gramps’ before sinking. His grandfather always said it was because he didn’t bend down low enough before throwing. “I don’t do lots of other things right, either,” Danny muttered unhappily.
He clasped his knees for added warmth and rested his chin on them. How desolate everything looked, even with a sparkling mantle of snow. The scene matched his mood. I’m letting everyone down by hiding here, he admitted. There was a lump in his throat as he wondered if he could ever be happy again.
He wasn’t sorry that he had rescued the Clark children when the family’s trailer burned, of course, but being a hero was about the worst thing that had ever happened to him or so he felt now. He had enjoyed all the fuss at first—too much—he remembered, flushing. He hadn’t been modest enough for the honor, so his unhappiness was mostly his own fault. He had boasted and made such a fool of himself that his friends started avoiding him. Even worse, now that the nightmares and guilt had struck, he knew he wasn’t a real hero at all!
Feeling as he did, there was no way he could attend the dinner being given in his honor or accept the medal his boss Mr. Edmonds was supposed to present to him. And the reward money! He felt that accepting it would be just like stealing.
Danny started at the sound of footsteps crunching in the snow, and looked up to see his grandfather walking toward him, gasping from exertion in the frigid air.
“Thought I’d find you here,” the gray-haired man drawled as he sat down beside his grandson. “We’ve looked everywhere else, and your parents are worried and churned up about you taking off like this. What’s ailing you, boy? This should be one of the happiest days of your life. Those folks at the trailer court have worked hard preparing a big dinner for you. They’ve invited lots of people, even the mayor and city council members will be there, to see you get that medal and the $1,000 check they’ve collected for you. Surely you aren’t planning on letting them down, are you?”
“I’m sorry about letting them down, but I’m not going, Gramps,” Danny whispered, looking out across the creek. “I don’t deserve the medal or the money. I’m not a hero. I just happened to be delivering a newspaper to the Clarks when I noticed a trailer on fire. Mrs. Clark came out of the trailer next door with some sugar she’d borrowed and started screaming that her babies were inside their burning trailer. I didn’t even think about what I was doing. I just ran in through the smoke and felt around in the cribs until I found the baby and little girl and crawled outside with them. If I hadn’t done it, someone else probably would have. I—I’m really ashamed of strutting around like some big war hero or movie star,” he added miserably.
“I’m glad you admitted that last part, Danny,” his grandfather said quietly. “You did have a swelled head for awhile, after the newspaper stories and after being on the evening news, but I knew you’d get over it. I guess it’s only natural when you’re suddenly plunged into the limelight to enjoy getting attention, but now you’re going too far the other way. Suppose someone else hadn’t done what you did in those few critical seconds—”
“You don’t understand what I mean, Gramps. Nobody does,” Danny interrupted. “That’s not all that’s bothering me. The treatments for smoke inhalation, being in the hospital with my eyes bandaged, and my burned arms and hands really scared me but I didn’t realize then that smoke is so deadly even without flames. But it isn’t that or the pain I had that’s bothering me. Now I keep having nightmares about being trapped and burning to death! Gramps,” Danny whispered desperately, “if I had it to do over, I’m not sure I’d go in after those little kids! I’m not a hero … I’m just the biggest coward in the world!” He buried his face in his arms, not wanting to see shame and disappointment in his grandfather’s eyes.
The elderly man put his hand on the boy’s arm. “I doubt that there’s ever been a hero who wasn’t scared witless later when he realized the full danger of his act. And there probably wouldn’t be any heroes at all if they stopped to think about the risks.”
Gramps was silent for a few moments, thinking back on his own life. Then he went on. “You’ve seen the medal I received for grabbing up a live hand grenade tossed by an arsonist when I was a city fireman. I threw it just before it exploded and was the only one injured. What I never did tell you is that once it was over, I shook and trembled so bad that I fainted. I’ve had my nightmares, too, son, and feelings of guilt. Did I do it to save myself or the seven other firemen who stood staring at it for those few deadly seconds? Well, I still don’t know the answer. Don’t reckon I ever will. But, regardless, eight of us lived, and I got a medal for heroic action. I’m mighty proud of it, and I hope you will be, too, when you show it to your grandchildren someday. But I hope you’ll leave out the part about me being so scared and fainting.” Gramps grinned and reached over and tousled Danny’s hair.
Danny felt the heavy load lift from his shoulders. Gramps did understand his mixed emotions. He had been through it too. Danny arose and smiled as he helped his grandfather to his feet. “I guess we’d better hurry so we don’t disappoint all those people who are waiting. I’ll accept the medal, but I’m going to give the money to Mrs. Clark and her children. They really need it to get settled in another home. And right now I’m promising that my friends will never again have to listen to my big hero story!”
Gramps chuckled and laid his arm across Danny’s shoulders as they walked back to his car. “As one reluctant hero to another, son, I’m proud of you!”

When our four children were young, my husband and I assumed that if we set good examples and brought them up in the gospel with lots of love and consistency, they would certainly not depart from that path.
One summer day we were forced to abandon that assumption. Our eldest son, about 14 years old, went swimming with his friends. When I came to the swimming pool with the younger children, I thought I saw him with a cigarette in his hands. I was worried, so I spoke to him about it later. He simply said I was mistaken. Unfortunately, that was the beginning of his lies.
Over time he distanced himself from us more and more. He was no longer approachable and often became angry without provocation. Alcohol, drugs, foul language, and a host of lies were added to the cigarettes. And his behavior toward the family became insufferable.
At first we tried to restrict his activities in order to protect him, but that just brought more resistance. Discipline had no effect. When I reproached him and challenged him to change, our discussions often became loud arguments that brought more distance between us.
Our fears for our eldest son were hard on my husband and me. We tried to find guidance through prayer, but I felt helpless watching my eldest son choose such a dangerous path. As we prayed, we felt guided to allow our son more space instead of controlling him with stricter rules. This seemed extremely counterproductive and counterintuitive, but all our previous attempts to stop his behavior had been unsuccessful. So we chose to punish or restrict him only when his actions directly affected our family life.
Despite trying to follow the Lord’s counsel, we found the situation worsened. I struggled to overcome my self-doubts and discouragement. My husband and I tried to be consistent with family home evening and family prayer, but I was overwhelmed with guilt as I remembered every time we had fallen short and every time I had behaved wrongly toward our son. I cried a lot, slept little, and was sometimes so physically exhausted that I only just managed to function.
Family life as we had known it hardly existed anymore. Family home evenings regularly ended in chaos and arguments. I especially was impatient with my loved ones and loudly let them know.
My husband and I recognized that we couldn’t let our family be ground down by the situation. We decided to continue following the counsel of the Lord and the prophets, so we made an effort to hold spontaneous, informal family home evenings with the children who were willing. But I still couldn’t accept that our eldest son was caught in Satan’s traps. With prayer, fasting, and hope—all that seemed left to us—we cast our burden on the Lord and trusted Him.
The problems got worse. At one particularly difficult time, I asked my husband for a priesthood blessing. I hoped for words of comfort and encouragement. But the Lord knew my true needs. I was admonished for arguing so loudly with my son. The Lord made me aware that He had never once shouted at me—but I shouted at my children all the time.
In that blessing, I was additionally counseled that I needed to talk to my son about my worries for him instead of reproaching him. I realized that my anger and criticism had actually been a manifestation of my fear for him. I was constantly attacking him, and he defended himself any way he could. I considered ways to change my behavior.
At this time, I was serving as an institute teacher. I found it wasn’t difficult to deal calmly and considerately with the youth at church because I did not have to struggle with the emotions of a mother.
I tried to look at my son not with the eyes of a concerned mother but as an outsider. This strategy, and much prayer and fasting, helped me to rein in my emotions and see my son—who was now almost 18—with new eyes. I was once again able to see his good qualities. I managed to express my feelings and worries to him sincerely and without becoming anxious.
This became a turning point in our relationship. My son and I discussed many things, and I became able to let him bear the consequences of his behavior on his own. My husband and I merely counseled him and advised him of ways he could solve his problems for himself.
Gradually, he started accepting our love and support. Our dealings with him, after five hard years, are now characterized primarily by respect. His life is, in many respects, still broken, but he is on the way to getting it in order. He is gradually recognizing what is really important in life and what brings lasting contentment.
Acting on the Lord’s counsel has helped our family regain a much happier life. My husband and I have learned to shape our own lives and our family life instead of trying to shape our son’s.
I now know what it means to entrust my children to the Lord. He knows them better than I do. I have learned not to feel accountable for all my children’s decisions. My husband and I discovered that the best help we could give our son was to turn to the Lord and trust in His will and counsel.

When I got home from school there was a tornado watch, and I cried because I was scared. I felt that I should pray for the people near the tornadoes, and for the tornadoes to stop coming our way. I still didn’t feel better. Then my mom told me to pray, so I prayed in my mind that I would feel better. A little bit later my tears went away. When my dad came home, we watched the news and there were no tornadoes coming our way.

Elder Sandino Roman was introduced to the gospel of Jesus Christ as a child. Each Sunday a friend of his mother brought him and his sister to meet with the 15 other members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in a small meetinghouse in Mexico.
The five-year-old prayed every day that his family would become converted to the gospel. Two years later, his mother and father were baptized. One year after that, his father baptized him. “For that reason, I know that the Lord hears children’s prayers,” Elder Roman said.

At Deseret Press, Brother Monson helped President J. Reuben Clark Jr. prepare his manuscript Our Lord of the Gospels for publication. They met regularly for months in President Clark’s office. The relationship that developed between them was almost that of father and son. When Thomas S. Monson was called to preside over the Canadian Mission, he took Frances and the children to visit President Clark. As Frances was carrying her third child, the Monsons said it would be named after him were it a boy. When told the child would be called Clark, the president urged, “Don’t be afraid of ‘Joshua Reuben.’” When Clark Spencer Monson was born in Toronto, Canada, the parents informed President Clark by wire. He responded with a classic letter (a Monson family treasure) addressed to the baby.

Here’s a fun puzzle game called Chinese Writing.
Trevor carefully eyed the odd collection of a dozen kitchen utensils on the floor.
“Who drew this picture?” he asked.
“I’m the artist,” volunteered Ken. Trevor looked carefully at Ken sitting cross-legged with head in hands. Trevor walked cautiously around the strange piece of artwork somewhat resembling a stick person.
“Well, judging from the cheese grater used for hair I suspect this is a drawing of a girl.” He carefully examined the large group of people surrounding him in the circle. “Because of the potato masher used for the mouth it must be someone with a pretty smile.” He glanced at Carol intently sitting cross-legged and head in hands. “I say it is none other than Carol Parkins.”
The group gasped in amazement. “How did you know?”
“I think I know how he did it,” boasted Cheri. “I’ll leave the room next and try.”
Do you know how Trevor did it? Did you catch the trick? That’s right. The artist gave away who the subject was by simply sitting in the same pose in which the subject was sitting. Trevor had only to see who in the room was sitting exactly like Ken. It was obviously Carol. Obvious? Well, only if you know the trick. You’ll be surprised how long it will take your friends to figure it out. Try it on them at the next birthday party you go to.

One Sunday morning at church, in the rented meeting hall where our branch met, I overheard a conversation about a name that sounded familiar. Someone mentioned a man named President Gurr, the former branch president. I asked about him and learned that he and his family had moved to Idaho a few years earlier. His daughters were the girls I remembered from school. Even though I hadn’t known either of them well, their example of strength and courage had impressed me. They had truly shone forth by choosing to be true to their religion and living righteously.

After serving a mission to Sweden, I moved to Provo to attend BYU. I worked part time at the MTC. One day I passed a young woman in the hall who looked familiar. I glanced at her nametag and saw that her name was Sister Gurr. I was surprised to see Lisa, the former cheerleader from my high school! I stopped her and told her who I was, and she was equally surprised. I then thanked her for living true to her standards and keeping her covenants at that party so long ago. She was truly a wonderful example and affected my life for good by staying true to who she was and what she believed.

Mariah (as she preferred to be called) is one of the reasons my family is even in the Church. She was baptized in 1840 in England, was endowed in Nauvoo, Illinois, was sealed to her husband in Winter Quarters, Nebraska, and died in Utah. My thoughts about her while I was in the temple were not about her need to have ordinances performed but about how those ordinances bound her and me together across time and space.

When others see the only known photograph of my grandmother Mariah, they often comment on how grim or unpleasant she appears to them. I immediately defend her because I know her. I know the person that walked along the River Severn as a young girl and as a mother with small children. I know the person who sailed across an ocean, giving birth to her fourth child during the journey. I know the person who sent a husband to war and lost an infant child during his absence. I know the person who walked 1,000 miles (1,609 km) to a new home in the western American desert. I know the person who worked and covenanted and farmed and loved. And in knowing her, I get a taste of our heavenly parents’ love for her and for each of their children.

Before the queen’s death in 1974, Sri went to see her in the hospital. All of the ladies-in-waiting sat on the floor around the queen’s bed in order of their class. “The queen, who was in great pain, raised up to see me when I entered,” says Sister Sri. “She said, ‘Come to me.’ I stood near her. She said, ‘I still love you.’ I will always be grateful to the queen. Because of the many things I learned while living with her, I was able to read the Book of Mormon and accept the gospel. Because of her, I learned to write and speak in proper Thai language—the language into which the Book of Mormon and the Doctrine and Covenants are translated.”