Gospel Story Finder

Sitting on a bench in New York City’s Central Park, Lynda Gunther takes small stitches in a quilt block while her children climb and slide and swing and run. For nearly 20 years she has been bringing her children to the park and stitching memories and values into bits of fabric.
“When Paul and I first moved to the city we had three small children,” Lynda explains. “Very few members of the Church had attempted to rear families in this city, and most people advised us not to try it. I thought of the small town where I grew up, of the independent and self-reliant women and men, and I wondered if I could bring those values into this new environment. I also wanted my children to be able to spend lots of time outside running and playing—so I began to bring them to the park. Sewing became a way for me to keep busy when I wasn’t playing with the children and also to deal with my uncertainties about living in the city.”
Lynda tried to incorporate the values of the people she admired into her new life in creative ways. Preserving food became for her a symbol of self-sufficiency, so when she couldn’t get fresh fruits and vegetables in the city, she made a list of all the things she remembered her mother and grandmothers putting into bottles and made quilt blocks representing many of those things. As she stitched, Lynda created a tribute to her pioneer ancestors and a family history for her children to enjoy. She also taught her family independence, hard work, self-reliance, the law of the harvest, and self-confidence in a new environment.
When the bottle quilt was completed, Lynda began working on a quilt featuring family stories. Other quilts have followed, including a memory quilt for each of her children. The tradition began when Lynda’s oldest child, Janelle, was seven years old. Lynda and Janelle collected Janelle’s best childhood drawings, special notes, and even a math problem and transferred them to blocks of white fabric. Lynda then assembled the blocks and quilted them on her kitchen table. By the time Janelle was baptized, her childhood was preserved in a quilt. Six other quilts, each unique and reflective of the child who helped create it, have followed. Lynda and her youngest daughter, Jesse, are now assembling the artwork for the eighth quilt.
The Gunther family-tree quilt is truly a linking of generations. Paul and Lynda, pictured in the ovals, were married in the Salt Lake Temple (top right) in 1966. Their eight children’s names wrap around the trunk of the tree. The acorns contain the signatures of Lynda and Paul’s siblings and their spouses. The branches of the tree represent the Gunthers’ ancestors. Lynda quilted their ancestors’ signatures onto the quilt, or if signatures were not available, she printed their names. The houses bordering the tree are representations of the places Lynda and Paul have lived.
Lynda encouraged the children to include pictures they imagine their own children would like to see. They have included drawings of family homes; self-portraits; and pictures of family members, favorite classrooms, playgrounds, and even the bus stop. The quilts are displayed on special occasions such as birthdays and other holidays.
“I would like to be able to write,” Lynda muses, “but that requires a cloistered environment, and I certainly don’t have that living in an apartment with a husband and eight children! I can work on these quilts at the park and at home and still be with my family. I was not trained as an artist, so when I began, I didn’t know what I couldn’t do—I was free to experiment and make my own creations. Some have not been as successful as others, but I like fabrics, and I like to work with them and make beautiful things with them.”
Lynda, surrounded by the fabric, the family, and the city she loves, explains, “This is the way I have recorded my own personal history and the history of my family.”

When he was three years old, he surprised his parents with his Christmas wish: a violin. He had heard his older sister playing her violin and really liked the sound.
For Christmas he got his own little violin, and he surprised everyone by figuring out how to play songs on it by ear. When he was five he got a bigger violin and started taking violin lessons. Then he surprised everyone with how much he loved practicing.
Now Benjamin is nine. And people are surprised because he plays in the high school orchestra. That’s pretty unusual for a fourth grader! Some of his favorite pieces are by Vivaldi and Handel. His favorite Primary song is “A Child’s Prayer.”
Right now Benjamin is trying to learn to compose music. He wants to write a piece that he can play in church.

On 24 October 1986, Sage’s father, Michael Volkman, decided to take his two children camping. [Only six days earlier, Michael, his wife Denise, and their son, Avery, had been baptized into the Church. Their five-year-old daughter, Sage—a bright, green-eyed child who loved soccer and was developing a talent for drawing—had been disappointed that she couldn’t be baptized, too; but she was content to know that one day she would be old enough.]
There was ice forming on Bluewater Lake that morning when Michael and eight-year-old Avery left Sage asleep in their camping trailer and went fishing. Michael regretted that Denise couldn’t be with them but she was a kindergarten teacher and hadn’t been able to find anyone to substitute for her at school.
As the early morning sky grew lighter, Michael walked back to the trailer to check on Sage. All seemed well. Five minutes after he rejoined Avery at the lake, dogs began to bark, and Avery turned to see smoke rising above their campsite 140 meters away. Michael’s heart pounded as he ran back to camp. The trailer was engulfed in flames. Inside, Sage was still in her sleeping bag.
Throwing open the trailer door, Michael was beaten back by smoke and flame. Taking a gulp of air, he ran into the trailer, gathering up handfuls of burning sleeping bags until he found Sage’s still body.
Ignoring the burns on his face and hands, he dragged Sage out of the trailer and immediately started artificial resuscitation. Almost three minutes passed. Sage remained lifeless. He continued pushing on her chest so hard he broke one of her ribs. Finally, he heard a little sound coming from her and saw her chest heave.
Avery, who had been praying desperately, suddenly remembered the containers of flammable propane gas stored at the side of the trailer. “Dad,” he yelled, “I think we’d better move!”
Michael nodded and painfully pulled Sage farther from the trailer. Seconds later the propane containers exploded.
Then followed a confusion of events: The twenty-minute race against death with another fisherman who drove Michael and the two children over a rough, unpaved road to a forest ranger station where they radioed for help; the ambulance trip to Grants, New Mexico, from where Sage was flown to the University of New Mexico’s burn unit; then Michael’s own 110-kilometer ride with Avery to Albuquerque, New Mexico, in an ambulance he could neither see nor touch because his eyes and hands were wrapped in bandages.
When Sage was first wheeled into the burn unit, the medical staff had little hope that she would survive the night. “They gave her a ten percent chance of living,” Michael remembers. She had third- and fourth-degree burns on her face, arms, chest, and legs. Her nose and one ear had been melted off. Her fingers were so charred that they would have to be amputated. She lost thirty-five percent of her eyelids. One lung had collapsed, and another was barely functioning; a liter of soot would be extracted from them.
She was also in a coma.

I walked briskly to the campus library, a number of thoughts racing through my mind. The sun was bright, turning the snow to glitter. The mountains stood majestic against the blue sky, begging me to stop and gaze for a while. But there was no time. Despite the beauty of the day, I had to study. Other students passed me, anxious as I was to prepare for midterms. I felt, however, that they would not have the same difficulty studying that would inevitably confront me. I tried to squelch these negative thoughts, telling myself that this time it would be different. I pushed the library door open and was hit by a warm blast of air, a welcome contrast to the chilling temperatures of February. As I hurried down the stairs to the second floor, I mentally reviewed the composers I needed to know for my humanities test.
Music had always been a part of my life. My grandfather was a percussionist for the Cleveland Orchestra, and both my parents sang and played instruments. We children inherited our parents’ love for music and were all involved in both playing instruments and singing. The holidays were wonderful as we vocalized our way to our grandparents’ house. And at home, singing always accompanied vacuuming, dishwashing, or any other task that didn’t require mental concentration. Not only did I love music, but I loved to write words to simple melodies. Sometimes the words would be serious, expressing my innermost sentiments; other times they would be nonsensical, usually written to entertain the children I baby-sat. Now here I was at Brigham Young University studying the humanities and having a difficult time. Try as I might, for several weeks I had not been able to retain the information needed to do well in my schoolwork. Maybe I would do better today.
I quickly situated my coat on an adjacent chair and opened my humanities book. Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus, born 1756 in Austria and died 1791. Composer of …
It started. “Not today!” I silently prayed. “Oh please, not today!” A confusion and blackness interfered with my train of thought. For two weeks now I had battled this. Every time I tried to concentrate on an important matter it happened. A stream of black, evil thoughts from an outside force would fill my mind. As a recent convert to the Church I was just learning ways to overcome the adversary. I had tried prayer, petitioning the Lord for help. But still this black cloud entered my thought process making it impossible to study or read.
“Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, born 17 … 16. … I couldn’t remember. I felt my mind being pulled in different directions. As I tried to memorize, a hazy blackness distorted my thinking. Wolfgang … Mozart, what was his middle name? Words bounced around in my head having nothing to do with the subject at hand. Try again. Ignore the confusion in your mind. Who was I studying? I glanced back at the page telling of Mozart’s life. Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, born 1756 … a deluge of vulgar words made their entrance.
Frustration mounted within me as the intensity of this blackness grew stronger. I felt my head would burst. My eyes filled with tears. “Please, Father,” I pleaded silently, “Please help me. I can’t go through this much longer.”
No sooner had I offered up this prayer than the heavens responded. Cutting through the confusion, a beautiful poem was spoken to my mind—not only spoken, but imprinted so that after hearing it only once I knew it by memory. Each word was clear and full of meaning. The mental anguish I had experienced moments before gave way to a beautiful message of hope:
Fear not, I am with thee;
Oh, be not dismayed,
For I am thy God and will still give thee aid.
I’ll strengthen thee, help thee,
And cause thee to stand,
Upheld by my righteous, omnipotent hand.
For the next few minutes I sat awestruck, marveling over what had happened. It was hard for me to grasp the idea that God not only answered my prayer but answered it in an artistic way. Not that I thought him incapable, but I found it hard to comprehend that God would take time to relate to my specific personality in such a personal way. I repeated each word to myself, thinking about God’s message to me. He really loved and cared about me. He knew all the frustrations I had experienced, and before they became too much to handle, came to my aid. I believed what he said to me; he would never forsake me. I let the wonder of this experience sink into my soul as I studied for my test.

Sofía was almost eight years old. She was getting ready to be baptized. She was learning lots of important things. One thing she had learned about was prayer. She knew she could pray to Heavenly Father anytime. She knew she could pray anyplace.
One day Sofía and her mom decided to visit her dad at work. It would be a long trip. Her dad worked in another town. They would have to ride on a bus, then in a truck, and then in a taxi.
During the bus ride, Sofía fell asleep. She woke up when she heard a baby crying. A mom and dad with a baby had gotten on the bus. The baby was sick and crying loudly. The baby’s parents looked worried.
Sofía felt sorry for the baby. She felt sorry for the parents too. Then she had an idea. She whispered in Mama’s ear. “Could I say a prayer and ask Heavenly Father to bless the baby?”
“Of course,” Mama said with a smile.
Sofía bowed her head and said a silent prayer. She prayed hard. She asked Heavenly Father to bless the baby. She asked Him to help the baby feel better and stop crying.
Sofía knew that we do not always get what we pray for. She also knew that our prayers are not always answered right away. But in a short time the baby calmed down. Then the baby stopped crying. She seemed to feel better. Her parents did not look so worried.
Sofía felt warm and happy inside. She was happy for the baby—and for the baby’s parents. She knew Heavenly Father had heard her prayer.

About a year ago, Whitney Walton, 16, her four sisters, six aunts, and all her girl cousins were gathered together to learn a family secret.
The secret had been a treasure in the family for more than 50 years. It was something that everyone enjoyed, and they all wanted this secret to be passed down in the family. They didn’t want it lost. A single person had the key to unlocking this secret—Whitney’s grandmother Ilean Corbridge.
On this one day, because of Whitney’s Personal Progress project, Grandma Ilean had agreed to reveal her secret to all her daughters and granddaughters. Grandsons could have come, but they preferred to wait with their dads for the results. The group was gathered to learn how to make Grandma’s rolls—those light, buttery, baked-to-perfection rolls that for years and years had become an essential part of every family dinner and were everyone’s favorite for slathering with homemade jam.
How did they convince Grandma to reveal her secret? The new Personal Progress program in Young Women encourages families to become involved in the projects and goals set by the girls. The Walton family of Vernal, Utah, took this suggestion to heart. Whitney and her mother, Kathy, thought it would be great to learn the homemaking skills perfected by Whitney’s grandmother. They asked her, and she agreed to share what she knows.
“My cousins and aunts and I love getting together and just having fun,” said Whitney. “We thought we would get everyone together to learn how to make rolls. My grandmother is really good at making pies, too. And she quilts a lot.” Grandma helped them do all of these things.
In preparation for the day they were to get together with their grandmother, Whitney made invitations and got the ingredients together for the rolls and pies as well as the materials for the quilt. She then typed a cookbook—a copy for each person—with recipes from her grandmother and from her aunts. For the event, she picked the home of one of her aunts that was the most centrally located. But some still had to drive several hours to meet on that day. They were happy to make the trip.
It was a fun day. Everyone got to see up close just how Grandma could sense when the roll dough had the right amount of flour so it wasn’t too stiff. They learned to cool the milk so it wouldn’t kill the yeast. And the girls learned how to roll out the dough to just the right thickness and how to cut and fold over the circles of dough for uniform, beautiful rolls. Plus they got to try making her pie crust. “My favorite pie is banana cream,” said Whitney, “but we each had a turn in helping make everything.”

I was sitting on the curb of a dirt road on the edge of a town somewhere in the middle of Argentina. I was a missionary, and this was my first area. My companion was doing an interview, and rather than waste my time I figured I would sit down and study the missionary discussions.
Just as I opened the fifth discussion, I noticed a little boy running playfully across the street as though he was being chased. What was he running from? I wondered. What could be so terrible? Then I spotted the dreaded assailant coming at him from behind. It was a girl. He must have been considering the dreadful things that might happen if she ever caught up with him.
Just in time, the boy saw me. Surely she wouldn’t dare follow him to an American in a suit. He was right. Pretty soon it was just me, an empty street, and a 10-year-old boy hiding behind my coat.
Suddenly we were in the middle of a gospel discussion as he snatched the fifth discussion out of my hands and read the title. “Living a Christlike Life,” he said. I’m not sure what he said after that, but I gathered that his question was something like, “Who are you guys, anyway?”
I tried to give him a shallow explanation of what missionaries do, only to be humbled by his profound response. In an attempt to summarize everything I had said, he replied, “¿Ustedes son amigos de Jesucristo?”—“You are friends of Jesus Christ?”
“Yes,” I answered as he ran off to play, unaware of the effect he had had on me.
I couldn’t get his voice out of my head. “¿Ustedes son amigos de Jesucristo?” There was something about the way he said it in Spanish. Did he mean it as a mere statement of fact or as an actual question?
Am I a friend of Jesus Christ? I thought. What is a friend of Jesus Christ? A friend to Christ? A friend like Christ?
One morning not long after that experience I stumbled across a passage in the Doctrine and Covenants where the Prophet Joseph Smith records the salutation to be read in the School of the Prophets:
“Art thou a brother or brethren? I salute you in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ, in token or remembrance of the everlasting covenant, in which covenant I receive you to fellowship, in a determination that is fixed, immovable, and unchangeable, to be your friend and brother through the grace of God in the bonds of love, to walk in all the commandments of God blameless, in thanksgiving, forever and ever. Amen” (D&C 88:133).
I’ve never found a better definition of a friend. These were brethren who had a determination to be friends, and this prayer explained what that meant. A number of the qualities mentioned in that salutation impressed me: determined, fixed, immovable, unchangeable, loving, obedient, blameless. I realized that if these were required to be a friend of Jesus Christ, then I wasn’t qualified.
Christ set the perfect example of what it means to be a friend. He asks us to qualify as his friends and receive the blessings that he has made possible. In John 15:14 he said, “Ye are my friends, if ye do whatsoever I command you.” The preceding verse reads, “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends” (John 15:13). He is no ordinary friend.
“You are friends of Jesus Christ?” the young boy said. All of us need to decide for ourselves if those words are a statement of fact—or a probing question.

Consider Girish Ghimire, who was born and raised in the country of Nepal. As a teenager, he studied in China, where a classmate introduced him to the gospel of Jesus Christ. Eventually, Girish came to Brigham Young University for graduate work and met his future wife. They settled in the Salt Lake Valley and adopted two children from Nepal.

Years later, when more than 1,500 refugees from camps in Nepal were relocated to Utah,1 Girish felt inspired to help. With native-language fluency and cultural understanding, Girish served as an interpreter, teacher, and mentor. After resettling in the community, some of the Nepali refugees demonstrated interest in the gospel. A Nepali-speaking branch was organized, and Girish later served as its branch president. He was also instrumental in translating the Book of Mormon into Nepali.

Can you see how Heavenly Father prepared and is using Girish?

I live in Oklahoma, where there are many missionary opportunities. One such experience happened recently with my friend and my English teacher. Our English teacher assigns different journal topics every Monday, and we can choose to read them aloud on Friday.
One week, my teacher chose the topic “If you could have someone famous or well-known raise you, who would it be?” My friend chose Brigham Young, and I chose Thomas S. Monson. We are the only Mormons in our grade, so nobody else knew who we were talking about. My friend read hers aloud, but I had no intention of reading mine. Then, I felt the Spirit prompt me that I needed to read mine.
After we both read our journal entries, our teacher started asking us questions about our Church. We talked about our beliefs for about 20 minutes. Normally I would have been nervous, but I felt the Spirit so strongly. My teacher seemed interested.
The next week, I gave my teacher a copy of the Book of Mormon. I put a copy of the Articles of Faith inside, along with a brief summary of the Book of Mormon. She said that she felt ignorant because most kids can say what they believe, but they only know because their parents told them. “But you know what you believe,” she said, “and you know why.”
I felt the Spirit confirm that because I had listened to the promptings of the Holy Ghost, I had had a missionary experience that I would not have had otherwise.

Chris had a hard time with his diabetes when he was a teenager. Living the lifestyle of a teenager—eating out at 2:00 a.m., having a crazy sleep schedule—was hard on his body. For most of his teenage years, he tried to deny that he even had a disease.
At college, a good friend helped Chris make some big changes in his physical and spiritual health. “Up to that point,” Chris says, “I had never really taken the gospel or my life seriously. As I started to read the Book of Mormon for the first time, I felt my whole life changing. Not only did I feel the enlightening effects come into my life that one feels when reading the Book of Mormon, but I also started to feel more concern for my body and my life.”
Chris says his decision to read the Book of Mormon led to other decisions that helped him become healthier. For the first time in his life, he started testing his blood-sugar level not just several times a week like he used to, but several times a day. He says, “I began to feel so much better as I started to take care of myself.”
After Chris finished reading the Book of Mormon and received an answer that it is true, he decided to serve a mission. “Serving a mission can be tough,” Chris says. “Every day brought something new for me and my diabetes to try and conquer.” But he believes the Lord blessed him to maintain control. “Constant fluctuations in schedules, modes of transportation, and eating would lead most diabetics to out-of-control blood sugars, but the Lord was watching over me as I served my mission.” Since Chris started taking better care of himself, his health has been almost perfect.
Chris is grateful that he was not only able to serve a mission but that he was able to serve with all of his strength. “The work never suffered as a result of my having diabetes. I saw God’s hand in my missionary work every day, and I still see it now.”

In April of 1847, Brigham Young led the first company of pioneers out of Winter Quarters. At that same time, sixteen hundred miles to the west the pathetic survivors of the Donner Party straggled down the slopes of the Sierra Nevada Mountains into the Sacramento Valley.
They had spent the ferocious winter trapped in the snowdrifts below the summit. That any survived the days and weeks and months of starvation and indescribable suffering is almost beyond belief.
Among them was fifteen-year-old John Breen. On the night of April 24 he walked into Johnson’s Ranch. Years later John wrote:
“It was long after dark when we got to Johnson’s Ranch, so the first time I saw it was early in the morning. The weather was fine, the ground was covered with green grass, the birds were singing from the tops of the trees, and the journey was over. I could scarcely believe that I was alive.
“The scene that I saw that morning seems to be photographed on my mind. Most of the incidents are gone from memory, but I can always see the camp near Johnson’s Ranch.”

In my own immediate neighborhood we have had our share of heart-wrenching tragedies. In October 1998, 19-year-old Zac Newton, who lived only three houses east of us, was killed in a tragic automobile accident.
Less than two years later, in July, 19-year-old Andrea Richards, who lived directly across from the Newtons, was killed in an automobile accident.
One Saturday afternoon in July 2006, Travis Bastian, a 28-year-old returned missionary, and his 15-year-old sister, Desiree, who lived across the street and two houses north of us, were killed in a terrible automobile accident.
One month later, in August 2006, 32-year-old Eric Gold, who grew up in the house next door to us, suffered a premature death. And others in this neighborhood have also suffered heart-wrenching experiences privately endured and known only to themselves and God.
With the loss of five young people, one might assume that this is an unusual number of trials for one small neighborhood. I choose to think the number only seems large because of a close, caring ward, whose members know when there is a pressing need. It is a ward with members who are following the admonition of Alma and the Savior—members who care and love and bear one another’s burdens, members who are willing to mourn with those that mourn, members who are willing to comfort those in need of comfort, members who endure together.
In each of these instances we saw an outpouring of love, service, and compassion that was inspirational to all. Bishops arrived, home and visiting teachers went into action, and Melchizedek and Aaronic Priesthood quorums and Relief Societies organized to take care of both spiritual and temporal needs. Refrigerators were stocked, houses cleaned, lawns mowed, shrubs trimmed, fences painted, blessings given, and soft shoulders were available for crying on. Members were everywhere.
In every one of these instances, the families who lost a loved one expressed increased faith, increased love for the Savior, increased gratitude for the Atonement, and heartfelt thankfulness for an organization that responds to the deepest emotional and spiritual needs of its members. These families now speak about how they got to know the Lord through their adversity. They relate many sweet experiences that grew out of their pain. They testify that blessings can emerge from heartbreak. They give praise to the Lord and would echo the words of Job: “The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord” (Job 1:21).

How do you feel when you express gratitude to another? I’d like to express gratitude to someone who cares about my grandchildren. A few months ago, while visiting in Texas, I asked six-year-old Thomas to tell me about his bishop. He said, “Oh, Grandmother, you will know him. He wears a dark suit, a white shirt like Papa, and he has shiny shoes and a red tie. He wears glasses and always has a smile.” I recognized Thomas’s bishop as soon as I saw him. My heart was filled with gratitude for him. Thank you, Bishop Goodman, and thank you, all you wonderful bishops.

Have you ever gone on a hike? How about a 10-mile hike to the top of a mountain and back? Alex Wright achieved this awesome feat at the age of five!
Last summer, Alex’s dad took some older boys on a hike to Humphreys Peak in Arizona. Alex really enjoys being with the older boys, so he was excited to go along. He is a strong, athletic boy, and he was already an experienced hiker.
Alex packed his backpack with a water bottle, a change of clothes, and a few of his favorite action figures. His dad carried their tent and sleeping bags, along with all of their food and water.
On Friday evening, Alex and his dad set up their tent about a mile up the trail. Early the next morning, after a prayer, they started out for Humphreys Peak. Along the way, Alex shared his red licorice with the other boys.
Halfway through the hike, the group reached a dip in the mountain. It was a hot, windy day, and flying ants were on the attack. Then came the steepest part of the trail—above the timberline, where it is too high for trees to grow. After a few more hours, Alex, his dad, and the other boys reached the top of the mountain. Other hikers cheered for Alex as they saw him arrive.
On the return trip, the clouds grew dark, and hail started pounding the mountain. Alex and his dad took cover and said a prayer, asking to be protected. Everyone was safe.
When they finally reached the bottom, Alex was happy to hop into the van and go home to his mom and younger brothers. He had had an awesome adventure he will always remember.

Once there were two boys who lived next door to each other. Although they were of the same age, they couldn’t seem to get along together. Then one day, everything started to change. Here are the testimonies they recently gave at the Applewood Ward, Arvada Colorado Stake, where they are both deacons.
“Dear brothers and sisters, my talk is on friendship with my next-door neighbor, Shawn Bell, whom most of you know.
“When Shawn first moved next door, there was always trouble between us. The first day I saw Shawn, he threw a toy truck at me and hit me in the face, which gave me two scars, one underneath my nose and one above my left eye.
“When I was in kindergarten, I went to the morning class and Shawn went to the afternoon class. Shawn would wait for me on his way to school as I would be coming home. He would beat me and go on to school, and I would go home with a bleeding nose or a swollen lip.
“When I was nine, I was baptized into the Church. That’s when Shawn started going to church with me, and then last February he was baptized into the Church. Since Shawn and I have been going to Church together, we’ve acted like brothers and we’ve had fun in Scouts together. Scouting has helped Shawn and me do things together without much trouble.
“The meaning of this talk is the meaning of a fair friendship. I hope you, too, will bring one of your terrible enemies into the Church. I know the Church is true.” (Matt Taylor.)

The sign says, “Caution: Icy Bridge Deck.” It stands next to the big concrete bridge over the Athabasca River in the center of Fort McMurray, Alberta, Canada, where I live. Our city is in northern Canada, where the roads are covered with ice and snow for six months of the year and driving can be dangerous.
One day, just as we passed the warning sign, our truck started sliding out of control. My mom prayed out loud, “Heavenly Father, please help us!” Our truck spun around on the bridge until its nose banged hard into one of the gray walls. We stopped with a jerk, and I accidentally bit my tongue.
“We’re OK,” Mom said as she patted my leg. “Heavenly Father protected us. Look—it didn’t even wake Nathan (my little brother).” Although the truck had crashed, and my tongue was sore, I knew that Mom was right. Even though the bridge was slippery, the cars behind us were able to stop without bumping into us. The wall of the bridge stayed strong and kept us from falling into the frozen river. The truck’s shiny metal bumper was crumpled, but the truck still worked fine. We got home safely, just like we’d prayed that morning before we left the house.Samuel Quist, age 5, with help from his mom, Fort McMurray, Alberta, Canada

I received my patriarchal blessing as a young woman and was counseled to prepare myself with a good education and to learn early in life those virtues that go into homemaking and rearing a family. I so wanted the blessing of a family; however, that blessing wasn’t fulfilled until I was 37, when I eventually married. My husband had been widowed, so the day we were sealed in the temple, I was suddenly blessed with not only a husband but a family of four children.

Long before that, there were many days when I felt like I was skiing in flat light, asking the question, “What does the future hold for me?” I tried to follow the admonitions in my patriarchal blessing. I studied diligently to become a schoolteacher and continued my education to become an elementary school principal. I prayed to my Heavenly Father and sought the guidance of the Holy Ghost. I held fervently to the promise of prophets who assured me that if I “remain true and faithful, keep [my] covenants, serve God, and love [my] Father in Heaven and the Lord Jesus Christ, [I] will not be denied any of the eternal blessings our Heavenly Father has for His faithful children.”15

I know that my education prepared me for a life that has been nothing like I had envisioned as a young woman. I thought I was studying education to teach school and my future children, but I did not know the Lord was also preparing me to teach English in Mongolia on a mission with my husband and to teach the young women of the Church throughout the world and to teach my grandchildren the value of knowledge—all wonderful blessings I could never have imagined.

A few years ago, I decided to attend the temple weekly. At the time, we lived near a temple. This practice became a reliable source of light and power that I came to count on.
A year later, when our family moved across the country, we no longer lived close to a temple. Temple attendance was not impossible, but faced with the longer travel time and the needs of my young family, I attended only twice a month.
Once the COVID-19 pandemic started, I couldn’t attend the temple at all, which seemed like a punishment after reorganizing my life to attend frequently. I wondered how I could continue to grow spiritually, and I felt heavy with how unfair things seemed.
During a routine dental cleaning, I struggled to calm my mind. When the hygienist asked me what I wanted to listen to during my cleaning, I replied, “I would really love some relaxing meditation sounds.”
She said nobody had ever requested that, but she obliged. Fifteen minutes into our appointment, she expressed how much she was enjoying our “meditative cleaning.” Then she told me about the anxiety in her own life, which included her 13-year-old son’s recent injury. Surrounded by the hum of a busy office, she shared her burden with me, and we found peace together.
In my relaxed mental state, my thoughts went to the temple. I found myself progressing through an initiatory session, the words of my temple covenants passing seamlessly through my mind. Three distinct promptings from the Spirit then followed:
Ask the hygienist the name of her son.
Tell her you will pray for him.
Pray for both of them by name.
Through this seemingly simple exchange, I felt my burden transform into a blessing. I caught a glimpse of how my covenants helped me to love Heavenly Father and my neighbor. The Spirit taught me that attending the temple is just as much about helping others on this side of the veil as it is about spiritually empowering myself and my ancestors.
Temple closures hadn’t stunted my spiritual growth. Rather, they had allowed me to create new ways to engage in God’s work and receive heavenly love, light, and knowledge.

Valued companionships begin with a personal commitment to be an exemplary companion. I was taught the importance of such caring attention and loving personal influence many years ago on Temple Square. When I was a young man, I was on my way to a session of general conference when someone took my elbow. It was President David O. McKay. “Come with me, Joseph,” President McKay said. “I’ll help you find a good seat.”

For those few moments as we walked toward the Tabernacle, President McKay seemed to focus his entire attention on me. He spoke reverently of his love for the Lord and his love for the members of the Church. He looked me straight in the eye as he firmly shared his testimony with me.

“I want you to know, Joseph,” he said, “that the President of the Lord’s Church does receive inspiration and revelation from the Lord Jesus Christ.” At that moment, the Spirit whispered to my heart that President David O. McKay was telling me the truth. I knew then that he was truly a prophet of God. That testimony has remained with me throughout my life, filling me with reverence and respect for the office our prophet holds.

I felt his love and was enriched by his humble act of kindness during those few minutes together. I don’t think that I was ever quite the same after that. I then resolved that I would try to be as good a companion to others as he had been to me.

On an early morning in January, my husband and I drove to the hospital for the birth of our fifth child, Charlotte. I had been anxious during my pregnancy, and now I fretted to my husband, “What if our baby isn’t all right?”
“Then we’ll love her just the same,” he answered consolingly.
When my daughter finally lay beside me in the delivery room, I examined her. She looked perfect. But when she was whisked away, I asked in alarm, “What’s the matter? Is my baby all right?”
“The doctor will talk to you,” the nurse responded. My stomach knotted, and my worst fears began to surface.
The doctor soon told us that our baby had Down syndrome. Sorrow, disbelief, anger, and guilt boiled up.
“Why us? Why Charlotte?” I questioned. My world seemed to have changed forever, and I didn’t know how to handle it.
Charlotte’s birth was the beginning of the hard times. A short time later my mother-in-law had a stroke; two of our cars broke down; our business struggled; Charlotte required surgery on her eyes, ears, and heart; and the medical bills flooded in.
One particularly overwhelming day, I took Charlotte to our bedroom and said a discouraged prayer. “Heavenly Father, this is more than I can bear. Please help me.” Slowly I got to my feet and turned on the television news, looking for a distraction.
The top story described a plane crash that killed all the passengers. For the first time, I listened to the news in a different way. “Someone’s husband was killed in that crash,” I reflected. “If I had the power to trade places, would I rather be a widow?”
The next story told of a young man arrested for selling drugs. I thought, “That is someone’s son. Would I rather be his mother?” Dawning understanding brought a simple but important realization: we all face trials to help us progress.
I looked over at Charlotte, and some words came clearly to mind: “Why are you so sad when Heavenly Father has sent you a sweet little baby to love?” That was my answer. No plane crashes or drugs—I got to love little Charlotte. Rather than deserting me, Heavenly Father was entrusting me with a child who needed extra care. Realizing the confidence He had placed in me, I felt my bitterness slip away.
Charlotte has taught us peace and appreciation. Although frustrating times come, she is an integral part of our family. She is a little piece of heaven sent to us to love.