Gospel Story Finder

There came a time, early in my mission, when I knew that I had to know whether the Church was true and Joseph Smith was a prophet of God. I felt what President Thomas S. Monson expressed so clearly in our last general conference: “If you do not have a firm testimony of these things, do that which is necessary to obtain one. It is essential for you to have your own testimony in these difficult times, for the testimonies of others will carry you only so far.”4 I knew what was necessary. I needed to read the Book of Mormon with a sincere heart, with real intent, and ask God whether it is true.
Listen to our Heavenly Father’s remarkable promise given through the prophet Moroni: “When ye shall receive these things, I would exhort you that ye would ask God, the Eternal Father, in the name of Christ, if these things are not true; and if ye shall ask with a sincere heart, with real intent, having faith in Christ, he will manifest the truth of it unto you, by the power of the Holy Ghost.”5
In order to receive what was in the Book of Mormon, I needed to read it. I started at the beginning of the book and read every day. Some receive a witness very quickly. For others, it will take more time and more prayer and may include reading the book several times. I needed to read the entire book before I received the promised witness. However, God did manifest the truth of it unto me by the power of the Holy Ghost.
In my missionary journal, I described my joy in knowing the truth as well as my personal expression of commitment and real intent to act on the truth I had received. I wrote: “I have pledged with my Father in Heaven and with myself to do my very best, to give it 100 percent for the rest of my life, whatever I am asked, I’ll do, but for now I have the rest of my mission and I am going to make it a great mission, one that I won’t feel bad about, but not for me, for the Lord. I love the Lord, and I love the work, and I just pray that that feeling will never leave me.”
I came to know that constant nourishment and continuing effort to repent and keep the commandments are needed to never have that feeling leave. President Monson said, “A testimony needs to be kept vital and alive through continued obedience to the commandments of God and through daily prayer and scripture study.”6

Elder Derrick’s father worked for ZCMI for thirty-five years as a crockery specialist, which required that he travel almost continuously throughout Utah, Idaho, and southwestern Wyoming. He was more often than not away from home for three months at a time. “Although we didn’t see a lot of him,” Elder Derrick said, “he set a tone of spirituality in our home. He retired in January of 1937, and I started on the road as a traveling salesman the following month. I met many of the people with whom he was acquainted. Every one of them spoke so highly of him that I began to realize that my father was a man of great integrity, a trait not usually found in traveling salesmen, or drummers, as they were called then.
My mother’s parents lived next door to us while I was young. They came from England and Scotland and had also joined the Church and crossed the plains. My mother also set a tone of love and spirituality in our home. I remember one occasion when we had used all our credit at the grocery store. In those days you bought groceries on credit. We had also used up all of the food that Mother had bottled the previous fall. I noticed an expression of great concern on her face as she looked at the empty shelves and the empty flour bin. I followed her upstairs and saw her go into her bedroom and kneel in prayer. Later that afternoon one of my cousins came to our house with several boxes of bread. He had been driving up Fifth East Street when the back door of a bread truck flew open and some boxes of bread fell out in front of his car. By the time he got his car stopped and had surveyed the situation, the bread truck had disappeared. He put the boxes of bread into his car and then drove to our home, which was a short distance away. He knew nothing about our need, but there is no doubt in my mind that the bread was a direct answer to my mother’s prayer.
“All I remember about my baptism is that it felt good. That feeling has stayed with me; it still feels good. I was baptized in the Tabernacle on Temple Square by my oldest brother because Father was on the road.
The hardest thing that I had to face as a boy was shyness. It was very difficult for me to recite in class. One day while studying the Bible, I read the words of the Savior that ‘all things are possible to him that believeth’ (Mark 9:23) and then the words of the Apostle Paul, ‘I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me’ (Philip. 4:13). I suddenly realized that a person can do whatever he makes up his mind to do. This gave me both confidence and commitment.
I believe that youngsters should read,” Elder Derrick said, “because reading gives a person a broader viewpoint of life and the world around him. Particularly, we should read the scriptures every day and come to understand the prophets of God. Doing so will pay greater dividends in our lives than almost anything else we can do. It will help us to become better people, more obedient and more committed to principles taught by the Savior, which result in a life of integrity and moral purity.”

I don't know how I can possibly convey to you, dear students, the feelings that enter my heart as Sister Hammond and I return to this remarkable campus.
Almost everything has changed since that incredible Fall of 1951. There were really only two structures of any significance here then, the old Gym and the Spori building.
I was completely intimidated by the ponderous size of the student body, a whopping 384 eager bodies, scattered through the four academic levels. Some of you might smile at my timidity, until I reveal to you that there were only six of us in my graduating class from high school. My children were very impressed with the fact that their father was the salutatorian of his graduating class- then they found his yearbook.
Although slightly nervous with the prospect of entering college, I still felt great surges of exhilaration and anticipation because I had come to play basketball! I live for basketball! After a rather remarkable high school career, Ricks College gave me a scholarship to do the thing that I loved most - play ball. Nothing could have been better! I was on top of the world!
That summer I had worked on a section crew for the Union Pacific Railroad swinging a spike mall and shoveling gravel. I felt strong and healthy, besides the pay was good and I had saved nearly every penny that I had earned - more than $1500.00.
It was in late October. Another athlete and I had found part-time work loading beets onto railroad cars at a facility just south of Rexburg. We had finished our shift, jumped on his Harley-Davidson motorcycle and started back toward town. I sat behind him on the bike. The night was stormy, windy and cold. Rain with intermittent snow blew into our faces making it extremely difficult to see anything ahead of us. Then it happened!
A car traveling south on Highway 91 began a left turn at the Lyman junction. It was not his fault. He could not see us. We slammed head-first into the grill of that car. Still to this day, I sometimes see in my minds eye those two head-lights getting closer, closer and closer and hearing that horrible mind-shattering crash.
As though from a sling-shot, I was catapulted over that car. My right foot was thrust through the wind-shield, nearly cutting the foot off. Then, I flew more than seventy feet through the air, finally landing on my back in the middle of the highway. I tried to get up! I wanted to run! Frantically, my arms lifted my body slightly up from the wet pavement, but it was no use, my pelvis was broken and my back and legs battered and twisted. I slumped back down. I was cold. I began to slip in and out of consciousness.
At the hospital the doctors debated whether to amputate my injured foot or try to save it. An inspired priesthood blessing was given by my father and my bishop. In that blessing, I was told that my foot would heal and that eventually, I would be able to walk and run again. Following the blessing, my wonderful mother informed the physicians that she would not allow them to amputate, that they were to sew the torn foot together and the Lord would do the rest. I am so grateful today, for the power of the priesthood and the absolute faith of a mother. In the days that followed, the reality of my horrible situation became shockingly apparent.
For two months I lay, virtually immobile, in a hospital bed in St. Anthony, Idaho. Just before my eighteenth birthday in mid-December I returned home. Christmas that year was not a happy one. My basketball scholarship was revoked. I had missed a full semester of school. All the money I had saved was gone. The prospect of six months on crutches had left me discouraged and miserable.
But, miracles do happen! The tender mercies of Jesus Christ are extended to His children! In the succeeding months my mangled foot did heal! I returned to Ricks in the Fall of '52' and actually I played ball on the Junior Varsity team. I met a beautiful girl who changed the entire prospect of my life. She encouraged me to serve a mission, assuring me that she would wait faithfully for those two and half years while I preached the gospel to the Spanish-speaking people in Texas and New Mexico.
My whole attitude changed in the mission field! Out of tragedy and pain, depressed, and beaten there emerged in me an inner Spirit of excitement - a desire to move forward and upward, to learn, to progress, and to accomplish something of worth to the Lord and to His Church. The Holy Ghost came into my life. I discovered that I loved to teach the gospel. I found immense joy in my interaction with the Mexican people.
After returning home, that wonderful girl, who by the way had waited faithfully, and I were married in the Salt Lake Temple. And so began our journey in life together, not without its bumps, but an UPWARD journey of joy and gladness.

One is humbled by the spiritual submissiveness of the dying young mother of twenty-six, understandably anguished at the prospect of not rearing her two children, one of whom she so recently made ready to lay down her life for, if necessary. The baby arrived safely, but, alas, the gallant mother could not tarry. With childlike faith this young sister touchingly inquired, “If I am to die, then how can I help my husband and my parents as they watch me die?” Surely she (and others similarly situated) faithfully conforms to King Benjamin’s portrait of a Saint as one being “willing to submit to all things which the Lord seeth fit to inflict upon him, even as a child doth submit to his father.” (Mosiah 3:19.)

The family looked confused. My missionary companion and I had been teaching them the first discussion, and they didn’t seem to understand about the Holy Ghost. We talked about the Spirit and about how they could know the Book of Mormon was true.

As I related this experience to this family we were teaching, the Spirit touched me and I knew the truth of what I was saying. Almost trembling, I testified, “The Lord knows me personally! He was watching over me that day, and He continues to watch over me today. He is aware of my individual needs. He knows you personally too, and He will answer your prayers as you pray with faith.”

I went home that evening, grateful for the knowledge I had gained. By relating my experience, I was blessed to understand the Lord’s love for me. Truly a testimony is found in the bearing of it.

In the 1950s my mother survived radical cancer surgery, but difficult as that was, the surgery was followed by dozens of painful radiation treatments in what would now be considered rather primitive medical conditions. She recalls that her mother taught her something during that time that has helped her ever since: “I was so sick and weak, and I said to her one day, ‘Oh, Mother, I can’t stand having 16 more of those treatments.’ She said, ‘Can you go today?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Well, honey, that’s all you have to do today.’ It has helped me many times when I remember to take one day or one thing at a time.”

As a teenager, I eagerly anticipated an expensive gift for Christmas, often speaking of it without considering my parents’ financial situation.
When Christmas arrived, the gift I longed for was not under the tree. Initially, I felt disappointed, but soon my disappointment turned to embarrassment as I realized my parents were carrying heavy financial burdens—supporting my brother on a mission and my sister in college, as well as providing for me, their youngest.
As the morning progressed, I noticed there was little under the tree for them and much for me. In my selfishness, I had been blind to the love and sacrifice my parents had shown me all along.
Years later, after returning from my mission, I spent Christmas alone with my parents once again. They beamed with joy as they watched me open gifts from under the tree, and once more, nearly every gift was for me.
This time, I saw things differently. My teenage experience had taught me a valuable lesson. I wasn’t merely thankful for the presents—I was deeply touched by my parents’ love and the sacrifices they had willingly made for me.
I have come to understand that some gifts are more valuable than others, and often, those gifts require sacrifice from the giver.

Not long ago we went to a wedding and saw the parents of a girl I knew a number of years ago—a girl who had been a great inspiration to me. I asked these parents, “How is Barbara doing?” They said, “She is doing just fine.” Let me share her story with you in her words, which appeared in the Instructor a number of years ago. Barbara was a student at BYU at the time this incident occurred.

It was just a normal, ordinary day. . . . We were driving home from California. It was raining, and the roads were slick. The driver lost control. I remember the sensation of the car turning over and over, shutting my eyes, being tossed about with no control, the banging of my head and arms, the pain and confusion, and then the final, awful silence—it was over. When I opened my eyes it was to a new and frightening world—to the reality of being paralyzed from the waist down.

Once I might have thought of paralysis only as a terrible tragedy, but after it became a part of my life I discovered it could also bring blessings. My paralysis introduced me to a whole new way of living, to many wonderful people, to a new assemblage of problems, adjustments, frustrations, tears, laughter, and joy. [I gained an] appreciation for myself as a person and as a child of God, appreciation for other people, and especially a love and appreciation for my Father in heaven.

Oh, what a self-image I used to have! I used to feel self-conscious wearing glasses; and now I had to “wear” a wheelchair. I used to be embarrassed if I did a clumsy, awkward thing . . .; and now clumsy was my middle name. I used to think people stared at me before, but now! . . . I had to learn to laugh so others would feel at ease around me and I wouldn’t feel so self-conscious. It may seem strange, but I appreciate myself more now than before I was paralyzed.

I used to take so many things for granted, things like showering, kneeling for prayers, dressing in a minute, getting places quickly. Now it is a challenge to do these once-simple things. (Just try getting out of a bathtub without using your legs.) I guess it took losing the use of my legs to make me start appreciating the physical body I have. Now I became very grateful for a clear mind with which to think, ears to hear, eyes to see . . ., hands that could do so many things.

Although I can’t dance, hike, play volleyball or basketball anymore, I have found there are still many things I can do from a wheelchair. I can drive a car, swim better than before, play doubles in tennis, bowl, play catch in softball (nobody dares try to slide home), cook, sew . . ., and do many other enjoyable things.

Since that eventful day [of my accident], I’ve realized the world is full of special people. How grateful I have become for a family who loves me—for parents who have stood by without a complaint, without a moment’s hesitation, willing to give unselfishly of their time, money and love.

Going back to the Brigham Young University put me in a position where I had to rely on people to pull me up stairs, open doors, reach books, push me through snow, etc. I became indebted to my understanding, patient, helpful, loving roommates and friends. . . . I was also fortunate to have . . . professors who [helped] me when the physical facilities . . . limited my accomplishments. These instructors encouraged me when I was discouraged, helped me achieve in my studies, and were especially supportive while I worked to earn my degrees and my teaching certificate.

Later I was blessed to meet Mr. Alma Edwards, who gave me the opportunity to [be a physical education instructor] at West Lake Junior High School in Salt Lake City. Here at last I proved to myself and others that I could do a useful, productive job in society.

Because so many have done so much for me, I have learned how important it is to serve anyone in any way I can.

Perhaps the greatest blessing which came from my “tragedy” was the love and appreciation I developed for my Father in heaven. Without the gospel . . . , this life in a wheelchair would be hard to bear. After my accident I had to depend completely on the Lord for the first time in my life. He became a real person with whom I could talk and who would help me to solve the problems and make the adjustments that were to come. Without my understanding of God as my . . . loving, concerned Father, I would be in the same rut I have seen so many others in—that of blaming God for my misfortune.

If I had to choose the one thing that has helped me most in my adjustment it would be what Elder Harold B. Lee said in a blessing he gave me one Sunday in the hospital.

“Barbara, the Lord loves you,” he said. With this knowledge what more did I need (what more does anyone need!) to keep trying, . . . to find reason and purpose in my life, to be happy, joyful and grateful for life, even in a wheelchair!

I am happy to report that Barbara Richards served for many years as a girls’ physical education teacher, instructing and influencing for good hundreds and hundreds of young women. She has continued to set goals for herself. She wanted to get a Ph.D., so set the goal and achieved it. Being in a wheelchair presented weight problems. She needed to lose forty pounds. She set the goal and achieved it.

Barbara is now teaching at the University of Utah. Her story teaches us so many lessons.

Nana Ninsin’s advocacy extends to education and menstrual health. She has introduced clubs like Women in Law and Development Africa in local schools, helping reduce dropout rates and teenage pregnancies. “Last year, I received an award from the Director of Education,” she shares proudly. “Now we don’t have pregnant girls in class.” But challenges remain. “My girls use banana stalks as sanitary pads,” she says. “Disabled girls can’t manage menstruation in schools without proper toilets.” She’s calling for support for sanitary pads, school supplies, and infrastructure improvements.

A friend of mine, Lena Larsen, is a Muslim from Norway. Recently Lena told me she reads the Koran every year during Ramadan, the Islamic month of fasting.

“Each time I find something different,” she said, echoing my own view about the value of rereading the Book of Mormon.

During one recent reading she noticed a powerful defense of religious freedom in the story of Noah. We are familiar with Noah and the ark from the Old Testament and Sunday School, but there is a version in the Koran as well. In that telling of the story, Noah had a rebellious son who wouldn’t get on the ark. Even when the rain was falling, his son scrambled up a mountain as the ark floated by, and Noah pled with his son to get on board.

Noah said, “O my son, come aboard with us and be not with the disbelievers.”

The exchange involved an Arabic term that is intimate and endearing: yabunayya, which is a very sweet and caring way of saying “O my son.”

Noah’s son replied, “I will take refuge on a mountain to protect me from the water.”

Noah, Lena said to me sadly, let his son go. “When I read these verses,” she said, “I feel Noah’s pain. As a caring father, he wants the best for his son, but he has to accept that the son chooses his own destiny.” On a personal level, Lena told me, this means that “religious freedom includes the right for every individual to choose freely.”

My third account was written by a female faculty member who is a convert to the Church. It is a story of abuse and, what is more important, recovery from abuse. Abuse comes in many forms, including neglect, improper care, and abandonment, as well as verbal, mental, physical, spiritual, and sexual abuse. If anyone within the sound of my voice has suffered such abuse, I urge you to seek professional help and spiritual consolation. Recovery from abuse is a process that can take considerable time, much emotional energy, and deep faith. Forgiveness must be a goal of that recovery process, for, as one LDS psychologist has written, “Forgiveness is an opportunity to regain the internal peace of which evil has robbed us” (Wendy L. Ulrich, “When Forgiveness Flounders: For Victims of Serious Sin,” in Confronting Abuse, ed. Anne L. Horton, B. Kent Harrison, and Barry L. Johnson [Salt Lake City: Deseret Book, 1993], p. 348).

This is the final faculty story I wish to share with you today. It is one person’s story of healing, of finding peace through forgiveness and gospel ordinances.

Alcohol addiction robbed my father of his wife, his four children, his job, his mother, and finally his life. Alcoholism doomed my parent’s marriage from the beginning. On their very first Christmas, Daddy got drunk and broke all the lights on the tree. My mother stayed with him for 19 years anyway, hoping to save the marriage for the sake of the children. I left home during my senior year of high school because I could not bear to witness the violence anymore. When Mommy saw that Daddy’s problem was destroying her children, she divorced him.

We wanted to love our dad, but he was often not himself. Under the bondage of alcohol, he was moody, physically violent, and verbally abusive. One time he kicked my brother with his steel-toed military boots. My brother was so badly bruised that he would not dress-out for his PE class at school. He got in trouble because the teacher did not know about our family background. We lived in terror. We never knew when Daddy would be sober or when he would be drunk. We felt relieved when he was gone.

We each suffered the consequences of Daddy’s curse in different ways, but we all tried to forgive him. At the age of 18, I found peace and forgiveness in the doctrines and ordinances of the gospel. A year after the death of my father, I arranged for my home teachers to be the proxies for his temple work. Before my mission, I gathered all the family history documents from my grandpa’s house. After my mission, I started doing the temple work for my father’s family. In 1979, I did the temple work for my grandma and felt her gratitude. The following year, I went to the temple with some of my family home evening brothers and sisters. We were proxies as my father was sealed to his parents. I cried, and the brother who did the sealings said that the spirits of my family members were present. Temple work is the key to family healing and forgiveness. Doing the temple work for my father helped to set him free from bondage, which helped to set his parents free. Doing temple work also sets me free, one name at a time.

This sister knew more hurt in the span of her first two decades of life than many of us will ever know. But through the Atonement of Christ, the plan of salvation, and the act of forgiveness, she has come to know that peace “which passeth all understanding” (Philippians 4:7). This is the peace that living the gospel brings. She understands what it means to sing “Savior, may I love my father / As I know thou lovest me.”

It was Christmas Eve. Alone in his car, Dan Lytle had driven four and a half hours through the thick California fog. For the same four and a half hours he had followed the same white car with the same green and white license plates through the same unending fog.
Dan hadn’t been this tired since his mission. But he had a diamond ring in his pocket, and there was a girl in San Leandro waiting up for him. Dan reckoned there would be at least another three hours of driving before he could put the ring on Callie’s finger.
Looks like a long night, he said to himself as he and a thousand other drivers rushed through the fog.
Dan turned the car’s radio dial, looking for Christmas music to help pass the hours. Isn’t it unusual, he thought, how sometimes at night the car radio can bring in radio stations from across the country—and how at other times the same radio brings in only static. He turned the radio off.
For perhaps another hour Dan passed through a foggy world where literally all he could see was the back end of a white car with green and white license plates. It was tense, tedious driving, requiring full attention. And then into his mind came a still, small, prompting thought: “Dan, pull over into the far right lane and slow down.”
Slow down? Why? Weren’t all the other cars and trucks doing just fine hurtling through the thick mist as if there were no such thing as three-meter visibility? Besides—it was late. Even if he kept to his present speed, Dan couldn’t hope to open the ring box until well after this foggy Christmas Eve had turned into a foggy Christmas day.
Dan wondered. Had the Spirit really warned him? Or had it been just the normal workings of a cautious mind? Couldn’t he just continue at the same speed as everyone else? Was it really important that he pull over to the right and slow down?
Again came the prompting: “Dan, if there were a wreck on the freeway, there is no way you could stop in time: You’d slam right into the wreckage. You really should pull over to the right and slow down.”
Dan Lytle had been taught that he should never ignore the promptings of the Spirit. Reluctantly, he signaled, then pulled his car over and cut his speed. The white car with the green and white license plates sped on, and instantly was swallowed up in the impenetrable fog.
Better late than not at all, I guess, he thought ruefully. He calculated that at his new speed, he likely would be on the road for quite some time.
Dan Lytle peered intently through the fog.
And then, suddenly, out of the fog came the red glare of tail lights. Flares appeared on the roadway, along with police cars with flashing lights. A policeman, walking between lanes of now halted cars, passed the word: “Terrible accident up ahead—lots of cars and trucks in a big accident. Be patient, folks—we’re trying to clear out one lane so you can get by.”
It took a long time for the four lanes of northbound cars to merge into one lane. Dan’s concern for the accident victims grew to disbelief and then near nausea as he was waved past the massive crash.
He saw crumpled cars, jack-knifed trucks, ambulances, patrol cars, paramedics—and motionless human forms under blankets at the side of the road.
As his car crept past the wreckage, Dan counted the demolished vehicles—10 … 20 … 30. How many more people on Christmas Eve, delayed at best, dead on the highway at worst?
And there: number 41. A horrified Dan Lytle recognized what had been a white car with green and white license plates—now jammed between the wreckage of number 40 and number 42.
For hours and hours I followed that car, thought Dan. For hours and hours—until the Spirit told me to move over and slow down.
What if I hadn’t been in tune to receive the warning? Or, what if I had received the warning and then had ignored it? He shuddered at the thought. Dan understood now as never before the principle his bishop had learned those many years ago.
With the massive accident scene finally behind him, Dan resumed his previous slow speed. He turned on the car radio, and from a station many kilometers away came Christmas music, clear and sweet and reassuring.
There was not the slightest trace of static.

Earlier this year widespread flooding hit Washington state. “West Ellensburg was hit especially hard and about 200 residents, including my family, were evacuated the first night as up to four feet of water went into our homes,” says Krista Lindsay, a Laurel in the Ellensburg First Ward. “My family stayed with our bishop for a couple of nights since we had lost electricity and heat in our house. The next couple of days, after the flood had receded, were a whirlwind of cleaning up. The American Red Cross had contacted local churches to help with the flood relief. The Church recruited 445 volunteers who donned yellow shirts and invaded West Ellensburg with squeegees and lots of compassion. They cleaned up our yard and helped put our basement back together again. In other homes, they dragged out soggy carpet, moved furniture, and cleaned debris from yards. The flood damage was cleaned up and life does go on, but the helping people in yellow shirts remain a happy memory for all the victims.”

A young friend named Emily discovered this for herself. Emily did not yet have a testimony of the gospel and was contemplating whether to remain active in the Church or try to find happiness elsewhere. As she searched for answers, she began to notice that the people and families around her who were the happiest were the ones who were active in the Church. After that discovery, she determined that even if she didn’t yet have a complete testimony of the truthfulness of the gospel, she wanted to be part of something that helped people to be so happy. The word gospel means “good news,” and, as Emily discovered, the good news is that the gospel can make us very happy.

New Era
Express your love for your family by doing what they appreciate.
Show your love in ways that “speak” to your family members: a note, service, a hug, time spent with them, and so on.
The more you show your love, out of love, the better your relationships will be.
True story: Two 14-year-old friends, Scott and Mark, left Scott’s house. They hopped on their bikes and started rolling down the driveway. Scott’s little sister opened the front door and called to her brother, “I love you.” Scott stopped and called back, “I love you too. See you later.”
With practice, it had become easy for Scott to tell his family he loved them. Other teens find it hard to express their love. Fortunately for them, there are plenty of ways to say “I love you” without even speaking a word.
Say It So They Can See It
One of the best ways to share your love is to do something your family member appreciates. Maybe your mom would appreciate it if you vacuumed the carpets. Maybe it would mean a lot to your dad if you helped him clean the yard. Or maybe your younger brother would love it if you played soccer with him.
Get to know—by asking or noticing—how your family members would like to receive your expressions of love. Some people like to see that they are loved. If so, maybe a gift or act of service—things they can see—would convey your love. Some people like to hear that they are loved. If so, give them a sincere compliment, tell them you love them, or remember to speak to them in a kind tone of voice. Others like to feel that they are loved. For them a hug might be best.
The idea is to show your love in a way that’s meaningful to your family members.
Say It out of Love
Even though you feel embarrassed to tell your family you love them, do it anyway—because you love them. That effort will show how much you truly care. Plus, the more you tell your family you love them, with or without words, the easier it will become and the more love you will feel for them.
Another true story: Ashley had been at college and away from home for a month. As she sat in her dorm room, feeling lonely, her roommate brought in the mail and tossed Ashley a package. In it was a hand-written note and Ashley’s favorite candy bar. The note, from Ashley’s younger sister, said, “I hope you will enjoy your present. This is a short letter, but I miss you. Love, Maria.” (See Ashley Eggers, “Love, Anonymous,” New Era, Feb. 2001, 26.)
That gift helped Ashley realize that even though she was far from home, her family loved and remembered her. It made Ashley’s day because her sister wasn’t embarrassed to express her love.
Your most important friendships should be with your own brothers and sisters and with your father and mother. Love your family. Be loyal to them. Have a genuine concern for your brothers and sisters.”—President Ezra Taft Benson (1899–1994), “To the Youth of the Noble Birthright,” Ensign, May 1986, 43.
Readers
Sometimes just a simple “I love you” will do the job. I’ve found it’s easiest said by writing a note to a family member and leaving it somewhere they will find it. As I’ve done that I’ve noticed any tension or friction is eased, and the Spirit dwells stronger in our home.Heather Vawdrey, 17, Marysville First Ward, Marysville Washington Stake
Telling someone you love them doesn’t mean you have to say it. By caring and doing kind things for them, you can show your love. After a while, you’ll feel more comfortable speaking it instead of just showing you care.Natalie Thomas, 14, Rochester First Ward, Rochester Minnesota Stake
It was very difficult for me to tell my family I love them, even though they would say it to me. I decided I needed to fix this problem by showing them through my actions that I love them, and the words would follow. The more you serve someone, the easier it is to express your feelings and love to them.Elder Doug Atkinson, 19, Washington Everett Mission
You can show your family how much you love them by appreciating them or by doing service for them. Jesus gave service to everyone. They could feel His love through His actions. Your family knows that you love them and can tell by what you do for them and by the small hugs you give them.Rachael Guinn, 15, Del Mar Park Ward, Aurora Colorado Stake
As a new member and the only member of the Church in my family, I’m trying to tell my parents I love them, but I’m having a hard time. Now that I am a full-time missionary, the only way to tell them that I love them is by writing a letter with my testimony, saying how much I love them, thanking them with all my heart, and telling them how grateful I am to our Heavenly Father for giving me my parents.Elder Angelito C. Ong, 21, California Carlsbad Mission
You don’t have to say “I love you” to show someone that you love them. Show your family that you care for them. Help them and be kind to them. You can leave a small note on your parents’ bedside, saying simply, “I love you” and sign it. They will know that you mean it.Tamanna Kalra, 15, Goa Branch, India Bangalore Mission
You could say “I love you” every day, or before you go to bed you could hug or kiss them. If someone is having a bad day at work or school, you could leave a note on their bed. You could help your brothers and sisters with their homework or chores. You could listen to their problems. If you need more suggestions, ask your Young Men or Young Women leaders.Britanie Ames, 14, Benson Ward, St David Arizona Stake
I find it hard to express my love vocally, especially to family members. However, I love my family very much, and I express it through my actions, for example, by listening to and obeying my parents’ counsel. Small things—like praising my mother for her fine cooking or expressing appreciation when my sisters make something beautiful—are my ways of telling my family I love them. Actions speak louder than words, although loving words don’t hurt either!Keshia Lai, 17, Woodlands Ward, Singapore Singapore Stake
I have a hard time telling my four brothers I love them. So when I want my brothers to know I love them, I will usually show it, instead of saying it. I will make their beds for them, play a game with them, or stand up for them when they need it. We also have a mailbox in the house that we put notes or surprises in, telling how we love each other. I love my family a lot.Kyle Niebergall, 13, Roosevelt Eighth Ward, Roosevelt Utah West Stake

As a single parent, my mother had many things to do, but she always took time to help me, comfort me, or simply listen to me. Knowing that she was always there was invaluable, and I want to give that to my own children in the future.
When my mother remarried, her new husband chose to become the father of my older brother and me. Soon afterward, a little sister joined our family, but I have never felt the slightest difference in the affectionate and loving way he has taken care of us all as his own. Thanks to his attitude, my older brother and I have been able to grow up in a strong and unified family with the priesthood in the home. The day we were sealed as a family was very special. His loving example has taught me that a father isn’t just something you are—it’s something you become.

Molly was in her high chair. She wasn’t happy, and Mama was too busy to play with her.
Katy sat at the kitchen table, coloring a picture for Grandma’s birthday. Katy knew why Molly was crying: She wanted Katy’s crayons. They were big and fat. But Katy was drawing a birthday cake and needed all the colors.
“Please, Katy, could you play with Molly?” Mama asked.
“No! She only wants my crayons,” Katy said.
“Your crayons are so big and bright—couldn’t you share one?”
“No!”
Mama sat down in the chair next to her. “Who gave you those wonderful crayons?”
“Grandma did.”
“Yes, she did. Do you know why?”
Katy shook her head.
“She likes to share,” Mama said. “It made her happy. It made you very happy. And, best of all, it made Jesus Christ happy.”
Katy watched her baby sister trying to reach the brightest crayon, the red one. It was Katy’s favorite. Suddenly she ran out of the room.
She returned with a big piece of paper and gave it to Molly. She also gave Molly the wonderful red crayon! “See, Mama, I’m sharing,” Katy said.
Katy was happy. Molly was happy. Mama was happy, and Katy was sure that Jesus was happy too.

Despite our best efforts to raise children who love the Lord, follow His commandments, and live happy, productive, and healthy lives, our sons and daughters sometimes go astray. Straying can mean involvement in drug abuse, criminal activity, immorality, and even abuse of parents and others. Other forms of drifting, perhaps less serious but nevertheless troubling, include underachieving, dropping out of school, and finding little purpose or happiness in life.
Typical parental reactions include sorrow, despair, desperation, depression, feelings of guilt and unworthiness, and a sense of failure. In such circumstances, parents may also experience anger and withdrawal and may feel like simply giving up. These reactions usually make matters worse, deepening the problems they face.
My wife and I have friends who, because of their son’s behavior, have suffered almost every emotion identified above. The past five or six years have been a hideous nightmare for them. They have tried every possible approach, even placing their son in expensive rehabilitation programs in which he typically lasts only a week, despite his good intentions.
The father shared his lament and his hope in these words: “There is no how-to book for parents with young people like our son. You pray to the Lord that He will guide your thoughts and your actions, and you hope you will make wise decisions.” He and his wife, firm in their faith, declare: “We have the ultimate hope that because he has been sealed to us in the temple, the bonds of eternal covenants will be stronger than the bonds of the adversary that now seem to grip his life. We live with hope that the day will come when he will return to his eternal family and repent of his way of life.”
Our friends represent thousands of others in similar circumstances who are meeting challenges almost beyond their capacity to endure. Trials of parenthood are most often associated with children’s growing-up years, but these challenges can arise with children of any age. As parents, we don’t cease our concerns when our children reach adulthood.

Although each of you has had similar experiences with divine patterns, let me share with you the continuing impact of such a divine pattern on my life. When I was fourteen, I stumbled, one long Sunday afternoon, into my own sacred grove, a mysterious book called the Pearl of Great Price. Intrigued by the delicious promise of the book with its strange hieroglyphs, and able to attach its teaching to the frame I had read not long before in Nephi Anderson’s early Mormon novel Added Upon, I read all afternoon, engrossed by an illuminating glimpse into the plan of salvation and redemption of humankind as told by the metaphor or pattern of a journey from eternity to eternity. Since that long-ago afternoon, my glimpse has expanded and deepened into a pattern in which I see myself trekking the plains of mortality as a heaven-directed pioneer or as a mariner on a heaven-bound voyage. I’m 61 years out, with a great mate and a fine crew; the sea is often rough, but I’m confident of the charts, certain of the polestar, sure of the location of our home port, and looking forward to seeing an increasing number of my fellow earth-farers who have already reached port.

Last July, as my wife and I visited in Ravensburg, Germany, with a long-on-the-verge-of-baptism friend, I began once more to sketch out for him this Journey Pattern of the plan of salvation. His wife laughed and brought him an envelope containing the felt cutouts we use so often in teaching the plan. She said, “It’s this plan that so attracts him to Mormonism; he uses these figures to teach it to all our friends.”

Clearly moved, our dryland Mormon friend looked us directly in the eyes and said, “Dieser Plan ist fantastisch!”

I warned him that such faith in the plan would soon bring him into the waters of baptism; and it will. The plan, made so vivid and meaningful when depicted as a Journey Pattern, is simply fantastisch!

In the listening audience today are Jeff and Joyce Underwood of Pocatello, Idaho. They are parents of Jeralee and their other five children. Jeff works on a building maintenance team that cares for some of our chapels in Pocatello, Idaho. Joyce is a mother and homemaker. One day last July, their daughter Jeralee, age eleven, was going door to door collecting money for her newspaper route. Jeralee never returned home—not that day, nor the next day, nor the next, nor ever.

Two thousand people from the area had gone out day after day to search for her. Other churches sent support and food for the searchers. It was learned that Jeralee had been abducted and brutally murdered by an evil man. When her body was found, the whole city was horrified and shocked. All segments of the community reached out to Joyce and Jeff in love and sympathy. Some became angry and wanted to take vengeance.

After Jeralee’s body was found, Jeff and Joyce appeared with great composure before the television cameras and other media to publicly express their profound thanks to all who had helped in the search and who had extended sympathy and love. Joyce said, “I know our Heavenly Father has heard and answered our prayers, and he has brought our daughter back to us.” Jeff said, “We no longer have doubt about where she is.” Joyce continued, “I have learned a lot about love this week, and I also know there is a lot of hate. I have looked at the love and want to feel that love, and not the hate. We can forgive.”

Elder Joe J. Christensen and I, representing the General Authorities, were among the thousands privileged to attend Jeralee’s funeral service. The Holy Spirit blessed that gathering in a remarkable way and spoke peace to the souls of all who attended. Later, President Kert W. Howard, Jeralee’s stake president, wrote, “The Underwoods have received letters from people both in and out of the Church stating that they prayed for Jeralee, and they hadn’t prayed in years, and because of this, they had a renewed desire to return to the Church.” President Howard continued, “We will never know the extent of activation and rededication this single event has caused. Who knows the far-reaching effects Jeralee’s life will have for generations untold?” Many have come into the Church because they wanted to know what kind of a religion could give the Underwoods their spiritual strength.

I mention the good coming from this tragic event with Jeralee’s parents’ full approval and encouragement. Their sweet daughter was like the lad who had only five barley loaves and two small fishes to give to the cause of the Savior, but by the power of God, countless thousands have been spiritually fed.