Gospel Story Finder

It was Christmas Eve. We had just gotten our new pajamas, a tradition in our family. The kids played Christmas music and everyone danced around. No one was grumpy; everyone was happy, smiling, and having fun. Knowing that I was expecting another child, I was thinking about how much I loved our family, about how excited I was to have one more child on the way.
Then I felt a distinct impression. The Spirit whispered to me that one of our family members wouldn’t be with us next year.
Later that night, as my husband, Tim, and I were putting gifts under the tree, he told me that he had felt an impression earlier that evening that one of our family members wouldn’t be with us for our next Christmas Eve. I told Tim I had received the same impression.
Before we left on a post-Christmas trip to visit family out of state, Tim talked to our children about being safe while we traveled. We were troubled by the thought of losing a family member on our trip, but we felt reassured that all would be well. We traveled, had a great visit with family members, and returned home safely.
Soon it was time for my regular prenatal checkup. The doctor delivered sad news. An ultrasound confirmed that the baby had died two weeks before the visit.
As Tim and I drove home, devastated, we realized that two weeks before had been Christmas Eve. We don’t know exactly when the spirit enters the body, but Tim and I feel that our baby got to be with our family, if only for a moment, on that Christmas Eve with everyone dancing around and being happy. We felt so much joy, and we feel the baby was a part of it. When he left us, we believe he became the member of our family who wouldn’t be with us the next Christmas Eve. I believe that someday we’ll get to see our baby again. I’m grateful for the peace that brings to me.

Kumifonua (Fonua) Taumoepenu found that the strength of conviction may come even after periods of loss and inactivity. Shortly after his baptism in 1995, Fonua served in many positions in the Church. He also worked for a soft drink company and was very successful, rising quickly through the ranks. But he was frequently away from home and found himself slowly moving away from his spiritual convictions. After a time he even began engaging in activities he knew he shouldn’t.
One day Fonua ran into a group of men who, though unprovoked, beat him so badly he had to be taken to the hospital. While there Fonua began to reflect on his life and the poor decisions he had made. “I realized something was wrong with the way I was living,” he says. “My example caused my children to make poor decisions too. They were doing things they shouldn’t do.”
Fonua decided it was time to change. He worked hard to repent, became worthy to enter the temple, and began attending regularly. One evening in the temple, he reflected on his life. “I knew I was worthy to be there,” he says, “but I felt uncomfortable. I looked back on my life and evaluated what I had done. I had not been a good servant of the Lord. And I needed answers too. I wanted a new job that would make it easier to stay clean.”
Fonua had just been offered a well-paying job in New Zealand. His family had encouraged him to take it because such jobs were hard to come by. “But I worried about leaving my family in Tonga and about how I would stay clean living so far away,” he says.
While in the temple, Fonua offered his heart in prayer to Heavenly Father. “I made a commitment to myself and to God that I would do what He wants for me. It was different from any commitment I had ever made before. And I received an answer there in the temple about how I could permanently change my life.”
Instead of taking the job in New Zealand, Fonua decided to stay in Tonga and look for better work. During this time, he was called as a temple worker. As he served faithfully, he says, “the Lord blessed me for righteous choices.” Fonua soon gained a major contract cleaning buildings. “It was a tremendous blessing. I could stay in Tonga with my family, take care of them, and serve in the temple.
“All that I have, all my blessings, come from being a servant of the Lord. I will never forget that moment in the temple. Even my children have been blessed. Before, they had caused a lot of trouble for Church members. But they’ve changed. They participate in church. There’s a great happiness in our home now—all because of the Lord.”

Even though most of my friends think I am too old to read the Friend, I still skim through it every time it arrives in the mail. The story “Bald Heads and Buddies” on page 36 in the April 2012 issue caught my eye. I have a friend who had a cancerous tumor and lost all of her hair during treatment. (She’s fine now.) Moved by your story, I photocopied it and sent it to her with a note explaining what magazine it was from and how it made me think of her. I hope to be as supportive of my friend as I help her through her struggles. Thank you for the inspiration.

“About a year ago I was on assignment in Beirut, Lebanon. While there, I learned about a 12-year-old girl, Sarah. Her parents and two older siblings had converted to the Church in Romania but were then required to return to their homeland when Sarah was just 7 years of age. In their homeland there was no Church presence, no organized units, no Sunday School or Young Women program. After five years this family learned of a branch in Beirut and, just before I arrived, sent their 12-year-old daughter, Sarah, accompanied by older siblings, to be baptized. While there, I gave a devotional on the plan of salvation. With some frequency Sarah raised her hand and answered the questions.
“After the meeting, and knowing of her almost nonexistent Church exposure, I approached her and asked, ‘Sarah, how did you know the answers to those questions?’ She immediately replied, ‘My mother taught me.’ They did not have the Church in their community, but they did have the gospel in their home.”

One night when our children were younger, we were having family scripture time. We read about the Savior and talked about how He never made any mistakes.
Later that night my wife tucked our three-year-old daughter, Susie, into bed. Susie looked up at her mother and said, “Mummy, Jesus did make a mistake.”
“What do you mean?” her mother asked.
“He broke something,” Susie said.
Somewhat puzzled, her mother asked, “What did He break?”
“Jesus broke the bands of death,” Susie answered.
My wife realized that she and Susie had sung the Primary song “On a Golden Springtime” many times, and Susie had learned the words “On a golden springtime, Jesus Christ awoke and left the tomb where He had lain; the bands of death He broke.”* Susie’s mother explained that breaking the bands of death means that Jesus was resurrected so that we can all live again after we die.
That conversation has given my wife and me many opportunities to teach our daughters, Lizzie, Susie, and Emma, about what the Atonement really means for each of us. Susie was right: Jesus did break the bands of death. But it wasn’t a mistake. It was the greatest gift He could give us! (See Doctrine and Covenants 14:7.)
The Savior died and was resurrected so that we can live again with our Heavenly Father and our families according to our righteousness. If we are worthy, we can enjoy the blessings of immortality and eternal life someday. I am grateful that Jesus broke something—the bands of death!

When my mission ended, all those experiences helped me stay hopeful in the chaotic and superficial world back home. I returned home at a very difficult time for my family and my country. There were many political and economic problems, and many families were emigrating to other countries because of the lack of employment and education opportunities. I couldn’t believe that things had changed so much in such a short time, even within my own family. Some of my loved ones and friends had also passed away. I felt so overwhelmed with all the difficulties surrounding me.
One day, feeling discouraged, I took out my study notebook and began to write about the feelings in my heart. I thought of the many experiences I had had while serving others on my mission. Recalling those special experiences was exactly what I needed to lose myself even more in His work, to serve and continue to develop the gifts that He has blessed me with. That day a very special phrase that my mission president’s wife always repeated to us stood out to me: “You can do hard things.” I have tried to remember that continuously, including while learning to use a prosthetic hand and trying to live a normal life.

I really like living in Maine, especially in the fall. I like drawing, writing, and reading. You can’t punish me by sending me to my room, because I’m there all the time!
In December of 2017 I was diagnosed with depression. I’m seeing a therapist, and I take medication for it. At first I didn’t want anyone to know I was depressed. I thought that I was just sad and that I would get over it on my own. Since my mom found out I wasn’t OK, I have been getting the help and support I need.
Music has also really helped me. When I’m feeling down, I listen to music. One of the bands I like has a lead singer who deals with depression. Their songs are written to help their fans get through depression and other hard things. The hymn “I Stand All Amazed” has also helped me. It reminds me that there is someone out there that loves me, that I’m not alone, and that Jesus died for me. Music has a different and deeper meaning than words on their own.
If you are feeling depressed, talk to an adult you trust. You are not alone—you really aren’t.
Angelina O., 14, Maine, USA

The Otara Stake organised around its stake centre in heart of South Auckland, home for many Polynesians. SouthSeas Healthcare provided the vaccination services in cooperation with the NRHCC. The chapel is located on a very busy road, so a group of volunteers went out to the sidewalk and waved colorful Polynesian flags at the passing vehicles. Many stopped in to queue up for vaccination.
Aupito William Sio, the minister for Pacific peoples, minister for courts and a member of the New Zealand Parliament, joined the event. He offered his congratulations on a great turnout and on the level of collaboration between government, community, and religious organizations.
“I appeal to all in our community to come together around our traditional values to protect our families and loved ones so that we can endure into the future,” he said. “In the villages of Auckland, we have the power of the chiefs who can use their voices to persuade others to do the right thing. While this is a remarkable work, this effort must go on.”

Another time, Kim and Christy’s 13-year-old cousin and her parents dropped in unannounced from Los Angeles.

“They invited us out to dinner and we talked about the Church,” Christy said. “Our cousin seemed really interested, and her parents said it was okay for her to listen to the missionaries.”

Kim told about a home evening during which the missionaries taught about Christ, baptism, and temple work. “She was excited about her family being sealed together,” Kim said.

Now the cousin is being baptized. “And she’s working on her parents too,” Christy said.

“It doesn’t just have to be adults who are responsible for getting their families sealed,” Kim said. “Share the gospel with children and teenagers, and their parents may get interested too.”

“Manya,” invited her mother, “go into the garden and play. Your sisters and your brother have been outdoors since daybreak and here you are with your nose still buried in that book.”
With a deep sigh, Manya Sklodowska obediently put down the book and went out to join her sisters and her brother. Soon tiring of playing in the garden, they went into the nearby forest to pick the berries that had just started to ripen. Of course, they ate more than they picked because none of them could resist the delicious sweetness of the fruit.
Although Manya, the youngest of the family, had been christened Marja, she immediately became Manya to her family and friends.
Manya’s childhood was a happy one. The Sklodowska family was poor in material things but they were wealthy with the richness that comes from love of God and their country Poland. Manya’s father had the post of Professor of Physics at the university in Warsaw and encouraged his children to read the books in his library.
Next to the bookshelves was a glass case containing what Professor Sklodowska called his specimens, which he had collected during his physics classes. It was here that Manya spent a great deal of her time. “Some day,” she told herself, “I will learn what each of these is.”
Although Manya was not old enough to attend regular school, her older sisters involved her when they studied. Because of this, Manya was soon able to read and write, even before she entered school.
One privilege she did not have was a place at the big desk where her sisters did their homework. But as soon as she became a student, she, too, was allowed to join them, and these occasions became some of the happiest moments of her life. Manya had the kind of memory that retained everything she read, a gift that lasted throughout her life.
Manya’s teachers found her to be an exceptional student, and her grades were always among the highest in her classes. Nothing seemed too difficult for her, and soon she found herself two years ahead of the rest of the students in her starting class. But often she thought of the glass shelf in her father’s study containing his specimens. She repeatedly told herself that one day they would no longer be a mystery to her.
After graduating from the Russian Lycee (high school), Manya was selected as a gold-medal winner. Although this was not the first time a member of her family had achieved that honor, this was a tremendous event in her life.
“I think I will take a holiday now,” she told her family and friends. “I need to relax.” And off she went to the countryside, far from the bustling city of Warsaw.
How she loved the country! All was peaceful and happy there with picnics, balls, and dances that lasted far into the night. Many handsome young Polish men came from the neighboring villages to join in the festivities.
Too soon the good times came to an end. Manya’s father had invested his money unwisely, and so the Sklodowska sisters had to find a way to earn a living for themselves. In those days there was little opportunity for well-brought up women to earn a livelihood. Manya decided that her way would be to become a teacher. This was the kind of work she loved. She was no longer called Manya but Mademoiselle Marja (Marie) instead, because she had become a young lady with the responsibility of teaching others.
For six years Marja did what she thought would be her life’s work—teaching others. However, all of this changed when, on a visit to her father, she immediately saw the changes that had taken place in her absence. He had been able to add a laboratory to his workroom. Although to many it seemed a strange place for a young lady to spend her time, Marja soon found herself very much at home among the test tubes and beakers. For the first time in her life, Marja knew what she was meant to do. First of all, though, she would have to continue with her studies.
All of her life Marja’s father had told her that there were many ways to solve a problem. Her funds were insufficient for her to spend additional time in school without help. She wrote to her married sister Bronia in Paris to see whether she could repay part of the money Marja had once loaned her to go to medical school. Bronia responded, and with that and what other money Marja managed to get together, she was able to return to school.
In Paris, Marja became completely involved with the study of physics. When she married a young scientist by the name of Pierre Curie, they worked as a team to discover two new elements, polonium and radium, now so important to the medical world.
The rest is history. Manya, Marja, or Marie (as the French people called her), together with her husband Pierre, made some of the most important discoveries in the annals of medicine. Countless lives have benefited because a young girl once told herself that one day she would know all about the minerals in her father’s workshop. Her dedicated research led her to find out things that even her father never dreamed of discovering.
In 1903, Marie and Pierre Curie shared the coveted Nobel Prize for Physics with Henri Becquerel. In 1911, five years after the untimely death of Pierre, Marie Curie was awarded the Nobel Prize for Chemistry.

Hello. My name is Corbett Carrel. I am eleven years old and in the fifth grade. I enjoy school very much and love academic challenges. When my teacher, Mr. Scullin, explained to our class that we would each have the opportunity to compete in a geography bee, I became very excited. I was hopeful that I would perform well and have the opportunity to advance to the second level.
On the first day of the competition, I did very well, answering four out of six questions correctly. I was very encouraged about the competition. On the second day, I was given the final question of the round. Needless to say, I was nervous. At this point I was in second place and needed to answer the final question correctly in order to advance to the next level.
The time had arrived. It was my turn. When I was able to answer the question given to me correctly, I was very excited. I was in a strong position to move to the next level. But I knew that I had had an unfair advantage. I had accidently seen the answer to that question earlier in the day on my teacher’s answer sheet. I had a difficult decision to make. I knew deep inside that I had to choose the right, just like my CTR ring reminds me to do every day.
At the end of the school day, I went to my teacher and explained the situation to him. He was very impressed with my honesty. He was so impressed that he gave me two additional questions to answer. Unfortunately I did not know the answers and did not advance to the second level. I was disappointed but felt good inside about my decision to choose the right.
That night I told my mom about the geography bee. She said that she was very proud of my choice and so was Jesus. Advancing to the next level would not have been worth it. I know my choice was right and that I was really a winner.

I was raised in a community in the western valleys of Utah. The town, Tooele, was settled by pioneers. When precious ore deposits were discovered in the nearby mountains, people came in from southern and eastern Europe who had a different culture and different religious preferences. They came to work in the mines and at the smelter.
They settled just east of town and called their community “New Town.” From almost the beginning, there was division and suspicion and misunderstanding between the new residents, who brought with them their old-country customs, and the people of the more established community, who were mostly of pioneer stock. The two groups seldom mixed.
One year the high school hired a football coach fresh out of Utah State by the name of Sterling Harris. Coach Harris, as he came to be known, was outgoing and just a little irreverent. He went throughout the old town and the new town and made sure he got all the boys in school and then out for football. He had a nickname for everyone, and after a while it became a sort of status symbol to carry a Sterling Harris nickname.
It wasn’t long after that before he had the Gowns and the Whitehouses lined up next to the Savages and the Stepics, and the Ormes and the Melinkoviches running from the same backfield. He was tough but impartial, and he had about him a presence that made people feel important and want to do their best.
The team came together, and Coach Harris even took them to more than one state championship. But what was more important, in bringing the team together he brought the whole community together. Walls were broken down. People from diverse cultures learned they could build on mutual respect and appreciation. Sterling Harris had become a bridge.
Sterling Harris still lives in Tooele; he is ninety-one years of age. He went on to accomplish many other things in his life, including being superintendent of schools and a leader in the Church, but none was more important than helping a community to unite itself and reestablish the principle of respect for others of different backgrounds and cultures.
In the cities of this world, in the towns, in the neighborhoods, in the homes, we need more Sterling Harrises from every walk of life.

1961. The horizon wasn’t even softened yet by the coming dawn when a train stopped at a siding in southern Mexico to take on water. There was no town in sight, nothing but the dim outlines of mountains and jungle. Before the train could chug out its first puff of steam to get underway again, a Mexican youth in a suit and tie suddenly dug an elbow into his “gringo” companion as they sat on a bench in the passenger section.
“Grab your bag,” he said. “We’re getting off.”
Overriding his sleepy friend’s inarticulate protests, he soon had them both standing by the tracks in the 4:00 A.M. chill as the train snorted, huffed, gathered speed, and pulled away. Finally awake, the companion said in disbelief, “But it’s the middle of the night, and we’re in the middle of nowhere, and there won’t be another train until tomorrow morning!”
“I know,” the young Mexican replied, “but the Spirit told me to get off; so we got off.” His companion shrugged. No arguing with that sort of thing. Elder Parra, district president of the Puebla District of the mission was no fool, and everybody knew he lived close to the Lord.
“So here we are,” the American said stoically. “So what next?” Elder Parra pointed into the darkness. “We start walking,” he said.
So they walked, stumbling up one side of a mountain and down the other. Dawn showed them another mountain beyond that, and another beyond that, and they climbed them. At last, about 17 miles later, they came to a village of very small, poor houses. They climbed a little hill nearby, took out their hymnbooks, and sang a hymn. When they had finished that hymn, they sang another, and then another, until all the people from the village came out of their houses and climbed the hill to see what was going on.
When everyone had gathered around the two missionaries, they started to preach. They preached for half a day, and when they had finished preaching, they dammed up a small stream nearby and baptized every person there who was eight years of age or older. They then ordained an elder to be president of the new little branch and hiked back to catch the next day’s train.
Today Elder Parra is back in southern Mexico, this time as president of the Mexico Vera Cruz Mission. The mission leads the Church in baptisms, has a high rate of member activity, and boasts a strong youth missionary program.
The little village in the mountains is a thriving branch of some 200 members. They have a full-time missionary in the field and hope to build a chapel.
To them it makes a lot of difference that one Mormon elder had enough faith to suddenly get off a train at 4:00 A.M. in the middle of nowhere.

When I was seven years old I made my performing debut in a Primary operetta in the Douglas Ward in Salt Lake City. I played Raggedy Andy, and the night of our performance is one of my first truly vivid memories. I remember the costume my mother made out of white wool with red, green, and yellow stripes and the large buttons covered with the same material. (Patches of that costume are now in a well-worn quilt in my closet.) I remember the smell of the lipstick making large round circles on my cheeks. I remember the duet I sang with a little friend, “I’m Raggedy Andy—and I’m Little Anne. We’re sewed together, you see. If some little girl chooses one of us, she’ll have to take both you and me.” (We were separated, of course, and the story hung on our getting back together again. It was a sad story with a happy ending, as many stories are.) I remember walking home on that summer night, thrilled with the adventure of performing. And from then on, whenever being in a play was suggested, no hand shot up faster than mine.

President Charles W. Penrose used to tell the story of an officer on the Titanic who stated that there was no fear of “God, man or devil,” because the Titanic was built so solidly that it could readily withstand collision with other ships or contact with any other force, including icebergs. The Titanic was in fact three football fields in length, 12 stories high, and built of the finest steel. On that fateful night of April 14, 1912, other ships warned of ice ahead. Yet the Titanic continued to increase her speed, cutting through the cold Atlantic Ocean. By the time the lookouts sighted the iceberg, it was too late. The Titanic could not turn out of its way in time, and the iceberg scraped along the starboard side of the ship, creating a series of punctures. Two hours and 40 minutes later the brand-new Titanic sank to the bottom of the ocean. Over 1,500 people were drowned.

Most Sundays our small chapel receives members from other countries who visit us during their vacations. Usually, when they attend sacrament meeting, they sit together as a family in the same row. But one Sunday in March, we had many visitors and among them a family comprised of parents and their two children. Their oldest son, about four years old, walked into the chapel and decided to sit next to me. Teddy, which is his name, greeted me and we chatted briefly. During the sacrament meeting, Teddy asked me with much interest, what the name was of each hymn we sang. Listening to each hymn, he gave a thumbs-up with his small hand that he liked it, while remaining reverent for someone his age. He also played with his book that had drawings of animals, which required him to place stickers and create different animals. At the conclusion of the sacrament meeting, Teddy stood up, gave me the drawings as a gift, put his name on them, hugged me tightly, told me “It was a pleasure to meet you” and said goodbye in the most loving, sweet, and pure way that only a child can do.
In that very special little moment, I could feel the pure love of Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. It came through Teddy’s embrace when I needed it most.
This scripture came to mind from Isaiah 25:4 that says, “For thou hast been a strength to the poor, a strength to the needy in his distress, a refuge from the storm, a shadow from the heat.”
I could see that my prayers for comfort and strength were answered through the embrace and love of a child. Just as God showed love and comfort to me as His child through Teddy, we too can be instruments of comfort in God’s hands for someone else.

She catapults helplessly through darkness and she is screaming, screaming, screaming. “Wake up, Amy!” Scream. “Wake up! You’re having a bad dream.”
Amy struggles to look at her father who is smiling even though it’s the middle of the night. She feels beads of sweat, newly formed along her brow, trapping her hair. Her voice trembles, “What time is it?”
“Three-thirty.”
“I’m sorry I woke you, Dad.” Amy frowns as she slides back under the covers.
“Don’t worry. I was getting up at four anyway.” Amy’s dad goes to the flower mart early so he can choose the freshest blooms for his shop himself. “Looks like I’ve got some free time; want to talk about these bad dreams you’ve been having?”
“I’m pretty sleepy, Dad. Maybe we can talk tomorrow.”
“It is tomorrow,” he says, watching Amy rub her eyes. “Okay,” he sighs, “after school then.” He kisses Amy’s cheek. “Pleasant dreams.”
Amy stays awake. Pleasant dreams, sure, she thinks.
Later that morning at the breakfast table her little brother makes slurping noises. “Can’t you be a decent human being?” Amy asks.
Her brother, Markie, opens his mouth to defend himself, but Amy’s mother interrupts their morning ritual with one word: “Amy.”
Amy reads the ingredients on the cereal box. “Yuck, this cereal is full of poison! I can’t eat this stuff.”
“Amy,” her mom strains to speak patiently, “you need to eat something. The cereal is not poisonous.”
“It’s full of chemicals and preservatives. It’ll give me some incurable disease or something.” With that, Amy grabs her books and heads out the door for school. As she walks, a passing car reminds her of a recent nightmare. She was in a car and there was a horrible accident.
At school Becky invites her to go snowboarding Saturday on the last spring snow. “It’ll be great and I’ve got a snowboard you can borrow.”
“I can’t.”
Becky squeezes her face into an expression of disbelief. “Why not?”
Amy doesn’t want to go because she has never done it before and she’s afraid she’ll break a bone, probably an important one. “I have to finish my research report this weekend.”
“All you need to do is type the bibliography, remember?”
“I, uh, you know, had to make some major changes in it.”
“Okay, suit yourself. I’ll just ask someone else.”
Amy watches Becky walk toward a group of girls. She decides this would be the ideal time to finish her current events assignment. After a while the news stories begin to bear a striking resemblance to her nightmares. There are shootings and stabbings, drunk drivers killing innocent people, kidnappings, and tornadoes tearing apart entire communities. The bell rings and Amy nearly hits the ceiling.
Walking home after school, she takes a detour to see if her dad’s truck is at the flower shop. Seeing it, she goes inside the shop and sees the manager. “Hi, Amy, how are you?”
“Hi, Mrs. Jepperson. I’m okay.”
Mrs. Jepperson looks up while filling some balloons with helium. “Just okay?”
“Yeah.” How can anyone be any more than that? she thinks. There’s a horrible war on the other side of the ocean and there are town-eating tornadoes. No one has a right to be anything more than okay under the circumstances. “Where’s my dad?”
“He’s probably at your house by now. He ran out for a while. Oh, before you go, take these.” Mrs. Jepperson reaches for a scrambled bunch of flowers, the leftovers she would soon throw out.
“Thanks, but no.” Amy pushes through the door. “They’re just going to die.” That’s the trouble with flowers, Amy thinks as she walks up the hill to her house. They always turn brown and shrivel up.
Her dad is drinking ice water in the kitchen. “Amy, I need to go back and get the truck. Why don’t you come with me?” Amy knows what that means. He wants her to run with him, so she begins to formulate her excuse-for-the-day, but remembers that it won’t do her any good. She could give a hundred good reasons why she can’t run with him, and he’ll give her two hundred reasons why she should. It’s another family ritual.
“Okay,” she sighs, and goes to her room to change.
As they start down the hill he asks about her day. She tells him about all the horror stories she read in the newspaper and about how she couldn’t go snowboarding. Then he asks her if she knows why she’s having nightmares. “I really don’t know,” she says. “I just wish they’d go away.”
“Keep running hard and you’ll sleep like a baby.”
“But babies wake up crying every few hours.”
“Okay, I’ll think of another comparison,” he says as he playfully shoves his daughter into the grass.
“Dad! You got grass stains on my shorts!” They walk in silence the rest of the way to the shop.
She waits outside in the truck while he talks to his employees. When he comes out he’s carrying the armload of leftover flowers. He doesn’t even put them in the back; he just climbs into the driver’s seat with all the flowers. Some fall over onto Amy’s lap; they feel cold. “Dad, how can you see to drive?”
“I’m just going to breathe these in for a moment.” He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “Ah, that’s wonderful.”
“But they’re not fresh. They’re going to die, like, probably tomorrow.”
Her dad opens his eyes and looks at her for what seems like hours. He puts the flowers down and begins to drive. “They’ll be gone, maybe tomorrow, but that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy them today.” He doesn’t drive toward home.
She wishes he’d take her home. She’s in grass-stained shorts and a sweaty T-shirt. What if someone sees her? Her dad turns on the radio. It’s his favorite program, some old-fashioned comedy. He’s laughing hard. When the commercial comes on she switches the station to the news. They hear reports of a capsized boat and how the coast guard is looking for survivors. They hear about some famous couple getting divorced, and then they hear reports of atrocities in a war-torn country.
“Can I switch it back to my station now?” he asks Amy.
“It’s the news, Dad. It’s reality. We can’t bury our heads in the sand.”
“That’s true. But we don’t have to wallow in misery,” he says as he pulls over.
“Who’s wallowing in misery?”
Amy looks up to see pink and yellow flowers as far as she can see. “I’m just aware of what’s going on.”
“Being aware is one thing, but you can’t let it get to you.”
“Why not? It’s a miserable world. I have reason to be miserable.”
Amy’s dad gets out and opens Amy’s door. She gets out reluctantly. He takes her arm and leads her toward the rainbow of endless flowers. They stop at a patch of ground surrounded by flowers, and he digs into the dirt. Yuck, Amy thinks. Mud covers his fingers and an earthworm squirms away.
“Imagine,” her dad says, “if flowers decided that since they only live a short time they shouldn’t bother being beautiful and fragrant.”
“Yeah, but how can we go around being happy when so many people are suffering?”
“Does being unhappy help the people who are suffering?”
“Well,” Amy turns toward the truck.
“Does being unhappy help you in any way?”
Amy tries to think of a response. She looks at her dad for a clue. He isn’t even paying attention. In the middle of his lecture he’s stooping over, smelling flowers.
“Do you remember that scripture about ‘Man is that he might have joy’?” He stretches his arms out and looks like he is offering some kind of salute to the flower kingdom.
“But that’s for after we get through all the misery of this earth.”
“Is it? Amy, I have two assignments for you. One is for Saturday while you’re sitting around with nothing to do when you could have been snowboarding. I want you to answer the following question using your scriptures and other Church books. Think about this. Could it be that it is a good thing to be of good cheer?”
“And the other assignment?” she asks.
“Race me to the car!”
They run all the way, the colorful images of the flowers flashing past in such a blur that Amy almost laughs out loud, especially when her dad passes her along the skinny path looking like some kind of hairy gnome in running shorts. The fragrance is energizing, and she wonders if the things her dad said are true.
That night she helps her mom fold towels and asks her, “Why is Dad always so happy? Hasn’t he ever experienced anything really hard?”
Her mom stops folding and looks at the towel she is smoothing. “Oh, he’s had some hard times. Maybe you’ve forgotten. Your dad’s mother—your grandma—died when he was 12. That was really hard. He lost the first business he started. Then he was diagnosed with a liver disease and diabetes all in the same year.” She pauses, begins to lift a stack of towels, puts them down, and continues. “He was sent to fight in Vietnam when he was 19. He’s told me some about that, but I know he hasn’t told me everything. His brother was killed there. That was probably the hardest for him; he used to wake up with nightmares.”
Amy doesn’t say a word. The rest of the weekend she hardly says anything at all until her research is finished. On Sunday her dad asks her to sit down and make a report to him.
“Dad, terrible things happened to Christ, but he spent his time lifting others. And there are others who were like that too. They did terrible things to Joseph Smith and his family, but even though he had the right to be really miserable he still found time to arm wrestle and play with the kids and things like that.”
“So, did you learn from your research that it’s okay to be a happy person?”
“It’s more than okay. I think Heavenly Father wants us to find joy in our lives while we’re here. Maybe it’s like a skill. If we learn it here we’ll be better at it in eternity.”
He smiles. “So your research really helped.”
“Actually, I think I learned the most from example. There’s this man, you see, and he’s had some hard things happen to him. But he likes to get up early every morning and go to the flower mart, he listens to corny comedy on the radio, and he’s been teaching me all along that being happy is an important skill.”
Her dad isn’t smiling anymore. She doesn’t remember ever seeing him look this serious. “We have our agency,” he says. “We choose how to react to the hard things in life. We can grow and have gratitude for our blessings, or we can be miserable and stagnate.”
“Dad, will you lighten up!”
“Here, let’s give these to your mom.” He takes an armload of wilted flowers from a large grocery bag, and the two of them carry the gift. Amy fully breathes in their fragrance.

His sister, Dorothy Hunter Rasmussen, recently deceased, remembered this tender incident when they were children together. “Howard always wanted to do good and to be good. A wonderful brother, he looked out for me. He was kind to our mother and father. Howard loved animals and regularly brought home strays.” There was an irrigation ditch by their house, and one day several boys in the neighborhood, not members of the Church, were throwing a kitten in the ditch. It would get out, then they would throw it in again. They did this over and over until they got tired of their game. “Howard came by and picked [the kitten] up; it was lying there almost dead, and he brought it home. Mother was afraid it was dead, but they wrapped it in a blanket and put it near the warm oven and nursed it.” It lived, and they had the cat for years. “He was also so kind,” Dorothy said. “I have never known my brother to do a wrong thing in my life.”

I was sixteen when the missionaries challenged me to study the Book of Mormon. As I read it, I felt it was a good book. So when the missionaries asked me to be baptized, I did so. I joined the Church not because I had gained a strong testimony, but because I had not had any bad or unpeaceful feelings while reading the Book of Mormon or attending Church. It seemed that I accepted the gospel naturally.
But some time after I had joined the Church, I began to worry that perhaps I should not have joined a “Western” church. During this time, I did not have the courage to tell any of my friends that I was a Latter-day Saint. In fact, I covered my Book of Mormon with a piece of white paper so that no one would know what I was reading.
Finally I decided to find out for myself whether or not the Book of Mormon is true. As I was reading and praying one day, I came to this passage:
“And no tongue can speak, neither can there be written by any man, neither can the hearts of men conceive so great and marvelous things as we both saw and heard Jesus speak; and no one can conceive of the joy which filled our souls at the time we heard him pray for us unto the Father.
“And it came to pass that when Jesus had made an end of praying unto the Father, he arose; but so great was the joy of the multitude that they were overcome.
“And it came to pass that Jesus spake unto them, and bade them arise.
“And they arose from the earth, and he said unto them: Blessed are ye because of your faith. And now behold, my joy is full.
“And when he had said these words, he wept. …” (3 Ne. 17:17–22.)
As I read these words, I started to cry. My heart was filled with the great love the Lord has for me. I cried in my heart, “O my Lord. I know thou livest. I know the Book of Mormon is true.”
Now I knew that the Church is a universal church. Joyfully, I took the white cover off my Book of Mormon.
At about this time, I also received the strong impression that I should become a full-time missionary. After serving two years in the Navy, I was able to get my parents’ permission to serve a mission. There I had the privilege to testify of the Book of Mormon, of which I was once ashamed, and to proclaim the gospel in my own language. My mission widened my understanding of the gospel and deepened my testimony of the restored truth.
My wife and I were married in the temple. We began to read the Book of Mormon together while we were dating. We now have three children. We feel that the Book of Mormon has changed our lives completely, for, as it is written, “The preaching of the word [has] a great tendency to lead the people to do that which [is] just—yea, it [has] more powerful effect upon the minds of people than the sword, or anything else. …” (Alma 31:5.)

Adding to our joy, Elder Snow was assigned to Warrnambool as his first area. I decided to send him an account of how our family joined the Church there. Here is an excerpt of what I shared:
Your great-grandfather Frederick Michael Wilhelm Meurs was born in Holland in 1926. He was one of 12 children. His mother was a devout Catholic who took her children to mass each Sunday. Fred attended Catholic schools and developed deep faith in Jesus Christ and a love for the scriptures.
Your great-grandmother Lois Ellen Meurs was also born in 1926 in Warrnambool. She had two brothers, Ralph and David, and was raised in a faithful Methodist home. She admired her parents’ charitable service and developed a strong Christian faith.
Fred and Lois were married in Warrnambool in January 1954. Julie was born later that year, and Peter (me) in December 1956.
In their early marriage, Fred and Lois wanted unity in their faith. They attended both the Catholic and Methodist churches and studied the New Testament together. As they read, they wrote down many questions—about the nature of the Godhead, resurrection, priesthood authority, the Church’s structure, and baptism by immersion.
They sought answers from local religious leaders, but most said those matters were “mysteries” or struggled to respond. Their search for truth led them to visit several Christian churches in Warrnambool. Still unsatisfied, they turned to God in prayer, asking Him to send them answers.
At that time, Elder Jones (from Utah) and Elder Erickson (from Canada) had been sent by President Thomas S. Bingham to open missionary work in Warrnambool. Local ministers warned townsfolk not to speak with them, claiming they would “brainwash your children.”
Elder Jones and Elder Erickson faithfully knocked on doors for three months and experienced total rejection. They were discouraged and depressed. Their faith was wavering. They wrote to President Bingham and asked to be transferred out of Warrnambool.
Eventually, a letter arrived from President Bingham. After prayerful consideration, he wrote, he had the strongest impression that there were people in Warrnambool ready to receive the restored Church. He encouraged them to go back to work and to visit places they had not been before.
The elders received the letter around the same time that Fred and Lois were praying for answers. A few days later, they knocked on the Meurs family’s front door at 68 Jamieson Street, Warrnambool. Lois answered, and the elders said they had a special message about Jesus Christ and His Church to share.
Lois replied, “We have been praying for you to come—but you can’t come in just now. Our children (two-year-old Julie and six-month-old Peter) have chickenpox, and they might infect you.” She asked them to return in a week.
Lois told Fred about the visit, and they continued to pray that the missionaries wouldn’t forget to come back. They didn’t know who they were dealing with!
Elder Jones and Elder Erickson returned the following week and began teaching Lois and Fred. As they taught, they answered every question on Fred and Lois’s long list. They explained the nature of God, priesthood authority, the Resurrection and life after death, the purpose of life, developing faith, and the ordinances of baptism and the sacrament.
Fred and Lois opened their scriptures—already marked from their earlier study—and found confirmation for everything the missionaries were teaching.
Years later, when I was called as an Area Seventy, I spoke with Elder Bruce Jones about this experience. He told me that their time in Warrnambool, up to the point of meeting my parents, had been a great trial of his faith. But teaching Fred and Lois and having them respond with confirming scriptures from the New Testament rekindled his faith and became a turning point in his life.
Lois and Fred were baptized and confirmed on 5 July 1957—just three weeks after meeting the missionaries. Soon other families joined the Church, and the new branch began holding meetings in the Meurs home on Jamieson Street.