Gospel Story Finder

The choppy waters of the North Sea gently rocked the Speedwell anchored at Delfshaven, Holland. Crowding the ship’s deck were the passengers, along with their families and friends who had come to say good-bye.
Roger gathered his little sister Ellen into his arms. “Be happy that you are going to America,” he said. Ellen wrapped her arms around his neck, and her tears wet his cheek. Releasing herself, she ran to her parents, Kathrine and Edward Howard.
“Oh, Papa! Mama!” she exclaimed. “I don’t want to go away and leave my sister and brother behind.”
“Don’t worry, little sister,” Sarah said, comforting her. “Roger and I will come to America before long. Just wait and see. And remember, Ellen, although you’re almost the littlest Pilgrim on board, you must be brave, because you’re going to a brave new world.”
“Sarah, why are Pilgrims so poor?” Ellen asked. “If we were rich enough, our whole family could go to America. Then I wouldn’t feel so awful.”
“Come on, Ellen, dry your tears. I’ll tell you what—let’s play one more game of pretend before you go. Let’s pretend that I have lots of bags of gold,” suggested Sarah.
Ellen liked to play pretend with Sarah. “What are you going to do with lots of bags of gold?” she asked.
“I’m going to buy a whole fleet of ships. I’ll tell all the Pilgrims to get aboard, and I’ll take them across the ocean where they can never be persecuted again.” Sarah’s smile broadened. “Better still, let’s pretend that I’m a genie. I’ll wrap a magic web around King James, and I’ll say, ‘Aye, Your Majesty, you’re going to be banished to a faraway island where you can never rant and rave and thunder at people or throw them into prison or hang them or clap them into the stocks again. Never again will you tell people how to worship, for they will belong to any church they like.’ And then I’ll sit and watch while he flies into a rage. His beard will bristle, and his face will turn red. Then he’ll spin off into the air to an island of peacocks and apes.”
As Ellen giggled, Sarah hugged her and said, “See, it’s better to laugh than to cry.”
Edward Howard had gone down the plank for one more piece of equipment. When Ellen saw him returning with a strange, heavy load, she asked, “Papa, why are you bringing that big iron screw clamp onto the ship?”
“I’m not sure,” he replied, “but something tells me we’re going to need it.” Papa had worked at the docks for the twelve years they’d been in Holland; he understood about ships.
Sarah and Roger were small when their parents had fled from England to Holland with a group of Separatists, or Pilgrims, but they still remembered the persecutions of King James I. Ellen had been born in Holland, and she loved it because it was home to her. The Dutch people were good to the Pilgrims, allowing them to worship as they pleased. But now the Pilgrim children were speaking mostly Dutch, and the older ones were marrying into Dutch families.
“No one would ever know you’re a little English girl,” Mama once said to Ellen.
“We need to find a country of our own,” Papa declared.
In church on Sundays Ellen bowed her head and listened to Elder Brewster pray. He always thanked Heavenly Father for the kindness the Dutch people had shown them, but lately he had been adding, “Please don’t let us lose our English heritage. Guide us to a land where we can worship as we desire and where we can bring up our children as Englishmen.”
Finally, the prayers were answered, and everyone knew that America was to be their land of promise. A London company agreed to pay their passage there in return for furs, fish, and lumber from America. A patent was given them to settle in the northern part of the Virginia colony. What the Pilgrims didn’t know was that the settlers in Virginia were still bound to the Anglican Church, because King James was not interested in granting freedom of worship to any of his subjects anywhere. However, the king was very interested in the wealth that the English emigrants would send back to England from America.
Since not everyone could go to America at once, it was agreed that Elder Brewster would go with the first group. Pastor John Robinson would remain with those who planned to come later.
So on a July morning in 1620, the emigrants gathered on the deck of the Speedwell and knelt with Pastor Robinson. He stretched his hands toward heaven and, with tears streaming down his cheeks, commended them to the Lord. Then he disembarked.
The people on shore were also crying as they watched the departing ship. Aboard the Speedwell, the rails were crowded with excited, heavyhearted passengers frantically waving a last farewell to those still lining the quay. Ellen waved at Sarah and Roger until they were finally lost from view.
They sailed for England where the Mayflower awaited them. From there the two ships started for America but had to turn back when the Speedwell began leaking badly. The passengers on the Speedwell had to board the Mayflower. Finally the Mayflower, with 102 passengers and its crew, set sail for America on September 16, 1620. Of these voyagers, only thirty-five were Pilgrims. The others were either members of the Anglican Church or strangers and had no intention of changing their religion.
Master Christopher Jones was a rough seadog, as sea captains sometimes had to be. He was also good and kind. He loved his stout, chunky Mayflower and said of her, “Aye, she is apple-cheeked, double-decked, and a fine, sweet ship.”
Closely packed below deck were the stores and livestock of the colony—goats, swine, poultry, bread, butter, cheese, eggs, fish, vegetables, clothing, books, cooking utensils, farm implements, muskets, armor, cannon, and goods for trade with the Indians. The ship’s cargo was so heavy that she rode very low in the sea.
While the Mayflower skimmed westward with the breeze in her sails, Ellen played on deck with four-year-old Mary Allerton, the youngest passenger on board.
“Mary,” Ellen said, “shall we play pretend?”
“How do we play pretend?” Mary asked.
“Well, first, you make believe you’re my sister. Now I need to find a brother. Let me see … John Howland will be just right.” Walking briskly up to him, she said, “Ahoy, mate. A jolly good day it is.”
“Righto!” replied John, grinning. “That it is.”
“Aye, and a jolly good day for pretending,” Ellen added. “Would you like to pretend you’re my brother?”
“I’d like that very much,” the boy answered.
“Then it’s all settled. We are a family. Families stick together on ocean voyages and help each other.” Pretending helped ease Ellen’s homesick longing for Sarah and Roger.
One day a gale came shrieking out of the north. It tugged at the rigging, and the ship strained and groaned. Below deck, the passengers huddled together and comforted each other.
Clinging to her father, Ellen cried, “Papa, is the ship going to sink?”
“No,” he replied. “The Lord wants us to arrive in America.”
“How do you know, Papa?”
“Because He saved us once before when we fled from England and were driven by storms on the North Sea. When the water washed over us, the mariners cried out, ‘We sink! We sink!’ With divine faith, Elder Brewster cried, ‘Yet, Lord, thou canst save!’ The ship recovered, the violent storm ceased, and the Lord filled our minds with much comfort.”
Just then a wall of water lashed across the deck of the Mayflower. Wood cracked and splintered, and the main beam buckled, pulling deck boards with it. Water seeped through to the lower deck.
Cries of terror went up. “The ship is sinking!” a seaman cried.
“Brewster,” a stranger sneered, “I’ve heard about the miracle on the North Sea. See if your prayers can save us now.”
Elder Brewster looked the man in the eye and said, “We know for a certainty the Lord can save. But right now we need to combine work with faith. Come, let’s be up on deck.”
Strong and lusty seamen were struggling against the winds and the waves. The passengers ran to help them push boards against the fractured beam, trying vainly to press it up and together again.
“This iron muscle will help!” Edward Howard shouted. He came forward carrying the great iron screw clamp he had brought from Holland, and the mast was soon repaired. In gratitude the Pilgrims knelt while Elder Brewster committed them once more to the Lord.
For several days the Mayflower wallowed in the subsiding storm. At the first hint of sunshine, Ellen tugged at John Howland’s hand. “I need you to walk on deck with me,” she said.
“All right, little sister, we both need the fresh air.”
On the upper deck, Ellen admiringly patted the main beam so securely mended with her father’s clamp. At that moment a capricious wave sloshed over the deck, and John was washed overboard. Clinging to the mast, Ellen screamed and screamed. Swiftly sailors came. Miraculously John had caught hold of the topsail halyard (rope) that was dangling over the side. The halyard ran out at length, but John held on tightly, and the sailors hauled him in.
Relieved, Ellen buried her face in her hands. “Lord, thank Thee for helping John get hold of the halyard,” she whispered.
Waves and wind were gentle at last. Sailors climbed rope ladders up the mainmast and loosed the sails. While the Mayflower sailed smoothly under the stars, the passengers sweetly slept.
When Ellen awoke, she heard the cry of a newborn baby. Her feet swiftly pattered past the cabin doors until she came to the bedside of Elizabeth Hopkins. Wrapped in a blanket beside her lay the tiny baby. Ellen stared in wonder.
Little Demaris Hopkins grinned and announced, “He’s my brother!”
“Just imagine, Demaris, having a brother born in the middle of the ocean!” Ellen exclaimed.
Steven Hopkins, the baby’s father, patted Ellen on the head. “Guess what we’re going to name him! We’re going to call him Oceanus (Latin word for ocean).”
“Oh, my!” Ellen exclaimed and ran swiftly to tell her mother.
Every day Elder Brewster led the daily prayers, in spite of jeers and complaints. If mighty King James had not intimidated the Pilgrims, however, surely the strangers on board could not.
One of the worst tormenters was a huge, brawny seaman. “Aye, I’ll be burying half of you praying psalm singers at sea,” he taunted. Often he cursed and swore at them bitterly. Then one morning he was stricken. By afternoon he was dead, and his lifeless body was lowered over the side of the ship.
For sixty-six long days and sixty-six long nights, they sailed westward. On the dawn of November 10, 1620, the lookout spied a faint dark line off the starboard bow and raised a cry: “Land, ahoy!” Excitedly the passengers crowded the rail, peering toward the horizon. “Aye, there she is!” Edward shouted. Encircling his wife and little daughter in his arms, he said, “We’re almost home. There is our first glimpse of America.”
All about them people were laughing and crying. As the promised land came closer into view, the Pilgrims burst into songs of joy.
The Mayflower now dropped anchor in Provincetown Harbor, at the tip of Cape Cod. The Pilgrims were heartened, for they had reached the land they had sought so long. But winter was approaching, and they knew they must find a place to settle before the storms came.
A party of men set out to explore the coast. They found a sheltered harbor and a spot where a brook met the sea. There they chose to build their homes. On December 25, they began erecting the first house, and before long the settlement was called Plymouth.
There, through the long, cold winter, the Pilgrims endured hunger and sickness. Many died, but the survivors helped one another and kept their faith.
In the spring, the Pilgrims met the Indians, who taught them how to plant corn and hunt. By autumn the harvest was plentiful, and Governor Bradford proclaimed a day of thanksgiving to the Lord for their blessings.
And so the little girl who had played at pretending with her brother and sister had lived to see her people’s prayers answered. The Pilgrims had found a home where they could worship God in freedom.

Let me share with you for a few moments the positive, progressive attitude of a friend of mine formerly confined in the Utah State Prison. “I don’t want to blame anyone back home for my being in prison, but it is factual that I had no family relationships. I was involved in the family home evening program at the prison. Without the people [parents] who had been assigned to me through this program, many times I would have given up. These people loved me as if I were their own son. I have never had that, even when I was a small boy. Now with their help and the help of others I believe I can make it back a day at a time. I am not proud of having been in prison, but I am proud of my recent experiences while there. We have a tendency to blame others. We don’t want to blame our parents for not loving us, because we know they do, but maybe they didn’t have the guidance and direction in their lives to apply when they were bringing us up.”
Perhaps in the minds of many of us this fine young man would be justified in knocking his parents, knocking society, and knocking our systems, but he didn’t. Instead, he is thanking those who have helped him and is sincerely grateful for the direction in which his life is moving today.
Church attenders in prisons are, unfortunately, in the minority and are often classified by their associates in uncomplimentary terms, but this fine young man, bless his courage, is not ashamed to be identified as a member of “God’s Squad.”

A while ago my sister and I went to do baptisms for the dead. I didn’t think I would feel the Spirit because I didn’t read my scriptures or say my prayers a lot. But I went, and when I was there I felt the Spirit and also felt like the people I was being baptized for were with me. I was so happy that I went home and read my scriptures. I’ve been reading them every day since.Sheri GwynnWest Jordan, Utah

With the high school baseball season in full swing, pitchers in the Eufala, Alabama, area have been doing some shaking in their spikes. They’ve got to face James “Jimbo” Carroll of Lakeside High School, who last season as a sophomore set a national high school record by belting four consecutive home runs in one game. The hapless coach of the opposing team used four different pitchers trying to stop him, but every pitch they ladled out seemed to be his favorite dish. He collected his last four-bagger of the game when the opposing pitcher was attempting a deliberate walk and inadvertently threw the ball a little too close to the plate. He proved he was a solid team player rather than just an occasional fireworks display by batting .417 for the season.
A versatile athlete, Jimbo also plays third base and pitches. As a pitcher he had six wins and three losses. He is also a standout in both football and basketball.
Jimbo is a priest in the Eufala Branch, where branch members held a party in his honor after he set the record. A modest young man of few words, Jimbo says of the Church, “I know it’s true, and I try to live it.”

About eight years ago I set a goal to finish reading the Book of Mormon before the end of the year. It had been a couple of years since I had started it, and I read a lot during November and December to complete my goal. Perhaps it was the holiday season, or perhaps just my marathon reading toward the end, but I found that Joseph Smith’s words were true when he said “a man would get nearer to God by abiding by its precepts, than by any other book” (“Introduction,” Book of Mormon). Because of the way I felt, I set a new goal to read the Book of Mormon before Christmas the next year.
The first year I read all the Book of Mormon, I wrote the date and described my feelings on a note, which I put on the title page. The next year, when I read the Book of Mormon from Christmas to Christmas, I attached another note.
Now I read the Book of Mormon every year. Each time I finish, I immediately read the first verse of 1 Nephi so I’ve already started my reading for the next year.
President Ezra Taft Benson, 13th president of the Church, promised many blessings if we will read the Book of Mormon again and again.
“I bless you with increased understanding of the Book of Mormon. I promise you that from this moment forward, if we will daily sup from its pages and abide by its precepts, God will pour out upon each child of Zion and the Church a blessing hitherto unknown” (Ensign, May 1986, 78).
I love to finish the Book of Mormon each year just before Christmas. It has become my favorite tradition because it helps me feel closer to the Savior. My increased understanding of the book helps me with the difficulties of this life. I know I have received the blessings, even miracles, that President Benson promised.

The very next day I had to go to the temple alone, leaving my family behind at the patron house. When I entered the temple, I was struck with fear because of language. I felt confused not knowing what to do, where to go, and how to participate in the ordinances. I was troubled. But God comforted me by offering help. Just then a sister appeared. She was full of love, she welcomed me with a hug; I was filled with warmth of the Holy Ghost—the Comforter. Thereafter, I was taught everything by the Holy Ghost. And I witnessed the presence of Heavenly Father and His Only Begotten Son, Jesus Christ, in the temple. I had a very glorious experience—an experience that will guide me through eternity. I knew then that no witness is given to us until after the trail of our faith.

When John Taylor was called to serve a mission in England with Wilford Woodruff, he was very poor. He arrived in New York with only one cent left.
Parley Pratt, who wanted to publish information about the Church, asked John if he had any money.
John: I have plenty of money.
Parley: I need funds for publishing. Could you give me two or three hundred dollars?
John: Well, Brother Parley, you are welcome to anything I have, if it will be of service to you.
Parley: I thought you said you had plenty of money!
John: I have clothes to wear, and you give me food and a place to stay. With a penny over, I owe nothing. Is that not plenty?
Some of the brethren preparing to go to England had a meeting and decided that they should help John pay for his passage to England.
John: No! If you have any extra money, give it to Parley to help support his family and publish his pamphlets.
Brother: But how will you get to England without money?
John wasn’t worried. As he started on his journey, he never asked for money. But people followed the promptings of the Holy Ghost and donated enough to pay not only for his passage to England, but also for another elder. John had known that the Lord would take care of him.

Amid my despair, I remembered a time that our ward held an activity called “Christmas in Bethlehem.” Ward members came dressed up as if they were living at the time Jesus was born. Erica, who was four years old at the time, wore a hand-me-down long, white dress and a scarf wrapped around her head. The culmination of the evening was a reenactment of the Nativity in a mock stable decorated with bales of hay and a manger. A young couple with their newborn played the parts of Mary, Joseph, and the baby Jesus.
As we gathered around the nativity, I noticed that Erica was missing from my side. I panicked until I caught a flash of her white dress near the nativity. Then my panic shifted from fear for her welfare to fear that she would disrupt the scene. I was about to call out to her, but I paused and watched as she made her way to the manger.
Erica quietly knelt next to Mary and looked up at her as if to get her permission. Then Erica reached out and tenderly caressed the sleeping baby. I was not the only one who noticed. Others soon quieted and watched as she knelt close to the baby. A tender feeling permeated the group as they realized that this baby was the Christ child for Erica.
In my grief, this Christmas memory brought feelings of peace and comfort as I recalled my young daughter’s devotion. My mind had been full of questions about life and death—questions that didn’t seem to matter as much before Erica’s death. As I pondered the Resurrection and the Crucifixion, I identified with Mary. She loved her newborn Son, and she later endured terrible pain and anguish as she witnessed His suffering and death. Christ was not spared the cross, and Mary was not spared her grief.

Reader E: When people are different from me, sometimes I don’t know how to react. When I was a child, mama used to tell me not to stare or point at people who were different. And when I grew older, if I saw someone coming toward me who had a limp, or no arm, or a purple scar or whatever, I’d look the other way. Or if I had to be close to someone who talked funny or was really old, I’d look at him and smile nervously, because that seemed to be the sophisticated thing to do. But I wouldn’t know what to say. So I’d just smile and feel dumb. Then one time, when I was serving as Laurel class president, a new family moved into the ward. They had a daughter my age, Cheri. Cheri was in a wheelchair. She’d been in a car accident and had brain damage. She wasn’t intellectually retarded, but she couldn’t talk like everyone else. When she first came to our Mutual class, I was real big about it. I practically shouted at her to make sure she understood, [loud and enunciating] “We sure are glad to have you here.” Then she answered back with what looked like a smile, and struggling for each word:
Reader C: “I … am not … deaf … or … or … dumb.”
Reader E: She kind of nodded and smiled again. And I smiled back. But I still didn’t know how to treat her or how to talk to her. A couple of weeks later, I was having a party at my house. I invited all the girls from my Laurel class, except Cheri. I didn’t invite her because I was embarrassed, I was afraid. I didn’t know what to do with a girl in a wheelchair at my party. She’d probably need a nurse I thought, or else we’d all sit around feeling sorry for her and I’d be embarrassed in front of my friends. I don’t think she ever found out she’d been left out, but when I saw Cheri the next Sunday, I smiled extra big to make up for it. Then it happened. Testimony meeting came. I saw Cheri’s mother get the microphone from the deacon. Then she handed it to Cheri whose wheelchair was in the aisle. For a moment I thought, “How can Cheri do that? Isn’t she embarrassed for herself because she can’t talk well? Won’t the whole congregation be uncomfortable for her?” Then Cheri started to talk. I felt nervous. But I listened as she spoke:
Reader C: “And … I … am … thankful … for the … kids … in Mutual. … I … was … afraid … they … would not … accept … me. But they … are … my friends.”
Reader E: I felt guilty. Because I’d been nice to Cheri, but I hadn’t really been her friend. Cheri went on to tell a little about her accident and how hard it was to change her way of life, but that Heavenly Father had blessed her with strength and she had grown to know herself. I began to imagine myself in Cheri’s place, how I would feel, how I would cope. I began to understand her. And the funny thing is, when I understood, I wasn’t embarrassed. When I understood, I wasn’t afraid.

A few months later, Alasdair went to the theater again with his family. His mother smiled as they looked through the program together. “A lot of people have liked this play,” she said. “It should be good!”
After the show started, Alasdair started to get a bad feeling. The characters in the play weren’t very nice to each other, and some of them used language he knew wasn’t good. At intermission, he leaned over to talk to Mom and Dad. “I don’t like this play,” he said. “It isn’t making me feel good.”
Intermission—a short break in the middle of a play
“Me neither,” Sutton said. “Maybe we should leave.”
“That’s what Mom and I were thinking,” Dad said. “Let’s go.”
“I don’t get it,” Alasdair said as they left the theater. “Why did I feel bad during the play? The last time we were at the theater, I felt so good!”
“Maybe it’s because the Holy Ghost wasn’t there,” Sutton said.
“It didn’t feel very good,” Alasdair said glumly.
“It’s important to pay attention to how we feel when we watch things,” Sutton replied. “That’s how the Holy Ghost tells us what’s good and what’s not. He can help us know when we’re somewhere we shouldn’t be.”
As Alasdair walked with his family down to the subway station, he noticed that the bad feeling was starting to go away. Instead he was feeling happy that he had made the right decision.
Alasdair ran to catch up with Sutton. “I hope we go back to the theater soon,” he said to her. “But I’m only going to see plays the Holy Ghost can see too!”

Let me take a few minutes to tell you about a beautiful young lady of whom we are all very proud. I will identify her as Diane because that is her real name. Diane was captain of the University of Utah’s first national women’s championship gymnastics team. In Miami, Florida, for the first-ever American professional tour, she over-rotated on a practice vault, landed on her neck, and damaged her spinal cord. Her slender, delicate body, which had endured hundreds of hours of demanding routines and the accompanying torturous training, was broken. The gal with the dazzling smile who was recognized as the heart of the team was now faced with the challenge of accepting sympathy as her reward or getting on with her life.
Early in her gymnastics career when someone asked her, “Aren’t you afraid of getting hurt?” she replied, “No, you take the glory and you take the knocks. I’ll just take whatever comes.”
Diane’s capacity to cope and get on with her life is best measured by her graduating from college two and one-half years after being paralyzed from the chest down. Wheelchair- bound, she seldom missed a class, was a good student, and was popular with classmates and instructors.
Just a few weeks ago Diane wheeled herself into a third-grade classroom in a Salt Lake area elementary school, swallowed hard, and faced the curious students as their nervous teacher. “I’ve always wanted to be a teacher,” she says with conviction. “I can’t think of anything I’d want to do more.” “How about performing in the Olympics?” she was asked. “Yes,” she responds wistfully, “I wanted that a lot, too.”
How refreshing is her enduring attitude: “I always got around fairly well on campus in my wheelchair alone, but when I came to steep hills I made friends in a hurry.”
Diane has taken the knocks and the glory. She cares and she shares. She finds fun where others may not see it: “I’m genuinely happy and content with my life. I’m not bitter or angry. In a way I’m just as athletic as I ever was.”
With her superb attitude and self-discipline, and with the help of a loving family, friends, and students, she continues to “go for the gold.” Diane, thank you for teaching us what enduring is all about.

It doesn’t take expensive gifts to make Christmas meaningful. I am reminded of a story told by Elder Glen L. Rudd, who served as a member of the Seventy from 1987 to 1992. One day before Christmas a number of years ago, while he was managing a bishops’ storehouse, he learned from an ecclesiastical leader about a needy family that had recently moved to the city. When he went to visit their small apartment, he discovered a young single mother with four children under age 10.
The family’s needs were so great that the mother could not buy treats or presents for her children that Christmas—she couldn’t even afford a tree. Brother Rudd talked with the family and learned that the three little girls would love a doll or a stuffed animal. When he asked the six-year-old son what he wanted, the hungry little boy replied, “I would like a bowl of oatmeal.”
Brother Rudd promised the little boy oatmeal and maybe something else. Then he went to the bishops’ storehouse and gathered food and other supplies to meet the immediate needs of the family.
That very morning a generous Latter-day Saint had given him 50 dollars “for someone in need.” Using that donation, Brother Rudd bundled up three of his own children and went Christmas shopping—his children selecting toys for the needy children.
After loading up the car with food, clothing, gifts, a Christmas tree, and some ornaments, the Rudds drove to the family’s apartment. There they helped the mother and her children set up the tree. Then they placed presents under it and presented the little boy with a large package of oatmeal.
The mother wept, the children rejoiced, and they all sang a Christmas song. That night as the Rudd family gathered for dinner, they gave thanks that they could bring some Christmas cheer to another family and help a little boy receive a bowl of oatmeal.1

One sunny day when I was seven years old, I was playing outside my grandmother’s home while my family visited on the front porch. As I walked along a shrubbery-lined path by the side of the house, I suddenly felt a sharp, terrible pain in my ankle. My family heard my screams and rushed to my side. To their shock they saw that I had been bitten by a snake.
I had to get to a doctor, but we were out in the country and didn’t have a car. My uncle ran several miles to a neighbor’s home to borrow a cattle truck, and once we were in the truck, we even had to stop to get gasoline. My leg started swelling, and we didn’t know what kind of snake had bitten me.
We finally reached the hospital—a little one-story frame building—and after some tests, the doctor determined that I had been bitten by a rattlesnake. Judging from the fang marks, it had been a huge snake—about five feet long! As the poison from the bite rose in my blood, it turned my skin black, until it was black only two or three inches below my heart.
I was in the hospital for many days, and it was a painful and difficult time. I can remember having nightmares and screaming. One time, a young medical student who lived in a house across the street heard my screams as he was taking a shower. He dashed over to the hospital to help me with just a towel wrapped around him. Another time, the owner of a small restaurant about two blocks away became alarmed when he heard me, and he called the hospital, wanting to know what was going on.
I’m told I almost didn’t survive, but while in the hospital I was given a blessing. Because I was unconscious at the time, I didn’t hear the words, but my family later told me that I had been blessed that my life would be preserved for a special purpose. My relatives later told and retold this experience at family gatherings. This has given my life special meaning, and it has strengthened my testimony of the importance and power of the priesthood.

“Oh no,” Michael moaned to himself. “Not another errand!” He knew that he shouldn’t feel this way. He loved his father. But ever since his father’s accident, it seemed like all he ever did was ask Michael to run errands for him.
“I’m coming.” Michael could hear the irritation in his words and guiltily hoped that his father would hear it, too, and respond with a “Never mind.” But there was no reply, so Michael slowly made his way to his parents’ bedroom.
Even though it had been over four months since the car accident, it still seemed strange to see his father in bed during the daytime hours. Michael knew that it was difficult for his father to lie there day after day, but it was difficult for him, too. He had been eager to run errands for his father during the first few weeks. But lately it was getting harder to give up what he wanted to do. Again today he had had to tell his best friend, Brad, that he couldn’t come over after school because he was needed at home.
It didn’t help that in a few days Michael would turn twelve. There would be few presents and no party with his friends. His mother and father had said that they were sorry—they didn’t have the time or the money this year for a friend party. It would have to be a family-only party.
Life before the accident seemed like a distant dream. Money had not been a real problem then. Now Michael worried more and more about what would happen to him and his family. His mother had taken a part-time job at a bakery to help make ends meet. Michael knew that as the oldest child in his family, he had a responsibility to help as much as he could. Lately, though, that responsibility seemed to weigh more and more, even though he did the same things: caring for his younger siblings, mowing the lawn, vacuuming the carpet, washing clothes and dishes, helping prepare meals when Mom worked late, and running errands for Dad.
As Michael went into his parents’ bedroom, the afternoon sun spilled through the window and across the multicolored quilt tucked around his father. His father turned the quilt back and slowly pushed himself up against the pillows behind him. “Michael, come here a minute, please.” Even though his face showed the strain of sitting up, he smiled at Michael. “I have an errand for you.”
Michael could feel the irritation building again. He didn’t want to run any more errands.
“Please get my scriptures for me. They’re on top of the dresser.” Michael’s father pointed toward the far end of the room.
Michael had always liked the smell and feel of the leather cover of his father’s worn scriptures. He handed them to his father and was about to leave, when his father said, “Hold on a minute. I want to say something to you. I know that these past four months have not been easy for you. You’ve given up a lot to help take care of me and the rest of the family. I want you to know how much I appreciate what you have done and how much I love you.” As Michael felt his irritation begin to seep away, his father continued. “There’s something else I want you to know. Even though you’ve given up many things, I’ve noticed that you’ve acquired others that are more important.”
“Huh?” Michael could think of several things that he’d given up, but nothing that he had gained during the past four months. “What things?”
“Well, every time you run an errand for me, you come back with something for both of us.”
None of what his father was saying made any sense to Michael. Maybe the accident caused some brain damage, he thought with concern.
Michael’s father saw his look of bewilderment and laughed softly. “Let me explain. I’ve seen you grow more these past four months than at any other time in your life. Every time you went on an errand, you came back with more maturity, more talents, and more skills.” He held up the scriptures. “The Savior taught that He only did the things His Father sent Him to do. His whole life was an errand for His Father. He willingly gave up His will to do the will of His Father. Because of that, He received everything His Father has.* In a few days, you’ll receive the Aaronic Priesthood and will be ordained a deacon. Do you know what that means?”
“I’ll be able to pass the sacrament, and I’ll go to priesthood meeting instead of Primary.”
“That’s right. But it means much more than that. It also means that you will be on the Lord’s errand. If you always do what He asks of you, even if it means giving up everything you have, what you receive in return will be far more valuable than any earthly possession or entertainment.”
Michael left the room with a completely different feeling than he’d had when he had entered. Pondering what his father had said, he realized that not all the changes in his life had been too hard—not if they made him a better person.
From downstairs, he heard his mother call, “Michael, can you run an errand for me?”
This time, he responded quickly and with joy.

July 11. Our family got back this morning from a three-day trip to Buck’s Lake. I called Billy to see if we could get together, maybe go to a Saturday matinee or hike in the hills or something. His mother said he could not play … because he’d died two days ago. She began to cry, and Billy’s father got on the phone. He told me that Billy had seen a neighbor’s puppy in the street, and when he ran out to carry it to where it would be safe, he’d been hit by a car. It wasn’t the driver’s fault, Billy’s dad said. It wasn’t anybody’s fault. It just happened. I asked Dad if he could give me a blessing of comfort. I guess I’m having a hard time dealing with it.

He’d never forget the day he’d driven the car home from the paint shop, so gloriously white that it glowed. She had been waiting on the porch when he’d rounded the corner, his horn blasting across the neighborhood. She’d whooped and hollered and raced him to his driveway.

“It’s beautiful! It’s all white and pretty, and it’s ours!”

“You bet it is, kid. Hop inside and we’ll take it for a spin.”

They had gone to the toy store, had bought a red kite with long white streamers, and had taken it to the beach. The sky had been filled with puffy white clouds and a crisp breeze that carried the kite high into the sky and over the waves. He had given her the string, once he’d gotten the kite into the air, and she had run across the sand, her bare feet kicking a trail behind her. The kite had faltered, then fallen, slow and steady, until it had dipped into the ocean and disappeared.

“The kite! It’s drowning!”

“It’s okay.” He’d picked her up and lifted her onto his shoulders. “We’ll buy another one.”

“Wow, I’m on top of the world!”

“Ouuff, you’re on top of me, fatso.”

She had giggled and squealed, and for the first time he’d realized how much he really loved the kid.

Justina sat extra tall in her seat. She placed her new pencils at the top of her desk. Today was the first day of school. She’d met her classmates and drawn a fun picture. So far, so good.
Then Mrs. Werner said, “Time to work on writing!” Mrs. Werner handed out papers to the class. “You have 30 minutes to work on this. Then we’ll go to recess.”
Justina gulped. Oh no. Writing already? she thought.
Last year Justina had a hard time with reading and writing. All of her friends seemed to like it. It wasn’t so hard for them. What if this year was like last year all over again?
Justina picked up her pencil. She looked at her paper. Her stomach sank. All the other students were already writing. Except for her.
She wanted to talk to Mrs. Werner. Would she be mad that Justina was having trouble? Even if she was, that still sounded better than writing.
Justina walked to her teacher’s desk. “Mrs. Werner? This is harder than what I did last year. I don’t think I can do it.”
Mrs. Werner didn’t look upset. She smiled at Justina. “Do what you can. You might be surprised at what you can do! You can’t always choose what you’re good at. But you can always choose how hard you try.”
Justina walked back to her desk. She thought about what Mrs. Werner said. I can choose to try. That was like what she learned in Primary. Her class read a scripture that said we are “free to choose.”
Could school be different this year? Justina wondered. Maybe she could choose to make it different! Justina picked up her pencil. She looked at her paper. She took a deep breath. OK. I’m going to try, she thought.
The recess bell rang. Justina wasn’t finished yet. But she was more than halfway done! She raised her hand. “Can I stay and keep working? I’m so close to being done!”
Mrs. Werner smiled and nodded.
Justina finally handed in her paper. Her hand ached a little bit. Even her brain hurt! But she was smiling. She had never worked so hard on writing before.
The next day the class worked on reading. Mrs. Werner asked everyone to read for 20 minutes. Justina tried again. She opened her book and sounded out the words.
Justina started making new choices every day. She chose to read. She chose to write. Maybe reading and writing weren’t so bad!
She even chose to go to the library. She checked out books. Last year she would have never done that. Soon she was reading all the time. It was actually fun! And the more she read, the better she got at writing.
And soon, reading and writing became some of her favorite things to do!

“Mom!” The high-pitched wail made me wince.
What now? I wondered. The children had gone to bed, and I was going about my evening activities. My husband was at a late meeting.
I went upstairs, bracing myself for what I thought was another argument between siblings, and found my youngest child, Michaella, with red-rimmed eyes. “My ear hurts, Mom.”
Oh, no, I thought. Why does this always happen at night? I couldn’t justify the expense of an emergency-room visit for an ear infection, so I used all the home remedies I knew and tucked her in. “Try to sleep now,” I said. “I’ll call the doctor as soon as her office opens in the morning.”
Downstairs again, I felt anxious and could not concentrate. I went to the kitchen and halfheartedly began to wipe the counters. Then with a sudden motion I threw down the cloth. I headed back upstairs to check on Michaella, moving softly in case she was asleep. I stopped halfway up. Through the open door at the top of the stairs, I could hear sobs.
I could not take it. I couldn’t just stand by, helpless, while my child suffered. I sank down on the stairs, tears running down my face. I prayed. I pleaded. I trembled as I told the Lord I would do everything I could to help my daughter and then I would leave the rest up to Him. After taking a few deep breaths, I climbed the rest of the stairs, sat on my daughter’s bed, and smoothed her damp hair.
“It hurts bad, Mom.” The usual dimple in her cheek wasn’t there. Her face was pale. Fatigue and pain had made dark smudges under her eyes.
I decided I would not wait until my husband returned; I would risk looking like an overanxious, overprotective, and overreacting mother. “I’m going to call our home teacher, OK?”
Michaella nodded.
I made the call, feeling somewhat awkward. When I asked our home teacher if he would give Michaella a blessing, his answer was, “Of course.” A short while later he arrived, smiling, as if driving out late at night was his favorite thing to do.
While he performed the blessing I felt hope lighten my heavy heart. I thanked him as he left, then put Michaella to bed again. She was asleep within minutes.
The next morning she seemed so much better, I was tempted to skip calling the pediatrician. But I had promised the Lord I would do everything I could.
Later that morning, I watched the doctor closely. She peered through her scope into Michaella’s ear and said, “You didn’t get much sleep last night, did you?” It wasn’t really a question; it was a statement.
“She slept straight through the night,” I said.
I took a mental photograph of the doctor’s astonished face.
I knew then that we had had our own little miracle. No seas were parted, no lepers cleansed, no dead raised. It had simply been a night of peace, without pain, for a little girl.
For me, it was enough.

My first year as a member of the Church was a long and difficult one, but also full of rewards. Being the only member in your family isn’t the easiest thing, and I also received much persecution from old friends. In May of 2004, I received the Melchizedek Priesthood and a call to serve in the Virginia Richmond Mission, speaking Spanish. I left my nonmember family in July of 2004, not knowing exactly what I was getting myself into or just what it was that I was leaving behind.

During the beginning months of my mission, I heard many things from many friends about the progress of my parents in the Church. They had been attending church off and on and had allowed the missionaries to come by every so often. I was always excited to hear news. Then one Saturday morning my mission president told me he had just spoken with my stake president about my parents. My parents had decided to join the Church. The gospel had now changed their lives for the better, just as it had mine only two years before.

I am so grateful for my Savior Jesus Christ and for the opportunity I had to serve Him as a missionary. I now understand more fully the plan of salvation. I know that this is the gospel and Church of Jesus Christ. Upon returning from my mission in July of 2006 I was overjoyed to enter the Mesa temple with my parents, where we were sealed as a family for time and all eternity. It’s a day I could hardly have imagined just a few years earlier.

My father’s father came from Sweden, and his wife from England. They met on the ship coming over. He waited for her to grow up, and then he proposed marriage. They were married in the Salt Lake Temple, and he wrote in his journal, “Today is the happiest day of my life. My sweetheart and I were married for time and eternity in the holy temple.”

Three days later, on April 23, 1898, he wrote, “Took the train at the Rio Grande Western Depot enroute eventually to Scandinavia, where I have been called as a missionary.” Off he went to Sweden, leaving his bride of three days.

His journal, written in pencil, came to me from an uncle who somehow chose me to receive his father’s journal. The most frequent entry in the journal was, “My feet are wet.” But the most beautiful entry said: “Today we went to the Jansson home. We met Sister Jansson. She had a lovely dinner for us. She is a good cook.” And then he said, “The children all sang or played a harmonica or did a little dance, and then she paid her tithing. Five krona for the Lord and one for my companion, Elder Ipson, and one for me.” And then there were listed the names of the children.

When I read that in the journal, there was my wife’s father’s name as one who was in that household, one who probably sang a song, one who became the father of only one daughter, the girl whom I married.