Gospel Story Finder

After graduation, I began to hang around three girls who weren’t LDS. As our friendship grew, I started smoking. I felt like life had no meaning, so I didn’t care that what I was doing was wrong. I couldn’t understand why I was on the earth, and figured I was probably better off dead. After a while, we went our separate ways and I vowed I would never smoke again. But many of my other feelings didn’t change.

I knew I wanted to marry in the temple and raise a family but wondered if I would get the chance. It was rather annoying when people I knew would become engaged, leaving me to question if I would ever get a date in this lifetime.

I wanted to blame the way I felt on something, so I blamed it on the color of my skin. It was stupid of me, I know. But I figured it was the only reason I didn’t have many friends.

By the time I was 20, I wanted to change. I decided to fix my appearance. I lost a little weight and bought new clothes and glasses. I found it helped me feel better about myself. But the actual change started when I began attending the single-adult ward and decided to go to college. This gave me the confidence that I could do things I had been too shy or scared to do before.

One day in sacrament meeting, my bishop spoke about the importance of attending church, the importance of paying tithing, reading scriptures, and praying. I felt the Spirit so strongly that I had no doubt the Church was true. It was at this time I decided to read the Book of Mormon.

For a month, I read my scriptures every night. Afterward, I would pray. I continued to pay my tithing and attend church, and I received a calling in the ward. My life couldn’t have been happier.

One day I looked in the mirror and stared at my reflection. “I’m pretty,” I said to the image before me. Tears welled up in my eyes that suddenly seemed to be looking at things differently. I saw myself, but it was as if I were looking at the face of a stranger. The fact I saw myself differently filled me with a happiness I can’t describe.

Without warning, the color of my skin no longer mattered to me. I’m Jennifer, a child of God. If God can love me, then I can learn to love myself, I thought. I now understand why they say you have to love yourself before you can show love to others. Today I can say I’m proud to be black. Four years ago I couldn’t even say it, much less mean it.

My promise now is to live the gospel and put my trust in God. After all, he’s given me the thing I needed most—a sense of my own worth.

In Sweden, during my last year of high school, I decided to apply to Brigham Young University in Utah. There was only one problem: no matter how fervently I prayed for God to confirm my decision, it just never felt right. I thought, “The answer couldn’t possibly be no, could it? In so many ways, BYU seems like it should be the right decision, especially because I want a temple marriage and my prospects at BYU are so much better than in Sweden.” Except it wasn’t right. Not for me. Not at that time.
Disappointed, I discarded my plans to attend BYU and applied to a university in Sweden. At about the same time that I would have left for my BYU adventure, I fell in love with Jonas—a recently returned missionary. Although we must have attended several youth activities together before Jonas left on his mission, I had never noticed him. How his charisma and infectious laugh escaped me remains a mystery!
Early in our relationship, Jonas told me that he had applied to BYU and hoped to attend the following semester. After his first semester in Provo, we married in the temple and began attending BYU together, graduating on the same day.
Now I look back and see why Heavenly Father initially said no—or really, “not yet”—to my fervent prayer about attending BYU. Although He said no to my desire at that particular time, He was actually saying yes to a much more important desire. As a young girl, I had often prayed that my future husband and I would find each other when the time was right. We might have met at BYU, but I am convinced that, as part of a greater plan, Jonas and I needed to find each other in Sweden. Perhaps many of Heavenly Father’s “no” answers to our prayers are integral parts of his “yes” answers to greater plans for our lives.

In my ward, we get a special medal for memorizing all the Articles of Faith. I earned my medal and took it to school for show and tell. I also took a copy of the Articles of Faith to show my class what I had memorized. My teacher asked if I could say all 13 to the class. I stood up and did it! My teacher followed along to make sure I got them right, and she was amazed that I could say all of those words. There is only one other member of the Church in my class. I was happy that I could be a missionary as I shared the Articles of Faith with my friends at school.
Grace C., age 7, Illinois, USA

Mika always looked forward to dance class. She loved listening to the music. She loved practicing her butterfly skip and getting it just right. And she especially loved it when the whole class moved together. When they did that, it was like the dancers were all the same. It felt like she wasn’t the only one with Down syndrome.
Today they were learning a new dance step. Mika watched her teacher leap into the air. She watched the other girls try. Some figured it out right away. Mika tried over and over, but she just couldn’t get it right.
“Will you help me, Teacher?” Mika asked.
The girl next to her looked at Mika. Then she leaned over to her friend. “Why does she talk like that?” she whispered. Both girls turned and looked at Mika.
When Mika got home, Mom was kneading dough in the kitchen. She had flour on her cheek. Usually that would make Mika laugh. But today she just dropped her bag to the floor and sank into a chair at the table.
“How was dance?” Mom asked.
“Terrible,” Mika said. “I asked for help, and a girl said I talk funny. Then she stared at me.” Mika looked down. “I don’t want to go to dance anymore.”
“Oh, Mika! I’m so sorry,” Mom said. “Dad and I love watching you dance. We’re so proud of how hard you work!”
Mika felt tears starting to come. “I don’t like the Down syndrome in me. I wish it wasn’t so hard for me to learn new things. I even have to practice talking!”
Dad sat down by Mika and put his arm around her. “Mika, we love you so much. We wouldn’t change one thing about you.”
But Mika just shook her head and buried her face in her arms. “I don’t want to be different. I want my Down syndrome to be taken out of me!”
Mom and Dad were quiet for a few moments.
“I have an idea,” Mom said. Mika peeked out over her arms. “Why don’t you pray and ask Heavenly Father how He feels about you?”
Mika thought about that. She liked saying prayers. Slowly, she nodded. “Can you write down the question so I’ll remember what to ask?”
Mom wrote the question down. Then Mika took the paper and went to her room to pray.
A few minutes later, when she came into the kitchen, Mika’s face was lit up like a light bulb. “Heavenly Father answered!” she said.
“What did He say?” Mom asked.
“He said, ‘Mika, I love you just the way you are,’” she said. “And He said it with a LOUD voice!”
The next week at dance, Mika didn’t worry about what the other girls thought about her. Instead, she noticed another girl, Sara, who looked sad. Sara was having a hard time learning some of the new steps too.
When Mika got home, she decided to write a note to Sara. She drew lots of hearts. Mom helped her with the spelling.
“Dear Sara,” Mika wrote. “You’re a great dancer. I want to be your friend. I am happy you are in my dance class.”
Mika couldn’t wait to give Sara the note. She wanted Sara to feel happy and loved at dance too.

The snow was falling hard as I slowly drove up the hill. If I could just get to the top, I thought, I could make it home safely. But as I negotiated a curve, I saw a downhill car swerving out of control and coming straight at me. I had time only to scream before the impact, and then I blacked out.
I had no sense of how much time had passed when I tried to open my eyes. The snow bit at my face as it blew in through a shattered side window. I struggled to remember basic information, like where I had been going before the accident. Alone and frightened, I cried out from the throbbing pain in my shoulder and chest. I pleaded with Heavenly Father that my injuries wouldn’t be too extensive and that I would be all right.
A few moments later I felt a hand holding mine. Instinctively, I grasped it. I opened my eyes and saw a man in a black coat and hat standing outside my crushed car. He said his wife had seen the crash from their home, and he came to see if he could help. He held my hand and told me I would be OK.
I tried to ask the man if he was a Latter-day Saint, but all I could whisper was, “Can you give me a blessing?”
He said yes and then reached through the broken window and placed his hands on my head.
I don’t remember what he said. But I remember thinking that I would be all right because I had received a blessing. I felt peace and comfort.
When the ambulance arrived, I lost track of the man. A few hours later I left the hospital with a broken rib and many bumps and bruises but no serious injuries.
That morning I had prayed that I would travel in safety, and at first I thought Heavenly Father hadn’t answered my prayer. But I soon realized that He had and that He had not left me alone. My prayer was answered through a willing priesthood holder who lived just a few steps away from the site of my accident, an accident which could have left me in a much more serious condition.
I wouldn’t recognize the man’s face if I passed him on the street. I wouldn’t remember his voice if I heard him say hello. But I am grateful for this stranger who was worthy and willing to administer a priesthood blessing when I needed one.

The January night was cold and dark. Six-year-old Brigitte huddled next to her nine-year-old sister, Wanda, both of them trying to stay close to the wood-burning stove. Black paper covered the windows so that not even a bit of light would show through to show enemy planes where to bomb. Papa held out a paper, straining to read it by the light of one tiny candle.
“I am to report to Augsburg (Germany) for military training by February first,” he said. “I have been drafted.”
To be without Papa? It was unthinkable! Papa with his funny stories. Papa, who had always kept the family safe. Brigitte looked at the shadowy faces of Mama, Papa, and Wanda. They were sad faces, but without tears.
Papa’s voice was calm. “Over three-fourths of Nuremberg has already been bombed. We ourselves had to find a new home when a bomb tore the hole in our kitchen. Elizabeth, I think that after I am gone, you and the children should try to find a place to stay away from here. It will be safer in the country.”
Mama nodded her head. “My sister Margarete is already looking for a place for us.”
Shuddering, Brigitte remembered the bombs hitting the top floor of their apartment building before they could escape to the shelter. She remembered burning mattresses being flung out of windows. And she remembered being pulled along to the bunkers by her father’s strong hand as they ran through the street in terror, the upper part of it engulfed in flames. That time there had been no warning.
As though reading her mind, Papa said, “Gitte, remember the time Mama covered you with blankets in the shelter to try to block out the noise and screaming? You had been crying. I know that you were very much afraid. Then you heard one of our neighbors say, ‘I want to sit by Mrs. Baier—she has such strong faith, nothing ever happens to her.’ You pushed the blanket off and looked at Oma (Grandmother), who was sitting quietly. Do you remember what you did then?”
“Yes, Papa. I crawled into Oma’s lap, and I stopped crying.” Brigitte smiled. “I always want to be just like Oma.”
“We must all have faith like Oma,” Papa agreed. “Ever since I was baptized when I was fifteen years old, I have never doubted the truthfulness of the gospel. This war will be over soon, but I will never have peace in my heart until I can move us to America and we are sealed in the temple. I have to leave you for a little while now, but we will be together again, and then, somehow, we will get to America.”
Mama smiled. “Yes, George, I’m sure that your dream will come true when you come back to us. You could have gone there after your mission in 1931. I’m glad you stayed here to marry me, instead.”
Papa grinned back at her. “I thought we could go in 1936, after Wanda was born—we even gave her an American name—but by then the government wouldn’t let us out of the country.”
“You were the branch president, however—perhaps you were needed here for a while. I was really frightened, though, when the police came to our home to search for Church books.”
“I was, too, Elizabeth, but no harm came to us.” Papa looked at his two little girls. “I want to give you each a father’s blessing before I leave. And don’t ever doubt that Heavenly Father will take care of you. He won’t ever leave you.”
Brigitte felt comforted after she was given the blessing. Somehow it made her feel like Papa was always close by, even after he had to go away.
Aunt Margarete found a place for them to stay in the country with a kind farmer and his family. Brigitte started school in the nearby village. There was no word from Papa since he had written that he was being transferred. Every day Mama faithfully wrote to him.
“Mama! Mama!” Wanda cried one day as she hurried home. “The Americans have come. The war is over! Surely Papa will be home soon.”
Mama looked up from the stove where she was cooking potato pancakes, wiped her brow with her apron, and sighed. “I hope so, Wanda. I wish we would have some word of him.”
Although the long war was over and there were no more alarms, no more hurrying through the streets to get to the underground shelter when the bombs came, there was no word yet from Papa. Was he alive? Mama still wrote to him. But it had been two years. …
When she came home from the post office with a letter one day, Brigitte and Wanda both ran to her crying, “Is it from Papa?”
“No, I’m afraid not. Oma needs us to come back to Nuremberg. Opa (Grandfather) is very sick. She needs help taking care of him. We must leave right away.”
What about school? Brigitte wanted to ask. But she kept silent. Oma needed them. They walked over an hour, and then two American soldiers gave them a ride in a jeep to Nuremberg. All of the American soldiers treated the people with kindness.
“Oma, let me sweep this floor for you,” Brigitte said, hurrying to take the broom from her grandmother. Opa did not have much longer to live, and Oma looked worn out. Brigitte watched for every chance to help her.
Mama had been called to be Relief Society president. “I don’t know what we’d do without this help from the Saints in America,” she said, opening a big box of food to distribute to people in need.
Brigitte loved the powdered milk that came in some of the boxes. How she loved to put a bit of the white powder on the end of her spoon and lick it off. Mmmm!
Spring came. Opa died in March, and Mama, Wanda, and Brigitte planted a garden where he had always planted one. He had always been so proud of his garden. In the years before he got sick, he had risen at five o’clock each morning and hurried to it, a small part of a shared lot about a twenty minute walk from their apartment.
The garden wasn’t doing very well, though, and Mama was discouraged. “Throw these plants away, Brigitte. They’re so scraggly and the soil is very poor. I don’t think they’re worth bothering with.”
Brigitte looked at the plants with their drooping leaves. They looked dead already. She started to pull them up, then stopped. Opa always worked hard in his garden, she thought. I can’t give up on these plants. I know he wouldn’t. She carefully loosened the dirt around each one and gave them a drink of water. “Please help them to grow, Heavenly Father,” she prayed. Every day she came to the garden and watered it or pulled weeds or both.
One day after she had worked in the garden, she returned home to find her mother sitting and rocking back and forth with tears chasing each other down her cheeks, clutching a letter. “Papa’s alive! This letter is from him. He is a prisoner of war in France and has been clearing the forests there. He didn’t get any of my letters, so he wrote to our friend Peter Loscher in America to see if he could find out if we were all right. Peter sent him our address.” She started to read from Papa’s letter:
“I am so happy to finally know how to reach you and to find that you are safe and well. I am too. My biggest problem is lack of food. Sometimes I have been so hungry that I have had to eat insects. But my faith remains strong. Once when I was clearing a forest, I climbed to the top of a high mountain, where I was able to be alone for a few minutes. I asked the Lord for renewed strength to endure it here. I haven’t forgotten our dream—surely we will be together soon!”
(To be continued)

Eve loved Christmastime. Her class at school had spent the morning coloring cards and listening to fun music.
“Now it’s reading time,” Mrs. Grunig said. “And if you finish all your reading today and tomorrow, you won’t have any homework during the holiday break.”
All the kids in Eve’s class cheered. But Eve didn’t feel much like cheering. She shivered a little as she pulled out her book to read. She felt very cold and her throat hurt. Her eyes felt hot as she stared at the words on the page. By the end of school, Eve’s stomach felt sick too.
Finally it was time to walk home with her brother and sister, Tim and Wilma. Usually they had fun on the way home. They would play tag or make a snowman. But today all Eve wanted to do was get home and lie down.
When Eve got home, Mama felt her forehead.
“You have a fever,” she said. “You need to drink plenty of water and get lots of rest.”
Eve climbed into bed and fell asleep right away. The next morning, everyone else in her family was busy getting ready for the day. But Mama said Eve was too sick to go to school.
Then Eve remembered something that made her sad. Today was the school Christmas party! They were supposed to finish their art projects and sing songs and have treats. She just had to go!
But Mama didn’t change her mind.
“I’m sorry you’ll miss the party, sweetie,” she said. “But your health is more important.”
Eve started to cry. Mama tried to help her feel better with yummy soup. But all Eve could think about was all of the fun her friends were having without her.
In the afternoon, Tim and Wilma got home from school. Their cheeks were red from playing in the snow.
“The school party was lots of fun,” Wilma said. “We made red paper birds to hang up at home.”
Tim pulled something out of his pocket.
“And look—Mrs. Grunig sent us home with a special present for you. It’s so you can make a red paper bird too!”
Eve smiled. “Can you show me how?”
Tim and Wilma showed Eve how to cut on the dotted line and fold it just right. They helped her tie the string in a loop.
“Mama, look what I made!” Eve said, showing off her new favorite Christmas ornament.
Eve thought of how nice Mrs. Grunig was to remember her when she was sick, and how Tim and Wilma had helped her too. Now whenever Eve looked at her red paper bird, she would feel lots of love.

What do you get when you combine a small airplane with an overwhelmed mother and an irritable little boy? A very stressful situation. From a few rows behind, I watched the drama unfold. It went something like this:
Little boy: I’m hungry!
Mother: Well, let’s look in my purse and see what I have.
Little boy: Nooooo!
Mother: But aren’t you hungry?
Little boy: Give me that!
Mother: Give you what?
Little boy: Thaaaat!
Mother: Honey, you can’t have my necklace.
Little boy: I want it!
You get the idea. Over the next 20 minutes, the mother used a range of tactics to try to calm him down: bribery, diversion, humor, even one or two mild threats. Nothing worked. “It’s only a short flight,” I reminded myself. “She’ll be OK.”
But she wasn’t OK. Her stress was mounting, and she began wiping tears from the corners of her eyes. Although I didn’t know her, I felt drawn to help her. Reflexively, I started praying for them both.
I wasn’t the only passenger affected by the scene. Just as the strain on her emotions peaked, another passenger came to her aid. She was a much older woman, seated immediately across the aisle. Radiating kindness, she turned to the young mother, quietly spoke a few reassuring words, and took her hand. That was it. And that was enough.
These two women held hands across the aisle throughout the remainder of the flight. Although the little boy continued to rant with spectacular intensity, his mother appeared serene. It was a miracle.

Welcome to Barrow, Alaska, northern-most town on the North American continent. A town where the polar bears that sometimes prowl the streets in the long Arctic night at least provide a little excitement. After all, this is a place where a typical date might consist of browsing through the large general store.

It’s so isolated that some of the locals call it “Planet Barrow.” But for now, the Gaylin Fuller family calls Barrow home. According to them, this may be the end of a continent, but it is not the end of the world. It’s the top of the world.

Like many others in the 1980s, they were forced off their Idaho farm by high operating costs. Gaylin needed work. He had been a university librarian before but had to reestablish his credentials. And the best opportunities at the time happened to be in Alaska.

So here they are in a town of about 3,000 inhabitants huddled on the far northwest coast. From the air, the surrounding land looks flat and soggy, as though it had just barely crawled from the Arctic Ocean and could sink back at any moment. The Alaska of travel posters, with its rugged mountains, immense forests, and misty fjords, is many miles to the south and might as well be on another planet.

Frankly, the kids really weren’t sure what to expect. When they moved Ronald, who is now 14, says, “I didn’t know if we’d be living in an igloo or what.”

Their snug home in Barrow is certainly no igloo, though it’s probably a good thing that the five older Fuller boys are either married, away at school, or serving missions. It’s hard to imagine fitting that many more people in this house. The six Fuller children living at home—Lyle (18), Clark (16), Ron (14), Linnae (12), Stanley (10), and Owen (7)—fill the house quite nicely.

The Fullers’ first home in Alaska was located in tiny Akiachuk, a village some 400 miles west of Anchorage—a place with fewer than 500 people and accessible only by air or snowmobile.

The isolation was tough. In Idaho, the Fullers had been able to get in the car and go to town to attend church, shop, visit friends, go to a movie—whatever. But in Akiachuk, church was at home, shopping was by mail, and movies were on TV. And friends? Well …

If the geographic isolation was tough, the social isolation was even worse. As outsiders, the Fuller children had to prove themselves. In the meantime, family was more important than ever. “We really had to be each other’s friends,” Brother Fuller recalls.

Fortunately, the Fuller boys are good athletes—and relatively tall. At least the Fullers were able to fit in on the court. A major sign that the ice had been broken (pardon the pun) came when Mark Fuller (now serving a mission in Italy) was invited to travel with a village team to play basketball in another village.

They traveled on snowmobiles in the dark, 20 to 30 miles across open countryside, in temperatures of 20 to 30 degrees below zero. Then they played hot, fierce basketball until 11:00 P.M., and returned home the same way they came.

By the time their two years in Akiachuk were up, the Fullers could say they had friends there. But then the opportunity came to move 700 miles north to Barrow.

I received the other day a very interesting letter. It was written by a woman who joined the Church a year ago. She writes:
“My journey into the Church was unique and quite challenging. This past year has been the hardest year that I have ever lived in my life. It has also been the most rewarding. As a new member, I continue to be challenged every day.”
She goes on to say that when she joined the Church she did not feel support from the leadership in her ward. Her bishop seemed indifferent to her as a new member. Rebuffed, as she felt, she turned back to her mission president, who opened opportunities for her.
She states that “Church members don’t know what it is like to be a new member of the Church. Therefore, it’s almost impossible for them to know how to support us.”
I challenge you, my brothers and sisters, that if you do not know what it is like, you try to imagine what it is like. It can be terribly lonely. It can be disappointing. It can be frightening. We of this Church are far more different from the world than we are prone to think we are. This woman goes on: “When we as investigators become members of the Church, we are surprised to discover that we have entered into a completely foreign world, a world that has its own traditions, culture, and language. We discover that there is no one person or no one place of reference that we can turn to for guidance in our trip into this new world. At first the trip is exciting, our mistakes even amusing, then it becomes frustrating and eventually, the frustration turns into anger. And it’s at these stages of frustration and anger that we leave. We go back to the world from which we came, where we knew who we were, where we contributed, and where we could speak the language.”

Dad, can I invite Jacob to church today?
That’s a good idea, Eric. I’ll call his home for you.
My mom said I could go to church with you!
Great!
Eric and Jacob had a good time at church. They learned about prayer and sang songs during sharing time. Eric was glad he invited Jacob.
The next week, Eric called Jacob again.
Do you want to come to church with me today?
No, not today. I’m going to play at my grandma’s house.
Oh, OK.
Are we picking up Jacob today?
No, he said he didn’t want to come today.
How does that make you feel?
A little sad.
I’m sorry you’re sad. Remember that Heavenly Father lets us all choose for ourselves. Maybe you can invite Jacob another time.
Dad, can I invite him next week?
You sure can. You are a good friend.
Eric called Jacob again the next week.
Do you want to come to church with me today?
Sure.
Eric was glad Jacob went to church with him again. Eric knew that Jacob could choose for himself if he wanted to go to church or not, but he decided to always invite Jacob in order to give him the chance.

I recently learned a valuable lesson about seeing deeply from a young woman named Rozlyn.
The story was shared with me by my friend who was devastated when her husband of 20 years moved out. With her children splitting time between parents, the prospect of attending church alone seemed daunting. She recounts:
“In a church where the family is of paramount importance, sitting solo can be painful. That first Sunday I walked in praying no one would speak to me. I was barely holding it together, and tears were on the brink. I sat in my typical spot, hoping no one would notice how empty the bench seemed.
“A young woman in our ward turned and looked at me. I pretended to smile. She smiled back. I could see the concern in her face. I silently pleaded that she wouldn’t come to talk to me—I had nothing positive to say and knew I would cry. I looked back down at my lap and avoided eye contact.
“During the next hour, I noticed her looking back at me occasionally. As soon as the meeting ended, she made a beeline for me. ‘Hi, Rozlyn,’ I whispered. She wrapped me in her arms and said, ‘Sister Smith, I can tell today is a bad day for you. I’m so sorry. I love you.’ As predicted, the tears came as she hugged me again. But as I walked away, I thought to myself, ‘Maybe I can do this after all.’
“That sweet 16-year-old young woman, less than half my age, found me every Sunday for the rest of that year to give me a hug and ask, ‘How are you?’ It made such a difference in how I felt about coming to church. The truth is I started to rely on those hugs. Someone noticed me. Someone knew I was there. Someone cared.”

“I need you to watch your baby brother,” Mama said. “Your pa and I are going to help someone who is sick.”
I looked up from sweeping the floor of our small house and nodded. Mama was the Relief Society president, and she often went to visit sisters in our ward.
“Thank you, Arlyn,” Mama said, kissing the top of my head. “John’s asleep. And there’s bread dough rising on the counter. Please don’t touch it.”
I watched through the doorway as she and Pa rode the wagon down our dusty road. I felt proud that Mama trusted me.
As I swept the kitchen, I stopped to look at the bread dough. I could hardly wait for Mama to bake it tonight. Usually we ate the fresh bread with homemade jam. But we had run out of jam three months ago.
Jam! The thought made me hungry for something sweet. I glanced up at the sugar jar, high up on the shelf. I knew Mama was saving it to make more jam.
But the more I thought about the sugar, the hungrier I felt. Finally, I pulled a chair up to the counter and reached up. My fingers just barely touched the jar of sugar. I pulled it closer to the edge of the shelf. …
And then the jar slipped right off the shelf! I tried to catch it, but it fell with a loud plop right in the middle of the bread dough. Sugar spilled all over the bread and counter and onto the floor.
“Oh no!” I yelled. That woke my baby brother up. He started crying. I wanted to cry too. What would Mama say about this mess?
After I got John calmed down, I did my best to clean up the sugar. I pulled the jar out of the dough and washed it. I wiped the sugar off the counter and floor. But there was nothing I could do to get the sugar out of the dough.
I thought about putting the jar back on the shelf. Maybe Mama wouldn’t notice it was empty. But I knew that wasn’t right. So I set the jar on the table and waited for Mama and Pa to come home.
When they got home, Mama noticed the sugar jar right away.
I took a deep breath. “I just wanted a taste of sugar. But I knocked the jar off the shelf. I tried to clean it up, but I couldn’t get it out of the bread dough.” The words rushed out as I looked down at the floor.
Mama was quiet for a minute.
“I’m so sorry,” I whispered.
Mama let out a sigh. “Well, I guess the bread will be extra sweet tonight,” she said. I looked up. She gave me a little smile. “Thank you for telling us what happened.”
As we ate the sugary bread that night, Mama and Pa and I talked about honesty.
“We all make lots of mistakes in life,” Pa said. “But when we are honest and try to repent, Heavenly Father and Jesus are happy. We will always be blessed for being honest—even if it seems harder at first.”
I was still sad that I had spilled the sugar. I knew we probably wouldn’t have as much jam this year because of my mistake. But I was glad I had told the truth. That was a sweet feeling no amount of sugar could give.

I have a sweet feeling in my heart about President Spencer W. Kimball, who was the prophet when I was baptized. He was a great influence in my life. When I was a new member, he shook my hand in São Paulo, and I have never forgotten it. At one general conference he asked the members to stay out of debt, and I decided I would. In Brazil we have inflation and a lot of financial troubles, but I have never had debts. I am not a rich man, and my family has had many challenges. But we have always overcome them because we followed this wise advice.

My first brush with the priesthood was when I was baptized. I was baptized in an irrigation canal in the little town of Oakley, Idaho. I was with my friends on the bank of that irrigation canal. We had on our bib swimming suits, which consisted of bib overalls with the legs cut out so you wouldn’t sink and holes cut in the pockets. We had never seen a swimming suit made out of knit or of other fabric. My father came out from the First Ward meetinghouse with his counselors. He was carrying a chair, and he put the chair on the side of the irrigation ditch. My father said, “David, come on over here; we’re going to baptize you.”

I dove in the canal and swam over to the other side, shivering. It was in September and a little cold, and young boys get the shivers, you know, when you have only bib overalls on. My father got down into the canal. As I remember, he didn’t take his shoes off or change anything but was just in his regular clothes. He showed me how to hold my hands, and then he baptized me. After I came up out of the water, we both crawled up on the bank of the canal. I sat in the chair, and they put their hands on my head and confirmed me a member of the Church. After that I dove in the canal and went over on the other side and joined my friends.

This was my first experience, really, with the priesthood.

I have asked that serious question of myself: “Where would I be without the gospel?”
It was that gospel testimony that helped me to say no to my Navy friends when our first leave came while I was in training camp in early 1944. My naval colleagues invited me to share in their worldly activities; to prove that I was a “man” by getting a tattoo, and then going after drink and women.
I was the only Latter-day Saint in that group, and, yes, I felt a little lonely as I left them to go by myself to the servicemen’s recreation center and then to a movie. The following day I found Church services and Church friends who strengthened and reinforced a lonely Mormon boy from Provo, Utah.
To have come home from the service in world War II still living a virtuous life has held eternal rewards for me.

Several years ago, a young man named James traveled internationally with a group of athletes. He was listening to a conversation that another athlete, Tom, was having about a beautiful young woman whom he was interested in—you. Most people considered Tom to be a very good-looking and well-accomplished athlete.
Tom admitted his disappointment that you had such high standards. In order for him to date you, you asked that Tom seriously consider the teachings of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Tom said the standards of sexual purity were more than he had expected. James was deeply impressed that there was a Church with young people who were so serious about their religion and standards, and he asked for the name of the Church.
On returning to the United States, James decided to go to a Church meeting and see what inspired such dedication. He surprised the missionaries by showing up at church one Sunday. Soon afterward, after receiving the missionary lessons, James was baptized. Years later, I met James at a single-adult activity, and we were eventually married for time and all eternity in the temple.
I often think of you. It may have been uncomfortable for you to hold up high standards to a good-looking athlete, but I’m grateful you did. There is no way you could know how your dedication to high moral standards changed our lives. We just celebrated our 16th anniversary. I wish I could meet you. I would like to show you our lovely children and our happy home.
I hope you understand that even when you simply live your standards, you can have a profound effect on the lives of others. Being morally clean is a path to more than just personal happiness.

The author’s parents not long before her father died.
Photograph courtesy of the author
As a child, I always loved spending time with my dad. To me, he was the funniest, smartest person in the world. In my young eyes, he was a lot like Moroni, “a strong and a mighty man … of a perfect understanding” (Alma 48:11). He was one of my greatest friends.
One of the things I remember most about my father was how hard he worked for his family. It was not always easy to support a wife and six children, so he would often juggle three jobs at a time to give us the things we needed. He definitely did “labor exceedingly for the welfare and safety of his people” (Alma 48:12). Even at a young age, I could see that my father’s biggest concern was making his family happy.
Time spent with my busy dad was always time well spent. Some of my fondest memories with him include the nights we watched old Western movies on the couch and the weekends we spent at our favorite campsites.
I especially loved gathering as a family in the evenings to read from the scriptures. My father had a great love for the scriptures, especially the Book of Mormon. He wanted all his children to know and treasure the Book of Mormon as well.
He often used my brothers’ action figures to reenact classic Book of Mormon stories like those of Samuel the Lamanite, the stripling warriors, and the brother of Jared. He brought to life a book that for me as a child was sometimes hard to understand. My father’s love for the Book of Mormon was contagious. Not only did he share the captivating stories, but he also taught our family to live its teachings.
When I was 14 years old, my family received a visit from two police officers telling us that my father had passed away in a car accident on his way home from work one night. At first it was hard for me to believe that it had actually happened. I felt that we saw things like this only in movies. But it soon became very real and extremely difficult for my family. For some of us, it was easy to wonder why a loving God would take such a great man from a family who needed him so much.
Shortly after his death, my mother gathered us kids around the table that my father had made just a few years before and said something that I have never forgotten. She told us, “Now it is time to put into practice everything that we believe.”
My mind went back to my father’s love of the scriptures, and I began to read them more diligently on my own. Over time, I felt greater peace in my life. Certain verses brought me hope that I would see my father again because of the Resurrection of the Savior. I experienced personally that “the sting of death is swallowed up in Christ” (Mosiah 16:8).
Photograph posed by model
Reading the Book of Mormon has taught me that our loving Heavenly Father knows each of us and speaks to us in times of need through the holy scriptures. I have come to understand that we will all experience trials no matter who we are, but that Heavenly Father loves us enough to give us tools to find peace even during our darkest times. For me, one of these tools has been the Book of Mormon.
I will forever be grateful for my father’s example and for the way his love of the scriptures has changed my life.

Just about everybody says, “Don’t go visit Mrs. Brocklebank, or you’ll get chased out of her yard with a broom.” Well, that’s fine for everybody else to say, but not so fine for me, because Mrs. Brocklebank is my grandmother!
She lives down the street in a little house that’s surrounded by trees. My family visits her every Sunday afternoon, and I usually hide behind my dad and try not to say anything, except when she speaks to me, and even then I hardly dare raise my voice above a whisper. It’s not that I don’t like her. I don’t know her well enough to not like her. The real problem is that I’m too afraid of her to know her.
Mrs. Brocklebank came to Alberta, Canada, from Germany many years ago. She was already pretty old, Mom told me, when she met Mr. Brocklebank and got married and had my father. Grandfather Brocklebank died when Dad was still young, and my grandmother had to raise him all by herself. Maybe that’s why she’s so feisty.
Anyway, to make a long story short, I’m in a real fix. Last week in Primary Sister Little told us that by next Sunday we have to bring our completed four-generation program to class. My family have only been Latter-day Saints for three months, so I didn’t know what she meant by “four-generation program.” When she explained it to me, I was dumbfounded. After church I took the problem up with my parents.
“Oh yes,” said Dad. “They explained the program in priesthood meeting last week.”
“I’ve heard about it, too,” Mom said. “It’s something that I was planning for us to start on in a family home evening next month.”
“But I have to have it next week!”
“Well, that’s no problem,” Dad said. “Mother has all that stuff.”
“Mother?” I said, looking at Mom.
“No, no. Not your mother—my mother.”
“You mean Mrs. Brocklebank?”
“Grandmother Brocklebank,” Mom said.
“That’s who I mean,” Dad said.
The situation was turning into an insurmountable problem. Mrs. Brocklebank had started to take the discussions with the rest of us, but she had quit before finishing them. She had argued with everything that the missionaries had said. I could tell that I was licked even before I started.
Later, when we went to visit Mrs. Brocklebank, I sat quietly in a corner and looked at the floor. Finally Dad pushed me forward and said, “Mother, Kenneth has something to ask you.”
“Oh?” Mrs. Brocklebank’s eyes fixed on me like two steel drills.
“Mrs. Brock—Grandmother,” I began, clearing my throat and staring at her long nose and thin lips, “I need some family history information.”
“Family history information? Whatever for?”
I told her about the four-generation program—how it included me, Mom and Dad, her and Mr. Brocklebank, and their parents, and how if we went to the temple and got the work done, we could be together forever.
“Together forever? What makes you think that I want to be together with anyone forever?”
“Come now, Mother,” said Dad. “You’re just being difficult.”
“Well,” said Mrs. Brocklebank, folding her arms and pinching her lips together, “that’s what I’m best at!”
I took the blank Family Group Record Sheets out of my pocket. They were kind of wadded up and wrinkled, but I straightened them out with my hand. When Mrs. Brocklebank wasn’t looking, I left them on the dining room table by a vase of red carnations.
The next Sunday came fast, and I wasn’t ready for it. I had said several prayers that week about the four-generation program, but I didn’t have much hope that Mrs. Brocklebank would help me. I figured that Heavenly Father must get pretty tired of people asking for things all the time, so mostly I just thanked Him for things. I thanked Him for Mom and Dad and my best friend, Peter, and for my Primary teacher, Sister Little. Sometimes I even thanked Him for Mrs. Brocklebank.
I got up Sunday morning and put on my suit. I always have trouble with my tie, so I went to see Dad. While he was tying it, he said, “Mother called and wants you to go over to her house on your way to church.”
I pleaded with him to go with me, but he said that he had to be at priesthood meeting early.
My knees were shaking and my heart was pounding as I knocked on Mrs. Brocklebank’s front door. She stood behind the screen, looking down at me. “Come in,” she said.
I went in. The house was quiet, and I could hear her electric clock making a little whirring sound. I stood still with my arms at my side.
“I have something for you,” Mrs. Brocklebank said. She went over to her dining room table and came back with the Family Group Record Sheets.
They were folded—not all crooked, like when I fold papers, but neat and straight. I opened them up. Every space was filled in with a name, even mine. Every name had places and dates written next to them. Mrs. Brocklebank had completed my four-generation program! I opened my mouth to thank her.
“Take it and go before you’re late for church,” she said gruffly. “And don’t say anything. I dislike people who snivel.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And come back later. I want to hear more about being together forever. But don’t get any ideas about me being interested in the Church. I’m just curious, that’s all.”
I looked back at Mrs. Brocklebank. She was frowning and trying to look annoyed, but I suddenly realized that she wasn’t, not really. I smiled right at her. “I understand, Grandma Brocklebank,” I said.
(To be concluded.)

Despite my efforts, I couldn’t locate an LDS meetinghouse. Ghersi offered to help, but I never did find the address of the building closest to where I lived. In the meantime, he loaned me some pamphlets that he had.
Finally, while walking not far from my house, I saw a building under construction. The sign read, “The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.” I recognized the name from the pamphlets.
Months later, when construction was finished, my sister Haydee and I went together to that building. Two missionaries greeted us, and I told them about my experience with the Book of Mormon and my desire to be a member of the Church.
During the discussions, I told the missionaries of my concern about the sheep of the other fold. They asked me to read of the Savior’s visit to the Americas—particularly His words in 3 Nephi 15:16–21—and I knew I had found my answer at last. Two weeks after finishing the missionary discussions, my sister and I were baptized into the Church I had sought for so long.