Gospel Story Finder

The ongoing family remembrance of our little Patrick began at the time I dedicated his grave on a lovely August afternoon in 1972.
Patrick was born in Abington, Pennsylvania, and because of a complication at birth he lived only six days. We lived near a lovely little cemetery, but decided that he should be buried instead in a location near where we would want our eventual home to be—or at least in an area we could easily visit, since corporate assignments might require us to move frequently for many years.
We therefore held the funeral and buried him in Utah, where we grew up and where our parents lived. Since then we have moved to two different European countries on assignment, and then back to Utah. We are grateful for having made that decision.
In the prayer of dedication at the gravesite, I asked fervently that our family might live to be worthy to join Patrick someday in that perfect place where he now is. Six years later, we still pray often for that same blessing and find that it is a significant family encouragement and challenge to work toward that goal.
We not only pray that we might someday meet and again associate with this special son and brother, but we also feel it is appropriate to pray for his current success and welfare. Nevertheless, we know that all is well with him because of the promise of the Lord that little children who die in infancy are perfect and worthy of his kingdom.
Inasmuch as we are now fortunate to live close to the cemetery where Patrick is buried, we go there from time to time to have family prayer. Sometimes one of our children will say, “Can we please stop at Patrick’s grave to have prayer?” Whenever we do, it provides us with a special teaching moment to talk with the children about things important, sacred, and eternal.
Since Patrick is, we feel, as much a part of our family as any living earthly child, we believe there is value to be gained from remembering his birthday and even in sharing a birthday cake baked in his honor. To have the children thus see our total faith as parents that Patrick is real, that his little body will be resurrected, and that we may be joined again eternally as a family is an advantage that we as parents would not want to lose.
Because four of our children have been born since Patrick died, we are grateful for the white leather book of remembrance we compiled to remember him by. In it we have his certificates, photos from the hospital and of the funeral and burial, related correspondence, and other small treasures. As we show the children this book of remembrance, Patrick remains real to those who knew him and becomes real to the children who did not meet him here.
My wife, Sandy, and I are most thankful for the fact that the Lord allowed the birth and death of this little boy to be one of the most beautiful and spiritual family experiences we have been privileged to have since our marriage. The Lord made Patrick’s presence and even his death sweet to us, and we cherish not only the memory of Patrick himself, but also the memory of those few special and sacred days we spent together. At that time we studied as thoroughly as possible the doctrines and writings of the Church regarding little children who die. As parents and as a family we cannot express how grateful we are for those promises and the future they hold. I want to say that we do not as a family constantly think and talk about Patrick, but we make a conscious effort not to forget him, nor to forget the special family challenge and promise he has given us.

Within a few months I found myself dealing with a young man who was constantly pushing the boundaries in his behavior.
“This is the line,” I finally said regarding his actions. “Do not cross it.”
He crossed it, we had a bit of a verbal altercation, and he left.
Later, I had a chat with him to resolve our differences. I said, “David, I love you and you’re a good young man, but I don’t love some of the things you do. The other young men look to you as a leader, and if they see you getting away with something improper, they may try it as well.”
We patched things up, he felt accepted, and we leaders helped temper some of his personal challenges. When he turned 14, he asked me to ordain him a teacher. Today, years later, he gives me a big bear hug whenever he sees me, and he talks with admiration about his time in Young Men.

For some, there will come the temptation to dishonor a personal standard of honesty. In a business law class at the university I attended, I remember that one particular classmate never prepared for the class discussions. I thought to myself, How is he going to pass the final examination?

I discovered the answer when he came to the classroom for the final examination, on a winter’s day, wearing on his bare feet only a pair of sandals. I was surprised and watched him as the class began. All of his books had been placed upon the floor. He slipped the sandals from his feet; and then, with toes that he had trained and had prepared with glycerine, he skillfully turned the pages of one of the books which he had placed on the floor, thereby viewing the answers to the examination questions.

He received one of the highest grades in that course on business law. But the day of reckoning came. Later, as he prepared to take his comprehensive examination, for the first time the dean of his particular discipline said, “This year I shall depart from tradition and shall conduct an oral, rather than a written, test.” Our favorite, trained-toe expert found that he had his foot in his mouth on that occasion and failed the examination.

Illustrations by Shauna Mooney Kawasaki
Hey—let’s go spray some graffiti like the big guys.
No! That’s against the law, and it’s wrong. Let’s help Mrs. Gibbs clean her yard instead.
Ooooh, it’s wrong! Come on, guys, are you with me or with Chicken Boy here?
It’s not chicken to do the right thing!
Later
So I couldn’t convince one single person to do the right thing.
You’re wrong about that.
How do you know? You weren’t even there!
You convinced one very important person—yourself. And some of those boys might remember your example.
Plus, you set an example of courage for me.
So I’m kind of your hero?
Don’t get carried away!

Sybil Ferguson is at present a business executive. As a young woman she had no plans for a professional career and was married right after high school. She spent a number of years raising a family, and after about 20 years of marriage she experienced the blahs of middle age. She was overweight, she didn’t like her appearance, and she didn’t feel very good about herself. She read a lot of books and developed a weight-loss program that worked for her. People were curious as to how she’d accomplished this feat, and so she shared her program with others. Finally, she opened a diet center in her home. That center was so successful she decided to franchise the program in other cities. After 12 years, her organization has 1,500 diet centers throughout the United States. This experience changed Sybil’s life. She has become a confident executive who does a lot of public speaking and has written a bestseller on losing weight.

Most of the time Fish Lake is as smooth as glass, but it can become extremely rough when strong winds come up. Some of my most enjoyable days as a young man were spent fishing with my father and family on Fish Lake in central Utah. We would get up early in the morning, before the sun rose, and guide our boat to the other side of the lake. There we would troll for trout along a beautiful, pine-covered bank. Generally, we would head back to camp around ten o’clock in the morning for breakfast.
One day I was manning the controls of the outboard motor as we started back across the water. A sudden, strong wind turned the mirror-calm water angry and boiling. The roiling waves pushed the boat into a frenzied zigzag course, and I could not hold it steady. My father moved toward me and asked if he should take over. I immediately turned the controls over to him, and within minutes he was steering straight across the lake toward the shore. Our family was astounded and asked our father how he could do this so quickly. He then taught us a great tool for steering a straight course. He pointed out two tall pine trees across the lake near our campsite. He said that by aligning the boat with two large pine trees, he was able to dock near our camp. The trees were a sure marker to guide us to our safe harbor.

I’m having a birthday party next weekend, on the 23rd. We’re going to Funland Park at two o’clock. Can you come?
I’d love to! Let me check with my mom.
Yes! I’m starting to fit in. Allie is really nice. Her party should be fun.
I know it’s on a Sunday, but maybe it would be OK just this once. Besides, I don’t want to hurt Allie’s feelings.
If I ask Mom and Dad, they’ll probably tell me it’s my decision. What should I do?
The next day at school …
I’m sorry I can’t come to your party. I’m glad you invited me, and I hope you have a great birthday. Can we hang out another time?
Can we bake some birthday cookies to take to my friend Allie this weekend?

In my growing-up years in Germany, I attended church in many different locations and circumstances—in humble back rooms, in impressive villas, and in very functional modern chapels. All of these buildings had one important factor in common: the Spirit of God was present; the love of the Savior could be felt as we assembled as a branch or ward family.
The Zwickau chapel had an old air-driven organ. Every Sunday a young man was assigned to push up and down the sturdy lever operating the bellows to make the organ work. Even before I was an Aaronic Priesthood bearer, I sometimes had the great privilege to assist in this important task.
While the congregation sang our beloved hymns of the Restoration, I pumped with all my strength so the organ would not run out of wind. The eyes of the organist unmistakably indicated whether I was doing fine or needed to increase my efforts quickly. I always felt honored by the importance of this duty and the trust that the organist had placed in me. It was a wonderful feeling of accomplishment to have a responsibility and to be part of this great work.
There was an additional benefit that came from this assignment: the bellows operator sat in a seat that offered a great view of a stained-glass window that beautified the front part of the chapel. The stained glass portrayed the First Vision, with Joseph Smith kneeling in the Sacred Grove, looking up toward heaven and into a pillar of light.
During the hymns of the congregation and even during talks and testimonies given by our members, I often looked at this depiction of a most sacred moment in world history. In my mind’s eye I saw Joseph receiving knowledge, witness, and divine instructions as he became a blessed instrument in the hand of our Heavenly Father.
I felt a special spirit while looking at the beautiful scene in this window picture of a believing young boy in a sacred grove who made a courageous decision to earnestly pray to our Heavenly Father, who listened and responded lovingly to him.
Here I was, a young boy in post–World War II Germany, living in a city in ruins, thousands of miles away from Palmyra in North America and more than a hundred years after the event actually took place. By the universal power of the Holy Ghost, I felt in my heart and in my mind that it was true, that Joseph Smith saw God and Jesus Christ and heard Their voices. The Spirit of God comforted my soul at this young age with an assurance of the reality of this sacred moment that resulted in the beginning of a worldwide movement destined to “roll forth, until it has filled the whole earth” (D&C 65:2). I believed Joseph Smith’s testimony of that glorious experience in the Sacred Grove then, and I know it now. God has spoken to mankind again!

About twelve years ago I had a call early in the morning from a beloved friend who is a physician. He asked me to come to the hospital to administer with him to his infant son, just born and fighting for his life. We reached our hands into the incubator and laid them on this tiny boy and prayed, and then sat and waited with Larry’s mother while he took a turn for the better. We were there when the pediatrician came to announce that he was going to make it. He came through that difficult ordeal with a fine mind and a strong, indomitable spirit. Only a pair of legs that were not quite as strong as they one day will be remain to remind Larry how blessed he is to be alive. Recently this little boy’s big brother returned from having served an honorable mission for the Lord abroad. A perceptive uncle, observing the reunion at the airport, wrote a letter to Larry that I had the privilege of reading. I asked if I might have permission to quote it and have been given that permission. I would like you to know about a Latter-day Saint boy just ordained a deacon who tries to practice what we preach.
“Dear Larry,” the letter said, “Yesterday I got a lump in my throat without even swallowing a frog. … More than that, I got a picture tatooed on my memory that I’ll never forget.
“It’s only right that I thank you for the lump, the tears, and the picture, for a handsome boy named Larry Ellsworth gave me all three of them … and he didn’t even know it or ask me for a receipt.
“It started when he stood waiting for his brother to return from serving our Heavenly Father as a missionary for two years in a far-off land named Chile. You could see that the two years had been longer for the boy than for anyone else. He was so intense, so pale, so absorbed with just watching and waiting.
“Then to see his face light up when he saw his brother again! It was like a flashlight in a dark room.
“Someone whispered that this wonderful boy had been saving his nickels, dimes and quarters for two years to buy his big brother a basketball … a more than $30 ‘best there is’ basketball because he loved him! He wouldn’t let anyone else contribute. It was his idea and his gift … the best way, out of money he would have spent for himself but chose not to because he loved someone else so much!
“Then I watched this fine boy stand, without saying a word, at the side of his brother, happy just to look way up to his face, hold on to his leg, and see him home again.
“I have a special love and admiration for both of those boys; the giant who went far away all alone to do what was right and the little brother who waited and planned and remembered.
“Larry, you’re a fine boy. I’m sure that you’ll be a great man … for you have a big heart and a tender conscience. Some can run faster, jump higher, walk farther, play longer just because they had an easier time getting born into this world. That’s no credit to them. But you have more than most to be thankful for, because Heavenly Father sent one of his favorite sons to live in your body … and it’s who lives in the house that makes all the difference. Thanks, Larry, for the lesson an old dumb uncle learned yesterday just by watching. Love, Uncle Dick.”
Marion D. HanksConference Report, April 1971, pp. 129–30.

As I arrived at the hospital, the young doctor who was attending me did what he could. But I had expanded so much, almost twice as big like a blister, that it was very difficult to tell if I was lying on my back or my stomach. And with all that, he tried to find some life signs and couldn’t. He declared me legally dead. He covered me with a sheet and took me back down to the entrance to the emergency care center. And there I was left on a cot. A nurse walked by. She was just beside the cot when my arm jerked slightly under the sheet. She became quite alarmed. They gathered all their resources and took me back up to intensive care.
Seven weeks of excruciating pain followed. Peter was given no chance to live. Teams of nurses and doctors had to relieve each other. Gradually Peter approached the threshold of consciousness.
I could hear them talking. It was like a fantasy because of all the pain. It was like a cloud around my mind. I heard the doctor say to my mother, “There is no chance that Peter will live.” When I heard him say this, I became very angry. I wanted to get up and hit the doctor. I remember trying to get off the bed, but I was tied down. I’ll never forget that feeling when the doctor said, “I don’t know how he has survived this long. There’s no chance that he’ll live.”
I remember thinking as I was slipping into a coma that I felt like I was dying. This happened many, many times, only I couldn’t remember the other times. I could only remember the time I was going through. As I was slipping away, I was so mad at the doctor that I said, I’ll prove to you I’m not going to die. I’ll keep living.”
The pain was so severe that I made a commitment to myself that before I gave up I would count to ten. I would see if I could make it to ten before I died. I’d get to five or six and feel myself slipping, and I’d say, “I’ve got to get to ten.”

From the time I was a small boy in Lima, Perú, I had an inclination to seek the things of God. In my childhood, I faithfully attended my family’s church. I spent part of my youth singing in the church choir.
But when I was 17 years old, as I was praying in church, a feeling of uncertainty came into my mind. A particular point of doctrine caused me to wonder if I was in the right place.
That very night, I looked through much of the New Testament. I also went to see a neighbor who was a member of another church, and together we read from the Bible and found answers to some of the doctrinal questions that had begun troubling me.
It wasn’t hard for me to see that I had been on the wrong road. But it wasn’t easy to find the truth. I attended various religious meetings. I read several articles that discussed God, but none of them aroused any great interest in me. Meanwhile I continued to read the New Testament. I was very interested in finding out about the sheep “not of this fold” that Jesus mentioned in John 10:16.
For almost a year I identified myself as a Christian but did not affiliate with any specific denomination. I was studying at a technology center, and religion was a frequent topic of conversation. One day I overheard a discussion between a young Latter-day Saint and a member of another church. The assurance in the Latter-day Saint’s voice and the power of his words made an impression on me. The only thing I had heard about Mormons was that they were a group of cowboys. I didn’t know any Mormons well, and there was no LDS Church building nearby.
About that time I was waiting in a doctor’s office, and I noticed that the young lady seated next to me had opened a book with a blue cover. The book’s text was written in columns like the Bible. I was curious to know if it was the Bible, but I also wanted to get back to the comic book I had been reading.
I directed my eyes to the blue book and read a word at the top of the page: Alma. I made an effort to remember that name from my Bible reading, then went back to my comic book. But the blue book continued to attract me, and once again I directed my eyes to that mysterious book.
When the young lady noticed my interest, I asked if the book was the Bible. She answered no and asked me what church I belonged to. I told her none, because I didn’t know which one was true.
That night I couldn’t stop thinking about that strange book. I didn’t know its name, because the young lady had said only that it belonged to the Mormon Church. I told my friend Ghersi about it, and he offered to get me a copy. Several weeks went by, and then one afternoon he handed me a book without a cover and with worn pages. All he said was, “Here’s the book.”
That afternoon I opened the book and read the testimony of Joseph Smith. I felt that it was what I had wanted to know; the feeling became stronger when I read about the visit of the angel Moroni. Unable to contain my excitement, I arose from my chair and shouted, “This is what I was looking for! Here is the truth!” I read the first chapters of 1 Nephi very slowly. I felt that I understood them as I had never understood a book before.
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.
I then prepared myself to be a missionary, and one year later I received a call to serve full time in the Perú Lima North Mission. The testimony I bore on my mission was that what I had received was not revealed to me by “flesh and blood” but by “my Father which is in heaven” (Matt. 16:17).
Today, many years later, I long to share my testimony with the world, because I know this is the Lord’s true Church. He has blessed me and my wife with a temple marriage and with three beautiful children. We are all happily serving in His Church. My gratitude to the Lord will never equal His mercy to me.

Actually, the musical tradition started with Sally’s mother. As a little girl her mother lived in a rural area in Idaho, and she sold milk to earn money for piano lessons. She also managed to earn enough money to buy her first piano. Knowing that her mother had made sacrifices in her life to play the piano, Sally grew to love music as well, and she has passed this love of music on to her own children.
This is why Lindsey can claim a standing ovation not only from a New York audience in Carnegie Hall but also from the Young Women and Young Men in her ward after she performed for an etiquette night activity. To the Brintons, it doesn’t matter how big or small the venue is as long as they can share their talents with others—another tradition passed down from Sally’s mother, who was ward organist for 30 years and never turned down an invitation to perform, including for the ward Christmas party.

When our first grandson was born, the entire family rushed to the hospital. It was an amazing experience for me to see our oldest son, Matthew, holding this precious new baby boy. While standing at the nursery window with our youngest son, Chad, we gazed into the eyes of this new little spirit—so clean, so pure, so recently from heaven. It seemed that all time stood still, and for an instant, we could see the great eternal plan. The sacredness of life was crystal clear, and I whispered to Chad, “Do you understand why it is so important to remain clean and pure?” He responded reverently, “Oh yes, Mom, I get it.”

Since being in the Dominican Republic, we have had several experiences where members and friends of the Church have approached us and told us they were, or had friends who were, members. One Saturday, we walked into a jewelry shop that sold locally crafted jewelry. When the lady behind the counter saw our badges, she immediately said she had family who were active members of the Church. We had a wonderful exchange with her as we made a few modest purchases. nullA few weeks later, while at a mango festival in Bani, Dominican Republic, a young member, about missionary age, saw our badges and came up to greet us and welcome us to his city. We talked about missions with him and felt his warm and welcoming spirit. We could easily see him serving the Lord wearing his own missionary badge. We continue to be blessed by the people we meet because of the badges we wear and who we represent. The power of the badge continues to touch hearts as missionaries throughout the world strive to declare through word and deed “that there is no other way or means whereby man be saved, only in and through [Jesus] Christ” (Alma 38:9).

The youth of the Utah Weber Heights Stake were treated to an out-of-the-ordinary Mutual activity. You could say it was something special. They got to spend a food-and-fun-filled Saturday with a special-needs Mutual group in a neighboring stake. Each member of the special Mutual had two friends from the Weber Heights Stake to spend the day with them.
The youth admitted a little apprehension about the activity at first, but Ami Houston, 13, said that all it takes to get along is “being friends like you are to all your other friends.”

Weak from kidney surgery, and abandoned by those dearest to me, I was totally discouraged. Life had become intolerable—hopeless. I was sick, paralyzed from the neck down, and broken in spirit. There was nothing nor anyone left to turn to. Or so it seemed.
Inactive for ten years, I had no formal connection with the Church except for a soft-spoken, unpretentious home teacher, Brad K. Robison. I had known Brad for about two years and had grown to regard him as kind and thoughtful. But it wasn’t until he walked into my hospital room at this, my life’s lowest ebb, that I realized what he represented and that the hope and promise he brought with him could make my life meaningful.
The first time I spoke with Brad, two years earlier, had been on the phone. A close friend had requested that someone from the Church look in on me, so Brad was assigned to be my home teacher. Knowing nothing about me, Brad asked, “Why haven’t I seen you at Church?”
Cynically, I answered, “My legs just can’t seem to get me there on Sunday.”
“Oh,” he replied. “Some Sundays I have the same problem.” Chuckling, he then asked me if he could visit me. I agreed, without telling him that I was unable to move my arms or legs.
When he walked into my home and realized my condition, Brad turned to me sorrowfully, paused, and then burst into laughter. I couldn’t help but laugh with him. We began talking and found we had quite a lot in common, including the desire to practice medicine—a goal I had been prevented from achieving by my auto accident and the resulting paralysis.
After a pleasant visit, Brad asked if he might come back another day. Thinking I would never see him again, I answered, “Sure.”
To my amazement, month after month, Brad returned. Even when my only words were “Go away!” he never let my moodiness or bitterness put him off. Always he would return, just to talk and ask if there was anything he could do. Not once, in all his early home teaching visits, did we talk about the Church, God, or anything religious. Patient, insightful, or just polite—I’m not sure which—Brad seemed to sense that my pain and suffering wouldn’t allow me, at that time, to accept the idea of a loving God. Brad became a friend when friends were scarce.
In time our friendship grew. The longer I knew him, the more his behavior reminded me of someone in my past—his quiet, inner peace; his sense of who he was and where he was going; his honesty and humility. But who it was, I couldn’t remember.
So it went until Brad, my diligent home teacher-turned-friend, cautiously walked into my hospital room that day. Once again, as when I had decided to join the Church, the truthfulness of the gospel and its witness washed over my being and became undeniable. Peace filled my heart. My self-pity and bitterness left me, and the sense of abandonment faded. I knew things were going to be all right. Suddenly, what before had seemed strangely familiar about Brad now no longer puzzled me. He was the reflection of myself when I was active in the Church and armed with the priesthood, the Holy Ghost, and a knowledge of the truthfulness of the gospel of Jesus Christ. Renewed with hope, I asked if the bishop would visit me.
Bishop C. Lynn Mahoney came and further convinced me that there were still good people—people who cared about others. Graciously, he helped solve my immediate temporal problems and warmly invited me to become active in the ward. He has since supported my efforts to be active by escorting me through the temple to receive my endowment and by asking several of the brethren to assist me to priesthood and sacrament meetings.
Is home teaching really important? I know it is. Because of a dedicated, persistent home teacher and his visit at a time when life seemed hopeless and no longer worth living, I’m once again active in the Church and have a second chance to live life according to Christ’s teachings. My home teacher helped me to see that the gospel offered hope—not only for salvation, but also for happiness in the here and now.

The clouds hung low and white over the small town of Liberty Bell that twenty-sixth day of December 1908. Sarah Moseley made her way from her family’s house at the end of the street toward the boardwalk, where her new dress would get a brief respite from mud-spraying wagon wheels.
Sarah’s family had been laboring under the stressful effects of no income in recent months, but her mother had managed to rummage up sufficient materials from an old attic chest to fashion a beautiful patchwork dress for Sarah. It was the only gift she had received for Christmas the day before, and she was fitly grateful for and proud of it.
As she continued along the street, she turned the collar of her frayed wrap up around her neck to ward off the biting chill of wind and lightly-driven snow. Suddenly someone wearing a tattered sheepskin coat stepped out in front of her. He had a tangle of red hair, and a crooked scowl on his face. Toby Wilder! Last week he had asked Sarah for some answers to a test in Miss Cornaby’s class, and Sarah had refused. Now he looked ready for revenge. “I would have passed that test if you had slipped me those answers,” he growled.
“There’s a right and a wrong to everything, Toby Wilder,” Sarah said, swallowing hard, “and cheating is wrong.”
Toby glared at her with a look that could have bent an iron poker, then pushed her back toward the edge of the boardwalk. “‘There’s a right and a wrong to everything, Toby Wilder,’” he mimicked. “You think you know all there is to know about what is and what isn’t, don’t you little Miss High-and-Mighty?”
“No,” Sarah told him, her body stiffening with growing fear, “but God does. And He’s told us in the scriptures about honesty.”
Toby glowered at Sarah. He glanced up and down the street through the haze of falling snow. No one was in sight. “Since you’re such good friends with God,” he said mockingly to Sarah, “why don’t you ask Him to keep you from falling down and getting mud all over your new dress?”
Shoving her roughly off the boardwalk, he laughed derisively and swaggered away as she pulled herself up from the street mire. Her eyes welled up with tears as she wiped at the icy ooze on her new Christmas dress and headed for the store.
The bell above the door jangled as Sarah stepped into John Walton’s Mercantile Store. The man behind the counter regarded her solicitously. “What happened, Sarah?” he queried.
“Toby Wilder,” she sighed.
Mr. Walton nodded. “That boy ought to be over somebody’s knee, getting redder than a near-set sun, if you ask me.”
“Yes sir!” Sarah heartily agreed.
“Warm yourself by the stove there.” When Sarah hesitated, he added kindly, “Go on child. There’s no sense in all that warmth going to waste, now, is there?”
“I guess not,” Sarah responded submissively. “It’s just that you’ve given us so much these past few months, all our food and such, that I just don’t feel right about hogging the only spot in front of your stove.” She motioned toward a customer who was stamping the snow from her high-button shoes just outside. “You have paying customers, Mr. Walton. They should be able to warm themselves before someone who—”
“Sarah Moseley,” Mr. Walton declared, “since when did I ever charge a body a cent for warming himself at my potbellied stove?”
Sarah smiled in gratitude and stepped in front of the stove. Mr. Walton came out from behind the counter, nodded to the woman who was making her way to a far corner, and pulled up a chair in front of Sarah. He sat down and spoke privately. “After that boxcar explosion at the depot last September, it’s a wonder your father is still alive. It’ll be a little while yet before he’s up and about.” He pushed a wisp of damp hair from Sarah’s eye. “Your father is a good man,” Mr. Walton continued. “He’ll pay me back when he’s able. Now give me that shopping list I know you have.” Sarah obliged him. “Besides,” he added as he stood with a little grunt, “it’s Christmastime, isn’t it? A time for giving? It would be a shame to deny a man the right to earn a celestial reward in the world to come.”
Sarah’s face wrinkled with curiosity. “What do you mean, Mr. Walton?”
“Christ gave His life for you and me, Sarah, not to mention for those that crucified Him. It seems the least I can do is give a can of beans and”—he checked Sarah’s list—“a box of baking soda and the like to people I love. Of course, that’s easy. The trick is giving to, or doing something for, someone you don’t like. Now there’s the real test. The problem is that I like everybody.” He laughed. “Well, almost everybody.”
Sarah watched Mr. Walton climb the ladder behind the counter. A ray of winter sun made his face radiant. “Why is it so important to be nice to people who are mean to you?” she asked.
Mr. Walton reached for a box of baking soda on a high shelf, then looked down at the girl below him. “Maybe because the Savior was. Maybe because it’s part of forgiving. It’s the same thing, wouldn’t you say?” He climbed down the ladder and began placing the few gathered items in a sack on the counter. “And maybe it’s because of a revelation the Prophet Joseph Smith received once that said, ‘For if you will that I give unto you a place in the celestial world, you must prepare yourselves by doing the things which I have commanded you and required of you.’”* He pushed the groceries across the counter to Sarah. “I have a sneaking notion that charity is one of those things, honey. And that forgiveness is another. What do you think, Sarah?”
“I guess you’re right, Mr. Walton,” Sarah answered, thoughtful.
It wasn’t until Sarah was outside again that she noticed something extra in her sack. A large candy stick. She puzzled over it a moment, then smiled at Mr. Walton’s kindness.
No sooner had Sarah started down the boardwalk in the direction of home than she spied Toby Wilder just ahead, leaning against a pole. His back was to her, and he was looking toward the sun as if he were aching for a little warmth on an otherwise bleak, unfriendly day.
Bracing herself, Sarah stepped up to him. “Toby?”
Toby whirled around. When he saw who it was, he growled, “What’s the matter, Sarah. Didn’t you get wet enough the first time?”
Sarah handed him the candy stick. “Merry Christmas,” she said.
Toby didn’t answer. He just stood there gaping.
Sarah glanced back in the direction of the mercantile store, where she could see Mr. Walton looking out the window, waving. She waved back, then turned and continued down the boardwalk toward home.

I have had the honor of working with the missionaries of the Church for over three decades, and I know that a great many of them were able to get through those first shaky minutes and hours and days of their mission because of their fathers or mothers. I remember one experience of a fine young man who spent his life on the ranch, just as his own father did. When the boy got into the mission field, it was all strange: too many people, not enough open spaces. He wanted badly to go home. Finally, the mission president had the young missionary call his father. The father listened patiently as his son said how homesick he was, and then the father spoke in terms that his son could understand, and as I heard about this, it brought a smile to my face. He said with firmness but love, “Son, you’re just going to have to ‘cowboy up.’” The boy knew exactly what that meant, and he is hanging on as the spirit of his mission begins to come. He knows his father will not give up on him.

In 1849, President Brigham Young called a small number of men to travel to various parts of the world to preach the gospel. A former Swedish sailor, John Forsgren, who had joined the Church in Massachusetts, USA, and traveled to the Salt Lake Valley, asked President Young to be sent to Sweden as a missionary. He was called to serve and arrived in Sweden in June 1850.
Elder Forsgren first visited his younger siblings in Gävle. His brother Peter was ill, and doctors said he was beyond help. Elder Forsgren explained the purpose of his mission to his siblings, then anointed and blessed Peter, who was restored to full health. On July 19, 1850, Elder Forsgren baptized his brother, who became the first convert in Sweden.
Elder Forsgren’s sister, Erika, had an interesting experience that prepared her and Peter to receive the gospel. A few months before her brother’s arrival, she was attending church, as was her custom. During the singing of a hymn, she saw a person stand before her and say, “On the fifth day of July a man will come to you with three books and all those that believe in the things written in those books shall be saved.” When her brother arrived with the Bible, the Book of Mormon, and the Doctrine and Covenants, she believed his testimony without question.1
In 1850 Peter Forsgren, above, was baptized by his brother John.
Photograph courtesy of Susan Easton Black
Unfortunately, Elder Forsgren had to leave the country after just three months. Within a few years other missionaries were sent to Sweden. They found the people in Skönabäck, in the province of Skåne, receptive to the gospel. So many were converted that the first branch was organized there in 1853 with 36 members. One of the first leaders in Skåne was Carl Capson, called as the branch president in Lund. Around 100 members attended the first Church conference in Carl’s barn, which was held at night to avoid persecution.2

My father died of cancer when I was 4 years old. I grew up wondering why he had to die. I questioned God and asked why life was so unfair. Ten years later, when I was 14, I met the missionaries. As they taught us, my mother felt that they were teaching the truth and that we should listen. When we joined the Church, the gospel of Jesus Christ and an understanding of the plan of salvation came into my life at a time when I really needed it.
Later, when I was sealed to my parents in the temple, my mother whispered to me, “I feel your father’s presence.” As I thought about the blessings of being sealed, I knew that the Lord was aware of our family and that He had been with us often, even when we were unaware.