Gospel Story Finder

Just before my junior year in high school, my family moved 3,000 miles to the San Francisco area. I started the year knowing exactly one person—my freshman sister.

Redwood High School was very different from the strict high school I had been attending. The whole atmosphere was intimidating.

Shortly after school began, I tried out for cheerleader. I didn’t even make first cuts. In October I went to an audition for a Christmas choir program. Before I even sang a note, the choir director asked me if I had ever been in a school choir. When my answer was no, I was ushered out the door and told thank you very much.

The one bright spot in my day was early-morning seminary, where I always felt welcome and accepted.

At school I worked hard and occasionally forced myself to contribute during classroom discussions. Eventually I made some friends and found a group to eat lunch with. I went to the ball games and school plays, volunteered during spirit week, and hung out at the dances. But I still never felt like I quite belonged.

I kept busy my senior year filling out college application forms, taking entrance exams, and applying for scholarships. Three weeks before graduation, Lee, the good-looking, iron-pumping, brainy debate team member and senior class president, called out to me after class and asked me to walk with him. I was stunned that he even knew my name.

As we walked he explained that he was the president of his church youth group. The group had been studying the religions of the world, and someone had expressed interest in learning about Latter-day Saints. Lee turned to face me and asked if I would deliver an hour-long presentation about the Church to his group.

Weakly I managed to reply, “You don’t want me to speak; who you really want is our missionaries. I’ll ask them for you.”

His response startled me, “We don’t want your missionaries. We want you. We know you, we’ve watched you, and we like who you are.”

Stunned again, I told Lee I would be glad to speak to his group.

The next five days were a flurry of preparation. My seminary teacher, my parents, and the missionaries helped me prepare to explain the basic principles of the gospel and how The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints differs from other churches. Knowing that Lee and his friends were forceful debaters who could be merciless against opponents, I also fasted and prayed for divine guidance.

The day of the presentation arrived. With scriptures in hand and a prayer in my heart, I entered the meeting hall. The 35 people in the room—kids from school, a few adults, and the pastor—all turned to look at me as I walked to the front. After Lee greeted me warmly and introduced me, I took a deep breath and began by telling the Joseph Smith story. A calm feeling filled the room, and for the next 45 minutes the words I spoke came smoothly and effortlessly. I ended by bearing my testimony of modern-day prophets, revelation, and the love Jesus Christ has for each of us.

Then, with great apprehension, I asked if there were any questions. Hands shot up all over the room. Oh boy, here it comes, I thought to myself. But to my surprise, none of the questions were hostile or quarrelsome. As I left the hall I knew that a power stronger than my own had directed the evening’s event.

Throughout high school I had always assumed that being popular meant dating cool guys, appearing in lots of yearbook pictures, or being prom queen. Through this experience, I finally realized that there is a different kind of popularity—popularity based on respect.

Todd stood up in testimony meeting that Sunday, the first time I’d ever seen him do it. He said, “The Savior gave His life for us, and I was thinking that He must have thought we were all worth it. He paid a high price, but I guess for anything worthwhile, we have to pay a price. I haven’t been looking forward to a mission because I thought the price was too high—I mean, I’d be leaving my car, my camping trips, my free time, my family. But I never thought about the people I might be teaching. Everyone says a mission is hard work, but I guess service is like that.” His voice fogged up. “I look at my little nursery kids. Every one of them is so great. I’m going to miss them a lot.”

He sat down, rubbing his eyes with his hand, and Mom smiled and patted him on the shoulder.

Family history research in the nineteenth century was very difficult. Records of baptisms, marriages and burials were kept in local churches and required permission from their vicars to be viewed. Census records were not available.
Missionaries then coming to Britain were often returning British converts, or their children. Their calling was not just to teach the living, but also to find details of their own ancestors.
One such Elder was James Leaing McMurrin, who arrived on UK shores in the spring of 1884 and was assigned to Glasgow. He was delighted by this, as Scotland was the home of his ancestors. He eagerly endeavoured to find them, but sadly had no success.
Six months into his mission he was reassigned to Ireland. On learning of this, his aunt gave him the address of one Hugh McMurrin, who lived in Ireland. The Elder determined to visit him if possible. However, the address was not within his assigned area.
Sometime later, he and his companion went out to visit a family of Church members but got lost. It was getting late, and upon enquiring at a house the direction to the town they were seeking, the occupants offered the elders a meal and a bed for the night. After learning Elder McMurrin’s name, the couple told him of a neighbour they had by the name of Hugh McMurrin.
Astonished, but delighted, Elder McMurrin visited him and found he was the Hugh McMurrin his aunt had told him about. He had moved from the address his aunt had given him. From this gentleman he received the addresses of other McMurrins, whom he visited and who gave him nearly one hundred and fifty names of his ancestors.
Back in Salt Lake City, Janet McMurrin was tending to her dying father. In a conversation about the spirit world, she asked him when he went beyond the veil to tell Grandfather McMurrin that the family were unable to find any of his genealogy to do work for in the temple. He agreed to deliver the message, and shortly thereafter died.
A little time later, about the time that Elder McMurrin was being transferred to Ireland, Janet had a dream in which her father appeared to her. He informed her that he had delivered her message and had now come to tell her that “42 Islington” would do all the rest. With this she awoke and wondered what he could have meant by 42 Islingto”. Members in England at the time would have been able to tell her, but she had to wait for Elder McMurrin’s letter telling her of his changed assignment, one given him by the British Mission President, whose office was at 42 Islington, Liverpool.
When we do all we can, the Lord will do the rest.
Sometime later, in May 1899, Elder McMurrin was serving as part of the presidency of the European Mission. He attended the Scottish Conference, where he met a young David O. McKay (1873–1970).
President McKay later recounts, “I had learned by intimate association with him that James McMurrin was pure gold; his faith in the Gospel implicit; that no truer man, no more loyal man to what he thought was right, ever lived; so when he turned to me and gave what I thought then was more of a caution than a promise, his words made an indelible impression upon me. Paraphrasing the words of the Saviour to Peter, he said, ‘Let me say to you Brother David, Satan hath desired you that he may sift you as wheat, but God is mindful of you.’ Then he added, ‘If you will keep the faith you will yet sit in the leading councils of the Church.’ …
“I know that this incident means but little to others, but to me it connotes so much that is intimately precious and so profoundly important as a milestone in my life that I cherish it as a sacred possession.”1

For many years, I worked in the São Paulo Brazil Temple. I saw many families come there to be sealed. Many of them had to make great sacrifices to do so. I remember one family who had traveled for three days to get to the temple. They had six children, and only one of the children had shoes. The father was embarrassed that some of the children had only sandals to wear. But he knew that coming to the temple was more important than having shoes. It was a wonderful experience to see this beautiful family sealed together in the temple.

For the first time in History, on 7 January 1984,, a premier of the People s Republic of China was about to visit the United States of America. As his helicopter hovered over the little community of Laie, Hawaii, hundreds of diplomats, reporters, military officials, and interpreters waited among the palm trees of the Brigham Young University—Hawaii campus. When the helicopter landed, a tall, silver-haired man stepped forward from the crowd. He was the man delegated to greet Premier Zhao Ziyang on behalf of the president of the United States. The man was Elder Marvin J. Ashton of the Quorum of the Twelve.
To Elder Ashton, meeting the premier of China was more than anything else an opportunity to make a new friend. “I learned that he is proud of his family,” Elder Ashton recalls. “I found him to be a man of dignity, warmth, and a naturalness that made us comfortable together.”
Later in the day, a magnificent reception was held for the premier in the Royal Hall in Honolulu. As the premier passed by, he saw Brother and Sister Ashton standing quietly behind three rows of guests, left the reception line, and shook the Ashtons’ hands. Before departing, Premier Zhao commented to Elder Ashton, “I don’t know what I will experience in my travels to the United States and Canada, but I want you to know this visit here with you will be the highlight.”

Who could imagine a house of the Lord in the beautiful city of Bangkok? Christians are only 1 percent of this principally Buddhist country. As in Haiti we also find in Bangkok that the Lord has gathered the elect of the earth. While there a few months ago, we met Sathit and Juthamas Kaivaivatana and their devoted children. Sathit joined the Church when he was 17 and served a mission in his native land. Later he met Juthamas at the institute, and they were sealed in the Manila Philippines Temple. In 1993 the Kaivaivatanas were hit by a truck whose driver had fallen asleep, and Sathit was paralyzed from his chest down. Their faith has never wavered. Sathit is an admired teacher at the International School Bangkok. He serves as the stake president of the Thailand Bangkok North Stake. We see God’s miracles in His wondrous work and in our own personal lives.

In 1970 my mother was diagnosed with a chronic illness that was shutting down the arteries that fed her brain. She was a particularly bright, elegant, and engaging woman with sparkling eyes. But over the next 13 years, her condition declined. It was like losing a good friend piece by piece.
Dad stepped in to become her primary caregiver. At first he made small sacrifices to make her comfortable and cheerful. He prepared her meals, sang her songs, and held her hand. As time went on, however, caring for my mother became more difficult and more physical. It must have been trying for Dad.
As Mother’s condition worsened, my dad’s own health became a concern. I was there when his doctor told him that Mother needed full-time care in a skilled nursing facility. He would likely die if he continued to give the level of care she required, and then she would have no one to take care of her.
For the last 13 months of my mother’s life, Dad visited her in the nursing facility every day that he was not away on a Church assignment. She didn’t recognize him, but that made no difference to him. He spoke with her as though everything was all right. I would see him return from visiting a stake conference in some far-off place. He would be exhausted. But the first thing he would do when he arrived was go see Mother, to bring what cheer he could.
My father could not have taken better care of my mother. I learned much about sacrifice from watching him take care of her.

One young woman received understanding of a significant gospel principle as she attended an institute of religion class. The lesson that day helped her realize she had not fully repented of past transgressions. She felt the influence of the Holy Ghost and knew she must be obedient and confess her transgressions, but she was too frightened to talk to her bishop about it.

As she humbly prayed, the words of a hymn filled her mind: “Fear not, I am with thee; oh, be not dismayed, For I am thy God and will still give thee aid” (“How Firm a Foundation,” Hymns, number 85). Enlightened and assured, she went to the bishop and began the process of repentance.

I was the youngest child, and my mother decided that she and I would walk across a mountain range separating the two countries. I remember that she packed a lunch as if we were going for a hike or a picnic in the mountains.
We took a train as far as we could and then walked for long hours, getting ever closer to the West German border. The borders were tightly controlled, but we had a map and knew of a time and a place where it might be safe to cross. I could sense my mother’s anxiety. She observed the area intensely to see if we were being followed. With each step, her legs and knees seemed to become weaker. I helped carry her heavy bag filled with food, vital documents, and family photos as we climbed up one last, long hill. Surely, she thought, we had passed the border by now. When she finally felt safe, we sat down and started to eat our picnic lunch. For the first time that day, I’m sure, she breathed more easily.
It was only then that we noticed the border sign. It was still far ahead of us! We were having our picnic on the wrong side of the border. We were still in East Germany!
Border guards could show up any moment!
My mother frantically packed up our lunch, and we hurried up the hillside as quickly as we could. This time we didn’t dare stop until we knew with certainty that we had reached the other side of the border.
Even though each member of our family had taken very different routes and experienced very different hardships along the way, eventually all of us made it to safety. We were finally reunited as a family. What a glorious day that was!

An example of this comes from a mission president as he describes an unforgettable couple:
“I confess,” he said, “that when Elder and Sister Leslie arrived, I wondered how well they would do. He was seriously overweight and wore a hearing aid. She was limited with two artificial knee implants. But their spirit was sweet and their enthusiasm so strong. Two wonderfully ordinary people—full of love.
“I felt inspired to send them to Jamestown, Tennessee,” he said, “where we had a tiny, struggling branch that had been without missionaries for years.
“I knew they couldn’t tract, and for the first few weeks nothing was noted on their weekly reports. Their letters said, ‘We are getting to know the people.’
“After a few weeks their letters told of nonmembers who were attending church with them—at first two, then four, then seven. They had as many as twenty-four investigators at church on one occasion. Soon the baptisms started to flow. No set of missionaries, young or old, equaled the baptisms they brought about.”
And the mission president went on to say, “I doubt that either of them could give the missionary discussions in a way that closely resembled the suggested form that we have for the regular missionaries. What they had was a great love for the people. They wove themselves into the fabric of that little community, winning them over with friendship, compassionate service, and understanding hearts.
“Today, the Jamestown Branch is thriving, with a new building and more than 100 members attending. Many contributed their faith and works, but none more significantly or generously than Harry and Frances Leslie.”

Third, the pioneer sisters had “spunk.” Spunk is a sixteenth century word that meant spark, like a spark of light. More recently it has come to mean a lively creature; someone who has spirit, mettle, pluck. To show spunk or spirit means to stand up, to assert oneself spiritedly or courageously.

Sarah Rogers Driggs, who as a child had sat on the knee of the Prophet Joseph Smith and whose brother had served in the Mormon Battalion, felt such an independence of spirit. One day she was out raking the yard when Starling Driggs, a fellow who had been courting her, hurried up to her and said, “President Brigham Young told me to tell you he wants to see you up at his office.” It seems that the prophet had called Starling to go with a company to help settle San Bernardino, California. Starling told President Young he was willing to go if he could take along Sarah as his wife. He said he liked her but she didn’t seem to like him. When Starling came running up to her, Sarah thought she knew what was in store, so she quickly replied, “You go back and tell President Young, Starling Driggs, that he’s got as much shoe leather to wear out as I have, and he can come here if he wants to see me.” Then after Starling had gone, she hurriedly got cleaned up and went to the President’s office. After receiving the call to go to San Bernardino as Starling’s wife, she accepted and made the trip. Unfortunately, Starling lost his life in a threshing machine accident a few years later. Sarah did not remarry, but sustained herself and family by keeping a boardinghouse. When she was troubled by a molester, according to her family, she simply hauled out her six gun and demonstrated how accurately she could shoot.12

Illustrations by Maryn Roos
I’ve got your science test scores here. Our new student, Mandy, is the only one who scored 100 percent.
If you want to make a friend, be one.
Hi. Your name’s Audrey, isn’t it? Is something wrong?
I flunked the test. And my dad says if I don’t get my grades up, I can’t have tennis lessons.
Ouch! That’s rough. Umm, listen … would you like to study together sometime? Maybe I could help.
You’d do that for me?
Sure. Why not?
Maybe you can teach me to play tennis. It looks fun.
Yeah, I think you’d really like it.

Among the most memorable experiences of my mission was the singing of “Called to Serve” (Hymns, number 249) with hundreds of other missionaries in the Missionary Training Center. The excitement, enthusiasm, and zeal of the missionaries around me were infectious. Each time we sang, the Spirit of the Lord bore witness to me that the gospel was true. I cannot adequately describe the emotions I had during those times, but I felt closer to heaven.
The same thing happened when I reached my assigned area. I looked forward to our district and zone meetings, where we sang the hymns together. Singing strengthened me and helped give me the spark I needed to continue the work. These and numerous other experiences have helped me realize and appreciate the vital role of music in our worship services.

Two weeks after my 16th birthday my family moved to North Africa. This was not my idea of fun, and I suspected my parents of plotting the entire thing just to make me miserable. The driving age in Morocco is 18, so I wouldn’t be getting a driver’s license, and the school I would be attending had no newspaper or track team—the two things I enjoyed doing. Worst of all, in my junior class at the international school, there were 11 girls and only 3 boys. It was going to be a long year.
At home I had a big group of friends. We went to church and acted like we were doing what was right. But on the weekends we went to parties together, and we sometimes did things I knew weren’t right. I felt torn apart, wanting to keep myself clean, but also wanting to prove that I could do what I wanted. That feeling hadn’t gone away when we moved.
After we’d been in Morocco about a week, I started to make a few friends. My new friend Amy wasn’t a member of the Church, but she was different. She didn’t just pretend to do what was right; she did it. She didn’t seem to have anything to prove. Angie and Lisa, on the other hand, didn’t even try to hide the wrong things that they did. There is no legal drinking age in Morocco, and they took advantage of it. They were having a party at Lisa’s house that weekend, and I was invited.
After my first day of class at my new school, I met the cutest guy I’ve ever seen.
“Are you Rebecca?” he asked as he walked toward me. My heart was beating loud and fast, but I managed to say yes.
“I’m Tony. I hear you’re a Mormon.”
I nodded, wondering what this was all about.
“Are you a real Mormon?” he asked, “or do you just go to church because your parents make you?”
I fumbled with my backpack and said, “I don’t know.”
“Well, when you figure it out, let me know,” he said. Then he left.
I didn’t go to the party at Lisa’s house that weekend. My mom said she needed help unpacking, so I stayed home opening boxes and hanging up clothes.
After I had worked for a while, I stopped my chores and told my mom that I needed a break. I went outside to think.
I walked outside the wall around our house where there was a dusty dirt road that shepherds walked down every morning and evening, taking their sheep and goats to pasture. I soon came to a field where garbage had been burned. A tangerine peel lay in the road, and I angrily kicked it into the grass. Why do I have to be here? I wondered. Why does anything ever have to change? Why does life have to be so hard?
I thought about Tony and his question. What did he want me to say? Am I a real Mormon? Who do I want to be? Would he ever think about dating me if I said I was a real Mormon?
As I turned the corner to go back home, I saw something that made me stop. Across the street, in the middle of an empty field, stood a beautiful little tree. It was not much taller than I was, and its leaves and branches were thin and delicate.
I looked at that tree for a long time. I thought about the parties I had gone to in the States and the things I had done. I thought about the choices I needed to make and about who I wanted to be. I thought about standing alone, sort of like that tree.
It was two weeks before I talked to Tony again. He found me serving refreshments in the school gym on parents’ night. Because parents were invited, wine was being served along with soda and punch.
“So, Rebecca, I brought you a drink,” Tony said. “A toast to a new school year.” He held out a plastic cup half filled with wine.
My heart started pounding again.
“No thanks, Tony. How about a doughnut?”
“No thanks? I bring you a drink, and you don’t want it? Why? Are you afraid your parents will find out?”
“No.”
“Are you afraid you won’t be a real Mormon? Don’t worry, no one in your church will find out.”
I looked down at the table and then up at Tony. “I am a real Mormon. This doesn’t have anything to do with my parents. I just don’t want to.”
Tony looked disgusted. “Well, that’s too bad,” he said. “We could have had fun together.” He dropped the cup into the trash can and walked off. I watched him go and then leaned back against the wall and let out a sigh.
I didn’t have many dates that year, although Tony let me know that if I changed my mind he’d be happy to take me out. But I had a great year anyway. Amy and I got to know some of our Moroccan neighbors, and although we didn’t speak French or Arabic very well, we had a good time laughing together. I went to the prom that year with my brother (he turned out to be a great dancer).
It’s not easy feeling left out, but I felt so good about my decision to be a “real Mormon.” I felt more happy and peaceful than I had in a long time.
I was learning to stand alone.

Since I joined the Church in 1994, many Church members have had an impact for good in my life. However, the positive influence of the prophet, President Gordon Bitner Hinckley, cannot be overemphasized.
I may not have met him physically, but spiritually I feel I have. Whenever I read his inspired messages, I imagine him talking to me one-to-one with his hand on my shoulder. A First Presidency Message entitled “Life’s Obligations” (see Liahona, May 1999, 2) helped me understand that although income is important, I do not need to be a multimillionaire to be happy. This message has brought me inner peace and satisfaction.
Encouraged also by the prophet’s counsel in that same message not to waste the great days of preparation for my future work, I decided to enroll in a computer engineering training college for one year. I was undertaking my one year of National Youth Service and resolved to use my time judiciously. At the end of the program, I knew how to repair and install computer systems. Now my first successful appointment after my year of National Youth Service is based on my added knowledge of computer systems.
I am closer to my friends and relatives than ever before. They understand and respect my standards now—simply because I’ve been living the counsel of the prophet. What a positive influence he has on me! How grateful I am to be under the guidance of a living prophet.

I had a really bad day at school. As I was leaving, I saw some fifth graders running. They crashed into a poor girl carrying loads of schoolwork, including a school project. The project fell and broke, scattering pieces all over the ground. I ran over to the girl and asked, “Are you OK?” She was almost in tears as she got down on her knees and started scooping pieces of her project into a bag. I noticed that she was carrying glue and asked her if I could help put her masterpiece back together. She nodded in a shy way. I glued it back together and handed it to her. Then I helped her carry her things to her car. Her mom thanked me and gave me a big smile. I ran to my car and hopped in. My mom asked, “How was your day?”
“Perfect!” I said.

This lesson came full circle a couple of years later, when I was eight or nine years old. My father’s doctor’s office was downtown, and I would occasionally stop by to visit him on my way home from school. One day I stopped by, and my father invited me into his office. He said, “I have something I want you to do for me.”
“Sure,” I said. “What is it?”
My dad took from his desk four crisp twenty-dollar bills and said, “I want you to deposit these in the bank for me.” Now, $80 at that time would be worth about $300 or $400 today. That was a lot of money to a little kid.
My father filled out a deposit slip and gave it to me along with the bills. He then asked me to take the money with the deposit slip down the street to the Raymond branch of the Bank of Montreal. I remember thinking at the time, “This is a lot of money! I could buy anything with this much money!” but I quickly got rid of the idea. I knew my father had trusted me with the money, and I didn’t want to betray his trust.
I went straight to the bank and got in line to make the deposit. I remember being the only little person standing in that line. I received a receipt from the cashier, and when my dad came home that night, I proudly gave it to him. He was very kind and told me how much he trusted me and how proud he was that I’d done what he’d asked me to do.

“That wasn’t as bad as the year we wore Santa hats and pajamas,” I said.
“A horror show,” Lucy agreed.
Actually, it was our pressed pajamas and Santa hats. Mom decided to starch and iron all our pajamas and the effect was one of my older brother, Michael, Lucy, and me (Tyler wasn’t born yet) standing stiffly at attention in our cardboard nightwear.
“Cute, Matt. You looked pretty awesome in your fire truck jammies,” teased Nick Flander, who until that moment had been my best friend.
The list of disasters is long. One year we all looked fine, except for Lucy, who had her eyes closed and mouth wide open. Or the Christmas when we used a photo from our vacation at the beach, all of us in our swimming suits.
“I thought it would be different. Kind of cute,” Dad explained.
“Beach shots don’t cut it in December,” groaned Michael that year. At least this year he’s on a mission in Great Britain and mercifully out of reach of even the longest of my Dad’s lenses.
“Is there any way out?” Lucy asked sadly.
“I don’t think so. Pray for a miracle,” I answered. “It’s our only hope.”
It was Tyler who boosted my faith in divine intervention a couple of nights later. I was upstairs, deep into a college hoops game, when he came in.
“Can we talk, Matt?”
“Always. Trouble with homework? Depressed about the ozone layer? Need some advice about girls?”
“No, I was thinking about Christmas cards.”
That got my attention. “What about them?”
Tyler sighed. “Michael.”
The light bulb that occasionally doubles as my brain flickered to life. “Yeah. Michael. He won’t be in the picture this year. Doesn’t seem right, does it, bud?”
“Nope.”
I was sensing a good angle, one that would end our hopeless holiday tradition. “I’ll talk with Dad, as soon as I catch him in a good mood, like right after he eats dessert.”
Tyler looked a little happier. And I was feeling pretty good too. A foolish tradition of my father’s was about to come to a screeching halt. Now all I had to do was convince Dad that without Michael in the picture, we weren’t quite a family.
We have a spare bedroom in our house that through the years has evolved into the music room, the library, the den, and the sewing room. When Dad is doing some serious vegging out, he heads up there, which is what he did an hour after dinner the following night. The timing felt right. I gave Tyler a thumbs up, then trudged up the stairs. Dad was sitting in an old chair, listening to ancient music from the ’70s.
“Welcome to the inner sanctum,” he greeted me, sounding fairly relaxed for a parent.
“Hi, Dad.” My strategy was simple: link this all up to Tyler. That way if Dad got ticked, I just tell him it’s all his last-born child’s idea, and I skate home free, since parents hardly ever get upset with the baby of the family. “Dad, can we talk about Tyler for a second?”
“Sure. What’s up?”
“He’s worried about the Christmas card. He doesn’t think we should have a family picture this year because Michael is in London.” Then, feeling a surge of nobility, I lowered my voice and quietly said, “I kind of agree with him, Dad.”
Dad sat up in his chair. “You kids don’t really like the idea of a family photo, do you?”
“I think we’d like to try something else, something more contemporary. Like what other families do.”
He looked serious. Very serious. “Could be that I’ve had my blinders on,” he said slowly. “I’m not the best photographer in the world. I know that. I always thought the cards were kind of cute. Maybe it wasn’t the picture itself, just that we always were together in the photo. I suppose things change.”
This was too easy. “Change is good, Dad,” I reminded him, going for the jugular. “I think it says so in the Old Testament. Or Brigham Young said something like that.”
He took off his glasses and rubbed his chin. “Still …”
The word still made me nervous. If there is one word that throws fear into the lives of teenagers everywhere, it is still when a parent is on the verge of making a wise and favorable decision. In this case, it signaled that Dad had not been totally swayed by my logic and eloquence. The sweet feeling of victory was slipping through my grasp.
“Still,” he repeated, and I felt doom encircling me, “let’s try one more year, at least. Michael may need it. Next year, we’ll buy boxed cards if you kids don’t want the family photo. Can you live with that, Matt?”
Partial victory, at least. One more year, then the family Christmas photo would be history.
“Okay, Dad. One more year.”
“We’ll take care of it on Saturday then.”
“But not in the mountains.”
“No, not in the mountains. I’ve got somewhere special planned.”
I didn’t even ask where. I wanted to hurry out of the room and give the news to Tyler and Lucy, before he could change his mind.
In our front yard is an old oak tree, and since we’d had a mild autumn, some of the leaves were still hanging from it. When I finally got up on Saturday and made my way downstairs, I was startled to see the tripod set up underneath the oak’s long, graceful branches. Dad’s special place was right at home. An hour later, we stood under the tree while he fiddled with his camera and made all the final adjustments.
“I hope nobody sees us out here,” Lucy whispered.
“Better than being in a blizzard,” I replied.
“Okay, everyone, straighten up. Everything is set. Here I come!” Dad said exuberantly. “Now one, two, three, everyone say, CHEESE!”
What can I say? The photo was great. It was perfect. Against all odds, defying all Andrews family tradition, Dad managed to get us in focus with our eyes open, and all of us looking natural and happy. Set against the oak tree, with our red and green sweaters and Tyler’s stocking cap, we managed to look right in step with the season.
“Guess it was bound to happen some year,” Dad mumbled, looking over the photos in an unconvincing attempt to sound humble.
“Miracles still do happen,” Mom chimed in.
“Can we send this to Michael? I think he’ll like it even if he isn’t in it,” Tyler said.
“Michael will get the very first one,” Mom promised.
We didn’t have long to wait before hearing Michael’s opinion about the Christmas card. Ten days before Christmas, a letter arrived. Mom tore it open as soon as she came in from the mailbox.
Dear Mom, Dad, Matt, Lucy, and Tyler,
I can’t tell you how neat it was to see the Christmas card photo. It looked great, even if I wasn’t part of it. Maybe I’m the reason they never seemed to turn out very well!
We’d had a rough day. It was dark, windy, and cold, and we didn’t have much luck with the work. We had so many doors slammed in our faces that my companion and I joked about needing plastic surgery to straighten out our noses. Anyway, we picked up our mail at the post after lunch, and I jammed your letter into my overcoat pocket.
It was on the bus that I opened the letter. When I saw you standing in front of the tree in our yard, I started to giggle. A woman sitting across the aisle said something about how I must be reading a nice letter. I showed her the card, and she was impressed by the photo. One thing led to another, and we’re going by her home to drop off a Book of Mormon tomorrow. Who knows if anything ever comes of it, but it wouldn’t have happened if a certain photo of a good-looking family hadn’t appeared in the mail.
Mom set down Michael’s letter. “Maybe we should try the photo again next year.”
Nobody disagreed. “But no train jammies,” I said. “I draw the line there.”
“No pajamas, Matt,” Dad nodded. “Same deal though. If the photo isn’t acceptable to everyone, we won’t use it. We’ll work hard to make it a decent picture.”
That evening, I walked into the spare room. Dad was on the floor, leafing through the family Christmas photo album. He flipped to the first page. “Look at this, Matt. See something?”
I squinted at the picture, faded after more than 20 years. “You and Mom. In front of your old car.”
“What else?”
“Well, Mom had long hair, and you had more hair …”
“Anything else?”
I studied the photo. Two people. My parents, soon after they were married. The first Andrews family Christmas card. No children back then. A long way from our family as it was today.
Or was it?
Whether it was two Andrews, six Andrews, or just five Andrews with one on a mission, it was still our family. The Christmas photo was about tradition, togetherness, the season of the year, and the way we celebrate it, and not so much the photo itself. This was a history of our family, a year at a time, right at our fingertips. An occasional brush with frostbite and teasing from our friends seemed a small price to pay for the treasure at hand. We would look through these photos someday and all laugh or cry, watching our family change from year to year. Someone would notice Michael was missing from this year’s photo and certainly say, “Oh, that was the year he was on his mission. Whatever happened to the woman he met on the bus?” What great Christmas memories.
“See anything else?” my father gently asked.
“What I see is a family, no matter how many people are there. I see a lot of what Christmas is about.”
And as I said so, for the first time, I got the distinct feeling that I was not looking at just a photo but seeing the whole picture.

As a convert in 1972, I became inactive for over 20 years. I became active again about 10 years ago and have been sealed in the temple to my husband, also a convert. I loved President Hinckley and felt that no prophet could take his place. As President Monson was offered for our sustaining vote, I felt angry and somewhat bitter, because I didn’t think he could do the job. Oh, how stiffnecked I was! When President Monson rose to speak, I looked into his eyes and watched his every movement. There was the very same sparkle and gleam in his eyes that had been in my beloved President Hinckley’s! I was overcome with joy and recognition of the presence of the Holy Spirit in this man—my new prophet, seer, and revelator.
Mary Lou R., New Mexico, USA

By Francisco Lázaro Campos de Sousa, Brazil

During an elders quorum presidency meeting, I felt a desire to meet a quorum member who wasn’t active, someone I hadn’t met. One day after shopping I felt an urge to go to his home. I hesitated, but the feelings to meet him intensified. I introduced myself and said things that came to mind. I told him that the Lord needed him, and he needed the Lord.

He shared his pain of loneliness and other difficulties. “You’ll find friends in the quorum who will help and support,” I told him. He readily accepted my invitation and attended Sabbath meetings.

I didn’t know him at first, but the Lord did and felt his heart. My conviction was reaffirmed. As we minister to our Father’s children and pray to know their needs, the Lord leads us to them. We share in the joyful experience of “lift[ing] up the hands which hang down, and strengthen[ing] the feeble knees” (Doctrine and Covenants 81:5).

As we minister to our Father’s children and pray to know their needs, the Lord leads us to them.