Gospel Story Finder

On learning that we were his home teachers, one father who understood this relationship came to me with a planning and report form listing challenges given by previous home teachers. Six-year-old Michael had been given a dollar to start a mission fund and had been asked to find a hobby. Eight-year-old Dianne was to learn the names of her grandparents and fill out a family group sheet. Both children were encouraged to play the piano. Father and mother were challenged to develop some common interests in preparation for the future. “Just something to workust something to work on,” he wrote.
These we followed up on, and new goals were established. We showed filmstrips from the meetinghouse library on books of remembrance and temple marriage. Once we asked permission to bring a girl investigator to our next visit so she could feel the spirit of an ideal Latter-day Saint family—indirectly teaching both missionary responsibilities and the importance of good family relationships. Dianne and Michael were reading the Book of Mormon. Every time they saw us, at home or at the chapel, they would report on their progress. If there was time, we would ask about some story or the meaning of a verse, and we would always say, “That’s wonderful! We’re proud of you.”
Once when reading the New Testament, Dianne had not read very much and said she just hadn’t found the time. We replied that you never find time for worthwhile things, you have to make time by planning a definite schedule for each day. The father said, “We’ll all spend a period together each morning reading the scriptures.”

Family organization. I heard a young mother in a testimony meeting a few weeks ago bear witness to a new understanding of what the Lord had entrusted to her. She said how disappointed she had been with the change in the Sunday meeting program, which had taken her—a Primary worker—from the opportunity of attending Relief Society and Sunday School. She had almost determined to fall into inactivity rather than accept the change. One day while brooding over this situation, the light of inspiration touched her heart and she could see the vision of what was occurring in the Church. It was not the loss of attendance at Relief Society she was to be concerned with, but the new, glorious opportunities to have prime time on the Lord’s day to be with her husband and children to fulfill the greatest responsibility the Lord has entrusted to her—the responsibility of teaching and training her own. Now after much prayer, study, and planning with her husband, Sunday has become the most special day in the week.

Twelve-year-old Louisa Bishop gently rocked her baby sister, Emma, in the old, hand-carved rocker. Their mother lay in bed, her face almost as pale as the white pillows. A deadly illness called diphtheria had struck the children of the family, killing three of Louisa’s five siblings. Exhausted from overwork and grief, Louisa’s mother also became sick. Just when it seemed that happiness would never shine on their world again, little Emma had been born. Louisa, now recovered, lovingly cared for her baby sister so their mother could rest and get well. Emma adored her big sister in return.
As the years passed, Emma and Louisa became closer and closer friends. By the time Emma was 11 years old, Louisa had married, and her husband had left to serve a mission in England. Emma was delighted to go to Louisa’s cabin each day to help out.
One day Emma paused in her sweeping and watched quietly as Louisa emptied the butter out of her sparkling glass butter dish and into a jar. “I hope she isn’t doing what I’m afraid she’s doing,” Emma thought.
Louisa stepped to the washbasin and poured in some clean water from the pitcher. Then she carefully washed the butter dish and laid it on a dish towel to dry. Turning to Emma, she handed her the jar of butter. “Now, Emma dear, I need you to take this to the bishop and pay my tithing.”
Emma folded her arms and shook her head. “I won’t do it!” she exclaimed. “You need that butter more than the bishop does.”
Louisa’s mouth drew into a stern line, but her eyes twinkled with amusement. “Emma,” she softly scolded, “tithing is a law that must be kept. If I am willing to do a big thing like letting my husband serve a mission so far away, then surely I can do a small thing like giving up some butter.”
Emma wasn’t convinced. “But it’s a big thing when you have so little.”
“Don’t worry,” Louisa told her with a smile. “I have faith that the Lord will provide.”
Emma looked closely and saw that her sister’s eyes were glistening with tears. Louisa truly believed what she was saying! Emma took the jar of butter and walked out the door without another word, though she still had doubts.
When she returned to Louisa’s cabin, Emma stopped in the doorway and stared, her mouth wide open. The butter dish was back on the table, and inside was a pound of butter! Emma’s eyes asked the question her lips could not—where had the butter come from?
Louisa smiled. “I told you the Lord would provide,” she said. She took a clean dish from the cupboard and placed the butter in it. Then she stepped again to the washbasin and filled the bowl with clean water. She washed out the beautiful glass butter dish and lid. But instead of setting them on a dish towel to drip dry, she dried them and handed both to Emma.
“I want you to have these,” she said. “And whenever you look at them, I want you to remember that the Lord will always take care of us if we keep His commandments. Remember that, Emma. Tithing comes first.” Emma’s eyes misted with tears as she accepted the butter dish.
All her life Emma remembered the lesson she had learned. Each year as her family gathered on her birthday, she told the story again. After Emma’s death, the butter dish was passed down through the family. And everyone who saw the dish heard the story of how Emma learned to always pay her tithing.

A few days into the #GiveThanks challenge issued by President Russell M. Nelson in late November, I was already feeling sensitised to the many blessings around me. I noted with thanks my beautiful family, my job, the gospel, and the sunshine we enjoy almost every day of the year in South Africa.
And then, on Tuesday, the doorbell rang.
I had just managed to get my three-year-old daughter down for her afternoon nap. Our young baby was also fussing and tired. As a working mom of three small children I too was in a haze of fatigue. On top of that, I was in pain because I had sprained my ankle while running that morning, and was feeling a little sorry for myself because I had been participating in a fitness challenge that I knew I now wouldn’t be able to finish.
I felt concerned that the noise of the bell would wake my sleeping daughter, irritated at the inconvenience of moving my sore ankle and impatient to get my baby to sleep, so that I could get back to my work deadline.
I limped to the door.
A man who was doing construction at a house down the road stood outside the gate. He said he hadn’t brought his skaftin (lunchbox). He asked if I could I please give him some lunch.
My husband mentioned that this was the third time that someone from the same construction project had come to ask for food.
I told him this was a bad time: I was trying to get my baby to sleep.
He said please, just a piece of bread, just for him.
“I’ll give you something simple, but please try to remember your lunchbox tomorrow,” I said.
I went into my kitchen and opened my fridge. It was teeming with fresh, healthy food. In that moment, I felt a simultaneous sense of gratitude and guilt: grateful for the abundance of food I enjoy each day; guilty for having felt inconvenienced by his request.
The scripture of Matthew 25:35 came to mind: “For I was an hungered, and ye gave me meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink: I was a stranger, and ye took me in.”
The Spirit prodded me with a question. Was I a true follower of Christ if I wasn’t willing to inconvenience myself to help someone in their time of need?
I hobbled outside to my gate, holding my baby in one arm; two peanut butter sandwiches and two apples in the other. I smiled and told him the bread was still slightly frozen.
My offering was meagre and hastily prepared, but the man looked genuinely surprised as I handed him the four items through the gate. Both sandwiches? Both apples? All for him? His eyes seemed to ask.
Then it was my turn to be surprised. I saw his eyes well up with tears. “Thank you, Mami,” he kept saying, “Thank you. Mami, Mami . . . this will go a long way.” I looked away—embarrassed at his reaction to my small donation, scared I might also tear up, and bid him goodbye.
What did it take to give someone four minutes of my day and two peanut butter sandwiches? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
What did it mean to the man at the gate? Evidently, a whole lot.
It occurred to me that, due to the downturn of construction projects and the huge spike in unemployment in South Africa following the outbreak of the Coronavirus, this man might have been earning money for the first time in several months. It occurred to me that he probably needs every cent he earns to help support several other unemployed family members.
It occurred to me that he wasn’t forgetting his lunchbox at all.
It occurred to me that he couldn’t afford to eat lunch.
In the few moments following that tiny interaction, I felt almost overcome with emotion. My action had been small and flawed. Yet despite that, it had made a huge difference to the man I helped. I felt a deep sense of gratitude that the Lord would allow the weak and simple (See D&C 1:23) such as myself to help achieve his ends.
I give thanks for the millions of lessons such as this one that Heavenly Father offers to us, for these small opportunities of connecting with other human spirits, for the grace of God in allowing us—through no qualification of our own—to breathe tiny particles of goodness into others’ existence.
I give thanks for the lesson I learned from the man at my gate.

“Elder Perry, if you could say something to the children of the world, what would you tell them?” I asked.
“I would like to tell them to learn as much as they could about the life of the Savior and to live as close to Him as they possibly can. Living the Lord’s way is the only way to find joy and happiness. If they turn from his course, there’s always a penalty involved, and they’ll find that sorrow and heartache will result from their decision.
“Children ought to start early in their lives to develop a method for retaining that which they study—a kind of filing system. Mine is simple enough for an eight-year-old to use. When I read scriptures and find one especially important, I underline it and try to pick out the main thought. If the scripture is on faith, I write faith in the margin.
“I think we spend too much time just reading the scriptures without remembering them. It is said that we retain about 10 percent of whatever we read, but we can retain 50–60 percent if we do something specific about it. If a child began at eight years of age, think of the vast amount of information he or she would have from that early study of the scriptures!”
The conversation then turned to recollections of Elder Perry’s parents and his own childhood: “I grew up very close to the Church,” he said. “My father was made bishop of our ward when I was only six months old. By the time I was six years of age, our ward was building a chapel. Father would take us all over to work on it. I remember that my first job was pulling nails out of boards and straightening them so they could be used again.
“My father came from a large family. They were homesteading in Idaho and had little money. When he reached high school age, he asked my grandfather to allow him to go to high school. His father gave him five dollars and a one-way ticket to Salt Lake, where he had to make it on his own. He found a job caring for President Joseph F. Smith’s cows and lived in the Beehive House like a member of the family for three and a half years. Father attended LDS High School and then went on to the University of Utah, where he was valedictorian of his graduating class. He accepted a position as principal of a school in Rexburg, Idaho. There he met my mother who was a teacher in the same school.
They were married and Dad left teaching and went to law school and became an attorney.
“Dad was a very intense man, but he knew how to relax. Saturday afternoon was spent with the family—fishing, hiking, or playing ball up Logan Canyon. He and I enjoyed pitching horseshoes together even when I was very young.
“My mother was a tremendous woman. She had more energy than anyone I’ve ever been around. She was the first one up in the morning and the last one to bed at night—just perpetual motion all day long. Her family came first and she was a tremendous support to my father, who was a bishop for eighteen years and then in the stake presidency for another twenty years.
“I had some great teachers when I was a boy. I remember a Sister Johnson, who was president of the Primary for years and years. How tender she was!
“But the teacher I remember best was Sister Call. She was just a jewel. I remember how impressed I was that she was willing to go on hikes with the Trail Builders. She’d plan scavenger hunts but they were not just the regular kind. Each one would have a connection with some part of the lesson. As we would find each thing, it would teach us another part of the lesson. Then there was always a nice reward—some special treat at the end. I can’t believe the creative ways she used to keep our attention as young boys.
“Sister Call is a person who keeps on giving. Recently I received a phone call from her son. He wanted to bring a gift Sister Call had just completed for me. He brought to my office a beautiful quilt she had made. Thousands of careful stitches prepared in a beautiful pattern. She is ninety-one years young. I could not hold back a tear as I thought of the kindness of this great teacher.”
We concluded the interview with some conversation about Elder Perry’s own family: “I have two grandchildren who live here in Salt Lake City and two who live in the eastern part of the U.S. We try to have family home evening together once a month with those who live here. One of our greatest family activities has been a garden that we planted in a vacant lot. We call it the Perry Family Welfare Farm. Both grandchildren have assignments. We plant, water, irrigate, harvest, and have a great time together! I hope I’m teaching them something about the Lord’s cycle of replenishment—that if we’re diligent, He will reward us abundantly. Each little seed brings forth a hundredfold.”
“Do you have a last word about children?”
“Children are receptive and attentive and able to follow the leader. They have freshness and are eager to learn. Children are wonderful!”

It was while we were finishing a serving of the thin mashed potatoes the French call purée that Elder Granville told Sister Dupont a story.
“Did you ever hear about the missionary who was eating dinner and asked his companion to pass the butter? The butter was right in front of him, but he couldn’t see it because it was so close.”
“What?”
“Simple. It’s like you and the gospel. All these years your husband has had it right here in front of you, but you couldn’t see it because it was so close. You keep asking where the butter is when it’s right in front of your plate.”
It may not have been the strongest analogy, but Elder Granville was trying. When we got home that night, he brought me a copy of the Book of Mormon.
“Why don’t you sign this with me?” he said, turning to a dedication on the flyleaf. “It’s for Sister Dupont.”
I looked at what he’d written.
“Voici le beurre,” it said. “Here is the butter.”

Crystal was in high school and Angel was six years old when their mother could no longer look after them. I offered to take them in. “I promise I will never leave your children,” I said. “I will take good care of them.”
Years later, another young mother asked me to take in her baby, Allison. This mother faced difficult circumstances and knew I could give her baby a good life. I took Allison in.
I try to teach these children the important things in life. I bring them to church and try to help them grow closer to God. I know that when I am nearer to Him, I can do so much more, even the things I think are impossible. Of course, I want that for Crystal, Angel, and Allison.
These children have suffered in life, but I’ve watched the gospel and the Spirit heal their hearts. I’ve watched their perceptions and behaviors slowly change. Together we pray for their birth parents, because no matter what, I want them to respect and love them.
I love Crystal, Angel, and Allison as if they were my own children. Sometimes people ask me if I will regret my decisions. What if Allison’s mother decides to take Allison back? Will I regret loving Allison and becoming attached to her? But why should I regret it? Helping other people is nothing to regret! It’s something to be grateful for.
I am so grateful for Crystal, Angel, and Allison. Thanks to them, I have learned how to be a mother. I learned how to wake up in the middle of the night for diaper changes, how to teach young children to pray, how to love more deeply than I thought possible. That is something I didn’t think I would ever have.
Perhaps my calling in this world is to take care of those that don’t have mothers or are far away from their mothers.

On March 30, just one year ago, little two-year-old Ethan Carnesecca, from American Fork, Utah, was admitted to the hospital with pneumonia and fluid around his lungs. Two days later, his condition had become so serious that he needed to be flown by helicopter to Primary Children’s Hospital in Salt Lake City. His worried mother, Michele, was allowed to ride in the front seat and accompany her son. She was given a headset so she could communicate with the others in the helicopter. She could hear the medics working on her sick little boy, and being a pediatric nurse herself, Michele knew enough to understand that Ethan was in serious trouble.
In this critical moment, Michele noticed they were flying directly over the Draper Utah Temple. From the air, she looked out across the valley and could also see the Jordan River Temple, the Oquirrh Mountain Temple, and even the Salt Lake Temple in the distance. The thought came into her mind: “Do you believe it or not?”
She says of this experience:
“I had learned about the blessings of the temple and [that] ‘families are forever’ in Primary and in Young Women. I shared the message on families to the good people of Mexico on my mission. I was sealed to my eternal companion for time and all eternity in the temple. I taught lessons about families as a Young Women leader, and I shared stories about forever families with my children in family home evening. I KNEW it, but did I BELIEVE it? My answer came as quickly as the question popped into my head: the Spirit confirmed to my heart and mind the answer I already knew—I DID believe it!
“At that moment I poured out my heart in prayer to my Heavenly Father, thanking Him for the knowledge and belief I had that families truly are forever. I thanked Him for His Son, Jesus Christ, who made it all possible. I thanked Him for my son, and I let my Heavenly Father know if He needed to bring my little Ethan to His heavenly home, it was OK. I trusted in my Heavenly Father completely, and I knew I would see Ethan again. I was so grateful that in a crisis moment, I had the knowledge AND the belief that the gospel was true. I had peace.”1
Ethan spent many weeks in the hospital, receiving expert medical care. The prayers, fasting, and faith of loved ones, combined with that care, allowed him to leave the hospital and return home to be with his family. He is healthy and well today.
This defining moment for Michele confirmed to her that what she had been taught all of her life was more than just words; it is true.

At the University of Utah, in an evening seminar, I was speaking to the M.B.A.’s and senior business students. I noticed a young man with a baby sitting alone near the front of the hall. Afterwards he came up and spoke to me, still holding the baby. He had a few questions about his career. I said, “Where is your wife?” He said, “Well, when we were married, I promised her that she would have the opportunity of attending Relief Society. Tonight is Relief Society, and so I have our son at this seminar.”

Every woman here should understand the importance of Relief Society in her marriage, and every priesthood holder should understand it.

Screams echoed through the trees as people ran to avoid lava and falling rocks. I stood backstage listening to the soundtrack booming through speakers across the hill.
That summer, I participated in the Hill Cumorah Pageant, which portrayed several events from the Book of Mormon. I had been cast as a harvest dancer (see 1 Nephi 18:23–24) and an unbeliever (see 3 Nephi 1:4–21), but everyone, including the staff, was a part of the upcoming scene.
A spotlight shone on a figure dressed in white, seemingly floating above the highest tier of the stage. He wasn’t really the Savior, of course—just a volunteering college student like me. But in that moment onstage, I imagined the real Savior standing there instead.
I pictured Him walking up to me, and I imagined looking into His eyes. Feelings from the Spirit washed over me. In that moment, I had a taste of what it must be like to see my true Savior. I treasured this unique spiritual experience.

Last year when nine-year-old Joy Tippetts’ stake president called her to work in the Church’s name extraction program, she was delighted. For even before she was six years old, Joy had been helping her mother by sorting index cards and doing other simple tasks at the extraction center.
Joy has been trained to read Old German script, and according to Wilma Taylor, a Germanic language trainer, “Joy is unusually accurate and does fine work. She is fantastic for a ten-year-old!”
Microfilms of religious and civil records in Old German script that contain information about persons who have died are examined on a microfilm reader. (Information is extracted from microfilmed records from other countries besides Germany.) Joy then copies, or extracts, the deceased persons’ names, birthplaces, and the names of their parents and grandparents from the microfilm record, as well as their birth, christening, and death dates. This information is then written on index cards and sent with many other cards to a Latter-day Saint temple where the necessary ordinance work can be completed for those persons. The majority of names for which temple work for the dead is completed are supplied by the name extraction centers.
Joy and her mother, Roxanna, are best friends, and they look forward each week to the three hours that they spend together at the extraction center. Joy says that she “loves to read the records and figure out who the people are.”

I recall a time I was babysitting my younger brother Mark, who was three years old. It was quiet, which meant trouble, so I went into the kitchen. There I found him, simply sitting on the floor playing with a long, sharp, butcher knife he had pulled from the top of the cabinet. It was bright and shiny and obviously attractive to him. I knew that potential danger, and, of course, I took it away from him. He didn’t understand. I had taken away something that was very attractive to him and something that he wanted, so he cried. When I reflect on that experience, I think of how much more infinite our Heavenly Father’s knowledge is of those things which can be hurtful to us.

It must have been the feeling of rhythm and strength in my stride that comforted me as I ran along the beach of Puget Sound. Troy, my big retriever, caught my sense of abandon and bounded first ahead, then back, stopping to investigate a shell or seaweed along his way. Out of breath now, I threw a stick out into the swells past the breaking waves and stopped to watch Troy leap after it. I threw the stick again and again as I continued down the beach. Each time Troy would find it in the waves and bring it to me with an expectant look. Finally the sun made work of the game, and I flopped down on the sand.
“Stay away from me,” I warned as the big dog shook salt water all over me. I grabbed his wet head and held it tightly. “You’re still my friend, old boy, even if I don’t spend much time with you anymore either,” I said half to him and half to myself. I needed to sort things out. My interview with Bishop Jenkins the day before had turned my recent vague uneasiness into a knot in my stomach.
“I feel like being able to dance is a gift from God, a talent I must express. I can’t explain it, but I cannot ignore it,” I told the bishop. “I really do want to come to church, but my practices for Young Entertainers are all day Sunday.”
“And you felt that a chance to tour and perform all summer was worth the price of your church meetings,” Bishop Jenkins guessed.
“Yes, I was so sure it was right,” I answered, “and that my dancing is more important. I love the energy on stage. I feel special and important. But, bishop, I feel confused.”
I sat back and tried to organize my fragmented thoughts. “I am compromising so much for my dancing. I feel engulfed in it. I’m too busy for old friends and my family. My new friends in the group think my faith is narrow-minded and naive. Their dancing is their religion. I don’t know what to do. To be a Young Entertainer is a dream come true. Do we dream our dreams and then let them go before they can be realized?”
Bishop Jenkins paused thoughtfully. “Let me share an idea from a talk by Elder Boyd K. Packer,” he finally said.
“‘There are many who struggle and climb and finally reach the top of the ladder, only to find that it is leaning against the wrong wall’” (Ensign, Aug. 1976, p. 61).
Thinking about it now, he didn’t really answer my question, but certainly the part about the person climbing the ladder applied to me.
“Heavenly Father, am I climbing the wrong wall?” I asked silently. “Is that why my life is so out of balance?”
Stirring from my introspection, I looked around for Troy but saw no sign of him. I stood up and searched up and down the beach. Still no dog. Shading my eyes from the glare on the water I thought I saw Troy’s head bob, then disappear under the water. Yes, there it was again. I dashed down to the chilling waves and dove in. The cold water took my breath away, but my concern was for my obviously drowning dog.
As I neared him, he was so exhausted his head barely broke the surface as he struggled. “What is holding onto him?” I swam almost to him. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Troy’s jaws were tightly clenched on a bulb of seaweed! It was evidently still attached to the rocks below the water. He was paddling back and forth trying to free it and bring it to shore. I grabbed his jaws and forced him off the bulb. I half dragged him to shore and we both plopped down totally spent, gasping for breath.
My thoughts were tumbling. Why would Troy hold on to that seaweed until he nearly drowned? Why didn’t he let go and swim to shore if he was in danger?
Suddenly I stopped. How like my own struggle. My dog was working so hard to get something, he didn’t realize the danger he was in. My situation began to appear much clearer. I had been so caught up with my dancing that I hadn’t realized that I was in danger of losing the other things that mattered in my life.
With this revelation came a new agony—what to do. Could I put my ladder against the right wall, keep balance in my life, and still participate in the dance group, or did I need to “let go” and swim for safety now. Mentally tallying the list of compromises I needed to make for the dance group, I determined that my answer was to let it go. A sense of peace and comfort helped soothe the wrenching feeling in my heart and helped me to realize that it was the right decision.
“I can still dream my dreams,” I told Troy, “and perform and prepare so that my climb up the ladder will be on the right wall. Come on, Troy, let’s go home.”

Julia Awashish, a 17-year-old Native American from Quebec City, agrees with Marc. “We need to always remember the covenants we made at baptism,” she says. “The promises we have made to our Heavenly Father are the things that make us strong as members of the Church. It’s been six years since I joined the Church. I’m glad my mother and I joined, because it helps me so much when I have a problem to deal with, and it helps me to remember to be happy, because the gospel is a message of joy.”
Julia says that when she and her mother returned to visit relatives in their village of Obedjiwan, which is far to the north of Quebec, at first “there was a lot of gossip about us being Latter-day Saints. But now everyone has seen by our example that we are friendly, normal people, so they accept us just fine.”

The priest flipped on a recently installed electric light, and as the uncovered bulb swung gently from its cord I looked around the shadowy room it illuminated. The floors were concrete, and except for two ancient and sagging cabinets against the wall, all the room contained was an unsteady wooden table and chairs. As the priest opened the shuttered windows for us, we saw a mixture of wild shrubs and flowers and could hear a donkey braying somewhere close by.
My husband, George, who had spent many hours here on previous trips, looked around with a smile of enormous satisfaction and went with the priest to an adjoining room to get the record books. I was left alone in the room, trying to get used to what I was seeing.
So—we had really made it after all! I thought of how impossible a trip to Spain to do genealogical research had seemed in the first place, how much planning it had taken to assemble a clientele, the weeks of agonizing over finances, the prayers and tears over leaving the children, and the lists and lists of things to do.
George was soon back with the records, and with excitement showed me the heavy volumes filled with page after page of thick parchment where priests had been noting marriages, baptisms, and deaths since the 1500s. They were impressive, and I settled down to help George search them, hoping that his enthusiasm would sustain me.
Unfortunately, as the hours and days wore on, I found that what came so naturally to George didn’t to me. He could spend hour after hour studying over the pages, totally oblivious to his physical surroundings. But I found that I noticed—and responded to—every detail. The wooden chair became unbearable to sit in after a couple of hours, the shadows from the light bulb made it hard to read, and it was so cold that my back ached at night from shivering.
My reactions were both embarrassing and frustrating to me. George had always found genealogical research stimulating, and I had prayed that the experience would be just as exciting for me. But the long, cold, stiff hours seemed endless.
Finally it came time to start a new line in a different parish. Since this was a new family line for us, George searched through the marriage book while I worked on baptisms and births. Although I was looking for the children of three different couples, I found myself particularly intrigued by one family in the records. I began to feel like I knew the mother as I found the record of each of her children’s births. The spacing of her children was similar to mine, and I reminisced about my own pregnancies and the reactions of our children to each new baby. I had been away from home for two weeks now, and the memories of a home full of children’s noises, soggy kisses, and exuberant hugs were sweet to me.
Then George suggested that I work on death records for a while. Since I was still in the same period, the names I found were familiar to me, and I noted the deaths of several of the older family members. But I was not expecting so many younger deaths, and tears of sympathy filled my eyes when I recognized the name of one of my “friend’s” children who had died at the age of three. When I turned the page and found, eight days later, the death record of her six-year-old, my heart lurched and the tears spilled.
I thought again of my own little ones, exactly the same age—the feel of their little bodies nestled in my lap, the sound of their laughter and voices in the house. The distance of an ocean gave me compassion, and I continued to cry and empathize as I turned the pages.
But when I found the death of her husband six months’ time later, I was so upset I had to stop writing, and even George noticed my sobs. “I just can’t understand why she had to go through this,” I told him. “It doesn’t seem fair.”
And then suddenly a true understanding of phrases I had been hearing and saying my entire life came to me, and feelings and thoughts rushed together. “Dear friend,” I thought, “that’s why I’m here. Your suffering wasn’t without purpose; there is something I can do for you. Thanks to a loving Savior and a temple of God, I can help give you back your husband and your children. They can be yours forever now, just as I have mine.”
The tears kept running down my cheeks, but they were tears of peace and joy, a humble gratitude for temples and families and a chance to do something to help.
Since returning from Spain, going to the temple is a deeper experience for me. As I check the name pinned to my sleeve, I feel a respect for this woman. She coped with physical deprivations and a closeness with death that I have never had to experience. And although I am not able to share with her my hot water or shampoo, or the medicine I so nonchalantly give my sick children, I can share that which means the most to me, the blessings of the gospel.

Olivia hung her head as she listened to the excited whispers of the girls sitting behind her on the bus.
“I’m so glad your mom said you could get off at my bus stop with me! Did you bring the games?”
“I’ve got them. My mom let me bring a bag of popcorn too!”
Olivia frowned into the book she was reading. Didn’t they know she could hear them? She definitely didn’t like listening to her two friends make plans for something she wasn’t invited to.
Stephanie, Rebecca, and Olivia had been friends for a long time. They used to do everything together. But when the new school year started, Stephanie and Rebecca found out they had the same teacher, while Olivia was in a different class! Olivia remembered the sad feeling she had in her stomach as the two girls eagerly talked about sitting next to each other in class and eating together at lunch. She had that same sad feeling now.
The bus rolled to a stop in front of Rebecca’s house. Olivia watched miserably from the window as the girls jumped off the bus and ran to the front yard.
By the time the bus finally reached Olivia’s stop, she could barely hold the tears back. She hurried into the house.
“How was school?” Mom asked.
Olivia started crying. “It was awful! Rebecca and Stephanie barely even talk to me anymore, and we were supposed to be best friends forever!” she sobbed.
“I’m so sorry, Olivia. It can be hard when friendships start to change,” Mom said. She paused for a moment. “Do you remember when we went to the temple to be sealed?” she asked, pointing at the picture hanging on the wall. Olivia looked and saw her family smiling in front of the temple. She had been a lot younger then, but she could still remember being with her parents and older sister, Jane, in the beautiful sealing room.
“Do you know why we worked so hard to get ready to go to the temple?”
“Because we wanted to be a family forever?” Olivia answered.
“Exactly. Even if you’re not best friends with Rebecca and Stephanie forever, you’ll still have your family as your friends forever.”
“Yeah,” Olivia said. “But it’s not the same.”
“I know your feelings are hurt,” Mom said, “but I’m glad you’re home. I have a job for you and Jane.”
Olivia couldn’t believe her ears. Instead of helping her feel better, Mom was giving her chores!
“Go put on some old clothes and meet me on the back porch. Tell Jane to come too.”
Olivia went upstairs, stomping her feet a little harder than usual, and put on her work clothes.
When the girls were dressed and outside, they saw Mom walking back from the shed. She was carrying a green can, some paintbrushes, and a wadded-up sheet of plastic. When she got to the porch, she laid down the plastic and handed each of the girls a brush.
“You’re going to let us paint something?” Olivia asked skeptically. Usually Dad did those kinds of projects.
“Yep,” Mom said. “I want the back door painted by dinner time.” And then she turned and went into the house.
The girls looked at each other for a long moment and then grinned. This could be fun. They dipped their brushes in the smooth, green paint and got to work. Olivia liked this job—it didn’t seem like doing chores at all. Jane showed her how to move her brush in long, even strokes. Soon the girls were laughing and talking. Olivia started to remember all the fun times she and Jane had spent together. She was glad she would always have her sister for a friend.
A couple of hours later the girls were covered in splotches of green paint and wearing huge smiles. Olivia carefully opened the shiny green door and poked her head inside. “Mom, we’re done with the door,” she called. “Come see how great it looks!”
Mom came to the door and looked at their work. “It looks wonderful,” she said. “And so do you two.” She smiled at the girls. “I’m glad you had fun together. Sisters are special friends.” Olivia smiled back. She knew Rebecca and Stephanie would still be her friends at school, but she was especially glad for Jane and for her family that would be with her forever.

True ministering is illustrated by an older sister in Africa who was assigned to seek out a sister who had not attended Church meetings for a long time. When she went to the sister’s home, she found that the woman had been beaten and robbed, had very little to eat, and possessed no clothes that she felt were appropriate for Sunday Church meetings. The woman assigned to minister to her brought a listening ear, produce from her garden, scriptures to read, and friendship. The “missing” sister soon came back to church and now holds a calling because she knows she is loved and valued.

The oldest graduate that day was Lyle M. McDonald.
Lyle was born in Salina, Utah. At the appropriate time he entered BYU, his most enduring reminder of those years still being the permanent knee injury he received playing football. Lyle later left BYU—without a degree—to become a teacher and principal at the Page Elementary School on North Canyon Road here in Provo. It is fitting irony that BYU now owns that old Page School building, which is situated directly across the street from a slightly newer, and larger, football stadium. . . .

Now, after a full and fitting life, Brother McDonald returned to school . . . to finish that degree begun so long ago because “he wanted to improve himself, he wanted to help others, and he wanted more association with the ‘great and qualified’ professors at BYU.” (Those are his words.) Furthermore, he wanted a university diploma to go along with his Master M-Man award and his World War I discharge papers. That’s right. “The Great War. Old WW I,” as Colonel Sherman Potter would say—“The war to end all wars.” . . . Yes, our soldier returned to school for a diploma partly so his World War I discharge papers wouldn’t be lonely. But an even loftier purpose ultimately prompted our veteran to return. He says simply and directly, “I wanted knowledge. We can’t get into the celestial kingdom without knowledge. Knowledge is about the only thing we are allowed to take with us.”

I was visiting with a neighbor’s family that had traveled to Salt Lake City for the holidays. I asked how they liked their ward in their distant city, and Hanna said, “Cary likes it, but I don’t. Sister Jack, I’m having a hard time. I’m the only Hispanic in the ward, and they are not friendly to me. They ignore me in the hallways, and sometimes I don’t go at all.”

My heart went out to this usually happy and gregarious woman. I said, “Be patient with them. Maybe you are there to help them learn understanding, and it will take time.”

Sometimes our pattern and response to difficulty is to circumvent the situation rather than to step back and try to learn from it. We become immersed in the circumstances and lose sight of the long-range goal. A better approach is to do what we can, being “steadfast and immovable in keeping the commandments” and carrying in our hearts the assurance that the Lord is with us and that our patience will turn the tide.

When I was a child in the 1950s and 1960s, our Christmas traditions were not elaborate—except for the stockings. Because we children enjoyed our Christmas stockings so much, we continued the tradition when we married and had children of our own. Buying surprises and assembling dozens of Christmas stockings, however, soon became too much for my aging parents, especially my mother, who had a serious case of rheumatoid arthritis that limited her mobility and energy.
Eventually, I volunteered to take over the project. Our annual extended family home evening, in which we acted out the Christmas story and opened our stockings, found me exhausted from the demands of being the mother of several small children and juggling the events of an active life. As I watched everyone dump treasures out of the gingham Christmas stockings I had carefully prepared, I was feeling a little sorry for myself.
As expected, my stocking was empty except for the standard candy cane and Japanese orange that I had placed there earlier. But as I shook them out, I noticed a little bedraggled mouse made of a walnut and hazelnuts. One ear was much bigger than the other, and the whiskers were crooked. The tail had been cut too short, and the loop to hang it on the tree was off center. I was confused. Had someone’s kindergarten project ended up in my stocking?
I looked up and saw my mother watching me from her wheelchair across the room. With a gnarled, bent finger, she beckoned to me.
“I wanted to do something for the Christmas stockings,” she said. “They made these little mice in Relief Society, and they were so cute.”
Her tears were close to the surface, and her gentle voice shook as she continued.
“I couldn’t get my fingers to work, so I made only one. It didn’t turn out, but I knew you wouldn’t mind.”
I looked again at the little mouse in my hand. She was right. I didn’t mind. In fact, her little bedraggled mouse became the most precious treasure of all that Christmas.
For more than 20 years, I have tenderly removed the tissue paper from the misshapen mouse crafted by misshapen fingers and carefully placed it on a branch. My angel mother has been free of her crippled body for several years, but her Christmas mouse reminds me of two profound truths.
The first is that my mother honored me by believing that I could look past the mouse’s crooked ears and feel the love and sacrifice that went into its creation. The second is that if I, as an imperfect mortal, am capable of finding beauty in a humble little mouse, how much more is our Father in Heaven capable of seeing past our imperfect efforts and understanding our pure intentions.
I know that when we do our best to give to others and to Him, our gift is not just good enough—it is of incalculable worth.