Gospel Story Finder

Love, Amalie
Love, Amalie
Love, Amalie
Love, Amalie
Illustrations by Dilleen Marsh
Christmas was almost here. Amalie was excited. Soon she could unwrap the presents under the tree!
At family home evening it was Mom’s turn to give the lesson.
“Why do we give presents at Christmas?” Mom asked.
“Because it’s Jesus’s birthday!” Amalie said.
“Then shouldn’t we give a present to Him?” Mom said.
Dad helped Amalie’s brother Noah read a scripture. It said that when we serve other people, we are serving God (see Mosiah 2:17).
“Is serving others giving a gift to Jesus?” Mom said.
Noah nodded.
“What else?”
“Keeping the commandments,” Amalie said.
“Being nice,” Noah said.
“Great ideas!” Mom said. “Now let’s play a game. I’ll say a gift someone gave to Jesus. Tell me if you know who it was. Here we go. This person gave out Christmas cards at the care center.”
Noah raised his hand. “Amalie did that!”
“This person went home teaching.”
“That’s Daddy,” Amalie said.
Soon they had named lots of gifts they had already given to the Savior.
“We can give gifts every day,” Mom said.
The next morning it was time to clean the house. “Oh no,” Amalie groaned. But then she remembered. Serving others is a gift! If she helped Mom, it was the same as helping Jesus. She found a cloth and wiped the counters until they shone.
The next day Amalie earned some money.
“Your tithing is eight cents,” Mom said.
Amalie remembered again. Tithing is a commandment, so paying it is a gift. She put eight cents in her tithing jar.
Later that week Amalie helped pick up pillows. Her baby brother had thrown them off the couch. “Another present for Jesus,” she said.
On Christmas Eve, Mom and Dad told Amalie they were proud of her. “You’ve been giving gifts to Jesus all week long,” Dad said. “That’s like having a little bit of Christmas every day.”

Produced in Salt Lake City in 2022, the demo video for ‘I See the Christ’ features vocalists Casey Elliot, from the musical trio Gentri, and Savannah Stevenson, a leading lady from London’s West End. They are accompanied by Jayne Galloway on piano and Grammy-nominated cellist, Nicole Pinnell.
Scott first saw Nicole play in the film adaptation of Rob Gardner’s musical production, Lamb of God, where, through her cello, she stunningly represented the voice of Christ. Following a prompting that spoke to his heart, Scott reached out to her via social media.
“I feel that Heavenly Father truly opened a door for me through Nicole’s incredible talent, generosity and connections,” Scott recalls. “I am so grateful that she had the heart to be willing to listen to my music.”
Nicole introduced Scott to Casey Elliot, and Scott reached out to Savannah Stevenson, also via social media, after seeing her perform on a Brigham Young University programme. Savannah sang the solo for, “Bring on Tomorrow,’ and in the duet, ‘I See the Christ’ with Casey.

It was not really a special occasion. Georgia, Janice, and I had all agreed long ago that we needed a break from the house and kids at least once a month, and so we had set aside the third Thursday of every month for a girls’ day out. Today was the third Thursday, but other than that, there was nothing out of the ordinary about it. And it wasn’t even until we had all gone through the salad bar that I got any indication that this day might be one that I would long remember.
We’d all loaded our plates with lettuce and cucumbers and mushrooms. Then we sat down congratulating ourselves on ordering such a calorie conscious meal, never mind that our salads were each drowned in a half-pint of blue cheese salad dressing. As is common with conversations between mothers, the subject soon turned to sick kids and then doctors.
“Have you been to that new doctor in the children’s clinic?” Georgia asked.
“Yes, I took Harry to him last month,” Janice replied enthusiastically. “I sure was impressed with him.”
“Me too!” Georgia agreed. Up until then, I wasn’t really paying much attention. I’d never been to this new doctor; I didn’t even know who he was. But Georgia and Janice had been debating the merits of every doctor in the city for as long as I had known them, and this was the first time I’d ever heard them both give the same doctor such a hearty approval.
“He really listens to you,” Georgia was going on. “I had my Cheryl in there awhile back. She was just getting over a cold, but I didn’t think she seemed right. The other doctor wouldn’t even listen and kept insisting she was fine. But not Doctor Bloomberg. He paid attention to what I was saying, and sure enough the child had silent pneumonia.”
I nearly choked on a piece of lettuce.
“What did you say that doctor’s name is?” I asked.
“Doctor Bloomberg,” Georgia said.
“Gerard Bloomberg,” Janice added.
It couldn’t be, I told myself. It could not possibly be the same Gerard Bloomberg. But then, how many Gerard Bloombergs could there be in the world, and how many doctors with that name? Not that I was certain that the Gerard Bloomberg I knew was a doctor, but that was what he had said he wanted to be. Or rather, that was what Marny had said he wanted to be.
Marny was my roommate at college. I was a junior; she was a sophomore. I arrived at the apartment a couple of days before she did, but by the time she got there I had a picture painted in my mind of just what to expect her to be like. For two days solid people were stopping in and asking if she was there yet. By the time she was, the bulletin board was covered with messages for her, mostly from boys.
And Marny did not disappoint my expectations. She bounced into the apartment like a cheerleader returning from cheerleading camp. Her head was covered with a mass of golden curls, her eyes were deep blue, and her mouth a perfect pink rosebud. I decided that I probably was not going to like her when she spoke.
“Hello,” she said in a voice that was much more intelligent sounding than what I would have expected. “I’m Marny Southwick. It looks like we’re going to be living together for a year. It’ll be fun getting to know each other.”
She sounded so sincere and friendly that I had to like her. If Marny was anything, she was likable.
Gerard Bloomberg was in our ward. He was probably at church the first week we went, but I didn’t notice him there. In fact, if Gerard had not been assigned to me as my home teacher, I probably would have gone the entire year without noticing him. Gerard was an easy person to overlook.
As it was, he turned up at our door the second week of the semester. I answered the door when he knocked.
“Hello,” I said.
Gerard looked me squarely in the chin and asked if I was Kitty Olson. I said yes, and he said he was my home teacher. It was probably the most in-depth conversation we ever had.
We went into the living room and sat down. Gerard’s gaze now shifted to my shoes. He said he hadn’t been able to get a hold of his companion yet but had figured he ought to get over and see me. It was quite a speech for Gerard, and he had quite a time getting it out. By the time he finished, we were both ready to heave a sigh of relief.
At that moment Marny arrived. She dumped her pile of books onto the table with an exaggerated groan and looked around. Her eyes stopped on Gerard.
“Oh, sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know you had company.”
“This is my home teacher, Gerard Bloomberg,” I said.
“Hi,” Marny smiled. “I’m Marny Southwick.”
Gerard looked up at Marny. His face turned the exact shade of red that I had been looking for in a lipstick, and then he dropped his gaze.
“I’ll just sit over here and study,” Marny went on. “Don’t let me bother you.”
But it was obvious that she did bother Gerard. He had found it difficult to talk with just me in the room. Now he found it even harder. As he stuttered and stumbled through the little message he had prepared, I noticed that his gaze occasionally shifted from my shoes to Marny’s. He finished quickly and left.
“Poor fellow,” I said when he had gone.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Marny said. “I thought he was kind of cute.”
I wondered how Marny could tell. All I had seen was the top of Gerard’s head.
“But he’s so shy,” I said.
“Lots of guys are kind of shy,” she replied. “They just need someone to bring them out.”
Marny was asked to be the Spiritual Living teacher in Relief Society. Her first lesson was on charity. It quickly became apparent that she was taking the lesson seriously. And it also quickly became apparent whom she had chosen as her own special charity case—Gerard Bloomberg.
It was the Saturday following her lesson that our stake held a dance. Gerard was there when we arrived, but he was seated across the room in the darkest corner of the gym. His arms were folded and his head down; he almost appeared to be praying. Marny spotted him immediately and began to make her way to him, but it was halfway through the evening before she got there.
Some things are hard to figure. Marny had been at school no longer than any of the rest of us. In fact, not even taking into account the extra year I had on her, I’d been there a good two days more than she had. But she seemed to have made at least twice as many friends. And that was why she took so long getting to Gerard. Every time she tried, someone would stop her to talk, and then she’d get asked to dance. Marny was too nice to ever tell anyone that she had someone else she wanted to talk to. That was part of her charm. When Marny talked to you, you felt like you were the most important person in her life. But midway through the evening, I noticed Marny seated next to Gerard.
Gerard’s position had not changed, except that if it were possible, he looked even more withdrawn. But Marny seemed oblivious to his discomfort. She was chatting away as though she were catching up with her best friend. I shook my head. Some times, I thought, it seems that the most charitable thing to do would be to simply leave a person alone.
Marny took every opportunity after that to talk to Gerard. She’d invite him to sit with us in Sunday School, visit with him at socials, and if she happened to see him on campus, she’d run out of her way just to say hi.
One evening at dinner we were discussing several of the more desirable young men in the ward, when Marny changed the subject to Gerard.
“Gerard Bloomberg went on a mission to Tennessee,” she said.
We all stared at her in dumbfounded silence for several seconds. Then Karen, the most vocal member of the apartment, put what we were all thinking into words.
“My goodness! It probably took him the entire two years to teach the first discussion to one family.”
Of the five other girls around the table, four of us burst into laughter at Karen’s remark. But Marny did not laugh. She looked at us all as sternly as she could and said, “I don’t think that’s funny. I’m sure Gerard made a fine missionary.”
I could tell she was serious and quickly controlled my mirth.
“Marny, we all like Gerard. He’s nice, but he’s just so … so …”
“So backward,” Karen filled in for me.
“Well, it’s not funny to laugh at other people’s problems,” Marny said. She got up and left the table indignantly.
After that we never laughed about Gerard in front of Marny, but we did it plenty when she wasn’t around. When Marny announced that Gerard wanted to be a doctor, it took every ounce of self-control we contained to keep from laughing. In fact, Karen had to excuse herself to get a drink of water, and I heard her choke as she drank it. After all, how could Gerard, who seldom looked at anyone above the ankles, ever become a doctor? But we were smart enough not to tell Marny that.
“You see, he grew up on a farm,” Marny explained, “and he loved caring for the sick animals. He enjoyed helping them get better. Then on his mission, he taught a lot back in the Appalachians and saw the poor conditions some of those people live in. He thought if he could become a doctor, once he was established and making some money, he could take some time to go back there and help them get better medical care.”
I wondered how Marny had ever gotten Gerard to tell her all that. When Gerard came home teaching, other than his memorized messages, I had trouble getting him to comment on more than the weather.
One night some time later I was lying on my bed studying as Marny got ready for a date.
“Who you going out with tonight?” I asked.
“Gerard,” she said nonchalantly.
“Gerard!” I exclaimed sitting up.
“Yes,” she replied not seeming to find anything odd about it.
“Did he actually ask you out?” I asked.
“Well, he did need a little prodding. I mentioned a movie I wanted to see and asked if he wanted to see it too. When he said yes, I sort of suggested we see it together.”
“Oh,” I said lying back down. “I should have known.”
I didn’t think much of that first date of theirs, but then Gerard, all by himself, asked Marny out again two weeks later. And then again a week after that. Pretty soon they were going out regularly every two weeks—sometimes even every week.
Now for Marny that wasn’t much. Marny had a date nearly every night of the week. And there were lots of boys she was dating more often than Gerard. But I was certain that there was no one Gerard was dating more often than Marny. In fact for Gerard, I had no doubt that once every two weeks was going steady.
That worried me. After all, it was obvious that Marny’s interest in Gerard was simply as a service project. She was being nice to him to help him feel better about himself. A lot of good it was going to do if she ended up hurting him.
I decided to take action. There was one boy in particular that Marny seemed to date more than anyone else. His name was Bart Hansen. Bart was a perfect match for Marny. He was as handsome as she was pretty—the kind of guy every girl dreams about and every parent approves of. One simply had to look at Bart to know he would go places.
Now, if Marny should happen to become serious with Bart, I was certain she’d cut out her other beaus. And if it happened soon enough, maybe Gerard wouldn’t be hurt as badly as if things dragged on. The end of the semester was near. Perhaps Marny could just let things fizzle out gently when she went home for Christmas vacation.
That evening as Marny and I dressed for bed, I turned the subject to Bart.
“He sure is a neat guy,” I said.
“Yes, he is,” Marny agreed.
“And the two of you make the cutest couple.”
“You think so?”
“Oh, everyone does. Have you two talked about marriage?”
“No,” Marny said picking up her brush and running it through her hair.
“If he asked you, you’d say yes wouldn’t you?”
Marny turned around and studied me for several seconds. “What are you getting at?” she asked.
“Nothing,” I said trying to sound casual. “I just think of all the guys you date, Bart is the best for you, and it would be a shame to lose him because of the other guys you’ve got hanging around. Guys don’t always appreciate a lot of competition.”
“Well, Bart hasn’t even mentioned marriage,” Marny said matter of factly, “so I don’t see any point in discussing it. Frankly, I’m not sure what I’d say if he asked me.”
The conversation had not gone exactly as I had planned, but at least I had put some ideas into Marny’s head. I hoped that the more it rattled around in her brain, the more concerned Marny would become that by dating so many other guys, she might lose Bart. I had no doubt that when the weeding out process came, Gerard would be the first to go.
It was several nights later, and I was sleeping soundly when I felt a hand shaking my shoulder and a voice saying, “Kitty wake up.”
I opened my eyes and blinked several times. It was Marny just getting back from a date. Her face was pale and her manner seemed agitated. I sat up.
“Are you okay, Marny?” I asked.
“Oh, Kitty,” she exclaimed, “Gerard asked me to marry him.”
“Oh no,” I moaned. “How did he take it when you said no?”
“But, Kitty,” Marny protested, “I didn’t say no. I said yes.”
I shook my head. I had to be dreaming. Karen and I would get a good laugh out of this in the morning.
But then Marny took my hand and said, “Aren’t you happy for me?”
I could feel her hand. It wasn’t a dream; it was real.
“Oh, Marny, why?” I said.
Marny looked confused. “I love him,” she said simply.
A phrase from Marny’s lesson on charity ran through my mind. “Charity is the pure love Christ has for everyone, and we should all try to gain that kind of love for everyone too.” I wanted to take Marny by the shoulders and shake her and say, “Marny, you don’t have to marry Gerard to prove that you have charity. You’ve been kinder to him than anyone else. You’ve done enough! You can’t marry a guy just because you feel sorry for him!” But I didn’t say it. I figured that by morning Marny would be thinking more clearly and see how silly this was.
But come morning, Marny was as determined as ever. She announced her engagement to the others at breakfast. If Marny thought my reaction was unenthusiastic, theirs was downright chilly. They all sat silently and stared at her. When she said, “Aren’t you going to congratulate me?” they all mumbled a semblance of “Congratulations,” and excused themselves.
But Marny was not to be daunted by our opinions. She spent the next weeks making plans. She would skip the next semester of school and stay home to plan the wedding, which would take place that spring. Had I not known the groom, I would have thought her the perfect picture of an excited bride to be.
I kept hoping that I would find a chance to talk to Marny seriously about what she was doing. Sure, planning a wedding was fun, but once the wedding was over, she would be married to Gerard. Forever! But that chance never came, and Marny left for home at Christmas vacation.
I went to the couple’s reception. Marny looked radiant. Her gown was lovely, her manner gracious. She was in every way perfect. Beside her was Gerard looking as though his tie was too tight. That was the picture of them that I had carried in my memory through these past 12 years.
I had wondered what became of the couple. I was certain that one day Marny would wake up and realize what she had done. It would be sad when she did. I liked both Marny and Gerard. I didn’t want either of them to be hurt. But when Marny realized what a mistake she’d made, one of them would be.
As the years passed I thought of Marny and Gerard less and less often, until now I had almost forgotten them. Now, with Georgia’s comment, it all came back.
“Kitty, are you still here?” Georgia brought me back to the present.
“Yes,” I laughed. “I was just thinking. I had a roommate who married a Gerard Bloomberg that wanted to be a doctor. I just wondered if it was the same one.”
“I’d think it’d almost have to be,” Janice said.
“Have either of you met this doctor’s wife?” I asked.
Both of them shook their heads.
“But he has a picture of her on his desk,” Janice said.
“Yes,” Georgia chimed in. “She’s blond and really smiley.”
It sounded like Marny.
It was almost time for the kids to get home from school when I finally got home. My first move was to get out the phone book. Sure enough there was a number for the Gerard Bloomberg residence. It took three tries before I could get up the courage to dial the number. I listened to the phone ringing, half hoping no one would be home. Then I heard someone pick it up and say “Hello.” The moment I heard the voice, I knew it was Marny.
“Marny?” It came out as a half whisper.
“Yes, who is this?”
“Kitty Murdock … you knew me as Kitty Olson.”
“Kitty!” Marny exclaimed. “Where are you?”
I explained to her that we were living in the same town and gave a brief account of how I had discovered it. When Marny suggested that we must get together and catch up, my curiosity got the better of me, and I said that right now was good for me.
I left a note for my kids saying I’d be back soon, then grabbed my purse from the counter. I followed the directions Marny had given me and soon found myself in a fashionable neighborhood.
Marny rushed out to greet me when I pulled in. She hugged me affectionately and made me feel welcome immediately. They’d just moved into the house a month earlier, she informed me, so she hoped I wouldn’t mind the disorder. I saw no disorder.
The house was spacious, yet homey. The furnishings, right down to the picture over the sofa, were straight out of a magazine spread. Out back were four children playing. Marny called them in and introduced them, then sent them off to do their homework.
It was all exactly what I would have pictured for Marny: a lovely home, well-behaved children. All of it was perfect, except the husband.
We sat in the living room and visited for an hour. Then the question I had been carrying all afternoon came out.
“Marny,” I asked, “has Gerard changed?”
Marny seemed to think for several seconds, then shook her head.
“No,” she said, “he’s still the same old Gerard.”
I paid little attention to the next part of the conversation. I was trying to sort things out in my mind. My friends had raved about Gerard, yet how could he be such a wonderful doctor if he was still the “same old Gerard?”
A silver sedan pulled into the driveway and a tall handsome man got out.
“Here’s Gerard now,” Marny announced.
I took a second look at the man walking up the sidewalk. Surely Marny was joking.
Marny got up and met the man at the door.
“You’re early, dear,” I heard her say. “Come see who’s here.”
Marny led him into the living room. Here, at closer range, I could see that this man’s facial features were indeed those of Gerard Bloomberg, but nothing else about him was. He carried himself tall and confidently. Not once did he even glance at my shoes. When he spoke, he looked straight in my eyes, and when I spoke, I felt as if he was truly interested in what I was saying.
I can’t recall much of that conversation. I think I was in shock for the duration. But then Gerard excused himself to make some phone calls.
I turned to Marny. “You said he hadn’t changed!” I exclaimed.
Marny looked at me blankly as if she really didn’t know what I was talking about. It was then, seeing her confusion, that the reality of it all finally hit me. After 12 years, I finally understood. Marny’s interest in Gerard had begun as simply an act of charity. But Marny had taken the time to do something none of the rest of us had done. She had gotten to know Gerard. She had dug past the backward farm boy exterior that the rest of us saw and had found the heart of the man. To Marny, Gerard had always been the sensitive young doctor that I had just met.
In light of that, I realized how shallow my exclamation sounded.
“It’s just that Gerard used to be so shy,” I explained weakly.
Marny smiled softly. “Yes, I guess he was a bit shy,” she said. “But really, other than that, Gerard is just the same as he’s always been.”

In sacrament meeting one hot afternoon, the speaker was talking about the Holy Ghost. I couldn’t really imagine what the Holy Ghost was like, but I wanted to know that he was real. One night I found out.
My cousin Chasta came over to spend the night. We wanted to sleep outside in our tent trailer, so we got my sister, Korina, and an armful of games and blankets. It was dark, and my dad lit the lantern so we could have light to play games by. He showed us how to turn off the lantern when we were done with it.
We played for hours. Then I got up and turned off the lantern. We tried to go to sleep, but we all agreed that we wanted to play another game.
We stood a couple of flashlights on the table, but it still wasn’t enough light to see the game by. So I suggested that we turn the lantern back on. I had seen my dad do it several times, so I thought I could do it. I felt important, pumping gas into the lantern with the matches in my hands, while Korina and Chasta stood near me watching.
I went to strike a match, but I stopped. Something told me not to. I had never felt anything like this before. I was stunned. I didn’t know what to say. All I did know was that we would be in danger if I lit the match. The thought came to me to move the lantern out of the tent trailer.
I set the lantern down on a chimney support right next to the house and continued the process of pumping gas, getting the lantern ready to light. The feeling came again just as strong.
I remember my dad saying one night during family home evening that the Holy Ghost was the still, small voice that helps you when you need help and warns you about sudden dangers.
Right next to the house was not a good place either, we decided. I placed the lantern on the cement, away from everything. I realized I was talking aloud. The words, “Be prepared to jump and run, just in case,” came out of my mouth. I hadn’t even thought of saying it. When I finally did light the lantern, it blew up and caught fire. But none of us was hurt, and nothing except the lantern was damaged.
Ever since that night, I think about what could have happened if I hadn’t been warned to get the lantern away from the tent trailer and also away from the house. I felt the Holy Ghost had really prompted me. Now I know he is real and I can feel his promptings.

I remember when President Rufus K. Hardy, of the First Council of Seventy, passed away. I was walking along the street of one of the cities in New Zealand, and one of our native members came up—a lady. She said to me, “President Hardy is dead.” I said, “Is that so? Have you received a wire?” She said, “No. I received a message, but I haven’t received any wire.” She repeated, “He’s dead. I know.”

Well, I always believed them when they told me those things. When I got back to headquarters, I wasn’t there long when here came a cablegram which said that President Hardy passed away the night before. But she knew that without any cablegram. She told me about it.

Still, things weren’t perfect after that. Most of my family was not happy that I joined the Church. My dad even offered me a brand-new pickup truck if I would just forget about it. But my brother Roger supported me. When I told him I wanted to serve a mission, he told me to give it 110%. Whether I was serving a mission or not, he told me to always do my best.
When I told him I wanted to serve a mission, he told me to give it 110%.
I tried to prepare the best I could by studying the scriptures, praying, and going to a mission prep class. While I was on my mission in North Carolina, I lost myself in the work and did my best to follow Roger’s advice to give it 110%.
Ten years later, I lost my dad to cancer. Even though he and I had hard times, I love him so much. As I leaned down to hug him and say “I love you” one last time, he said something I will never forget. He told me he was proud of me and that he was glad I served a mission. Two years later, Spencer got to baptize me for my father in the temple.
My family may not have approved of my joining the Church, but because of their unfailing love and the example of my friends and their families, I was able to serve a mission, be married in the temple, and help my dad after he passed on. I am grateful to be a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

One of the most special moments that took place at family home evening was when our son, Renan, was preparing to be baptized. Our two older daughters, Cynthia and Lilian, offered to teach the lessons for the month preceding his eighth birthday. My husband and I loved watching them teach the meaning and purpose of baptism—the same lessons we had taught them as they prepared for baptism. Four years later Renan followed the examples of his older sisters and taught lessons about baptism to his younger sister, Ellen.

Mandy trudged through the crusty snow toward her grandparents’ cottage. Her knitting bag, a birthday gift from Grandma Birke, swung from her shoulder.
Inside the cottage, Grandpa Birke was putting another log on the fire. “There,” he said, rubbing his hands vigorously before the blaze. “It’s good and warm now. No cold fingers for our little Mandy.”
Grandma Birke was gazing out the front window. “Here she comes!”
They watched Mandy’s red boots rise and fall as she marched through the snow. “She’s wearing the blue hat and scarf you made,” Grandpa Birke observed.
Grandma Birke nodded and smiled. “After today’s lesson, she’ll have a hat made with her own hands.” She paused. “I hope she enjoys these knitting lessons as much as I do.”
“Sure she does,” Grandpa Birke said.
Mandy crunched through the snow, looking down at her red boots. With every step, she asked herself the same question: “Why” crunch “me?” Crunch. “Why” crunch “me?” Crunch. “Nobody knits anymore.” Crunch. “It’s so old-fashioned!”
Suddenly she remembered her mother’s words: “Learning to knit is a tradition in Grandma Birke’s family. It’s a legacy of love that she’s passing on to you.”
OK, Mandy thought. I’ll learn—but I won’t like it. Looking up, she saw her grandparents coming outside to greet her with open arms. Her face flushed a deep red—and not from the cold.
“How’s my little sweetie?” Grandpa asked, giving her a bear hug. Mandy felt his soft flannel shirt against her face and smelled the fragrance of freshly chopped wood.
Grandma ushered them inside. “Hurry in before we all freeze,” she scolded playfully. “Grandpa’s made a big fire—and I made an even bigger apple pie.”
Grandpa sat in his favorite chair by the hearth and patted his stomach. “A big, old-fashioned apple pie,” he added with a smile. Mandy’s cheeks flushed an even deeper scarlet.
“Why, look how red your face is!” Grandma exclaimed while Mandy hung her hat, coat, and scarf on a wooden peg next to the door. “Come sit over here by the fire and warm up those cheeks and hands.” As Mandy sat down on the small sofa and took out her knitting, Grandma leaned toward her and announced, “Today’s the big day!”
“It is?” Mandy forced a half-smile.
“Why, yes. Today you take your hat off the needles and weave the sides together. You’re almost finished!” She was beaming.
“Neat, Grandma,” was all Mandy could get out.
For the next hour, Grandma’s patient hands guided Mandy’s through the weaving process. “Grandma,” Mandy asked as they locked in the last stitch, “you’ve been knitting ever since you were my age, right?”
“Yes, Mandy, when I was just a little older than you, my friends called me ‘the girl who loves to knit.’ You’ll be called that too—sooner than you think.”
Mandy looked down to avoid her grandmother’s eyes.
“In fact,” Grandma reminisced, “I knitted hats and scarves for everyone.”
She sighed at the pleasant memory, but Mandy’s frustration finally broke loose. “Why, Grandma? Why didn’t you just buy them?” Then she added, apologetically, “I mean, it takes so long.” Mandy ran her fingers over the hat in her lap. “And you always make things for other people—never for yourself.”
Before Grandma could respond, they were startled by a knock at the door.
Grandpa, who had fallen asleep, jerked up. Grandma chuckled. “Don’t bother, dear, I’ll get it.” She opened the door.
The voice of a young man said, “Ma’am I’m Jeff Goodwin, and this is my wife, Diane.” He sounded tense. “I’m afraid we hit a slick spot on the road—”
Grandpa was out of his chair in a heartbeat. “Anyone hurt?” he asked as the couple stepped inside.
The young man looked embarrassed.
“No, sir, but I think we’ll need a tow truck to pull our car out of the ditch. May I use your phone?”
“Why, sure,” Grandpa said.
Grandma gestured toward the sofa. “Have a seat, Diane,” she said, “while I get us some pie.”
As Mandy gathered up the yarn to make room, Diane picked up Mandy’s new hat and exclaimed, “Oh, that’s beautiful! Did you make this?” Mandy nodded. “I never learned to knit,” Diane went on wistfully. “I’m all thumbs. Besides, some people are just born to knit, don’t you think?”
Mandy didn’t know what to say.
“Just look at this!” Diane praised the hat. “Feel it. You can’t buy this kind of old-fashioned quality.”
Mandy sat in stunned silence.
Grandma came out of the kitchen and placed a pie-laden tray on the small table near the hearth. She smiled tenderly at her granddaughter. As she returned Grandma’s smile, Mandy began to understand, at last, the value of her grandmother’s lessons—and she knew exactly what to say. “It’s yours,” she told Diane.
The young woman’s eyes grew large. “Oh, no,” she stammered. “I couldn’t … You don’t mean it. …”
“Yes, I do.” Mandy spoke with firm resolution. She put the hat on Diane’s head. “It matches your eyes.”
“Thank you,” Diane said. “But I can’t believe you’re giving this beautiful hat to a complete stranger!” She lowered her voice. “You must love to knit. You must really love to knit.”
“I do,” Mandy said. At least, she told herself honestly, I do now. She looked gratefully at her grandmother. “I really do.”

I am the fifth child in a family of nine kids. We’ve always gone to church on Sundays and had family night on Mondays. I was president of both the Beehive and Mia Maid classes. I guess I took my religion for granted. Nobody really asked me if I believed it, and I never really even asked myself.
That all changed one Sunday morning in March. My mother had risen early to warm our home with a brisk fire in our big rock fireplace. There was no other heat in the house, and Mother knew we’d get out of bed faster if we were warm.
My mother ignited the wood on the fireplace grate, and small flames started burning the kindling. My little brother and sister were lying on the couch in a big blanket.
A flame jumped onto the nozzle of a gasoline can that had been left on the hearth. My mother lunged to take the can outside but stumbled, and gasoline spilled across the room. Suddenly the curtains, walls, and furniture caught fire.
“Matthew! Mary! Fire!” My mother jumped toward her children, the flames of the fire building around her bathrobe.
Instantly the children roused. Older Matthew shielded our younger sister, and together they leapt through the flames, stumbling outside into the early morning rain.
My mother ran toward the back rooms, shouting for the rest of us. We older children awoke in a sleepy stupor. I remember feeling the heat on my face and hearing the crackle of burning wood. Thick smoke burned my lungs and eyes. We escaped through our bedroom windows, dropping onto the cold, wet grass with our bare feet.
Sirens broke the air as a fire truck arrived and firefighters surrounded the area. My mother counted as eight pajama-clad children emerged from the home coughing, crying, and wheezing. My stomach heaved when I heard her gasp, “We left the baby in there!” She tried desperately to get back inside.
One of the men held my mother back while she fought at his grip, her arms reaching toward the fire and her baby. As jets of water struck the house, a fireman climbed into the billowing smoke of the baby’s room. He returned within moments. He slumped to the grass, clutching my littlest sister. She wasn’t breathing.
I watched my mother weep inconsolably. We had lost our home, clothes, even our childhood pictures. But nothing compared to the emptiness of losing our baby. How could this have happened?
We buried my sister three days later. The funeral left me empty and cold. I returned to our blackened home that afternoon and kicked at the embers. Heavy tears slid down my chin, and I turned and ran toward a nearby field. Sorrow overwhelmed me, and I dropped to my knees. For the first time in my life, I prayed—I mean really prayed. I opened not only my mouth but also my heart. The words that followed were not repetitious or planned. My pain spilled out, and I cried, “I need to understand. Why did this happen?”
Something changed. My body started to warm from the inside out. It was more than the warmth of a physical touch. My soul awakened, and I felt comfort and love. It was as though Heavenly Father were saying, “I understand.”
I opened one eye toward heaven and said out loud, “Heavenly Father, is that you?”
Once again, I felt it. I stayed on my knees for a long time, clinging to the first peace I’d felt since the fire. Heavenly Father was there.
Eventually we rebuilt our home and our lives. I still miss my sister, but I am at peace. I know I will see her again.
Each one of us will have to go through trials that will tear at our hearts. There have been many times since that morning that I have again asked, “Heavenly Father, are you there?”
He answers in that quiet voice, and I know I am not alone.

One day when President Hinckley was about five years old, he was sitting on his front porch with some friends. A family of another race walked down the street in front of the house. Young Gordon and his friends made some unkind remarks about the people. His mother heard what they said, and she took them inside to talk with them. She told them that all people are sons and daughters of God. That day he learned that we must respect and help one another, regardless of race, religion, wealth, or anything else.

I kind of think of prayer as the cream of the gospel but since I am working on my wellness challenge and I am trying to make healthy choices I am going to compare it to non-fat milk for this story. For those that are lactose intolerant you can substitute soy or almond milk for your own analogy. I came back from the gym one morning ready to make and eat my oatmeal. I was looking forward to eating this as I hungry from my workout and I had cut up bananas and walnuts to put on top. In trying to hurry to get ready for work I grabbed it and started walking upstairs to finish getting ready. As I took a bite I thought, something is missing. I took another bite and thought this is bland. It was then that I discovered in my hurry I had completely forgotten the milk. I was surprised at what a difference it made. Now you can substitute any cereal you normally eat like Fruit Loops or Captain Crunch but you can understand that you need milk with your cereal. Or maybe you might like to compare it to eating an Oreo and not having milk to dunk it in. So I say to you “Don’t forget the milk” meaning don’t forget to pray. The gospel is so much more flavorful and delightful with your spiritual milk or prayer each day.

When I was 15 years old, missionaries used to eat with some of our neighbors. My older sister saw them coming and going every day, and she asked them if they were selling something. They said no, and that was the way they were introduced to our family. My father, my mother, and my brothers and sisters received the lessons and were all baptized. But I didn’t join. At that time I was investigating another church, but I was sincerely searching.
The 10th of May in Mexico is Mother’s Day. That day, my mother asked me if I loved her. I said, “Yes, I love you.”
She bore her testimony to me and asked me to be baptized. I decided to get baptized that day. The following Sunday, I was confirmed and received the gift of the Holy Ghost. At that time my life completely changed. I started reading everything I could get about the Church, especially the teachings of Joseph Smith. I had faith, and as I studied, I accepted the teachings of the Church. My faith grew as I grew in the gospel.

Our 15-year-old grandson, Ben, is a big-time ski enthusiast, having competed in several meets and done very well. Prior to one such competition in Idaho, his parents reminded him that his grades in school would determine whether or not he would be able to compete. A condominium in Sun Valley, Idaho, was reserved, his grandparents were planning to attend, and Ben was feverishly trying to achieve the lofty academic goals both he and his parents expected. However, at the end of the day, he fell just short of his goal. Ben missed the ski meet and lost points toward qualifying for the Junior Olympics, but Ben gained a valuable appreciation for responsibility and accountability. By remaining steadfast, parents so very often suffer and agonize more than the children they endeavor to teach.

A Sunbeam teacher wrapped each of her class members one by one in a blanket to teach them how the Spirit feels like the comfort and security of that covering. A visiting mother also heard the lesson.
Many months later the mother thanked the teacher. She told how she had been less active when she accompanied her young daughter to Primary. Several weeks after the lesson, the mother suffered a miscarriage. She was overcome with grief when suddenly she felt a great warmth and peace. It felt like someone had covered her with a warm blanket. She recognized the reassurance of the Spirit and knew that Heavenly Father was aware of her and that He loved her.

Mama had said that if I helped cut and spread peaches until they were all out to dry, Papa might bring me a surprise from Salt Lake. I told him I hoped it would be cloth for a pink dress and a hair ribbon. However, Papa insisted that brown or gray was more practical than pink; but I saw him wink at Mama when he said it. I was tired of the bolt of brown cloth we got last year for our dresses and for my brothers’ shirts. Mama thought it was a nice mulberry color, but to me it always looked brown.
Too soon summer was over and the Virgin Ward Primary had started again. Our Primary president, Sister Stratton, announced, “We have been encouraged by Sister Eliza R. Snow to have a fair in January to celebrate the twentieth birthday of Primary in our ward.”
Brother Stratton agreed to show the boys how to notch water willows to build little log cabins. Our teacher, Sister Isom, said that she would teach us how to sew a fine seam so we could make our own dresses when we grew up. “You may make doll dresses or piece quilt blocks. Some of you girls may even want to make aprons.”
Excitedly I drew in my breath. My mind flashed back to a sunset walk with Sister Stratton and her two little girls, Artie and Persis. The sky was turning pink. As it became pinker and pinker, we girls, holding hands, skipped to where the pasture grass stopped, and tumbled laughing in the sand at the river’s edge.
“Just look, we’re in a pink world,” Artie exclaimed.
The pink was not only in the west, but drifting clouds picked up the color in the east and north and south as well. Swallows skimmed the pink sky in their silent search for insects, and the shallow trickle of the Virgin River rippled pink. With upturned faces we looked and looked.
Settling herself on a smooth boulder, Sister Stratton looked up in rapture. “Oh,” she said softly, “how wonderful—how gloriously wonderful!”
“Mama, Heavenly Father is the One who makes the sky so pretty at night, isn’t He?” Persis asked.
“Yes, dear, and how thankful we should be for eyes to see. Eyesight is a precious gift.”
“I’m glad I’m not a mole in a hole,” Artie said thoughtfully.
“Sister Stratton, wouldn’t be fun to have something to wear the color of the sky?” I asked.
“Oh, Mary Ann, that would be lovely. I think I would have a gathered apron to tie around my waist when we come home to Sunday dinner—a long pink checkered apron.” Then she arose and, brushing the sand from her skirts, said, “Speaking of dinner, come along, girls. Your father will soon be in from the field, powerful hungry.”
Light-footed we pattered beside her. No one would think by her lively step that she had a dozen children. Actually, Artie made thirteen, because she came to live with the Strattons when her own mother died. Sister Stratton had room in her big heart for everyone, including me. Persis and Artie were like my sisters, since I was the only girl in our family, surrounded by a whole troop of brothers.
“I feel happy as a meadowlark,” Persis said. And to show that she did, too, Sister Stratton burst into song and we joined in:
Days of summer glory, days I love to see,
All your scenes so brilliant, they are dear to me.
Let your thot’s be ever, pure as yonder sun,
Gentle as the breezes when the night comes on.
Meadow, field and mountain, clothed in shining green,
Little rippling fountains, thro’ the willows seen,
Birds that sweetly warble all the summer days,
All things speak in music, their Creator’s praise.
Deseret Sunday School Songs, no. 169.
(Sing with Me, no. G-22.)
Suddenly I was snapped out of my reverie by our Primary chorister’s voice. “Children, we will now sing no. 169, ‘Summer Time.’” That’s funny, I thought, we’re going to sing the very song that was running through my mind.
After the song Sister Bradshaw played the harmonica and we danced the Danish slide-off. Then Sister Stratton brought out a dishpan full of molasses cookies, and the new Primary season had really and truly begun.
I could hardly wait to get home to tell Mama about the Primary fair and what I wanted to make for our president. “Sister Stratton will be so surprised to have a pink checkered apron made by me. Then she’ll remember our sunset walk every time she wears it.”
Patting my shoulder, Mama said, “We’ll go to the co-op now and find the material.”
Mama helped me cut out the apron and I folded it neatly in my sewing box along with needles, thimble, and thread ready for the next Primary day. How to keep Sister Stratton from seeing it puzzled me, but I needn’t have worried. She wasn’t there. Persis said her mother was ill.
Sister Stratton wasn’t at Primary the next week, nor the next. Finally Brother Stratton took her to St. George to be under a doctor’s care, and Persis’s older sister Mary had to take care of the family.
I guess the Primary children worked harder than ever preparing for the fair, because everyone wanted to please Sister Stratton. I finished my apron and could hardly wait for her to see it. Besides making doll dresses and little quilts, some of the girls braided doll rugs. The boys made spool wagons in addition to the little water willow log cabins. We were going to have a scrumptious display.
It was on the first Primary day in January that we finally learned something about Sister Stratton’s illness. Sister Gibson told the children that our beloved president had gone blind. I almost couldn’t stand it. I thought of that day at the river and how thankful she was to have eyes to see with. I remembered the times she told the Primary children how beautiful their smiles were. I thought of the fair and how anxious we were to have her see what we had made. A lump as big as a quince arose in my throat as we started the opening song:
Jesus bids us shine with a clear, pure light,
Like a little candle, burning in the night, …
In this world is darkness, so we must shine,
You in your small corner, and I in mine. …
—“Jesus Bids Us Shine,” Deseret Sunday School Songs, no. 183
I almost bawled when they sang “In this world is darkness,” thinking how it must be for Sister Stratton. Then Lucy Jepson recited a piece about the great, wide, beautiful, wonderful world and I broke down. I couldn’t help it.
Sister Bradshaw put her arms around me. “What’s the matter, Mary Ann?” she asked.
“Oh, Sister Bradshaw, Sister Stratton won’t ever be able to see the beautiful world again.”
“I know, Mary Ann; it’s truly sad. But perhaps you’ll feel better after our lesson today,” she said.
The lesson was about Jesus anointing the eyes of the blind man so he could see. After the lesson we were asked to fast and pray for Sister Stratton.
Fast and testimony meeting was the next Sunday, January the sixth, twenty years to the day since Eliza R. Snow and Zina D. Young organized the first Primary in Virgin in 1881. Most of the testimonies were about that first Primary, and I almost wished I had been born sooner. Then Bishop Beebe prayed for Sister Stratton, and the Primary children were asked to stay after meeting.
When we knelt together Sister Gibson said, “Heavenly Father delights in the prayers of little children. Mary Ann, will you please lead us?” Since we always took turns praying in Primary anyway, I was not usually afraid, but this time it was different. When I bowed my head I sobbed and sobbed, and I tingled all over. Finally I gained control.
“Oh, Heavenly Father,” I pleaded, “please heal Sister Stratton because we love her so much and because she loves us so much. Bless her so she can see our smiles and all of the things we made for the fair and the wonderful world and pink sunsets. Please. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
The Primary fair was the following Saturday and Sister Stratton was there. Standing before us, she said, “Your smiles are as beautiful as those of angels.” She could see! Tears streamed down her cheeks as she continued, “Dear precious children, a wonderful thing happened to me. As I sat by a west window late Sunday afternoon, a feeling of peace came over me. And then, out of the mist of darkness, there came a gentle light, growing brighter; and I saw a sky full of gold-fringed pink clouds and I knew the sun was setting. Over and over I said, ‘Thank you, Heavenly Father, thank you so much for the precious gift of sight.’ And then I learned that at that very hour, you, my precious Primary children, were on your knees praying for me.”
We rushed into her arms and she hugged us, one by one. And then she saw and enjoyed the things we had made. “They are just beautiful,” she said. She enjoyed our singing, reciting, and our dancing, and I just knew it was the happiest birthday party the world had ever seen. Last of all I gave her the pink checkered apron.
“Oh, Mary Ann. Mary Ann!” she cried. “You must have caught a pink cloud right out of the sunset to make this for me.” And we laughed happily together.
I dearly love our Heavenly Father for listening so tenderly when children pray.

By December 1827 there had been several attempts to steal the plates, so Joseph decided to move with Emma to the home of her parents in Harmony Township, Pennsylvania.

When Joseph and Emma arrived, Joseph allowed Isaac Hale, Emma’s father, to heft the plates in a box. Isaac later stated, “I was allowed to feel the weight of the box, and they gave me to understand, that the book of plates was then in the box.” Yet he was unconvinced and dissatisfied with the situation. He told Joseph to either show him the plates or remove them from his house. Joseph hid the plates in the nearby woods until he and Emma moved into their own home on the Hale property.10

I remember my world trembling in a state of overwhelm one September. I had just finished a very stressful time preparing and sending off a family member to work overseas for the first time. I came straight home and launched into my long list to be completed before school started on Monday. I wasted no time, but Saturday night arrived much sooner than it should have, and my list was not done, particularly staking the leaning peach tree, which I knew would never get done once school started. Tired and spent, I literally cried to the Lord, explaining that I had done my best but was greatly distressed that there was not time to stake the tree. It was too dark now for me to do it, and very late. As I worked to finish the house chores before Sunday, I began hearing noises outside, but when I started to look out, I thought, "Oh, it is just a neighbor making some noise." When I awoke Sunday morning, I saw my tree beautifully staked. I had never spoken to any of my neighbors about staking the tree. I believe it was a gift from God to soothe my troubled heart.

Shortly thereafter I boarded a train in Osaka for Yokohama and a ship that would take me home. Brother and Sister Sato came to the station to say good-bye. Many tears were shed as we bade one another farewell.
It was a very chilly night. The railroad station, what there was left of it, was very cold. Starving children were sleeping in the corners. That was a common sight in Japan in those days. The fortunate ones had a newspaper or a few old rags to fend off the cold.
On that train, I slept restlessly. The berths were too short anyway. In the bleak, chilly hours of the dawn, the train stopped at a station along the way. I heard a tapping on the window and raised the blind. There on the platform stood a little boy tapping on the window with a tin can. I knew he was an orphan and a beggar; the tin can was the symbol of their suffering. Sometimes they carried a spoon as well, as if to say, “I am hungry; feed me.”
He might have been six or seven years old. His little body was thin with starvation. He had on a thin, ragged shirt-like kimono, nothing else. His head was shingled with scabs. His one jaw was swollen—perhaps from an abscessed tooth. Around his head he had tied a filthy rag with a knot on top of his head—a pathetic gesture of treatment.
When I saw him and he saw that I was awake, he waved his can. He was begging. In pity, I thought, “How can I help him?” Then I remembered. I had money, Japanese money. I quickly groped for my clothing and found some yen notes in my pocket. I tried to open the window. But it was stuck. I slipped on my trousers and hurried to the end of the car. He stood outside expectantly. As I pushed at the resistant door, the train pulled away from the station. Through the dirty windows I could see him, holding that rusty tin can, with the dirty rag around his swollen jaw.
There I stood, an officer from a conquering army, heading home to a family and a future. There I stood, half-dressed, clutching some money which he had seen but which I could not get to him. I wanted to help him, but couldn’t. The only comfort I draw is that I did want to help him.
That was years ago, but I can see him as clearly as if it were yesterday.
Perhaps I was scarred by that experience. If so, it is a battle scar, a worthy one, for which I bear no shame. It reminds me of my duty!

When I was about nine, I wanted to grow a mustache. I thought I could do this by shaving my face every day. For several days I used my father’s razor to shave. One day my father saw me shaving. He warned me not to do it because I could cut myself.
I am sorry to say I disobeyed my dad. The next day I shaved again. As I was shaving, the razor slipped from my soapy fingers. It made a deep gash above my lip. I was pretty scared as I bandaged my lip. But I was even more afraid of what my father would say.
When he came home that night and saw my cut, he was surprised and worried. He asked how it happened.
“Well,” I said, “I was running down the sidewalk, and I fell on my face.”
I had lied! First I had disobeyed, and now I had been dishonest! That night I couldn’t sleep. It was late, but I had to tell Dad the truth. I found him in the living room.
“Dad, I lied to you,” I said. “I didn’t fall down. I cut myself shaving with the razor. I’m sorry.”
My dad was quiet for a moment. Then he gently said, “You did disobey, Son. That is not a good thing. But I’m proud that you decided to tell the truth.”
That lesson—and the actual scar—has stayed with me every day since then.

It was my privilege just over a month ago to dedicate the Gilbert Arizona Temple, a magnificent structure. The evening before the dedication, a cultural event was held at the nearby Discovery Park. Twelve thousand young people performed a 90-minute program. The dancing, the singing, and the musical performances were outstanding.
This area had been experiencing an especially dry season, and I believe many prayers had been sent heavenward over the preceding several weeks for much-needed rain. Unfortunately, it came just before the performance and stayed for the entire production! Despite the fact that the youth were soaked through with the rain and chilled from the cool temperature, we all felt the Spirit of the Lord. The theme of the program, “Live True to the Faith”—think about that: “Live True to the Faith”—was portrayed magnificently by smiling and enthusiastic young men and young women. Despite the cold and the rain, this was a faith-filled and inspiring experience these young people will ever treasure and will be relating to their children and grandchildren in the years to come.