Gospel Story Finder

One of the biggest adjustments to life as a missionary is having a companion with you all the time. He or she may come from a different country, speak a different language, or have a different perspective on doing missionary work together. Missionaries have to learn to be comfortable spending so much time with someone else. And they have to learn how to teach together. Elder Juilfs recalls, “We had one lesson that was really rough. We had different ideas and were going against each other. But we learned how important it is to teach as a companionship and let ideas flow.”

What possible effect could a 14-year-old have on home teaching? I was just a kid. Who was I to tell an elder to do his home teaching? Not just an elder, but an elder I had never met or even seen at church. The only things I knew about him were his name and that he had been an athlete.
Three months earlier I had been called to be a junior home teaching companion, and I still had not visited anyone. It didn’t help that my two best friends were already active home teachers. One was assigned with his father and the other with a member of the elders quorum presidency. My own father was serving in the bishopric and at that time was not assigned as a home teacher. What could a 14-year-old companion do?
My feelings of guilt had to be Brother Jensen’s fault, I decided. He had been my deacons quorum adviser and had taught us the importance of home teaching. He also explained that as teachers in the Aaronic Priesthood, it was our duty to be faithful home teachers. He had warned us that we might have to remind and encourage a senior companion to go home teaching.
Well, I decided, my options were really very simple. I could wait for my senior companion to call and do my best not to feel guilty—or I could go to his house, introduce myself, and arrange to go home teaching.
On the one hand, he was the senior companion. He was supposed to take charge. Wouldn’t I be assuming too much authority by contacting him? He might even get offended. Better to wait, I thought. Then Brother Jensen’s words came back to me.
“If your senior companion doesn’t contact you,” he had said, “then you must contact him and let him know you are ready to go home teaching.” He explained that if the senior companion still wouldn’t go home teaching, the responsibility would rest on him. Until I made the effort to go, I had to share in the failure.
I finally committed to go to my companion and introduce myself.
At church that Sunday, I began to feel more and more nervous. What would my companion think? Would he laugh? Maybe he would get mad and run me off. I didn’t feel I could do it, but I had promised to follow through and make the attempt. If he responded negatively, then at least I would have done my part.
As I neared his house, I forced myself up the driveway and said a prayer, very simple, very direct: Lord, please help me. My fears left me for the moment, and I quickly climbed the steps and knocked. I knew someone would answer because I could hear what sounded like a party going on inside. The fear was coming back, but it was too late to run.
The door opened, and a woman asked me what I wanted. She may have been polite, rude, sensitive, or even abrupt. I don’t know because I was trying hard to remember what I was there for.
“Is Brother Johnson here?” I finally asked, timidly.
“Just a minute, please.” I thought I could hear laughter but wasn’t sure. I didn’t have time to breathe before a very tall man stepped to the door. He seemed none too friendly.
“Yeah?” he said.
I’m sure he knew I was scared because he started to smile a little. I calmed down just enough to utter a little prayer in my mind one last, desperate time.
“My name is John,” I began in a voice that didn’t sound scared to me, “and I’m your home teaching companion. I was wondering when we could go home teaching?”
I don’t know if he was amused or surprised, but he didn’t throw me off the porch. Good start, I thought.
He smiled and said, “Give me your phone number, and I’ll call you.”
I went home feeling pretty good. I had made a good effort, and if he didn’t call, I could say I had tried. When I arrived home, I told my parents what had happened. I don’t think they expected me to get a call.
Later that night, I received a call from Brother Johnson, my companion.
“Can you go home teaching Tuesday night at 7:00?” he asked.
“Uh, sure,” I stammered.
“I’ll pick you up then. Bye.” He hung up.
Tuesday night we went home teaching. I found out later he had called the elders quorum president after I left his house that Sunday to get the names of the families we were assigned to visit. Then he made appointments.
We established a routine. On the third Sunday of each month, I would stop by his house, and then he would set up appointments. We rarely, if ever, missed anyone in the two years we were companions. We also became pretty good friends. Brother Johnson even came to church a few times. He said he wanted to see if the quorum president would faint.
I learned two important lessons. First, an Aaronic Priesthood holder can have a positive influence on home teaching. Second, a less-active brother can be the most active home teacher.
As a home teacher, Brother Johnson taught me a lot.

In September 1826, Joseph returned to the hill for the plates [see chapter 3], but Moroni said he was still not ready for them. “Quit the company of the money diggers,” the angel told him. There were wicked men among them.9 Moroni gave him one more year to align his will with God’s. If he did not, the plates would never be entrusted to him.
The angel also told him to bring someone with him next time. It was the same request he had made at the end of Joseph’s first visit to the hill. But since Alvin was dead, Joseph was confused.
“Who is the right person?” he asked.
“You will know,” Moroni said.
Joseph sought the Lord’s direction through his seer stone. The right person, he learned, was Emma.10
Joseph had been drawn to Emma as soon as he met her. Like Alvin, she was someone who could help him become the man the Lord needed to carry out His work. But there was more to Emma than that. Joseph loved her and wanted to marry her.11
In December, Joseph turned 21 years old. In the past, he had let himself be pulled this way and that by the expectations of those who wanted to take advantage of his gift.12 But after his last visit to the hill, he knew he had to do more to prepare himself to receive the plates.
Before returning to Harmony, Joseph spoke with his parents. “I have concluded to get married,” he told them, “and, if you have no objections, Miss Emma Hale would be my choice.” His parents were pleased with his decision, and Lucy urged him to come live with them after they married.13
Joseph spent as much time as he could with Emma that winter, sometimes borrowing the Knights’ sleigh when snow made it hard to travel to the Hales’ house. But her parents still did not like him, and his efforts to win over the family failed.14
In January 1827, Emma visited the Stowells’ home, where she and Joseph could spend time together without her family’s disapproving looks. Joseph proposed to Emma there, and at first, Emma seemed surprised. She knew her parents would oppose the marriage.15 But Joseph urged her to think about it. They could elope right away.
Emma considered the proposal. Marrying Joseph would disappoint her parents, but it was her choice, and she loved him.16
A short time later, on January 18, 1827, Joseph and Emma were married in the home of the local justice of the peace. They then went to Manchester and began life together in the new home of Joseph’s parents. The house was comfortable, but Joseph Sr. and Lucy had overspent on it, fallen behind on their payments, and lost the property. They were now renting it from the new owners.17
The Smith family frame home in Manchester, New York, was restored using the original structure. After their marriage in 1827, Joseph and Emma lived here with his parents.

The gaunt figure came ambling up the rutted road leading to our slab-sided house on the hill. He was dressed in tattered pants and jacket, and his cap was nothing more than a bill, four heavy seams, and a button on top. His shoes consisted of shoestrings, bits of worn leather, and cardboard.
Poverty was not new to us. Dad worked on a public works program for the county, and we knew what it was to do without. Mom, however, always planted a garden, and it was the garden that helped us survive those long years of the Depression. We never went hungry.
The hobo’s look of uncertainty made me feel sad as I watched him come toward us. Bobby, my oldest brother, had already run to tell Mom, and my two younger brothers just stood there trying to decide whether this bundle of rags was a threat or just a curiosity. As for me, I was impressed that anyone so thin could climb the hill to our house.
Mom came out of the house, letting the screen door slam behind her. With the warmth of an angel, she greeted this stranger with all the dignity and pleasure that one would give a close friend. “You look kind of beat, young man,” she said. “Just step over to the well, and I’ll get you a pan of hot water so that you can wash up.” Pointing to the well, she went back to the house.
We were no different from any of our friends in the community; none of us had running water in our houses. My dad had dug the well years before when he had first built our house, and we took turns drawing water from the well for everything from drinking to bathing and washing clothes.
In a few minutes Mom was back carrying a wash pan, soap, towel, and Dad’s shaving cream and razor. “You’ll feel just like a million dollars, young man, if you get yourself shaved. After you’ve had a bite to eat, I’ll give you a haircut, seeing as how you could certainly use one.” With this declaration, she turned to the task of fixing him breakfast.
The four of us stood wide-eyed and watched the stranger as he washed and combed his hair. Then very carefully he shaved off his long beard with Dad’s razor, leaving his face tanned at the top and white at the bottom. We looked at each other and giggled, but never did he speak to us or we to him. Perhaps he was as puzzled by us as we were of him.
I was second to the oldest child, and the only girl, so I felt that perhaps I should take over the duties of hostess. The smell of hotcakes came drifting from the open door, and even though we had eaten, it was a heavenly smell. The stranger’s eyes shifted to the kitchen door and back to us. Digging my big toe into the dirt, I said, “My mom’s a really good cook. You’ll like her hotcakes.”
The man just nodded and said nothing. Shifting from one foot to the other, he gazed around the yard, taking in the picnic table that my dad had built and the old cookstove sitting in quiet dignity on cement blocks beside the well house.
“Why don’t you sit down,” I said, moving toward him cautiously. I wasn’t sure whether Mom intended for this bundle of rags to come into the house or not, but I felt that good manners forced me to say something.
Again he nodded. Moving to the table, he threw his long, thin legs over the seat and collapsed like a deflated inner tube.
With a flourish of pot holders and warming pan, Mom pushed open the screen door with her shoulder. She carried a stack of hotcakes, homemade syrup, and butter and set them on the table. She turned to me. “Sissy, run into the house and get this hungry young man a plate and a glass. And bring the pitcher of milk while you’re at it.” When I returned, she gave the table a last-minute check, then said, “Now, young man, you just dig right into these hotcakes, and you’ll feel better in no time.”
I have never seen food disappear so fast in my life! He was so hungry that it made me want to cry. I was thirteen years old, and I had never been hungry a day in my life. Most of the time our food was plain, but we always had plenty to eat.
As fast as the hotcakes were eaten, Mom put more onto his plate. I poured milk into his glass as fast as it vanished down his throat. At last he stood up and wiped his mouth with his ragged sleeve. “How can I thank you, ma’am?” he asked as he backed away from the table. “I’d be glad to chop some wood for you to pay for my meal—or whatever else you could find for me to do.”
“Well, I’ll tell you, young man, we’ll talk about that after I give you a haircut.” Mom smiled at him, then sailed into the house for her clippers and shears. Long hair was not something that she could abide on a man. It was an absolute sign of sinful neglect, and getting it cut neatly was your first step on the road to salvation, according to her. Mom was sure that the eleventh commandment was—or should have been—“Thou shalt be clean, with hair trimmed.” In no time at all, the young man was seated under the big old weeping willow tree, having his hair expertly cut.
There was something about my mom that made you feel right at home. She visited with the stranger, and in no time he was telling us who he was and where he’d come from, just as though he had known us all his life.
His name was Tad Bellows, and he was barely nineteen. He’d been raised in Missouri and had three brothers and four sisters, all younger than himself. His father had died when he was sixteen, and he’d left home, hoping to find work.
As Mom cut his hair, I saw this whole new person emerge. My mind remembered him as he had arrived, and matched it against this clean-cut young man. I wondered if his mother and brothers and sisters missed him. I wondered what it would be like to be a hobo, riding the rails among strangers—hungry, cold, and tired. I knew that some folks were hard on hoboes, thinking that they were just bums and having nothing to do with them. I quickly looked around at the home and family that I loved, and I silently thanked Heavenly Father for them.
“Just a minute, Tad,” Mom said as she shook out the old sheet she had put around him while cutting his hair. “I think that Dad has an extra cap you might as well have. The poor thing that you have has had its day.” She hurried into the house and returned with a cap and one of Dad’s old jackets.
Tad shuffled his feet in embarrassment but took the things that she handed him and headed for the woodpile. All morning we could hear him chopping away, and by noon we figured that he must have cut a stack high enough to build a fort.
At noon Mom called to Tad to eat lunch with us, and he did so gratefully, filling himself as though he had not eaten all those hotcakes just a few hours before.
My brothers and I were all blond and curly headed. We were each just two years apart in age, and during the summer Mom dressed us all in overalls, even me. They were easier to clean and much sturdier than dresses. We never wore shoes in the summer, except to church on Sundays or when we went berrying, so we must have looked funny to Tad. Our eyes never strayed from his face as we sat on the picnic bench, eating our sandwiches. Our blond curls and freckled faces shone in the sun, and our bare feet swung in perfect rhythm.
All of a sudden Tad winked at us and pulled a piece of green willow wood from his pocket. Placing it to his lips, he began to play. Soft at first, the melody floated across the yard and into the summer air as though seeking escape. Tad’s long thin fingers moved swiftly over the tiny holes, and the gentle melody grew and danced in the air like butterflies in flight. I wanted to sing along with its beauty, but the lump in my throat made it difficult.
We sat spellbound by the magic of it all, and when he lowered his arms, we clapped our hands and cried out with glee, urging him to play some more. Instead, he stood up quietly, tapped the simple flute gently in the palm of his hand, and stuffed it back into his ragged pocket. Looking at each of us in turn, he said, “I made it from one of God’s little miracles.”
He worked long into the afternoon, and we wondered what Dad would say when he came home to find half the backyard stacked with chopped wood. We each had our own chores to do before Dad came home from work, so the hours passed swiftly. It wasn’t until our stomachs began to tell us that it was time for dinner that we realized how silent it was in the backyard.
Hurrying around the stack of wood, and stumbling over each other, we were stunned to find that Tad was gone! But lying on the chopping block was a package of flower seeds and—wonder of wonders!—the magical little instrument that he had played for us. Written in a childlike scrawl on an old scrap of paper was, “Beauty has nothing to do with money. It is a gift of God!”

When I was a boy, we lived on a fruit farm in the summer. We grew great quantities of peaches. Our father took us to tree pruning demonstrations put on by the agricultural college. Each Saturday during January and February, we would go out to the farm and prune the trees. We learned that by clipping and sawing in the right places, even when snow was on the ground and the wood appeared dead, we could shape a tree so that the sun would touch the fruit which was to come with spring and summer. We learned that in February we could pretty well determine the kind of fruit we would pick in September.

Anne Cody—the name struck me like a bolt of lightning. I had not seen Anne for years. Three decades before and a thousand miles away, Anne had been my childhood friend—and my link to the Church. My mother and sisters and I were members of the Church, but my father was not. No one in my family was active. Anne quietly and consistently took me with her to church and Young Women and included me in Church activities. During those crucial years I remained active more because of Anne’s friendship than because of my own testimony of the gospel.
That tenuous connection to the Church sustained me through my parents’ divorce. It inspired me to counsel my heartbroken father to start attending church and to listen to the missionary discussions. It was strengthened as my father joined the Church and my parents remarried. It was my guide through the turbulent teenage years.
Through it all Anne remained my friend and example. When she decided to go to Brigham Young University, I didn’t want to be left behind, so I went too. During that time good friends and full participation in the programs of the Church helped my testimony mature.
Then during my sophomore year, an unexpected tragedy befell my family. My oldest sister, who had suffered from emotional problems for years, took her own life. Our newly found testimonies comforted us through those difficult days.
I subsequently met a returned missionary and planned a temple marriage. The day before my wedding, my parents received their endowments, and we—my deceased sister included by proxy—were sealed as a family. Anne’s quiet influence had brought the blessings of the temple not only to me but to my family as well.

At times Joseph’s cheerfulness went beyond the friendly smile and cordial handshake to playful tests of physical strength. One man who had lived in Nauvoo as a youth recalled that Joseph “frequently used to come out of the mansion [house] and play ball with us boys. … Joseph would always conform to the rules. He would catch the ball till it came his turn to take the bat. Then, being a very strong man he would knock the ball so far that we used to shout to the boy that was going for the ball to take his dinner [with him to eat on the way]. This used to make the prophet laugh. Joseph was always good natured and full of fun. I have seen him sit down on the carpet in his office and pull sticks [a game of strength] with the Nauvoo police.”4

Captain Brown was likewise concerned about the turbulent sailing conditions. In four weeks only one-third of the distance to New Orleans had been covered; there were 2,900 miles yet to go. He therefore ordered an inventory of food reserves, which showed them adequate unless the unfavorable winds continued. In the midst of the company’s anxiety, however, the Spirit brought them reassurance on March 29: “a tongue interpreted that we should have a speedier voyage than was anticipated, as the Lord was well pleased with our fasting and had heard our prayers.”

Events of the next few days and nights, however, seemed to negate that prophecy. Storms struck again: “strong gale; great swell on the water; ship rolling very much; many of the passengers sick. … Things rolling about.” Outside the elements were at war, but within the Spirit was at work. After one preaching meeting where “Brother Finch gave a brief and lucid explanation of the first principles,” five converts were baptized. On April 1, the unfavorable winds continued, but at a testimony meeting, which many sailors attended, three more baptisms occurred, including the ship’s carpenter, the first crew member to convert. The next day found food rations reduced. But that evening three more sailors and one passenger were baptized at the testimony meeting.

On the first Sunday in April, five weeks from Liverpool and still not halfway to New Orleans, a special Church meeting was held in the steerage. While the vessel was tossed on the heavy seas, many testimonies were borne. Then, “a proposition was made that we should pray through our president for favorable winds.” Unitedly, they petitioned for divine assistance, “when, remarkable to relate, the Lord almost immediately answered our prayers.” Christopher Arthur, Jr., twenty-two years old and not yet a Mormon, later recalled the moment: “Prayer was offered on the 3rd of April for a fair wind which was answered while we were on our knees.” There was one more squall that night, but from then on ideal weather sped the vessel toward Florida. During the next three days, as the Saints rejoiced “that our prayer was heard,” the International sailed as far as it had during the previous two weeks. Frequently the stretched sails carried the ship 220 miles per day.

When business meetings brought me to my childhood hometown of Mansfield, Massachusetts, I looked up the Web page of my old middle school. At the end of a list of current faculty members was Mrs. Christine Pfeil, my eighth-grade English teacher who was a truly influential person in my life.
When I was in eighth grade, difficulties at home left me angry and distracted from school responsibilities. Other teachers didn’t pay attention to my altered attitude and slipping grades, but Mrs. Pfeil took a personal interest. She would never accept less than my best. Often she would write on my assignments, “You can do better—try again.” Grudgingly, I would redo the assignment, thinking, “OK, you want something better? I’ll give you something better!” In her class, I felt intelligent and appreciated. When I left Qualters Middle School after eighth grade, I knew I could succeed scholastically because of Mrs. Pfeil’s belief in me.
As I looked at her name on the Web page that day, it suddenly seemed overwhelmingly important to tell her as soon as possible how she had influenced my life. I determined to find her, so at noon the next day, I excused myself from a business meeting and sped to Qualters.
I had just tried her locked classroom door when I saw Mrs. Pfeil walking down the hallway. “Carl Nelson!” she exclaimed. “I haven’t seen you in 25 years! What are you doing here?”
Impelled to deliver my message, I began abruptly. “I feel I need to tell you personally how important you were in my life. In eighth grade I was going through difficult times, but you expected my best. Precious few demanded that much from me then. As far as I can tell, your faith in me was the major reason I began trusting in my own abilities. I don’t know what my life would have been like without a teacher like you.”
As I spoke, Mrs. Pfeil’s eyes became wet. “I have to tell you a story,” she said. “I have always wanted to be a writer, even though I felt God wanted me to teach. Last night I was feeling hurt that I had never received any appreciation for my work. I told God that unless I received some thanks the very next day, I was going to retire from teaching and work on my writing. And now here you come after all this time to thank me on this particular day—this blessing is almost too much!”
Mrs. Pfeil and I were unable to talk longer. Her students began arriving, and I left, humbled that Heavenly Father let me share in helping one of His children. Reflecting upon my brief experience with Mrs. Pfeil, I remained impressed that no matter who we are or what church we belong to, our loving Father works in our lives to answer our prayers.

Anne had lived in Japan only about a year. Today she was excited about going to her first Tanabata (Star Festival) party at the home of Masanari.
It was a rainy afternoon and Anne held up her umbrella as she walked along through the puddles on the narrow lane. The tiny trinket shop was selling gilded paper comets and streamers for Tanabata. Down the passageways between houses were bamboo branches decorated for the Star Festival.
Masanari’s mother slid open the door of their house when Anne arrived.
“Irasshaimase, Anne-chan (Welcome, little Anne),” she said.
Anne sat down on a step in the entryway and pulled off her boots before entering the house.
Then she put on some tiny, pink slippers and hurried down the hall. Her friends from school were all there. Keiko, Jiro, and Masanari sat on the woven tatami (straw) mat floor in the middle of a rainbow of colored papers making origami (paper folding) decorations for Tanabata. Some of the other mothers, who had been invited, were busy making decorations too.
“Come, we’ll show you how, Anne-chan,” said Jiro’s mother as she finished folding a tiny red crab. First, she showed them how to make two familiar animals. (See last page of this story.)
1. Take a square of paper and fold the corners together.
2. Fold one corner down.
3. Fold the other corner down.
4. Fold the bottom and the top back.
5. Draw a few pencil lines for the face.
1. Take a square of paper and fold the corners together.
2. Fold tips down.
3. Fold one corner up.
4. Fold the other corner up.
5. Turn the paper over and draw a face.
The children folded red dogs and purple cats and blue dogs and orange cats. They drew happy faces on some and fierce faces on others.
“Have you sometimes heard insects singing in the trees?” asked Jiro’s mother. “Those are cicadas. We can make origami cicadas too.”
1. Take a square piece of paper and fold the corners together.
2. Fold up the top flap first.
3. Then fold up the bottom flap.
4. Now it looks like this.
5. Turn it over and fold back the two sides.
“Watch me fold an elephant,” said Jiro.
1. Fold two corners of a square of paper so that they meet in the center to form a kite shape.
2. Fold the kite shape in half down the center.
3. Fold the longest tip forward.
4. Then fold it back to the left.
5. Open out the inside corner of the top flap and spread it back.
6. Fold the top half down behind the figure.
7. Open out the tip of the elephant’s trunk and tuck it down inside itself.
8. Cut out the legs and tail and draw on tusks and eyes.
“Look at my lantern,” said Keiko.
1. Fold two sides of an oblong piece of paper in until they meet at the center.
2. Fold each corner forward to the center.
3. Fold the tips back.
4. Fold each corner forward again and then turn the paper over.
5. Gently push the top tip up and the bottom tip down and open them out.
“The most famous of all is the sacred crane,” said Jiro’s mother as she took a square of metallic gold paper. “The crane is a beautiful white bird with red-tipped head and black-edged wings. It comes every summer to our islands. To the Japanese it means long life and happiness.”
Her skillful fingers moved so quickly that Anne could not see how she made the tiny, complicated folds. A delicate creature with graceful spreading wings was soon completed.
She set the lovely bird on the palm of her hand and held it out to Anne. “This is the orizuru or folded crane,” she said. Keiko, too, worked very fast and knew how to make many folds. Soon she had a great pile of origami figures spilling over her lap.
“Here, Anne-chan, take some of mine,” she said.
Origami cranes and turtles and canoes and frogs and lanterns covered the floor. Masanari’s mother entered with bamboo branches and helped the children tie their bright origami creations to the boughs.
“They are truly beautiful!” she exclaimed. “Isn’t it fun to have Tanabata to celebrate every year?” Then, Masanari’s mother told them a legend of the stars.
“Up in the sky there are two sad stars who love each other very much, but they are separated by the heavenly river, the Milky Way. Only on this one night of all the year can they cross the Milky Way and meet.
“However, if it rains, then the Milky Way will be flooded, and the poor, lonely stars will not be able to meet after all,” she said as she bowed her head sadly.
Anne listened quietly to the story. She remembered the puddles in the lane and her wet umbrella drying in the entryway.
“I think it’s raining,” she said somberly.
“But we can hope it will stop, can’t we?” said Jiro’s mother as she ushered everyone in to dinner.
They sat on cushions on the tatami-covered floor around a low-legged lacquer table. For the mothers there were hashi (chopsticks) to eat with. For the children there were hashi and spoons.
They were served bowls filled with haddock and rice, fish soup, tofu (soy bean curd), sashimi (raw tuna), and little pickled salads. Gelatin from the sea and crushed pineapple and handsful of rice candy were served for dessert.
It was dark now, and as the children ran out of the house, Masanari shouted, “It’s stopped raining! It’s stopped raining!”
“Now the stars can meet after all!” cried Keiko.
There were green and blue and white sparklers for everyone. With the mothers’ help, the children lit the sparklers and swung them in the darkness, making circles and spirals while they laughed and talked.
When the sparklers were gone they picked up their Tanabata branches. Holding them above their heads, they waved them slowly against the night sky as they sang a farewell song.
“The party is over. Our Star Festival is ended,” said Masanari’s mother.
Masanari could not let the evening end just yet. “Let’s walk with everyone on their way home, Mama-san,” he begged.
When they reached Anne’s apartment, everyone bowed and said, “Oyasuminasai” (Good night. Please rest).
Note: Although origami figures are ideally folded of special origami paper that is colored on one side and plain on the other, they can also be made of any lightweight paper. Follow the illustrations carefully; the dotted lines show where the folds should be made.

So, how can we access the power of the Atonement of Jesus Christ daily? In my own experience, I’ve learned how to invite the Savior’s enabling power through prayer.

While on my mission, my mission president encouraged me to study the Atonement of Jesus Christ. He made a 30-day study program containing talks and scriptures. Each day focused on an aspect of Christ’s Atonement to help the reader understand it better.

As I studied the words of God’s servants, my heart softened. I realized how much my Savior has done for me, and I felt so grateful for His sacrifice. On day 28 of my study, I studied a devotional given by Elder David A. Bednar of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. I realized that making Jesus Christ part of my day went far beyond my morning studies. I needed to practice intentionally feeling His love and accessing the power of His Atonement.

Elder Bednar taught: “As you and I come to understand and employ the enabling power of [Jesus Christ’s] Atonement in our personal lives, we will pray and seek for strength to change our circumstances rather than praying for our circumstances to be changed. We will become agents who ‘act’ rather than objects that are ‘acted upon’ (2 Nephi 2:14).”

With guidance from the Spirit, I realized I needed to change the way I prayed. I would previously pray for things that I thought would help me—for specific events to occur, others to reach out to me, or some sort of sign that could aid me. But those are all things I couldn’t control. What I could control was myself—I was what needed to change.

One night after a long day of missionary work, I felt particularly exhausted and overwhelmed. I got on my knees and prayed. I poured out all the frustration and sorrow I had pent up. I asked God to give me physical and emotional strength so I could wake up in the morning, motivated.

I intentionally asked for strength, a change within me, not my surroundings.

The next day, I woke right as my alarm sounded. I felt rejuvenated, happy, and ready for the day! It was such a stark change from what I’d felt previously. Focusing on what I could control and asking for Christ’s help completely shifted how I viewed His sacrifice for me.

I realized that Jesus Christ can give me hope, happiness, energy, motivation—any type of strength I could possibly need. I just needed to ask for His help and love to change me. And it did—aid came over time, with practice and patience as I prayed and drew on His power.

This way of praying became a regular habit in my life after that. I have felt His power lifting me. I have seen His love change me.

While preaching the gospel in Ohio, Lorenzo had a dream one night in which he saw an angry mob attacking him in a schoolhouse. He awoke frightened and prayed for the Lord to protect him as he preached the gospel.
Later that same day, two well-dressed men came to Lorenzo and asked him to come to a schoolhouse where a crowd was waiting to hear him preach. Remembering the dream, Lorenzo refused to come. The men tried harder and harder to get him to come, but Lorenzo would not. The men finally left, shouting angry words at him. Lorenzo soon found out that they weren’t really wanting to hear him preach. Instead, they and a group of other men were waiting to attack Lorenzo at the schoolhouse.

I received a special gift last Christmas that brought with it many memories. My niece gave it to me. It had been among the things I had left in our old family home when I moved out after I was married. The gift was this little brown book I hold in my hand. It is a book that was given to LDS servicemen who entered the armed forces during World War II. I personally viewed the book as a gift from President Heber J. Grant and his counselors, J. Reuben Clark Jr. and David O. McKay.
In the front of the book, these three prophets of God wrote: “The incidents of the armed service do not permit our keeping in constant personal touch with you, either directly or by personal representation. Our next best course is to put in your hands such portions of modern revelation and of explanations of the principles of the Gospel as shall bring to you, wherever you may be, renewed hope and faith, as likewise comfort, consolation, and peace of spirit.”
Today we find ourselves in another war. This is not a war of armaments. It is a war of thoughts, words, and deeds. It is a war with sin, and more than ever we need to be reminded of the commandments. Secularism is becoming the norm, and many of its beliefs and practices are in direct conflict with those that were instituted by the Lord Himself for the benefit of His children.
In the little brown book, immediately after the letter from the First Presidency, there is a “Prefatory Note to Men in the Service,” titled “Obedience to Law Is Liberty.” The note draws a parallel between military law, which is “for the good of all who are in the service,” and divine law.
It states, “In the universe, too, where God is in command, there is law—universal, eternal … law—with certain blessings and immutable penalties.”
The final words of the note focus on obedience to God’s law: “If you wish to return to your loved ones with head erect, … if you would be a man and live abundantly—then observe God’s law. In so doing you can add to those priceless freedoms which you are struggling to preserve, another on which the others may well depend, freedom from sin; for truly ‘obedience to law is liberty.’”
Why did the phrase “obedience to law is liberty” ring so true to me at the time? Why does it ring true to all of us now?
Perhaps it is because we have a revealed knowledge of our premortal history. We recognize that when God the Eternal Father presented His plan to us at the beginning of time, Satan wanted to alter the plan. He said he would redeem all mankind. Not one soul would be lost, and Satan was confident he could deliver on his proposal. But there was an unacceptable cost—the destruction of man’s agency, which was and is a gift given by God (see Moses 4:1–3). About this gift, President Harold B. Lee said, “Next to life itself, free agency is God’s greatest gift to mankind.” Then it was no small thing for Satan to disregard man’s agency. In fact, it became the principal issue over which the War in Heaven was fought. Victory in the War in Heaven was a victory for man’s agency.
Satan, however, was not done. His backup plan—the plan he has been executing since the time of Adam and Eve—was to tempt men and women, essentially to prove we are undeserving of the God-given gift of agency. Satan has many reasons for doing what he does. Perhaps the most powerful is the motive of revenge, but he also wants to make men and women miserable like he is miserable. None of us should ever underestimate how driven Satan is to succeed. His role in God’s eternal plan creates “opposition in all things” (2 Nephi 2:11) and tests our agency. Each choice you and I make is a test of our agency—whether we choose to be obedient or disobedient to the commandments of God is actually a choice between “liberty and eternal life” and “captivity and death.”
This fundamental doctrine is clearly taught in 2 Nephi, the second chapter: “Wherefore, men are free according to the flesh; and all things are given them which are expedient unto man. And they are free to choose liberty and eternal life, through the great Mediator of all men, or to choose captivity and death, according to the captivity and power of the devil; for he seeketh that all men might be miserable like unto himself” (2 Nephi 2:27).
In many respects, this world has always been at war. I believe that when the First Presidency sent me my little brown book, they were more concerned about a greater war than World War II. I also believe they hoped the book would be a shield of faith against Satan and his armies in this greater war—the war against sin—and serve as a reminder to me to live the commandments of God.
One way to measure ourselves and compare us to previous generations is by one of the oldest standards known to man—the Ten Commandments. For much of the civilized world, particularly the Judeo-Christian world, the Ten Commandments have been the most accepted and enduring delineation between good and evil.
In my judgment, four of the Ten Commandments are taken as seriously today as ever. As a culture, we disdain and condemn murder, stealing, and lying, and we still believe in the responsibility of children to their parents.
But as a larger society, we routinely dismiss the other six commandments:
If worldly priorities are any indication, we certainly have “other gods” we put before the true God.
We make idols of celebrities, of lifestyles, of wealth, and yes, sometimes of graven images or objects.
We use the name of God in all kinds of profane ways, including our exclamations and our swearing.
We use the Sabbath day for our biggest games, our most serious recreation, our heaviest shopping, and virtually everything else but worship.
We treat sexual relations outside marriage as recreation and entertainment.
And coveting has become a far too common way of life. (See Exodus 20:3–17.)
Prophets from all dispensations have consistently warned against violations of two of the more serious commandments—the ones relating to murder and adultery. I see a common basis for these two critical commandments—the belief that life itself is the prerogative of God and that our physical bodies, the temples of mortal life, should be created within the bounds God has set. For man to substitute his own rules for the laws of God on either end of life is the height of presumption and the depth of sin.
The main effects of these depreciating attitudes about the sanctity of marriage are the consequences to families—the strength of families is deteriorating at an alarming rate. This deterioration is causing widespread damage to society. I see direct cause and effect. As we give up commitment and fidelity to our marriage partners, we remove the glue that holds our society together.
A useful way to think about the commandments is they are loving counsel from a wise, all-knowing Heavenly Father. His goal is our eternal happiness, and His commandments are the road map He has given us to return to Him, which is the only way we will be eternally happy. How significant are the home and the family to our eternal happiness? On page 141 of my little brown book, it states, “Indeed our heaven is little more than a projection of our homes into eternity.”
The doctrine of the family and the home was recently reiterated with great clarity and forcefulness in “The Family: A Proclamation to the World.” It declared the eternal nature of families and then explained the connection to temple worship. The proclamation also declared the law upon which the eternal happiness of families is predicated, namely, “The sacred powers of procreation are to be employed only between man and woman, lawfully wedded as husband and wife.”
God reveals to His prophets that there are moral absolutes. Sin will always be sin. Disobedience to the Lord’s commandments will always deprive us of His blessings. The world changes constantly and dramatically, but God, His commandments, and promised blessings do not change. They are immutable and unchanging. Men and women receive their agency as a gift from God, but their liberty and, in turn, their eternal happiness come from obedience to His laws. As Alma counseled his errant son Corianton, “Wickedness never was happiness” (Alma 41:10).
In this day of the Restoration of the fulness of the gospel, the Lord has again revealed to us the blessings promised us for being obedient to His commandments.
In Doctrine and Covenants 130 we read:
“There is a law, irrevocably decreed in heaven before the foundations of this world, upon which all blessings are predicated—
“And when we obtain any blessing from God, it is by obedience to that law upon which it is predicated” (D&C 130:20–21).
Surely there could not be any doctrine more strongly expressed in the scriptures than the Lord’s unchanging commandments and their connection to our happiness and well-being as individuals, as families, and as a society. There are moral absolutes. Disobedience to the Lord’s commandments will always deprive us of His blessings. These things do not change.
In a world where the moral compass of society is faltering, the restored gospel of Jesus Christ never wavers, nor should its stakes and wards, its families, or its individual members. We must not pick and choose which commandments we think are important to keep but acknowledge all of God’s commandments. We must stand firm and steadfast, having perfect confidence in the Lord’s consistency and perfect trust in His promises.
May we ever be a light on the hill, an example in keeping the commandments, which have never changed and will never change. Just as this small book encouraged LDS servicemen to stand morally firm in times of war, may we, in this latter-day war, be a beacon to all the earth and particularly to God’s children who are seeking the Lord’s blessings. Of this I testify in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

I’m pretty hard-core into athletics, especially basketball. I just like to compete. And that is partly why I had to face an eight-hour open-heart surgery at 14 years old.
I was born with a defect in one of my heart valves. At first, the doctors said I would probably need surgery when I was old—after I retired, maybe. But over time, the problem got worse, largely because of how intensely I play sports.
During one visit in the fall, the doctor said I’d probably need the surgery in the next year or two. In the meantime, I ran cross-country at school. But instead of my running times getting better, they got worse. That’s how I knew there was something really wrong.
We visited the doctor again in March. During the visit, I felt like I should get the surgery even sooner than we had planned. I started to get a warm spiritual feeling inside. That personal revelation brought me some comfort. Suddenly I heard myself saying that I wanted the surgery as soon as possible. My parents were a bit scared at first, but I told them, “I’m at peace. How soon can we do this?” We scheduled the surgery for April.
In hard times, I know Jesus Christ is always there for me. I can always pray to Heavenly Father, and it helps.
I had faith that everything would work out, but the day of the surgery was still scary. It all hit me at once, walking into that room. I remember shaking. My anesthesiologist really helped me in that moment. I’m grateful for all the people who helped me through that whole experience. I also had heavenly help. For example, my entire ward held a fast for me, and I really felt the power of fasting and prayer.
These days my heart is doing great. If I hadn’t had the surgery, I could have died within two years. Now I have a full life expectancy.
This whole experience has changed my perspective. I see everybody differently as they go through their trials. I feel greater empathy for them. I’ll occasionally see someone and sense that they’re dealing with something tough, and then I go over and help them.

When I was an airline captain, I would sometimes fly my Boeing 747 from Germany to the West Coast of the United States. On those flights west, the daylight seemed to never end. We took off in Germany at 1:00 p.m., and 10 hours later we touched down in California—at 2:00 p.m. the same day! The sun never set on us.
The opposite happened when flying east. Sunset came more quickly than it normally would. Leaving at 1:00 p.m. meant that in just a few hours, we were engulfed in darkest night. Yet, because of our direction and speed, in a few more hours we found ourselves bathed in blazing and often blinding light.
Whether I traveled west or east, the sun never changed course. It held its position, steadfast in the heavens, providing warmth and light to the earth.
My access to that warmth and light depended on my location, direction, and speed.

When Anna Nadasdi participates in temple work, her enthusiasm is obvious. It is easy to understand that enthusiasm when one knows her story.
Sister Nadasdi was born in Hungary and raised in the Greek Catholic faith. Her father, who had worked in the United States as a young man, told her many stories of that distant “land of promise.”
She was a young woman during World War II when her country was invaded. During those perilous years, she always carried her family genealogy records to prove to the authorities that she was not Jewish. The records, covering one hundred years, were carefully wrapped in a handbag made from braided cornstalk leaves.
After the war, she married. She and her husband decided to leave Hungary, but they could not get exit permits. The only route open to them was through a minefield covered with barbed wire and guarded by soldiers in gun towers. After a period of consideration, they decided on a night to make the dangerous journey. In the agonizing crawl across the minefield they were expecting any moment to be blown up by a mine, ensnared by the barbed wire, or be shot. “The Lord must have been guiding us,” Sister Nadasdi says, “because we crossed safely into Austria. All we had with us were the clothes we wore—and my genealogy. I felt I had to bring my genealogy records with me even though it made crawling across the minefield even more difficult.”
Unable to find a sponsor in the United States, the couple emigrated to Australia. But memories of her father’s stories about the United States stayed in her mind.
One night, Sister Nadasdi had an unusual dream. She saw a beautiful building with many towers, surrounded by lovely grass and trees. She saw happy people entering and leaving the building. When she awoke, the memory of the building was clear in her mind, but she had no idea of what or where it was. She would often think about her dream and wonder what it meant.
In 1954, Sister Nadasdi and her husband separated.
The years passed, and she was successful in her work as a government clerk, but Sister Nadasdi felt something important missing in her life. As this feeling grew stronger, she decided to pray to God. Feeling lonely and desperate, she found a secluded spot and she began to plead with the Lord. After recounting the many difficulties in her life, she asked, “If there is another way, why don’t you show it to me?”
Almost immediately after her prayer, she met two Latter-day Saint missionaries who had just entered her apartment building. After they introduced themselves and explained the purpose of their visit, Sister Nadasdi thought, “As I was talking with the Lord, these two young men were already on their way into my life. Surely they must have an answer for me.”
Sister Nadasdi was receptive to the gospel message, but she was particularly affected when they showed her a picture of the Salt Lake Temple and she recognized the beautiful building of her dream. “If I hadn’t been supported by the arms of my chair,” she later said, “I would have fallen off on to the floor!” In response to her keen interest, the elders explained the doctrine of temple work for both the living and the dead.
“I finally understood why I had brought my family genealogy with me when I left Hungary,” she says. As the missionaries talked, she knew she would join the Church and one day go to Salt Lake City to do the temple work for herself and for her family.
Sister Nadasdi was baptized, and she did make the long round trip from Australia to Salt Lake City for her own temple ordinances and for those of her family.
In 1983, after visiting Hungary, the land of her birth, she moved to Salt Lake City to retire and to fulfill her greatest desire to serve in the House of the Lord of which she had dreamed so many years before.

My friend gave me an invitation to her party! I was so excited—until I noticed it was on Sunday. My mom called her mom and explained that we made a decision many years ago that Sundays are a day of worship and a day to spend time with our family, and that I wouldn’t be able to go to the party. Then my friend’s mom changed the day of the party to a Saturday, just so I could come! I love my friends!
Emma F., age 8, Ohio, USA

In 2015, a three-year-old Arwen Villapando from Quezon City went to their neighborhood store to buy something. While waiting to be served, she was standing on a muddy sidewalk and noticed what looked like a large coin covered in petrified mud. Thinking it was money, she brought it home.
Her father Ireneo was newly-baptized member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and her mother Maribel was being taught by missionaries. They got curious about the muddy coin their youngest daughter brought home so they cleaned it up. It took days to get it clean, and they even had to use a steel brush. As they scraped off the mud, the words “Aaronic Priesthood” appeared and after a while images of the temple and three personages became visible. The familiar engravings prompted them to clean the medallion and keep it as a souvenir. They never told anyone about it until September 2017 during a Stake Family Discovery Day.
A booth Arwen’s mother visited had a small box wherein a familiar coin was displayed. She was astonished to see that it was similar to their coin! Upon asking, she learned that it was a medallion awarded to young men who successfully finished the Duty to God program.
The Villapando family finally shared the story of how they found the medallion. The members wanted to help them find the owner of the medallion but they had no leads. For the family, the medallion was a reminder from heavenly Father for them to stay true to the covenants they made as members of the Church.
Through the years, the medallion was a reminder to Brother Ireneo to magnify his priesthood and lead his family in living the gospel. To Sister Maribel, it was a lesson that material wealth or money is not the most important thing in the world: it’s having a happy and healthy family and staying united in serving the Lord. To Arwen, the medallion teaches her that she is a child of God, and that her potential for eternal growth is limitless.
To this day, the Villapando family keeps the medallion as a reminder that they made the right decision when they joined the Church, and they will do everything to stay on the covenant path.

We sat in her living room—she in her nineties, I in my thirties. Her health and the snowy weather wouldn’t allow her to come to the bishop’s office for tithing settlement, so I had stopped by her home instead.
She handed me two pieces of paper. One was her own handwritten record of the contributions she had made to the Church during the year; the other was a computer printout listing the same information.
“As you can see,” she said, “my records perfectly match the ward clerk’s.” I couldn’t help thinking that if there had been a discrepancy, the error wouldn’t have been hers.
Then I asked the question bishops are supposed to ask in these situations: “Sister, is this a full tithing for the year?”
She looked at me with incredulity in her eyes. There was a brief pause. And then, with mock indignation, she chastised:
“Bishop, that’s the most ridiculous question I have ever heard!”
In her case, I couldn’t help but agree. We laughed together as I gave her a hug. I had known the answer before asking the question. But I also knew she was glad for the opportunity to give a verbal accounting of her faithfulness.
Last December was my first Christmas as bishop and the first time I had conducted tithing settlement. Never before had I seen so clearly the beautiful correlation between those two events—tithing settlement and Christmas. And I discovered how appropriate it is that Christmas is the season when members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints are asked to meet with their bishop and give an accounting of their year’s worth of offerings to the Lord.
I was overwhelmed by the spirit of giving as faithful ward members came into my office—as individuals, as couples, and as families—and declared privately that they had paid a full ten percent of their income to the Lord that year. I was filled with a spirit of gratitude as most of them also reviewed with me the additional contributions they had made to the missionary and fast-offering funds—funds set up to help others in need.
Some of these offerings were large, some small. But all had been generously and willingly given.
I thanked the members for their generosity. I thanked the widow for her mite, the child for his pennies. I thanked teenagers for paying a full tithe on money they had earned bagging groceries, mowing lawns, or harvesting pumpkins. I thanked college students, single adults, young parents with small children and small incomes, and middle-aged couples with larger children and larger incomes. I thanked unemployed or retired members who had given much less than in earlier years—but still a full ten percent.
Never before had the Christmas spirit of giving been so present for me.
Then an older, graying couple came in. They had paid a full tithe and had given generously to the fast offering and missionary funds. As we visited, the husband said, “We would also like to contribute another check to the ward missionary fund. We’ll leave it up to you to credit this money to whichever missionary needs it most.” (At that time, fifteen missionaries were serving from our ward.)
When he handed me the check, I was astonished at how much additional money they were contributing. “But you gave that same amount a couple of weeks ago, with the same instructions,” I said. “Are you sure you can give that much again—and so soon?”
He and his wife assured me they could. And they reminded me that their gifts were to remain anonymous.
Then a young couple with several young children came into my office. Earlier that day in sacrament meeting, we had read a letter from the First Presidency, announcing that an additional category of voluntary contributions was now available to Church members—a “humanitarian fund.” Money donated to this category would be sent to Church headquarters and used for projects benefiting people worldwide, regardless of religious affiliation. This couple had lived in a developing nation and had witnessed the great needs there. Now they were donating a substantial sum to that fund, trusting that it would be put to the best possible use. I looked at their little children and then back at the parents. And I thought, “How can you do without this money at Christmastime?” But I had an idea that perhaps their Christmas would be even more fulfilling as a result.
Then there were the people who had contributed freely to the ward missionary fund, even though they had no missionary sons or daughters. There were those who had given to the general missionary fund and to the general Book of Mormon fund. And there were those who had contributed toward the yet-to-be-built Bountiful Utah Temple—even though they knew that the Church now pays for building projects through tithing, rather than through a separate building fund.
Later, another couple came in. They, too, had contributed liberally throughout the year. As we were about to conclude our visit, the husband said, “Bishop, is there anyone in the ward who has special needs this Christmas? We don’t have a lot of extra money, but we would like to give what we do have to someone who needs it.”
Immediately I thought of a single mother in our ward. She was doing her best to be self-reliant and certainly wasn’t looking for a handout. But money was tight. She was going back to school, and there were medical bills to pay. Surely she would be a worthy recipient of this couple’s generosity.
I accepted their offer in her behalf. They told me they weren’t interested in knowing the name of the receiver. And they, too, wanted to remain anonymous.
The husband pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and stacked several twenty-dollar bills on my desk. As he was doing so, his wife said, somewhat apologetically, “It’s not much. But now that our children are grown, we don’t feel that we’re doing as much in the ward as we used to. This is the least we can do.”
I protested at her apology, knowing they were doing much in their Church callings and in their quiet service to neighbors and to an elderly parent. And I thanked them for being so generous.
The next day, while taking the money to the recipient, I became a little uneasy. How would she receive this gift? Would she be offended? Would she hesitate to accept it?
When I handed the money to her, I described the spirit in which the gift had been given and encouraged her to receive it in that same spirit.
She accepted the money gratefully.
“I can accept this,” she said, “because when times were better for me, I often gave anonymously, just like this.” Then she told me about the secret projects her family had done over the years. She told me about times when she had purchased a frozen turkey and left it, with all the trimmings, on someone’s doorstep. She told me about anonymously mailing money to people who needed it, and about purchasing a coat and boots for the child of a needy friend. Now, in her time of need, she was a gracious receiver.
As I reviewed the monetary contributions so many ward members had made during the year, I couldn’t help remembering, too, their year’s worth of donated labor: The people who, week after week, had provided lessons and leadership—wherever they had been called to serve. The young men and young women who had cleaned the yards of elderly members, both in spring and in autumn. The sisters who had helped a member with wall-papering and painting. The elders and high priests who had done heavy yard work and repairs for those who were unable to do it alone. The young women and Relief Society sisters who had visited a homeless shelter several times—taking food, supplies, and encouragement. The young men who, without needing to be reminded, had gone out in teams and shoveled elderly members’ walks and driveways each time it snowed. The Scouts who had collected toys and books for the Primary Children’s Medical Center. The sisters who had taken meals and reassurance to the sick, the grieving, and the homebound. The priesthood brethren who had given countless blessings of health and comfort. The members who had donated time at the Church cannery to fill the shelves at the bishops’ storehouse. The many people who had quietly listened—and cared—and lifted. And the ones who had served in many ways without anyone else knowing anything about it.
And I thought of the many thank-yous from gracious receivers.
One was from a nine-year-old boy. Following is the letter he sent our Relief Society president and me after his family had received a load of food from the bishops’ storehouse (I have changed his brother’s name in order to preserve anonymity):
“Dear Bishop Gardner and Sister Thomas,
“I just got home from school. Ricky walked in first and said, ‘What in the … ?!’ Then I saw what he just saw. Food … Food! Food all over the place! Boxes, bags, cans, and even cartons of milk and eggs! Ricky said, ‘Look! There must be a million oranges!’
“We wanted to thank you, Sister Thomas, and the whole Church (especially our ward) for all the help you’re giving us right now, especially all this nice food donated from the bishops’ storehouse. It’s such a wonderful feeling to feel so loved, so cared for, and thought about.
“Gratefully.” (And he signed his full name.)

Looking back on his life, a man recently shared this tender story with me: “When I was growing up, my father was less active in the Church. He struggled with alcohol—and in his darkest moods could become harsh and accusing. He normally didn’t object to Mom serving in the ward. She worked in Primary for 38 years, and during much of that time she also served in Young Women. She carried a heavy load. Her marriage was difficult, and I now know that she was discouraged at times, but I didn’t know it then.
“I didn’t realize until later that the sisters in our ward were her strength. She didn’t work in the Relief Society leadership, but she always attended the meetings, and she loved her friends there. I never thought of them as the ladies of Relief Society; they were simply Mom’s sisters. They cared about her and loved her. She had all brothers and all sons. She found the sisters she wanted and needed in our ward. I know she shared her feelings with them—feelings she couldn’t express anywhere else. None of that seemed ‘Relief Society’ to me then, but I understand now that it was.”