Gospel Story Finder

A very close friend has told me in strict confidence that he has been violating the law of chastity. He has good feelings toward the Church but is unwilling to speak to the bishop about his problem. He has been filling his priesthood assignments (blessing the sacrament, home teaching, and so forth) as if nothing is wrong. Yesterday he broke up with his girl, and now he’s talking of dating other girls in the stake, including one I’m interested in. He came, needing to talk to someone, and trusted me to keep his secret. He feels bad, but he isn’t sure he can change and feels that he cannot take my advice to see the bishop—at least not now. I keep wondering if I have any responsibility to him, to others in the stake, or to the Lord. If I violate his trust and tell the bishop, it will almost certainly destroy our friendship and might even result in his leaving the Church, because I am really his only close friend in the ward. He seems to be trying to straighten himself out. Still, he may get another girl involved. What should I do?

I sat in my living room crying. It had been only a few days since I had had a miscarriage, and I couldn’t stop thinking about the loss of our baby. So many things reminded me of the tragedy, especially my closet full of maternity clothes.
Every time I went into my room, the clothes seemed to stare at me from their hangers. Most of them were brand new and never worn, reminding me that I was no longer pregnant. I was still too weak to stand up for more than a few seconds to put them away.
Suddenly someone knocked on my door. When I opened it, I saw my visiting teacher standing on the doorstep. It was the same visiting teacher who had been watching my children when my doctor confirmed to my husband and me that I had miscarried.
“Is there anything I can do for you?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said. “I need your help putting away my maternity clothes.”
I led her into the bedroom, emptied drawers, and stripped hangers. Then I lay in bed while she folded my clothes and gently laid them in boxes. After she had taped the boxes and carried them downstairs so I wouldn’t have to look at them, I felt my spirits lift.
Afterward she went into the kitchen, loaded the dishwasher, wiped the counters, and tidied up—things I still wasn’t able to do. When she left, my house was clean, my clothes were out of sight, and my heart wasn’t quite so heavy anymore.
The Apostle John taught, “There is no fear in love; but perfect love casteth out fear” (1 John 4:18). When we reach out to share the Savior’s love, we are strengthened by His courage. Because my visiting teacher was filled with the love of Christ, she came immediately when the Spirit prompted her to come.
We received many expressions of love during that terrible time, including flowers, cards, cupcakes, and childcare, all of which we appreciated. But the expression that helped the most was when my visiting teacher, not knowing how badly I needed her, knocked on my door, and asked, “Is there anything I can do for you?”

From my infancy I had heard the Word of Wisdom stories about tea and coffee and tobacco, etc. Nearly every Sunday School day and Primary day we sang lustily, I with the other boys:
That the children may live long,
And be beautiful and strong,
Tea and coffee and tobacco they despise,
Drink no liquor, and they eat
But a very little meat;
They are seeking to be great and good and wise.
We sang it time and time again until it became an established part of my vocabulary and my song themes, but more especially my life’s plan. Occasionally some respected speaker said he had never tasted the forbidden things we sang against and then I made up my mind. Never would I use these forbidden things the prophets preached against. That decision was firm and unalterable. I would not and did not deviate.
In 1937 my wife and I were touring in Europe. In France I sat at a banquet table of the Rotary International convention in a fashionable hotel. The large, spacious banquet room held hundreds of people. The many waiters moved about the tables, and at every place, besides plenteous silver, linen, and fancy serving dishes, were seven wine glasses. No one was watching me. The temptation nudged me: Shall I drink it or at least sip it? No one who cares will know. Here was quite a temptation. Shall I or shall I not?
Then the thought came: I had made a firm resolution as a boy that I would never touch the forbidden things. I had already lived a third of a century firm and resolute. I would not break my record now. …
Now is the time to set your life’s goals. Now is the time to set your standards firmly and then hold to them throughout your life.

One Sunday while I was serving as mission president in Vladivostok, Russia, a rather amazing thing happened. I had gone to my office to gather some materials when a 13-year-old young man, Vladimir, whose friends call him Vova, knocked on the door. Vova is a deacon in the Vladivostok First Branch. He asked to visit with me in my office. He was accompanied by Sister Olga Vyachyeslavna Dryagunova. This sister speaks wonderful English, and the boy had asked her if she would act as his interpreter. Vova speaks no English, and I speak only a little Russian.
Vova had been an orphan, abandoned at birth because he was born with a cleft palate. The birth defect has since been partially repaired, leaving a scar. He was adopted by a wonderful woman who has treated him as her son. The boy is always happy. He has a smile on his face and a wonderful countenance when he passes the sacrament. He wears the mantle of a deacon as well as any boy I have ever known. He regularly bears a sweet and brief testimony of the truthfulness of the gospel. He is everything that a deacon ought to be.
At our meeting Vova spoke Russian and Sister Olga interpreted. She told me that Vova had come to fill out his application to serve as a full-time missionary. I asked, without a hint of a smile, “How old is he?”
She asked and he answered, “Nearly 14.”
Retaining my composure, I said, “Does he understand that he needs to be 19 before he can serve a mission?”
She responded, “He does, but he does not want to be tardy in getting his application in.”
I assured them that there was still time before we needed to send his missionary application to Moscow and then on to Salt Lake City. Neither the branch president nor I would forget when it was time for him to fill out his forms. I walked to the wall displaying pictures of the 44 missionaries then serving in the Russia Vladivostok Mission. I told Vova I was worried that the missionary papers might be returned if it appeared that I was recommending a 13-year-old boy for a mission.
Then I explained that since he was in my office where I conducted interviews with the missionaries, I thought it appropriate to ask him the questions that will be asked of him when he is 19, just to make sure that he was currently worthy to serve a mission. I then went through all the worthiness questions as though Vova were one of my full-time missionaries but tactfully passed over the boy-girl questions, thinking them premature. Besides, I didn’t want to embarrass Sister Olga.
Vova answered all my questions with the appropriate responses and with the wisdom of a boy twice his age. Upon further reflection, I guessed that he may have even asked one of the elders what interview questions he might anticipate from the mission president. I then told Vova that he could come back every six months, and we would repeat the interview process.
He then asked with some concern what he should say to let me know he was ready for another interview six months from now. I said to him, through Sister Olga, that it was time for him to have his first English lesson. I then said slowly, “This is what you should say to me, ‘President, I am ready for my missionary interview.’”
He repeated the important words he needed to know three times.
As I was ready to end the interview, Vova asked Sister Olga to ask me one last question. “President,” he said, “what advice do you have for me to prepare for my mission?”
I was a bit taken back. Few of my mature elders would have the wisdom to ask such a timely question. I pondered for a moment and then told him to do three things: First, I told him to read the scriptures each day. Second, I suggested that he pray to his Heavenly Father each morning and evening. Third, I told him to practice his English.
I confess the last suggestion was a little selfish on my part, as I was thinking how I would enjoy speaking with him in English and asking him questions about the things of his heart. I suggested he attend the free English classes taught by the missionaries, but he said his mother would not allow him to be out after dark. We agreed that he would work harder each day in his English class at school.
Later, when I saw the deacons in the hall after church, I asked Vova if he would like to repeat the phrase he needed to use to ask for his next interview. This he did in a fine manner. Then to my great surprise, I learned that each of the other deacons in the branch had also learned the magic words. Each one repeated while looking right at me, “President, I am ready for my missionary interview!”
Oh, the power of example! The joy of one willing to open his mouth and share the things he had learned with another was something I was trying to get all of my missionaries to experience! These Russian deacons were on the road to perfection.

House Build C:
In this family are Roberto (father), Micaela (mother), Gloria (daughter, 13), Esther (daughter, 10), and Abraham (son, 8). Roberto works as a cook six days a week. Micaela raises her children and makes foam flowers to sell to stores and schools.
Two years ago, Roberto started going back to church with his family. He felt God’s love and felt the need to serve and love others, so each Friday he would bring hundreds of burritos and flavored water to migrant groups from Central America. He feels that God always blesses him for his service and that his new home is one such blessing. But he was even more excited about the incredible gratitude, love, and unity he felt among the youth.

Jesus taught us to love and help each other. One way to do this is by being a good friend. This is something that Carmen does well.
However, Carmen isn’t a normal friend. She is a goat. And she isn’t just a normal goat. Her ears are long and fluffy like other goats, she eats plants like other goats, and she baas like other goats. But unlike other goats, Carmen has a special gift.
When Carmen was born, she was unable to stand or walk. To help Carmen, her owners made her a special walker. She could lie on it with her legs hanging over it and her hooves on the floor to scoot herself around.
Soon Carmen started using her walker to go on walks with her owners. This is when her owners discovered Carmen’s talent for being a friend. One of Carmen’s first friends was a little boy who was afraid to talk. When he met Carmen, he smiled at her and said, “Hello, goat. I like you.” Carmen replied with a “Baa!” This made the little boy smile.
Carmen made other friends on her walks, and soon her owners realized she had a gift for making people happy. They took her to classes where she learned how to be an animal therapist. Carmen and her owners started visiting children in hospitals and people in nursing homes. Carmen helped people feel happier and less lonely. She helped people smile and made lots of new friends.
Carmen isn’t strong enough to walk on her own, but she has an important job to do—and that is to be a friend.

Not me, though. I had only one question when it was my turn to walk up in front of everybody as they announced my name: was I actually going to graduate?

I wasn’t exactly what you’d call a scholar. Studying pretty much never topped my ideal to-do list. And during my senior year I was doing so poorly in one class I didn’t even know if I had passed the class. The final exam earlier that week would seal my fate, but grades wouldn’t post until a week later.

If I failed this class, I wouldn’t graduate high school.

In the end, I squeaked by on the thinnest possible margin and did graduate. (Whew!) At that point I had 14 months until I turned 19, the missionary age at the time. I intended on working during that time to save money for my mission. I knew I wasn’t much of a student, so under no circumstances did I plan on attempting college.

Fast-forward three and a half years from my high school graduation ceremony. I had worked for around a year and a half, served a two-year mission, and ultimately decided to try college after all.

I wish I could say I felt all grown-up and ready for school, but that’s laughable. I felt more intimidated than ever. If I was so bad at high school, how in the world could I handle college? This time I resolved to do my best and involve God along the way. I prayed fervently to develop new and better study skills.

To my complete shock, I ended up doing so well that semester that I qualified for academic scholarships. Nobody was more surprised than me! Even so, I could also easily look back over the previous months and see the hand of God helping me along as I learned to become a good student.

What I believed about myself back in high school simply wasn’t true. From that point on and with God’s help, I was able to forge a completely new path that carried me through college graduation and beyond.

Jonathan Day, 16, of the Los Gatos (California) First Ward, was studying in the Los Gatos city library. It was almost time for his father to pick him up. Suddenly, the bookcases started to sway. Books fell from the shelves, barely missing Jonathan’s head. Earthquake!
Jonathan knew what to do, just what every California school child is drilled to do in case of an earthquake—“duck and cover.”
The killer earthquake struck northern California on Oct. 17, 1989. Although people felt the shaking for miles, being at the epicenter was a wild, emotional experience for the youth of the Santa Cruz California and Saratoga California stakes.
Maren Nelson, 16, of the Alma Branch, was helping her mother make a salad for dinner. When the house started to shake, she automatically dove under the table, pulling her mother with her. Huddled together, they could see cupboard doors flying open, dumping dishes out. The refrigerator fell over, spilling food everywhere. The built-in oven was wrenched from the wall, kitchen cabinets tore loose and fell into a messy heap on the floor. A massive china cabinet tipped over against the table, crushing the chair between. “After the shaking stopped,” Maren said, “I remember the terror in my father’s voice as he yelled into the house to find out if we were safe.”
James Metcalf, of the Alma Branch, was working at a health spa. The earthquake hit when he was lifting a heavy barbell. With one heave he replaced the weight on its rack and ducked under the door frame.
The water in the pool splashed into a high wave, dumping stunned swimmers onto the deck. Lockers fell, and hot tubs became bubbling geysers. James evacuated the building. After making sure everyone was okay, he locked the doors and headed home, a cautious drive that took more than three hours. Dozens of aftershocks bounced the car.
Finally, he made it to his house. The porches were torn away, and in panic he thought his family might still be inside. “Then I remembered our contingency plan,” James said. “They were in the orchard.” He found his family, with their camping equipment and a sleeping bag all ready for him.
For most of the young people, the earthquake meant days of cleaning up, and in some cases, having their homes condemned as unsafe. It also meant learning some lessons the hard way.
When Jonathan arrived home, his family found a fissure (a large crack in the ground) running under their house. The bookcases, fastened to the walls, had not tipped over, and his mom’s plate collection, attached with earthquake-proof hangers, was still on the wall. However, their 72-hour kit was another problem.
“Our kit was trapped in the garage,” said Jonathan, “so we couldn’t get to it for 72 hours.”
The Nelson home was one that was heavily damaged. Maren was grateful her family was uninjured. “Even though our home was destroyed, I have learned and continue to learn from the experience. The most important thing is that we are all alive and together.”
Cameron Dryg, 15, of the Los Gatos First Ward, said, “In the future, we’ll have more water stored, more batteries, and a battery-operated radio.”
The night of the earthquake, when James settled into his sleeping bag with his family in the orchard next to their damaged house, his little brother asked, “Dad, does this mean we’re homeless?”
Brother Metcalf answered, “No, son, we’re together as a family, and we have our tents. Our family is a forever family. We’ll build another house.”
At that moment James remembered a seminary scripture. “When the devil shall send forth his mighty winds, yea, his shafts in the whirlwind, yea, when all his hail and his mighty storm shall beat upon you …” (Wasn’t there anything in there about earthquakes?) “… it shall have no power over you to drag you down to the gulf of misery and endless wo, because of the rock upon which ye are built, which is a sure foundation, a foundation whereon if men build they cannot fall” (see Hel. 5:12).
Had they known then what they know now, the young people of South Carolina and California would have made a few adjustments to prepare for survival.
Store water. Many times after a disaster the safety of the water supply is in doubt. Having water on hand can be critically important.
Don’t forget food in the freezer. Because the electricity was out and freezers defrosted, many families had more food (for the short term) than they could use. Neighbors got together to barbecue steaks that thawed. Many teenagers said they never ate better than during the disaster.
Store batteries for flashlights and radios. It seemed like everyone in the country knew more about what was happening with the disasters than the people involved in them did. A television or radio that ran on batteries was often the only source of news. Flashlights allowed those who had them to read or play games after the sun went down.
Have a family plan in case of emergency. Discuss where to meet and what to do in case you are not at home when disaster strikes.
Photos and journals can’t be replaced. Make sure they are in a place where they can be grabbed quickly. Even better, make duplicate prints of your favorite family photos and send them to relatives out of state.
Additional supplies. Other items good to have in an emergency could include regularly required medicine (such as insulin); a change of clothes (work clothes would be best); a camp stove and fuel; first aid kit; games; bedding or a sleeping bag.
Cash and gas may come in handy. With power out, banks were closed, automatic tellers didn’t work, and service stations could not pump fuel. Usually it only takes a couple of days for generators to be brought in to get these services functioning again, but in the meantime, those with money and gasoline have purchasing power and mobility.

In 1862, six-year-old Clara Leonard lived in the town of Farmington, Utah, where more than 150 pioneer families had settled. There were log homes, rock homes, and adobe homes. They had a schoolhouse, a courthouse, and a mill for grinding wheat. But they did not have a church house. They needed a place to sing and pray.
Sometimes they held church meetings in one of the homes, but there wasn’t enough room for everyone.
Sometimes they held church meetings in the schoolhouse, but it wasn’t big enough, either.
Sometimes they held church meetings in the upper room of the adobe courthouse, but the county officials decided it could no longer be used for religious meetings.
They needed a place to sing and pray.
A lovely place, right on Main Street, was chosen as the site to build their chapel. It was next to Brother Haight’s house and hotel and across the street from Brother Penrose’s house. It would be a wonderful place for a chapel. But the church members had no money to buy building materials.
Everyone in town donated all they could to the building fund. Clara and her family worked hard to earn some extra money to give to Bishop Hess. But after all the money was counted, the building fund had only twelve dollars. They needed much more to build a beautiful place to sing and pray.
The people held a prayer meeting. They knelt and asked the Lord what to do. They had done all they could, and now they needed His help. They had faith that the Lord would know what was best.
A few days later there was a huge storm. It rained and rained. There was mud everywhere. The wind blew very hard, and some trees fell down. Clara had to stay inside all day long.
The next morning, when the storm was over, the men from the town found a rockslide about three blocks from the church lot. Tons of large rocks had slid down from the mountain. Not far from the rockslide was a place where lots of sand and gravel had washed down from the mountain, too.
There was enough rock to build a chapel! The sand and gravel could be used to make the mortar to hold the rocks together. They knew the Lord had heard their prayers and blessed them. They soon would have a place to sing and pray!
Everyone in town helped build the chapel. Some of the men hauled the rocks with ox teams. Some of the men laid the rocks to make the walls. Others worked as carpenters on the inside of the chapel, while still others made benches and tables. Even the children helped by carrying drinking water or serving food prepared by the Relief Society sisters. The chapel was 40 feet wide and 60 feet long. The stone walls were three feet thick.
As they worked, they were able to raise the rest of the money needed to complete their chapel. After two years of construction, the building was finally finished. On 9 January 1864, President Brigham Young and Elder Wilford Woodruff of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles came to Farmington to dedicate the building. Even though there was a thick blanket of snow on the ground, it was a day of jubilee and rejoicing. After the dedication, the town’s brass band played, and everyone celebrated.
At last they had a place to meet. Clara loved to go to church. She felt a sweet spirit of reverence there and found joy in hearing her leaders teach the gospel of Jesus Christ. The sacrament was passed—the bread on silver trays and the water in a tall silver cup with handles on both sides. A piano was donated, and later they got an organ. It was a wonderful place to sing and pray!

I have done that. Once I had an experience that caused me immense anxiety. It had nothing to do with disobedience or transgression but with a vitally important human relationship. For some time I poured my heart out in urgent prayer. Yet try as I might, I could find no solution, no settling of the powerful stirring within me. I pled for help from that Eternal Father I have come to know and trust completely. I could see no path that would provide the calm that is my blessing generally to enjoy. Sleep overcame me. When I awoke, I was totally at peace. Again I knelt in solemn prayer and asked, “Lord, how is it done?” In my heart, I knew the answer was His love and His concern for me. Such is the power of sincere prayer to a compassionate Father.

Several years ago my family was going through a difficult time. My parents had separated, and our family began to forget God’s love.
To our great fortune, one of my mother’s friends saw our need to draw closer to God and introduced us to the full-time missionaries. As they taught us the gospel, we realized that God had a plan for us, and despite our many challenges, He had not abandoned us. After we had come to understand these principles, my mother, sisters, and I decided to be baptized.
As we attended our Sunday meetings, our testimonies of the gospel grew. I soon desired to serve a full-time mission. It was not an easy decision, however, because I was the man of the house. My mother needed my help. Moreover, I began to receive many job offers and was accepted by several universities. I concluded to ask God for help and direction.
After praying, I turned to my scriptures and came upon the following verses:
“Wherefore, your family shall live.
“Behold, verily I say unto you, go from them only for a little time, and declare my word, and I will prepare a place for them” (D&C 31:5–6).
In that instant I strongly felt the Spirit and knew that what I had read was Heavenly Father’s word to me.
Not long after that experience, I received my mission call. Before being set apart as a full-time missionary, I made a promise to my Heavenly Father that I would do His will as a missionary—that I would work diligently and sacrifice my all for Him. The only blessing I prayed for was to see my family together again someday.
My first year as a missionary was challenging, but my companions and I worked with all our hearts. About this time I received a marvelous letter from my mother telling me that my father had returned home! At that moment I remembered the promise I had made to God, and I recalled His promise in the Doctrine and Covenants: “I, the Lord, am bound when ye do what I say; but when ye do not what I say, ye have no promise” (D&C 82:10).
Several years have passed since my mission. Today my family and I still find joy in the gospel and through our covenants with God. I know that He lives. I know that He loves us. I know that He sent His Son to save us. I also know that when we make promises to Him and are faithful to those promises, He is faithful to us.

“The Book of Mormon has been the instrument for my conversion. I really love it,” says Elder Walter F. González.
Born on 18 November 1952, he grew up in Montevideo, Uruguay. At 12, he was studying his English lessons on a bus one day when two missionaries saw him and asked, “Do you speak English?”
From this first contact, young Walter received a copy of the Book of Mormon. Six years later, when he first began to read it, he says, “I knew it was true after just a few pages of 1 Nephi.” His parents, Fermin and Victoria González, had taught him Christian values that helped him recognize and receive the restored gospel.

My physical disability has made my life difficult and sometimes discouraging. My early teen years were especially trying because I encountered some unpleasant prejudices. In May 1989, when I was 13 years old, a high school in our town rejected my application simply because of my physical handicap, which confines me to a wheelchair. Then, in my first year of secondary school, one of my teachers gave me a disappointing grade. I felt it was because of my physical disability.
At the time I didn’t know how to accept these kinds of unpleasant events in my life, nor did I know how to thank Heavenly Father for the lessons they teach me. But through prayer and scripture study, I have discovered that I can be grateful even with these afflictions and, at the same time, be good to those people who reject and discourage me.
As I read the words of the Apostle Paul in 2 Corinthians 12:7–10, I found that he compared his own adversity to “the messenger of Satan to buffet” him. He prayed that the Lord would remove his affliction, but instead he was told, “My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness.”
Over the years, I have felt my Savior’s encouragement; it has made me realize His great sufficiency over my physical weakness.
On 27 March 1993 I graduated from high school with an honorable mention. Our mayor offered me a job at the city hall. While working, I was able to finish my career course in journalism.
Dealing with my physical disability and afflictions will never be easy. But I know that through my faith and determination and the Lord’s inspiration I may be able to say, like the Apostle Paul, “When I am weak, then am I strong” (2 Cor. 12:10).

Aïolah and Evaline V.

Aïolah V. of France is a 12-year-old Beehive. So is her sister Evaline, who turns 13 in a month. “I’m glad my sister is here to help me move from Primary into Young Women,” Aïolah says.

One of their favorite things is Personal Progress, but when they read about one goal, they laughed. “Learn to play a musical instrument,” it said.

“We’ve been playing for years,” Evaline says. But then they talked with their mother. She helped them to see that they could use music to fulfill another goal: service.

Aïolah and Evaline are now preparing to perform in sacrament meetings and talent nights, give concerts for children and seniors, and accompany missionaries as they sing.

“Personal Progress is nice,” Evaline says. “It lets you do what you love and do new things too.”

I wonder how many of you young men and men who are a little older have heard the story of the man in the brown leather jacket. A famous surgeon received a phone call one night from a doctor friend who said he had a young child on the operating table and needed the surgeon’s help in order to save the child. It was a long drive across town to the hospital and the surgeon drove as fast as he could with safety. As he pulled up to a stop sign, a man wearing a brown leather jacket opened the door and slid in beside him with his hand in his pocket as though he had a gun. The man was excited, demanded the surgeon’s car, and obviously was in no mood to discuss it. The surgeon stood helplessly on the highway as the man in the brown leather jacket sped away in his car.
By the time the surgeon finally arrived at the hospital, it was too late. The child had died only moments before. The other doctor asked the surgeon to come with him to meet the child’s father in the hope that together they might offer him words of comfort. As they entered the waiting room, the father came forward—he was the man in the brown leather jacket.

A stake president in Logan, Utah, kept a guest book, and after he passed away that book was given to his son. When the son thumbed through the pages, he was impressed with the signatures that were there. Most of the General Authorities had signed the book. One entry he saw was:

Name: Elder Spencer W. Kimball
Date: 1954
Position or title: Apostle
Hobby: “I love people.”

He thumbed through many more pages, and then he saw an almost identical entry ten years later:

Name: Elder Spencer W. Kimball
Date: 1964
Position or title: Apostle
Hobby: “I love people.”

We all knew President Spencer W. Kimball as a man of love. He thought of love as a way to overcome even unknown offenses. Such an incident occurred with one of his neighbors who would go out and talk to President Kimball whenever he saw him in the yard. Until one day the neighbor’s wife said, “You mustn’t do that. The only time President Kimball is alone is when he is in the yard, and then you go over and impose yourself upon him.” After that the neighbor stayed in and just watched President Kimball through the window. A few weeks passed before President Kimball rang the neighbor’s doorbell and handed him a casserole. “What’s this for?” the neighbor asked. “I don’t know,” replied President Kimball. “I’ve come to make amends for whatever I’ve done to offend you. You never come and talk to me anymore, so I decided I must have done something wrong.”
It was President Kimball who so lovingly explained to us that the Lord whispers to our hearts to go and do and in this way he answers the fervent prayers of others. President Kimball said the Lord has chosen this method of answering prayers because he knows it is the way we will learn most effectively to give love.

Early in the summer of 1914, Dorothy Page and her parents left their home in the United States and traveled across the ocean to the city of Brussels in Belgium. Her father had been sent there on business and the family expected to be away at least a year.
Soon they were comfortably settled in a quaint old house with beautiful gardens, surrounded by a high stone wall with a heavy iron gate in front. When Dorothy grew tired of playing among the tiny flower beds and winding paths, she and her mother would drive through the narrow, crooked streets. The odd little shops and houses were interesting to Dorothy and unlike any she had ever seen back home.
In August, just as Brussels was becoming more like home to the Page family, Belgium entered World War I. Mr. Page received word that he should remain in Belgium, as few people thought the war would last very long. Dorothy and her family didn’t even worry much when they heard the big guns booming in the distance.
As food became scarce in Belgium and Thanksgiving Day drew near, Dorothy began to think of the traditional party that would be held at Grandfather’s farm back home. There would be a wonderful dinner of turkey, cranberry sauce, and mince and pumpkin pies. She was homesick for the cousins who would be there having fun playing together.
The day before Thanksgiving, Dorothy’s father came home with the news that the next morning they were driving to the coast to make arrangements to return to the United States. “Pack everything we’ll need,” he said, “and remember to take plenty of warm clothes for the ocean voyage. I believe we can fit it all in the car.”
Many hours were spent packing at the Page home, and early Thanksgiving morning the family was in the car ready to start.
Just as the car rolled through the big iron gates, a man came running after them, carrying a large square box. He explained that the box had somehow managed to come through by express from the United States. He put it down in the bottom of the car and stepped back and waved good-bye.
Soon their home in Brussels was out of sight, and the car sped smoothly down the country road toward the coast. Suddenly, as the road turned sharply, they were stopped by a sharp command, “Halt!” A half dozen soldiers blocked the road in front of them, and an officer approached their car.
He was polite but firm. He said he was very sorry but he must have their car. It was needed to carry wounded soldiers, he explained. Despite their protests, the family was soon sitting alone by the roadside with all their luggage in a neat pile beside them.
“It’s Thanksgiving Day, and we don’t have anything to be thankful for,” said Dorothy, big tears in her eyes.
“We have a great deal to be thankful for, dear,” said Father. “We are all healthy, alive, and together.”
Just behind them was a small farmhouse with one end entirely destroyed by shell-fire. The other walls had several gaping holes where bombshells had hit. The place looked uninhabited.
Suddenly, a little girl darted from the cottage and ran toward them, speaking rapidly in her own language.
The girl was about Dorothy’s own age. She had very blue eyes, yellow hair, rosy cheeks, and wore a little cap over her tight pigtail braids. Her clothes were worn but clean.
A man and a woman came from the house that had seemed so empty and deserted and followed the little girl. They all began gesturing and talking in a mixture of French and English.
Mr. Page tried to explain what had happened. At the end of his story, the man invited them to share their humble home, but he apologized that they didn’t have a crumb of food to offer them.
Everyone began carrying the baggage to the house while Dorothy’s mother was sorting out their belongings. She laid aside many things that had at first seemed necessary and kept only the warmest wraps. At last she came to the big express package from home.
When she tore off the wrapping paper and lifted the lid from the box, she gave such a happy shout that all the others crowded around her. They peered eagerly down at the package and Dorothy shouted with joy.
There was a canned turkey, candied sweet potatoes, cranberry jelly, nut bread, raisins, candy, cookies, and other tasty homemade foods that Grandmother always prepared for Thanksgiving Day.
Everyone was so hungry that they hurriedly spread the feast on an old kitchen table, but no one touched a bite of food until they had first bowed their heads and thanked Heavenly Father for their blessings. For a few moments, as they enjoyed the food, the war seemed very far away even though they ate to the sound of booming guns in the distance.
Dorothy and her parents explained why Grandmother had sent the box of food and told their new friends about Thanksgiving Day. As they did, each one felt that never before had they understood and appreciated the true meaning of Thanksgiving Day. And their Belgian friends decided that it was indeed a wonderful custom to set aside a special day of thanks for year-round blessings.

It was kind of a ritual. Win or lose, after a football game we’d all pile into my old green car and head for our favorite pizza hangout to either celebrate or sulk. The place was always crowded, especially after a victory. That night, everybody was there after we defeated our crosstown rivals.
By the time the football team arrived, it was wall-to-wall people. I had somehow managed to find a seat in the corner and started looking for Dave, my older brother.
Dave always seemed to be in the center of the action and excitement. He was kind of a clown, but it was his easy-going personality that made people want to be around him. In the short time we had lived in Colorado, he’d been elected student-body president of our high school.
Growing up, we’d been somewhat competitive, but usually we got along like good friends, especially when I grew to be bigger than he was and he couldn’t beat me up anymore. In high school, I wasn’t as popular as Dave, but Dave often let me tag along with him and his friends. It made me proud to be called “Dave’s big little brother.”
As the crowd grew at the restaurant, I finally spotted Dave at a table near the center of the room. Suddenly, somebody yelled, “Hey, everybody, it’s Dave’s 18th birthday. He’s a man now.”
“Yeah, now he’s legal” someone else added. At the time, the law in Colorado stated that if you were 18, you could legally buy and drink beer. For the handful of Mormons in our school, turning 18 was just another birthday. For most of our classmates, though, becoming “legal” was a big event in their lives.
Slowly, people began to crowd around Dave’s table and soon everybody was joining in a rowdy chorus of “Happy Birthday to You.”
“Close your eyes, Dave,” somebody yelled out. A path was cleared as a huge glass of foamy, golden beer was brought forward and thrust into Dave’s hands. The whole place erupted into wild cheers. One of the cheerleaders yelled out, “Chug it, Dave! Chug it!” She was soon joined by the rest of the crowd who picked up her chant.
From off in the corner, I watched Dave and wondered what he’d do. He’d always been my example. He’d always been faithful. Of course, he’d never faced a situation like this before. I watched him look around the room at all the cheerleaders and football players and the rest of the crowd surrounding him. I don’t think he saw me watching him back in the corner.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Dave pushed his chair back from the table and rose to his feet. He picked up the glass of beer and raised it slowly in the air. My heart was pounding with anticipation, and I imagined Dave’s was too.
Somebody yelled for quiet, and, except for the jukebox in the other room, the place grew silent.
“I just want to thank everyone for thinking of me on my birthday,” Dave said, as he looked toward his raised glass. “But come on, you guys. You know me better than that. Thanks anyway.” As Dave lowered the glass and sat down, a moan rumbled through the crowd and somebody muttered something about Mormons not having any fun.
After we’d had all the pizza and root beer we could hold, Dave and I walked out into the crisp autumn air toward my car. “Dave, I was worried for a minute that you might crack under the pressure and do something stupid,” I said.
He just shrugged and said, “There wasn’t any big pressure because I didn’t have to make any decisions tonight. I’d already decided a long time ago that I was going to keep the Word of Wisdom. It’s a lot easier that way.”
I just smiled. As we drove home, I was as proud as ever to be Dave’s big little brother.

Next day we visited the Global Expo centre. It was the most emotional day, seeing 2,800 refugees living without basic medical help, and a mountain of volunteers in dire need of additional financial help. The volunteers, from many different churches, were addressing spiritual as well as physical needs. We were with Bellwether International, a human-rights nonprofit organisation, and with them we were able to give socks and other practical clothing.

As I read the article “The Contaminated Chocolates” in the December New Era, I relived that exciting time in our ward in Idaho Falls, Idaho. The story was accurate and well written, but there is more to be told. The news of Danny Collette’s serious illness and the subsequent loss of the chocolates came at a time when our ward was deep in grief. During the preceding two months of 1973 we had been devastated by a series of tragedies.
First, David Atkinson, an active young seventy, died of cancer, leaving a young widow and five small children, including a month-old son. Then death finally claimed Reed Ricks, who was a spiritual giant an a spiritual giant and an inspiration to us all—especially influential with the young men and boys of the ward. His physical condition had deteriorated over a period of years as a result of a progressive muscular disease, but in the end cancer took him too: Of his six children, three were still at home with their mother, and a son had just departed on a mission to the Philippines.
About the same time, a tragic automobile accident seriously injured Valerie Storer, a student at Ricks College. Val was beautiful and talented, and her cheerfulness and optimism had brought sunshine to our ward family. She and her doctors fought for her life, and we were encouraged by her steady improvement. Suddenly one evening, however, she suffered a cardiac arrest and was gone. Very shortly afterward, Johanna (Anna) Young succumbed to cancer after a six-year battle, leaving her husband and young daughter.
It was too much. Our spirits were low, and with Christmas fast approaching, we found it difficult to lift ourselves out of the depression that seemed to permeate the entire ward. Our meetings were solemn, and we wept easily. Then tragedy struck again. Danny was seriously ill with hepatitis, and because he had helped with the chocolates, all had to be destroyed. Added to his severe illness was his terrible feeling of guilt. His heart-broken mother confided in her friends, and an idea was born.
Was it really a tragedy, or was it a blessing? It seemed to be precisely the medicine we needed for our own illness. As our fund-raising project escalated and activity increased feverishly, our spirits rose. Christmas was more joyous than we could have anticipated a short time before, and we could hardly wait for news of the New Year’s Eve party in the Lloydminister Branch in Canada when Danny would open the envelope we had sent. We smiled at each other more now, and laughter came easily as we thought of the secret we all shared and of the surprise waiting for our Canadian brothers and sisters. I have often thought of the lines James Russell Lowell wrote in “The Vision of Sir Launfal”: “Who gives himself with his alms feeds three, Himself, his hungering neighbor, and Me.”
Edythe B. CasperIdaho Falls, Idaho