Gospel Story Finder

In the spring of 1972, President Spencer W. Kimball, who was serving as the Acting President of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, was very ill. Throat cancer had returned, and his heart was threatening to fail due to a clogged artery and a malfunctioning valve. He was seventy-seven years old. The cancer was stopped with cobalt treatments, and his physicians recommended a complex surgical procedure on his heart, with only some chance of success.
In a meeting with his doctors and President Harold B. Lee of the First Presidency, President Kimball said wearily, “I am an old man and ready to die.” He wondered whether, at his age, it made sense to fight so hard to extend his life when, perhaps, his time had come. President Lee arose and said with power, “Spencer, you have been called! You are not to die! You are to do everything you need to do to care for yourself and continue to live.”
Spencer did not give up and die. He was not a man who gave up, no matter how difficult the task.
The surgery was performed and was successful. While he was recovering, President Joseph Fielding Smith passed away. Eighteen months later, President Harold B. Lee also passed away, and Spencer W. Kimball became the twelfth President of the Church. Considering his age and health history, most people expected his administration to be a brief “caretaker” period. But instead, it was a vigorous time of miracles. For the next twelve years, in the words of Elder Neal A. Maxwell, “one often got the feeling that [President Kimball] was always on the next ridge waiting for the Church to catch up. Though he smiled at us and beckoned us, he would like to have seen us move more than just a bit faster.”

No long ago, after 42 years as members of the Church, we finally tracked down one of those tenacious missionaries who brought us the gospel. Reed Harris was then serving as a mission president in Chile. We shared a very emotional phone call. We wept as we talked of our families and our lives in the gospel. We thanked him for what the gospel has given us—a healthy lifestyle, love from our Heavenly Father, and a life full of blessings.

When I was about eight years old, I lived in Jamaica. Jamaica can be very hot. I was so excited one day when my aunt invited me to go with her and my cousin to the house of a friend who had a swimming pool. A cool pool on a sunny day sounded great.
My mother said I could go but that I couldn’t swim since she didn’t know who would be there to watch us. I told her I would just put my feet in the pool to get cool.
When I got to the house, my cousin immediately jumped in the pool. Some of our other friends came over and started to swim too. Everyone kept begging me to come in the pool, and finally I gave in. It was so hot outside, and I thought my mom wouldn’t know because my aunt said she wouldn’t tell her.
I knew my aunt was wrong to keep secrets from my mother, but I played with my friends for a while in the pool anyway. I was so scared the whole time about what would happen if my mother knew I had disobeyed her. When we got home, my hair was a little wet, even though I had tried to keep it out of the water. My mom asked me if I had gone swimming, and I lied. I told her no. I felt really bad about it for a really long time, but I didn’t want to get in trouble.
A few years later, when my sister, Briélan, was seven, she was invited to go to the beach with some friends and their parents. My mom told her the same thing she had told me: go and have fun, but don’t go swimming. When my sister got to the beach, her friends’ parents told her she could go ahead and swim. They wouldn’t tell her mother, so it would be OK.
Even though my sister thought my mom would never know, she told her friends’ parents that she would not go swimming because her mother had asked her not to, and she wanted to be obedient. The grown-ups tried to convince her it was OK, but she still said no because she knew she should do what was right, and they were trying to get her to do something wrong.
My sister’s day at the beach was just as hot as mine at the pool, and she wanted to swim just as badly as I did. But my little sister became my big example when she chose to honor our parents by obeying them.
When my mom told me this story about my sister, I told her how I had lied to her. She was thankful that I finally told her the truth. She was very proud of my little sister, who had chosen to obey her, and so was I.

This is a story of a young girl, living in New York, who before age three lost her father when his boat sank on a large lake. She, her mother, older brother, and younger sister moved to a new city in another state to live with her aunt and uncle. Sometime after the family arrived, missionaries and members of a newly organized religion came to their town with the glorious news of the Restoration of the gospel. They told a remarkable story of an angel delivering an ancient record to a young man named Joseph Smith, a record he had translated by the power of God. Two of the visitors, Oliver Cowdery and John Whitmer, had actually seen the engraved metal pages of the ancient record with their own eyes, and Whitmer witnessed he had held the golden plates in his own hands. This record had been recently published, and Brother Whitmer brought the book with him. The name of the book, of course, was the Book of Mormon.
When 12-year-old Mary heard the missionaries speak about the book, she had a special feeling in her heart. Even though the Book of Mormon was thick with many pages, Mary yearned to read it. When Brother Whitmer departed, he gave one precious copy of the book to Brother Isaac Morley, who was a friend of Mary’s uncle and a local leader in the new church.
Mary later recorded: “I went to [Brother Morley’s] house … and asked to see the Book; [he] put it in my hand, [and] as I looked at it, I felt such a desire to read it, that I could not refrain from asking him to let me take it home and read it. … He said … he had hardly had time to read a chapter in it himself, and but few of the brethren had even seen it, but I plead so earnestly for it, he finally said, ‘child, if you will bring this book home before breakfast tomorrow morning, you may take it.’”
Mary ran home and was so captured by the book that she stayed up nearly all night reading it. The next morning, when she returned the book, Brother Morley said, “I guess you did not read much in it” and “I don’t believe you can tell me one word of it.” Mary stood up straight and repeated from memory the first verse of the Book of Mormon. She then told him the story of the prophet Nephi. Mary later wrote, “He gazed at me in surprise, and said, ‘child, take this book home and finish it, I can wait.’”
A short time later, Mary finished reading the book and was the first person in her town to read the entire book. She knew it was true and that it came from Heavenly Father. As she looked to the book, she looked to the Lord.
One month later a special visitor came to her house. Here is what Mary wrote about her memorable encounter that day: “When [Joseph Smith] saw me he looked at me so earnestly. … After a moment or two he … gave me a great blessing … and made me a present of the book, and said he would give Brother Morley another [copy]. … We all felt that he was a man of God, for he spoke with power, and as one having authority.”
This young girl, Mary Elizabeth Rollins, saw many other miracles in her life and always kept her testimony of the Book of Mormon.1 This story has special meaning to me because she is my fourth-great-aunt. Through Mary’s example, along with other experiences in my life, I have learned that one is never too young to seek and receive a personal testimony of the Book of Mormon.

I wasn’t a bad kid in high school. I played end on the football team and managed to get B grades and still have fun. But I was just as daring as the next. Which brings me to this incident.
A few of us kids were smoking by the garbage can in back of the high school. I don’t know who supplied the cigarettes, but that doesn’t matter.
As we puffed away, feeling good and mannish, a neighbor who lived close by called my mother and told her what her son was doing. I don’t know how mom got there so fast. But before I was ready to throw away the butt of the cigarette, there she was, and I was caught in the act. She talked to me good and proper.
When I arrived home after school, I went to my room and I was scared stiff. Dad would be home from work soon, and when mom told him of my sinful act, I knew I would be in for it but good.
Now dad, even for a churchgoer, was a good guy. We went hunting and fishing together and shared a good companionship. We camped in an old wall tent equipped with a woodburning stove. It was my responsibility to see there was a good supply of wood provided for the stove. Dad was the cook.
I heard the back door close and dad’s greeting to mom. Then for a few minutes there was a subdued conversation. I knew my sin was being discussed.
Then dad came to my room, and he sat down on the edge of the bed. He knew I was scared, and he let me wallow in my fear for a few moments before he spoke.
“Son, I want you to know that mom and I can’t make decisions for you. You know how we feel about smoking: it’s a dirty habit and injurious to your health. But if you decide to take up the habit, the decision is yours to make.”
He got up, walked to the door, then stopped and turned around.
“One more thing, son. You and I hunt and fish together and sleep in the old tent. If you become a smoker, you will have to sleep outside, for I can’t stand tobacco smoke. Now come on to supper.”
“Okay, dad, okay,” I said to myself. “Why didn’t you box my ears or slap me a couple of good ones on my posterior. Instead of that you hit me where it hurt the most, in the thing I love to do the best.” I did not take up the smoking habit, and things went pretty well at school and at home.

Brother Jim Clegg, manager of the Murray Deseret Industries, attended a sacrament meeting in his son’s ward, where the program was provided by some retarded youth. The final number was a solo to be sung by a sweet mongoloid sister. Brother Clegg knew this young woman could sing because she participated in the Murray Deseret Industries choir, but little did he know that one of the seventy-year-old brethren at the Deseret Industries had been working closely with her because he recognized some natural vocal ability.
As she stood up to perform her number, she noticed Brother Clegg in the audience and cried out, “That’s my Deseret Industries manager, there in the back!” She proceeded to tell the congregation that Deseret Industries was the most wonderful place in the whole world.
As she sang “I Am a Child of God,” no one in the audience doubted that indeed Deseret Industries is the most wonderful place in the world.

Benjie was smiling from ear to ear when I picked him up after Primary. In his chubby hand he held out a picture of Mary and Joseph and the Baby Jesus in a manger. “See, Dano. Baby Jesus.”
“Did you get that in Nursery, Benjie?”
His head bobbed vigorously up and down as he proudly displayed the picture.
“Hello, Daniel.” Sister Williams, Benjie’s teacher, was holding her brand-new baby. “Benjie sure had fun in Nursery today. We had a play about the birth of Jesus, and he played the part of Joseph.”
Baby Jesus was all that Benjie talked about all week. For family home evening, Mom brought out the manger scene, and Benjie arranged each figure in the stable. Instead of having the shepherds and the Wise Men and the animals all nicely spaced out, he crowded them around the manger, “so that they can see Him real good.”
It wasn’t until the Saturday afternoon before Christmas that Mom could take us Christmas shopping.
When Benjie saw all the decorations in the store, his mouth dropped open. We walked past mountains of toy trucks and rows of new bikes. There was even a “Christmas elf” dressed in a green top and red tights, handing out tiny candy canes to all the children.
I was checking out a display of radio-controlled cars, when I felt a tug on my coat. Benjie’s brow was all puckered. “Where’s Jesus?”
“What?”
“Where’s Jesus, Dano?”
I followed his gaze as he looked up and down the rows of fake Christmas trees and tinsel and toys. He’s right, I thought. There’s not a sign of Jesus anywhere, let alone shepherds and Wise Men. But how do you explain all that to a not-yet-three-year-old?
Fortunately Mom is pretty good at things like that. She leaned over, cupped his chin in her hands and looked him right in the eyes. “Benjie, lots of people don’t know about Jesus. They think that Christmastime is only about presents and Santa Claus. But we know that the real reason we celebrate Christmas is Jesus—right?”
He nodded solemnly.
She glanced at the banner hanging from the ceiling—Merry Xmas!—and sadly added to me, “The world has taken Christ right out of Christmas.” Then she looked at her watch. “Uh-oh. We have to hurry—tonight’s the ward party.”
Mom had helped plan the party for three months. This year our ward was doing something different. Instead of a fancy dinner with Santa Claus giving goodies or small toys to the little ones before someone read the Christmas story from the Bible, the cultural hall would be decorated like a marketplace in Bethlehem. Everyone would come dressed in biblical clothes. “Daniel, it’ll be just like we’re there on the night Jesus was born,” she’d told me.
I didn’t think much of getting dressed in a costume, but Benjie’s excitement kind of rubbed off on me. I helped him find his bathrobe and tied a rope around his waist. Then I put on a robe that used to be Dad’s and made a head-covering with a towel and a couple of safety pins.
When we arrived at the church, Mom dashed to help get the food ready. The sidewalk leading to the front door was lined with paper sacks with a flickering candle, nestled in sand, in each one. Benjie had to look into each sack at the tiny flame. I held his hand because I was afraid that he’d try to blow out the candles.
The foyer and hallway were dimly lit. A “Roman soldier” who looked an awful lot like Brother Bingham, our home teacher, stood guard. Benjie gave him his “taxes”—a can of vegetable soup for the needy—and solemnly signed a big squiggly B on the “census.”
In the cultural hall, white fluorescent Christmas tree decorations sparkled like stars. There were food shops, a tailor shop, and even a gift shop. It did look sort of like I thought Bethlehem would.
When Benjie spotted the bright star shining above the manger on the stage, he made a beeline toward it. We had to stand right there by the stage while he sang the first half of “There Was Starlight on the Hillside”* over and over. Finally he saw the cardboard lamb and chicks in a pen in the corner of the room and ran over to see them.
After that, we were hungry, so we “bought” our supper at the little shops, using the “gold” in the bags we were given by a “centurion.” Benjie would not have been more pleased if it had been real gold instead of spray-painted rocks.
We sat on a blanket on the floor because “there was no room in the inn,” and munched on pita bread and orange slices. Benjie had wanted to sit right by the stage, and he kept looking up at the manger. Finally he asked, “Where’s Jesus, Dano?”
“He hasn’t been born yet,” I told him.
“Oh.”
Then he started yawning. Before long he lay down on the blanket. Mom came over and sat beside us. She gently smoothed Benjie’s sweaty hair from his forehead.
He was asleep when “Mary” and “Joseph” walked through the crowd to the stage. We all sang “O Little Town of Bethlehem,”† and Brother Dickson began to read from the Bible as some of the grown-ups acted out the Christmas story.
“‘And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger …’”‡
Everyone was quiet as Sister Williams, who was Mary, cradled her baby in her arms. He made some cooing sounds that sounded just like Brother Sampson’s doves.
Then Benjie’s voice, soft with wonder, broke the stillness: “There’s Jesus, Dano! There’s Jesus!”
My little brother had awakened and was standing, pointing excitedly at the manger scene. His face was beaming with joy. I looked over at Mom. She was smiling, her eyes shiny with tears.
I felt all warm inside. Suddenly it was as though I wasn’t in the cultural hall dressed in Dad’s old robe at all. Somehow, it felt like I really was in Bethlehem—on that long-ago night.
Nobody wanted to break the magic of that moment. Then someone started quietly singing: “Silent night! Holy night!” One by one, all of us joined in: “All is calm, all is bright …”**
I put my arm around Benjie and quietly said, “Yeah, Benjie. Jesus. He truly is the Son of God.”

Holly leads a busy and exciting life, so she had plenty to talk about. At the time of her grandparents’ visit, she had just finished her last year in Mt. Royal Junior High School, where she served as student-body president. She was looking forward to going on to Western Canada High School, which she is presently attending. At Mt. Royal, there were not many Mormon students, but they were admired and respected for their way of life. “You hear stories about Mormons getting teased,” she said, “but that really didn’t happen at all. It was the exact opposite. They really respected me. Several of them said, ‘How come you’re like you are? I wish I could be like you. I wish I had the family you do. I wish I had the same idea of life as you do. It seems like you’re always happy. You’re almost perfect. How can anyone have so much fun and not get drunk or even go to wild parties in the first place?’

“They just didn’t understand, and so a few of them started coming out to some of our Church activities like the dances and Mutual, and they really enjoyed it. And now they will say at school, ‘See you Saturday night at the dance.’ They don’t even want to go to wild parties anymore. They just want to come to Church activities because they see how much fun sharp Mormon kids can have without drugs or alcohol.

“The Mormon kids that I associate with are my really good friends, and we like to do stuff together. They’re always trying to do what’s right. They don’t fall because of peer pressure. I’m very fortunate to have good friends at school who have chosen the gospel way of life. We all kind of cling together as Mormons, but we also try to influence our school friends and work together to bring them to the dances and other activities. We always try to make everyone feel welcome. It’s up to us, and we’ve all realized that.”

Holly’s missionary work is paying off too. “My friends at school come to me asking about the Church, and I talk to them about it. There are about ten that are very interested right now.”

The biggest payoff of all came last year. “My best friend since grade school had been coming to church with me for a number of years, and last year her parents finally said that she could be baptized. That was probably the neatest thing that happened to me last year.”

“Special assignment next Sunday, Rich,” Dad told me in the middle of the week. “I’ve asked the bishop to let us give a sacrament service out at Oak Crest Hospital for Old People. It’ll just be the two of us doing everything. Now let’s see, I’ll conduct, you give the opening prayer, I’ll play the piano, you lead the singing; we’ll both bless and pass the sacrament and give talks, and then I’ll say the closing prayer.”
I wasn’t delighted at the thought of visiting the rest home down in a small canyon nearly an hour’s ride from home. I’d never liked hospitals anyway. But I’d just have to (See Hymn 13 & Job 38:3) and act like a missionary.
When I arrived at Oak Crest with Dad the following Sunday, I realized that that was the problem. I was making outward motions like a missionary, acting like one in some ways, but inside I was still Rich Ericson, star basketball player and a jolly person. I was totally unprepared for what we encountered. The hospital was clean and modern, the colors bright, the staff cheerful. But the patients! It wasn’t their wrinkled, gray faces, their slow, shuffling way of walking—if they could walk. It wasn’t even the fact that they seemed to be doing nothing, just sitting, or staring at television. What stunned me was that they all seemed so alone. Oh, here and there in a room we’d occasionally see friends and family visiting the elderly patients. And these patients seemed in a completely different class from the others. But most of the people we saw seemed isolated, even from each other. I realized that here, status was no longer money or beauty, strength or knowledge. Status was having someone who came to visit you.
We held the meeting in a small recreation room. Perhaps 20 patients made up our congregation, grouped before us in wheelchairs or on folding chairs, with canes on the floor beside them.
“Dear brothers and sisters,” my father began. Seated beside him, I looked at each face. As Dad talked, smiles came to the tired features, eyes twinkled behind old-fashioned glasses. When I stood to give the opening prayer, all the typically thoughtless prayers that I was used to saying were not sufficient for this moment. I stood silent for a moment, my head bowed, and then started quietly pleading with our Father to bless these people, to give them whatever they needed to buoy up their spirits and gladden their hearts and enable them to stay strong—to endure—until they were reunited with him.
We went through the program; singing, their wavering voices following ours; blessing the sacrament and passing it while they took it with slow, shaking hands. I began to feel the spirit growing around us like a pair of enfolding arms. In this room we weren’t alone. None of these people felt alone, I realized with surprise. Their faces may have been old, tired, and wrinkled, but they were serene and radiant, especially after the passing of the sacrament. And when Dad began his talk, they listened without the whispers, the yawns, and the fidgets I was used to in our ward. They were attentively listening to Dad’s quiet, gentle voice; more than that, they were listening to the precious words he was saying. They were receiving comfort beyond that which this world has to offer. A quick shiver went up my spine. That day the Holy Spirit became someone rather than something to me.
We rode a long way in silence after that meeting. I looked out into the foothills, with their sagebrush blowing dustily in the wind.
“Dad, that is the purpose of missionary work, isn’t it?” I asked. “The hours, the exercise, the basic four, the memorizing of scripture—those are all—” I couldn’t say what I meant.
“They’re the tools. The healthy body, the prepared mind, knowledge of the gospel plan, the discipline to go on when you’re tired or frustrated—those are all just tools. They allow you to use your priesthood—”
“To bless people,” I finished, in wonder. “To really bless them, make a difference in their lives, in their whole, eternal lives …”
“Hey, Elder! Elder Ericson! Let’s go! We have a discussion to give right after lunch, remember?” Elder Shumway beckoned to his companion from the foyer of the mission home, juggling a pile of books and tracts in one arm while he struggled into his coat.
“I see what you mean, Elder,” I said softly. “You really did begin your mission early.”
“Well,” he replied, wrapping his scarf around his neck and getting into his coat, “let’s say I went through some of my frustration at home, instead of here. I learned to get the mechanics taken care of, smoothly and without thought. Getting up on time, eating right, learning scriptures, staying in shape, organizing talks—I got into those habits before my mission, not during it. But what’s even more important, I got a little glimpse, just a peek, at what it’s all for. So I know it’s all worth it and then some—thanks to my dad.” He chuckled. “My dad—the senior companion!”
And then he was gone.

It wasn’t long ago that I found myself asking the same question. I wasn’t getting good grades, and I rarely made it to class. High school just wasn’t for me, so I thought.
I soon realized, however, that there weren’t many opportunities for a dropout. The doors were closed, and the key was a diploma. I also knew that one day I wanted a wife and children. Minimum wage was not enough to support a family. It would barely support myself. I knew I had to stick it out.
I know people who did drop out so they could have their freedom. Today, they are still at the same jobs, not making much more than minimum wage. They are just now realizing that even freedom has its price.
David John Romrell, 20Rexburg, Idaho

The time had finally come. My family was about to take our annual trip to Bear Lake, Utah, and the excitement was as apparent as a flash of lightning. My brother, Mike, and I were more ecstatic than anyone else. We had talked our parents into letting us invite our next-door neighbor Kevin to come along. He had just received a two-man raft for his birthday, and we couldn’t wait to get that raft out on the lake.
As we all traveled to Bear Lake in our big, red van, Kevin, Mike, and I talked about all the things we would conquer in our “ship.” We were going to cruise from one side of the lake to the other. We were going to catch the biggest fish ever. And, best of all, we were going to wipe out all the evil pirates and their ships that might be lurking on the lake’s uncharted waters.
We arrived at Bear Lake in the early evening, and to our disappointment, it was too late to go to the beach. Although our spirits drooped a bit, we decided that it would be best if we had a good night’s rest before starting our adventures on the lake, anyway.
The next morning, Mike, Kevin, and I awoke before the sun had even taken its first peek at the northern part of Utah. We knew we couldn’t wake anyone else up, so we just whispered quietly about what the day would hold. After breakfast, we hurried to Rendezvous Beach. It was a beautiful day. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, and the temperature was just right. As we got our first glimpse of the deep, blue water, we knew that “magic” was in the air.
We took turns pumping up the inflatable raft and were disappointed in its smallness. Sure, the raft was called a two-man raft, but we hadn’t believed that only two people would really fit in it. We’d thought all three of us could be out on the water together. However, we weren’t going to let this setback ruin our entire trip. We would just have to take turns. Since the raft was Kevin’s, he was the designated captain, and Mike and I took turns rafting with him. Mike went first. Their journey went as planned, and I couldn’t wait for mine.
After lunch, Kevin and I got in the raft and pushed off from shore. We were having the time of our lives. We took turns rowing; the person not rowing looked for a ship to attack. As time went on, we kept getting farther and farther from the beach. Before we knew it, my family looked like miniature figures who could fit into a dollhouse.
Kevin decided that we should start back. Before long, we realized that we weren’t making any progress. The wind had suddenly started blowing, and instead of getting closer to the shore where my family was, we were being blown farther away. Kevin and I were scared. We no longer felt as if we ruled the lake. We just wanted to be back with my family.
Kevin suggested that one of us get out of the raft and pull it back to shore while swimming. How could he even suggest such a thing? Everyone knows that the Bear Lake Monster isn’t real, but neither of us wanted to prove it! We started to panic. I felt as if someone had punched me in the stomach. The sun was starting to go down, and the temperature was going down with it. I looked at Kevin, and instead of seeing the “mighty captain” he was supposed to be, I saw a nine-year-old boy, a boy one year younger than me, shivering from both fright and the cold.
I was just as scared as Kevin. I started feeling the effects of being sopping wet, windblown, and cold. My “thinking wheels” started spinning, but I couldn’t come up with any plan. Hot tears formed a waterfall on my face, and I knew that this was one problem I wasn’t going to solve on my own.
I suggested that we say a prayer, and Kevin agreed. It was a short prayer and to the point. We told Heavenly Father that we needed His help and asked Him to please return us safely to the shore and to my family.
In less than a minute, three men in a motorboat were at our side to help us. Heavenly Father had sent them. When we arrived safely back on shore, we received a warm welcome from my family.
The rest of the week at Bear Lake was full of fun and excitement. However, our conversations were no longer centered on the lake we would rule and conquer in the raft. Instead, we talked about the small miracle we received because of our short, sincere prayer.

Francisco and Estela Magdaleno of Las Aguilas Ward, Guadalajara México Moctezuma Stake, were baptized in the mid-1960s. The area where they live is strongly traditional with regard to religion. At first, neighbors wanted little to do with them or their faith. The Magdalenos continued to live their religion and tried their best to maintain good relationships with those around them. They and their three children have all served missions in Mexico. The Magdalenos have lived to see the day when neighbors turn to them for advice on questions of faith.

“In order to be admitted to the Taipei City Junior Business College (which, despite its name, is equivalent to a U.S. high school), I had to take an entrance exam. The number of people taking the exam amounted to 10,000. The number of people admitted to the school is just over 1,000. So you can see the competition is tough.”

But Mei Ling made it—on the second try. “Before I was admitted here, I was a student at Ta-lin Junior High School, which is known for its emphasis on music. After I graduated from that school I took an entrance exam for the junior business college and failed. So I went to a tutoring class for a year, then I took the entrance examination again this year and was accepted.

Case 7. Two missionaries struggled through barbed wire fences, sprinklers, mudholes, and ferocious dogs, but in the end they found a golden family—of members.
After the opening prayer, the projectionist hit the switch, and the evening was awash in cheers, laughter, and even a few friendly groans. Poor Cindy Ella, outcast because of her curly hair, did get to the governor’s ball (thanks to her fairy godperson) and fell in love with the governor’s curly headed son. A new banana eating record was set. The three junk food junkies did lose weight. The missionaries did keep tracting. Fun triumphed again. All seven wards had come up with their own idea of what the silver screen is all about, and all were pretty proud of what they had done.

When her husband passed away after 25 years of marriage, my friend Susan thought she was too old ever to consider getting married again. “I was content to be a widow for the rest of my life,” she said.
But—surprisingly—two years later, she remarried. Her husband, George, was also a widower. Today they live a happy life together, sharing common interests such as historical research and service in the Church and community.
That may sound like a happily-ever-after story. But Susan and George are quick to agree that remarrying at any age can create both joys and challenges. This may be particularly true for those who were sealed in the temple for their first marriage. My own life is a case in point.
I loved my wife Raelene and treasure our temple marriage. When she passed away unexpectedly after 42 years of marriage, I was distraught. I wallowed in self-pity for almost a year. Eventually I found a new job in a new city. I felt ready to start over. I wondered about dating. But would that mean I was being disloyal?
I counseled with a friend who had remarried. “It’s a personal decision,” he said. “You know your deceased wife. What would she think? You know your family and how they may react. It’s like any other decision—it should be approached with humility and prayer.”
Another friend who had remarried said, “It’s not about moving on. It’s about moving forward with faith regardless of marrying again or remaining single.”
So I searched the scriptures, often reading the story of Ruth, a widow, and her mother-in-law, Naomi, who felt “the Almighty hath dealt very bitterly with me” (Ruth 1:20) because of the death of her husband and two sons. Boaz eventually married Ruth after being moved by “all that thou hast done unto thy mother in law since the death of thine husband” (Ruth 2:11). This scriptural “love story” between Ruth and Boaz reminded me that God is always near, even in our darkest moments, and can guide us in our life decisions.
I did start dating again, and I eventually met my wife Stephanie. When we married, we decided that expecting everything to be the same as our first marriages or making comparisons to former spouses or circumstances was a recipe for disaster. We needed to create our own “bonus family” by including all of our children in important decisions and all of our grandchildren in new traditions.
The scriptures have many examples of righteous persons who remained single following the passing of a spouse. The widow of Zarephath is celebrated for her faithfulness and generosity (see 1 Kings 17:8–16). The widow who cast two mites into the treasury was commended by the Savior for casting in “all that she had, even all her living” (Mark 12:44). The psalmist notes that the Lord “relieveth the fatherless and widow” (Psalm 146:9). These examples remind us that the Lord is very much aware of those who have lost a spouse. Elder Gerrit W. Gong of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles has taught, “Our standing before the Lord and in His Church is not a matter of our marital status but of our becoming faithful and valiant disciples of Jesus Christ.”
President Dallin H. Oaks, First Counselor in the First Presidency, was only seven years old when his father passed away from tuberculosis. His mother remained single the rest of her life while accomplishing much in Church and community service, including serving as mayor of the city of Provo.
“I was blessed with an extraordinary mother,” President Oaks recalled. “She surely was one of the many noble women who have lived in the latter days.”
While serving as a member of the Seventy, Elder Randy D. Funk noted “some causes of unhappiness: … sadness and loneliness from the death of a loved one, and fear from the uncertainty of what happens when we die.” As an antidote, he suggested that “the inward peace of being securely within the fold of God” can bridge such loneliness and uncertainty.
Elder Gong noted that faith and covenant-keeping and rich blessings are very much available for those who choose not to remarry after the loss of a spouse. He tells about one of his family’s progenitors who “was left with five young children when her husband and oldest son both died suddenly just days apart. A widow for 47 years, Gram raised her family with sustaining love from local leaders and members. During those many years, Gram promised the Lord if He would help her, she would never complain. The Lord helped her. She never complained.”
The blending of families is a consideration in many marriages, and it can be particularly challenging when children are involved, no matter their age. One of the greatest challenges, in fact, may be helping children to accept new relationships.
Children are often the forgotten mourners when a parent passes away. They may feel lost in the shuffle—or at least feel a desire to counsel together about decisions that affect the family. They may have memories they no longer feel they can share. “Remember the time when we …” could feel incomplete and perhaps even unwanted. They may find it challenging to adjust to their living parent’s new relationship, including finding it difficult to give their love and loyalty to a stepparent.
In the best of circumstances, a new spouse may feel like an outsider. “Even when family members go out of their way to welcome you, you can still feel like you’re on the outside a lot of the time,” says a woman who remarried. Her advice? “Remember you’re not replacing anyone; you’re just adding to the family. Give it lots of time and love.”
Sometimes it’s not so much the planned or deliberate activities but rather the simple and spontaneous experiences that promote this new relationship. These three things seem to help:
Showing up for sports, music, and other personal interests that matter to each child.
Practicing deep listening without giving too much advice.
Sharing personal experiences and vulnerabilities.
Instead of retreating from extended family interaction and sticking to the sidelines, “bonus” parents and grandparents can search for common interests with individual family members and discover new ideas and approaches together. In our bonus family, we share text messages on topics ranging from parenting to politics, business ventures to exercise tips, cooking to historical fiction. We began meeting separately online with each of the two extended families during the pandemic to study Come, Follow Me together and have continued it ever since then.
Balancing leisure time preferences, household chores, and especially family finances in a new marriage later in life can be challenging and complex. It requires empathy, tenderness, and “the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit” (1 Peter 3:4) to navigate new and sometimes conflicting demands.
Each couple will find their own answers in navigating chores, leisure time, and finances. If preferences are openly discussed together, most differences can be resolved over time. As a helpful guideline for such discussions, consider this advice about goal setting given by President M. Russell Ballard (1928–2023), Acting President of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles: “Set short-term goals that you can reach. Set goals that are well balanced—not too many nor too few, and not too high nor too low. Write down your attainable goals and work on them according to their importance. Pray for divine guidance in your goal setting.”
A second marriage, just like a first marriage, can be satisfying and fulfilling or stressful and difficult. Much depends on the ability of the couple to address common issues together. Many who marry again in later life find that life can be richer with someone to talk to, laugh with, and even share tears with when needed. Like any act of faith, remarriage requires exercising such Christlike attributes as patience, forbearance, forgiveness, kindness, and love.

On Christmas Eve 37 years ago, in the light of a full moon, I climbed a small hill in the isolated village of Quiriza, Bolivia. Four young elders and I had spent the day crossing over a mountain pass on a treacherous road. Then we struggled up a riverbed to see if the teachings of the Savior would help a destitute people. What we saw that day was discouraging—undernourished children, adults subsisting on meager crops, some with eyes glazed from seeking refuge in alcohol and drugs. I looked at the tiny, barren village below—a cluster of adobe, thatched-roof houses beaten by the harsh environment. The only evidence of life was barking dogs searching for food. There was no electricity, telephone, running water, roads, proper sanitation, nor doctors there. It seemed so hopeless. Yet a solemn prayer confirmed that we should be there. We found a humble people who embraced the restored gospel with determination to live it. They did that under harsh conditions where severe poverty, alcohol, drugs, witchcraft, and immorality were in plentiful supply.

Under the guidance of exceptional missionaries, the people learned to work hard to cultivate the fields. They produced a harvest of nutritious vegetables and raised rabbits for better protein. But the best lessons came from beloved missionaries who taught them of a God who loved them, of a Savior who gave His life that they might succeed. Their physical appearance began to change. The light of truth radiated from their happy faces. As devoted, loving emissaries of the Lord, missionaries patiently taught truth to a willing people. Wives and husbands learned how to live in harmony, teach truth to their children, pray, and sense the guidance of the Spirit.

I watched a six-year-old boy who had carefully observed our first baptismal service act out with his younger sister what he had seen. He carefully arranged her hands, raised his tiny arm to the square, mumbled words, gently lowered her into a depression in the sun-baked earth, led her to a rock where he confirmed her, then shook her hand. The youth learned most quickly. They became obedient to the light of truth taught by the missionaries and in time by their own parents. Through their faith and obedience, I have seen how in one generation, youth baptized in that village have overcome a seemingly hopeless future. Some have been missionaries, graduated from universities, and been sealed in the temple. Through their diligence and obedience, they have found purpose and success in life despite an early harsh physical and evil-saturated environment. If it can be done in Quiriza, Bolivia, it can be done anywhere.

One day, Sister Escobar and Sister Flake followed a prompting of the Spirit and found themselves led to a pink house. José Luis, a blind man, answered the door and invited them into his home to share a scripture message. The sisters learned that his wife, Rosa, was not feeling well and was resting in another room.
When the missionaries taught José Luis about the Book of Mormon, Jesus Christ and His mission on the earth, he was eager to learn. He was so enthusiastic about what they taught that he asked for a copy of the Book of Mormon right away. He said he would have his sister read it to him or find a way to have a recorded version made.
The sisters told him when the church meeting was held on Sunday, and José was excited to come. He said he would be there the next Sunday and would bring his wife.
That Sunday, the missionaries were sitting in class when they felt impressed to leave the room. As they went out, they heard the shouts of José Luis and Rosa outside the building, struggling to find the church entrance. Rushing to help them, they realized that Rosa was also blind, and their hearts were touched by the couple’s vulnerability. It was obvious that the pair was relieved when Sister Escobar and Sister Flake found them. Everyone was grateful for the tender mercy that led the sisters to leave the class when they did. The ward members embraced José Luis and Rosa into their fold and were amazed that they would come on their own to church, despite their disabilities.
Visiting José Luis and Rosa at their home reveals another layer of their resilience. Despite their visual impairment, the couple manages daily tasks independently and even cooked a traditional Dominican meal for the missionaries. They were amazed to learn that Rosa’s illness makes it hard for her to stand for long periods of time, but she still manages to get things done.
As the sister missionaries continued to teach José Luis and Rosa, they saw the extraordinary ability of the couple to absorb and retain information. They understood everything and had it memorized after hearing it just once. They quickly grasped concepts such as the Restoration of the gospel and the Word of Wisdom. Their commitment was evident when the missionaries told them they would have to give up coffee as part of obedience to the Word of Wisdom, and they obeyed without hesitation.
The words of the Book of Mormon brought them obvious joy, and on June 28, 2023, José Luis and Rosa were invited to be baptized and enthusiastically accepted. They had received an answer to prayer that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was the true church of God on the earth and wanted to be part of it. José Luis and Rosa’s commitment and faith were unwavering, and their faith brought the Spirit to each meeting with the missionaries.
During the month before their baptism, the members came together to help the blind couple get to church every week. Their baptism on July 29, 2023, was attended by many members and acquaintances who showed their love on that special day. Encircled with this love, José Luis and Rosa expressed gratitude to a kind Heavenly Father for the opportunity to be spiritually born again. They were confirmed the next day in church and received the gift of the Holy Ghost. Now they never miss a Sunday meeting.
José Luis and Rosa are examples for everyone. The couple says if it weren’t for their loss of sight, they wouldn’t have learned as much. Their example of joy in adversity has helped other members to better understand what James meant when he said, “My brethren, count it all joy when ye fall into divers temptations [trials];
“Knowing this, that the trying of your faith worketh patience.
“But let patience have her perfect work, that ye may be perfect and entire, wanting nothing” (James 1:2–4).
José Luis and Rosa’s faith to follow and make a covenant with God changed their lives. Now they are preparing to enter the temple. They share the gospel and their testimonies with those they meet.
Sister Escobar and Sister Flake say, “We are very grateful to our Heavenly Father for the opportunity to share the gospel of Jesus Christ with these wonderful people. This experience changed our lives. We better understand what Jesus Christ meant when He taught, ‘blessed are all the pure in heart, for they shall see God’” (3 Nephi 12:8).

Dressed in 19th century clothing, pushing and pulling handcarts, leaving home comforts and technology behind, a group of teenagers in Tasmania recently took part in a trek.
The purpose of the activity—organised by The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints—was to help each young person feel—even in small measure—what the early pioneers of their faith experienced when they travelled across the plains of North America.
A trek reminds members of the sacrifices and lessons learned by the Church’s 19th century converts as they travelled from America’s Midwest to the Salt Lake Valley. For these youth, it also helped them remember the history of the Church in Tasmania.
In 1854 the first members of the Church in Tasmania were baptized in a small creek in Glen Huon. During the trek the group stopped at the creek to acknowledge the sacrifices made by those who came before them.
Rachael Sayers, one of the trek organisers, described the experience this way: “Imagine this scenario: Over 80 teenagers gather together for four days, all having a desire to work together in groups that are not of their choice, walking over widely varied terrain, through mud and puddles, up and down rocky, slippery hills, working in unity, serving each other, giving their time, sweat, and energy, sharing their faith and testimonies, and without a comfortable place to sleep, without jealousies, without murmurings, without conflicts. Sounds hard to imagine, doesn’t it?”
One young participant, Emma, said, “I have a deeper appreciation for the strength of youth and what they can achieve when they are united and pushed out of their comfort zone.”
Another organiser, Steve King, said, “It is difficult to describe the energy and teamwork that shone forth as the youth and leaders became one in purpose and moved out as a body to take on the arduous journey.”
According to one youth leader, small miracles are not unusual on trek, as it is designed to build faith through sacrifice, courage, and sheer hard work. Those who participated in the Tasmania trek learned who they really are. They are modern-day pioneers facing challenges with determination, faith, and love.

We all make mistakes. Big ones, small ones. Sometimes mistakes can grab us tighter than superglue grabs the wrong place on a model plane, and then we’re stuck.
That’s what happened to me when I was ten.
It all started during a friend’s birthday party. It was evening, and we were in her family’s boat, which was parked in the driveway. We started telling scary stories—the kind that give you the shivers and make you wish that you were at home with your stuffed animals.
Many times my parents had told me not to do such things. They had taught me that Satan was real and powerful in ways that I could not understand. It was a lesson I was sorry to learn for myself. How I wished that I’d been obedient.
It was even fun at first as we laughed the chills away. But soon things changed. The stories got scarier, and a dark, cold feeling came over us and we stopped laughing. We started singing hymns and Primary songs, hoping that we would soon feel better. We even said a prayer.
Over the next couple of days, I couldn’t shake the bad feeling surrounding me. For the first time, I realized just how powerful Satan can be and the consequences that can come from disobedience. I wasn’t just spooked. I wasn’t just scared. I knew with a certainty that a darkness was following me, a darkness that chilled my heart and made my soul quake with fear.
What could I do?
On Wednesday, after school, I walked to the chapel for Primary, which was held during the week in those days. I hoped that I could talk to my Primary teacher and that she would be able to help me find an answer to my problem.
Once I got there, I sat on the curb by the door and waited. And waited. Sitting there with that big building behind me, the wide-open parking lot surrounding me, and the empty field across the street, I felt very alone. I was terrified. I kept sitting there, wondering where everyone was. Why hadn’t anyone come? I went to a different school than the other children in my ward, and I usually didn’t see them walking to Primary. But I knew that someone should have been there—one of the leaders, a teacher, someone starting to set up. But no one came.
I finally realized that I had forgotten that Primary had been canceled. No one was coming.
The awful, lonely feeling grew stronger. It made me feel like I was drowning. I closed my eyes and prayed again for help.
Shortly after I opened my eyes, I heard a car coming around from the other side of the building. I looked up to see a familiar face through the open car window.
President Harold B. Lee, a member of my ward and someone who had been friendly to me, smiled. “Is everything all right?” he asked.
I stood up from the curb and nodded.
“I was on my way home,” he said, “when I was impressed that I should come by the chapel and make sure that everything was all right.”
I looked into the prophet’s face, and suddenly a great warmth filled me from the bottom of my feet to the top of my head. The darkness was gone.
I can’t actually remember if I said anything to him. It isn’t important. What is important is that I knew that not only did Heavenly Father love me but that He had listened to and answered my prayer.
And what an answer! It isn’t often that the prophet and President of the Church is sent to answer a single child’s prayer, but I’m grateful that he was sent. And when I make mistakes, big or small, and I feel them squeezing in around me and I know once more how strong Satan’s power can be, I can hear the prophet’s gentle voice asking, “Is everything all right?” And I know once again that everything can be.

You can learn to look at a sibling’s behavior in a different way. Butch loved to tease, and his pet name for his younger sister was “Brutus.” His sister’s earliest memory of this name is a tape recording:

“Hi. My name is Katie Ald—”
“Brutus.”
“Butch. My name is Katie—”
“Brutus!”
“Stop it!”
“I’m calling the dog.”
“My name is—”
“Brutus!”

Katie’s entire child and teenage life was haunted by this name. With the encouragement of her parents, she ignored it as much as she could and when she couldn’t, she pretended it was meant as a compliment, a term of endearment. By the time her brother left on his mission, it really was an affectionate nickname. This is called reframing. Katie learned to look at the name in a different way.

Butch wishes he hadn’t waited until his mission to establish a friendship with Katie. “I missed my whole family at first, but it was ‘Brutus’ that I missed my whole mission. I couldn’t wait to see her.”