Gospel Story Finder

A few weeks ago I listened to a stake president exhort his people to build strong families and to enjoy them. It was a great sermon, and the high point of it for me was his account of the family skiing trip when a four-year-old wanted to go to the top with the rest of the family and ski down. When they arrived it was discovered that he had to snowplow all the way down because it was just a bit too tough a run for his age and experience. The mother started to accompany her four-year-old son down the hill, but her teenage son voluntarily took over and lovingly shepherded his little brother down instead of swooping down himself as he could have done. He cheerfully sacrificed one swift run down the mountain and blessed a whole family with a sweet spirit of love and concern and appreciation.

“At a distant conference, my plane brought me to the city many hours early. The stake president met me at the airport and took me to his home. Having important work to do, he excused himself and returned to his work. With the freedom of the house, I spread my papers on the kitchen table and began my work. His wife was upstairs sewing. In mid-afternoon, there came an abrupt entry through the front door and a little fellow came running in, surprised to see me. We became friends; then he ran through the rooms calling, ‘Mother.’ She answered from upstairs, ‘What is it, darling?’ and his answer was, ‘Oh, nothing.’ He went out to play.
“A little later another boy came in the front door calling, ‘Mother, Mother.’ He put his school books on the table and explored the house until the reassuring answer came from upstairs again, ‘Here I am, darling,’ and the second one was satisfied and said, ‘Okay,’ and went to play. Another half hour and the door opened again and a young teenager moved in, dropped her books, and called, ‘Mother.’ And the answer from upstairs, ‘Yes, darling,’ seemed to satisfy and the young girl began practicing her music lesson.
“Still another voice later called, ‘Mother,’ as she unloaded her high school books. And again the sweet answer, ‘I am up here sewing, darling,’ seemed to reassure her. She tripped up the stairs to tell her mother the happenings of the day. Home! Mother! Security! Just to know Mother was home. All was well.” (Faith Precedes the Miracle, pp. 117–18.)

I’m going to share an experience I had with President Kimball to help you understand what a choice human being he is, besides a powerful prophet, and perhaps base the rest of my remarks on this incident. I stood alone in the basement of the Church Office Building about two years ago, waiting for an elevator. It was very early on a Monday morning, well before the influx of office workers. As the elevator lowered into place, suddenly two Church security officers appeared from out of somewhere and held back the opening doors. Now, nobody does that for me, so I looked around just in time to see President Kimball and his personal secretary, Brother Haycock, entering the area. They moved quickly into the secured area, and I quickly moved out of the way. Well, as President Kimball turned and faced the front of the elevator, he saw me standing out there waiting for the next one. And he said to me very graciously, “Good morning.” And I said, “Good morning, President Kimball.” And he said, “Aren’t you going to get on?” And I said, “Well—” and hesitated for a few moments—“I didn’t think I was supposed to under the circumstances.” And then he said, “Aren’t you going up?” And I said, “Yes.” And he said, “Well, tell me, how do you intend to get there?” And then he said, “Come along.” So I got on! At the prophet’s invitation I was happy to ride up with him.

I was born with Duchenne muscular dystrophy. That means my muscles will get weaker as I get older. My wheelchair comes in handy when I play soccer. I play goalie, and my chair helps me block the ball.
Even though I know that one day I won’t be able to walk anymore, I know Heavenly Father will help me have courage. And I know that because of Jesus Christ, when I am resurrected my body will be perfect and I will be able to run and move again.

When she was just 16 years old, Silvia Henriquez Allred, recently called as first counselor in the Relief Society general presidency, gained a love for Relief Society.
“Shortly after she was baptized, my mother was called as the Relief Society president in our branch in El Salvador,” Sister Allred explains. “She was overwhelmed, but my sister and I [who were also recent converts] told her, ‘It will be OK. The Lord will help you.’ And He did.”
As Sister Allred served as the Relief Society secretary alongside her mother, she was impressed by the opportunities that Relief Society offered in leadership, education, homemaking skills, and service—opportunities Sister Allred says are available “to every woman who embraces the gospel of Jesus Christ.”

Retiring from a profession people often do not retire from, Elder Parmley, age 67, has had many opportunities to share the reason he is setting aside medicine. He recalls a man he recently met at an annual conference. He told attendees why after 39 years he would no longer be involved in the profession. The next day, a colleague approached him and said, “My wife and I couldn’t sleep last night because we were thinking about what you said. Tell us more about this mission.” Elder Parmley did, and the man simply said, “Can we go with you?”

I have thick, curly, wild hair. It has more volume than the tuba section at a middle school band concert. It’s huge. Unfortunately, super silky, straight hair was the trend in high school, so I lived in fear of frizz and bought tool after tool to hide my unruly locks—hair straighteners, blow drier attachments, smoothing oil, smoothing cream. When I got home from school every day, I would go to my room, plug in my straightener, and spend the rest of the afternoon flattening my hair while I did my homework.
Despite my best efforts to have soft, movie-star-straight locks, my hair usually came out looking pretty fried and bumpy. I started to hate the way I looked, and I often wished I could magically change that one thing about me. I just wanted to fit in and look “normal” for once.
Then when I was 16, I was cast in a musical that was set in the 1980s. As we were nearing the performance, the director showed us photos of how our characters would have worn their hair.
When the pictures got to me, I was astounded.
What was I seeing?!
Poofy hair? On such gorgeous women? I felt a glimmer of hope. Maybe having wild hair wouldn’t be such a bad thing for once.
Before our performances, while all the other girls were ratting their hair and hosing themselves down with hair spray, all I had to do was let my hair air-dry and run my fingers through it. I couldn’t help being proud—for the first time, my wild hair was awesome!
And you know what? Other people thought so too. They started complementing me on how it looked. “Is that your natural hair?” a lot of my friends asked. “Why don’t you ever wear it like that?” “It’s different! It’s cool!”
After the play, I decided that I was going to just let my hair be. Even if it was different from what was popular, it was me—the real me. I started leaving my hair straightener on the shelf more and more, and I eventually gave it away.
And something else happened too. Learning to accept how I looked, frizz and all, helped me stand up for the other things in my life that made me unique, namely things related to my faith.
In my high school, I was one of only two Church members. As I let my locks go natural, I realized I didn’t have to be scared of standing out in a crowd. I shared the Book of Mormon with some of my choir friends—and to my surprise, they were interested in learning more! For prom, I designed and wore a unique, modest prom dress that definitely made me stand out. I started speaking out about bad language in the locker room at track practice. I felt happier than ever—all because I decided to love who I am.
I still straighten my hair sometimes, but to be honest, I like it better curly now. Besides, it’s a reminder for me to stand out and be who I really am—no matter what.

During my junior year of high school, I moved to live with my dad. I found it very difficult to make friends in my new town. Since I had arrived halfway through the school year, I was at a disadvantage. I felt rejected and lonely.
Because I love to sing, choir class is where I thought I could find my niche of friends. No one was particularly cold to me; however, I found it challenging and awkward to interact with the other choir kids. This made me feel even more isolated and alone.
In stark contrast to the way I was feeling, one girl in choir class seemed to have it all. I will call her Anna. She was stylish, witty, and very popular. She was outspoken with a great sense of humor. Although I didn’t really know her, I found her very likable. Nevertheless, she had one exceedingly offensive and disturbing habit. She frequently took the Lord’s name in vain. She would say His name in a casual and flippant manner. I would cringe when she would say it, but I didn’t know what to do. I thought about asking her to stop, but I was worried that she would laugh at me and mock me in front of the others. I couldn’t stand the thought of feeling even more out of place.
One day our choir class was standing on risers, practicing for a school assembly. While singing, we unexpectedly squawked out a note that was way off pitch.
Anna laughed and yelled, “We sound bad!” punctuated by using the Lord’s name.
Right then and there I decided that I couldn’t take it anymore. The thought came to my mind: “How can I continue day after day to deny my Savior by saying nothing as His name is blasphemed? I have got to speak up now!”
At that moment, I was amazed to hear my voice—loud and firm—saying, “Please don’t say His name that way anymore. He is my Savior.”
Instantly, the room was silent. There was no doubt that the whole class had heard me. I was as shocked as anyone that I had spoken up so boldly. I held my breath and got ready for the repercussions.
After a brief pause, a voice from directly behind me whispered, “Thank you for saying something. I can’t stand it when she says that.” Immediately, I heard another classmate quietly agree. Surprisingly, many in the class seemed to be relieved that I had spoken up.
Anna was silent for a moment. Then she turned to me with tears in her eyes and said softly, “I am so sorry. I didn’t even realize what I was saying. He is my Savior too.”
I am thankful that the Spirit touched me that day in choir class to open my mouth to defend the sacred name of the One who has redeemed me. The Holy Ghost gave me courage to stand up for what is right, and by doing so, I could finally let my light shine (see Matthew 5:14–16).
After that day, I definitely held my head a little higher. Even though I didn’t become popular, I was able to make one first-rate friend in that choir class who joined the Church soon after this experience. As for my other classmates, they seemed to respect me more. One thing I am certain of is that standing up for my Savior gave me more self-respect and confidence. I am eternally grateful for Jesus’s sacrifice. I feel blessed to have been able to do something meaningful to show my love for Him.

“When I prayed about serving a mission, I wrote down promptings I received from talks, music, or friends. When I felt discouraged while preparing for my mission, I would go back and read the things the Spirit had told me. I turned in my papers and trusted in the Lord. When you move forward with faith, you don’t know how it’s going to work out, but you will notice God’s hand in your decision making!”
Bryanna M., 19, Oregon, USA

The woodland was under a heavy shroud of cloud cover that weekend. Rain filtered through the air, and the cameramen waited patiently to expose their film. It rained, and they prayed. And it rained some more. If the filmmakers were unable to complete filming in that one week during the spring of 1975, the project would have to wait a year until the surroundings were right again. The season would soon change, and to add to the problems, the lead actor had to leave the following Friday. On Monday morning the crew awoke before dawn and and began to set up all their equipment, thinking somehow they could compensate for the weather. But suddenly it stopped raining. When the sun came up, they beheld the loveliest mist they had ever seen. The tall, wet grasses sparkled, and the birds burst forth in song, and they knew they had been blessed with a beauty they could never have produced themselves.
That morning the Brigham Young University Department of Film Production began filming scenes for the First Vision. Stewart Petersen, who played the Prophet Joseph, walked through those tall grasses with thoughts of that other “beautiful, clear day, early in the spring of eighteen hundred and twenty” (JS—H 1:14) when Joseph Smith humbly prayed for an answer to his question, “Which of all the churches should I join?”
The First Vision is a historical film commissioned by the Church for release as a teaching aid and missionary tool. The script follows Joseph Smith’s own account of the spring of 1820 in Palmyra, New York, when, after reading and pondering James 1:5, he decided to ask of God which church was true.
The singular beauty of that first morning was followed by a week of busy filming. By Thursday renewed bad weather set in—more clouds and more rain. By the end of the day there was still one important scene that needed to be put on film—and that scene had to be filmed in bright sunlight. It was the scene where Joseph runs toward his home on a bright sunny day. So Friday morning they set up an 18-foot scaffold for their cameras in the center of the field that lay between the grove and Joseph’s home. They offered another special prayer and waited. After what seemed like hours the clouds parted. The cameras rolled. Just before the scene ended, the clouds closed in again, and darkness prevailed. “That’s all we got,” said David Jacobs, producer-director, “but that was all we needed—it’s the scene that opens the film.”
In Joseph’s own account of the First Vision he tells of entering the grove and kneeling to supplicate the Lord. Suddenly he felt a literal darkness—“some power which entirely overcame me … the power of some actual being from the unseen world.” (JS—H 1:15–16.) How to handle the feeling of such an evil influence was hard to conceptualize and then transfer onto the film. On the plane to New York the week before, David Jacobs had been studying some research material on a recently discovered account of the vision written by Joseph.
A couple of sentences jumped out at him as he read: Joseph said, “I heard a noise behind me like someone walking toward me. I strove again to pray, but could not; the noise of walking seemed to draw nearer. I sprang upon my feet and looked around, but saw no person or thing that was calculated to produce the noise of walking.” (As quoted in Dean Jesse, “Early Accounts of the First Vision,” BYU Studies, Spring 1969, p. 284.) “I knew instantly,” Dave said, “that this was how I wanted to get into the darkness scene. It was dramatic. It was true.”

Not long ago, I had an experience with cheating. Like you, I felt unable to compete, and so I gave in little by little until I rationalized myself into thinking I wasn’t really cheating at all. I have never been more embarrassed than when my teacher informed me that she wasn’t counting my test. But that was just the beginning. I then had to admit to myself and to my parents that what I had been doing was cheating. It took me the rest of the year to regain that teacher’s trust as well as my parents’.
Don’t take that first step because it gets easier every time. Remember my experience. No amount of success is worth the heartache of not liking yourself.
Name withheld

Bishop Glenn L. Pace remembers from his childhood the mountains to the east of Provo, Utah, his hometown. “I fell in love with the mountains,” he said, “and haven’t gotten over it yet. As a child, I lived within a half mile of the base of the mountains and climbed them often. In fact, at age four I took off unannounced for a hike with a four-year-old friend. I was gone for two or three hours, and my parents couldn’t find me. They called the police, and many people started looking for me. It so happened that someone asked my parents, ‘Do you know where your son is? I saw him and a friend partway up the mountain.’ When my parents found me, I had a rope in my hand because I was planning to catch a bear.”

Illustration by Greg Newbold
I have been active in the Church all my life. I served a full-time mission, married in the temple, and helped raise four wonderful daughters. As the years passed, however, I noticed that some of my friends had given up their Church membership. Some family members were using social media to question and criticize Church leaders. And I was beginning to have my own doubts about the Church for the first time in my life. My doubts caused me to fear the future. At times, I felt overcome with hopelessness.
During this difficult time, I forced myself to attend stake conference. As my stake president spoke, he said, “If we are to survive the difficult times ahead, we need to move from casual feasting to urgent feasting upon the word of God. We need to make regular and focused scripture study a priority in our lives. If we do, I promise that we will not fear.”
The word “fear” caught my attention. I realized that I had allowed my gospel study to become casual. As a result, fear took hold of my life. I decided to give my stake president’s counsel a try.
I went home and created a space for gospel study. In the corner of a room, I set up a small desk with a comfortable chair. I put a few pictures of the Savior on the wall. I gathered my scriptures, some pencils, and a notepad. I began my study with a prayer.
After a week or two, I developed a daily routine. I would first listen to a general conference talk and then study a particular gospel topic. Then I would read a few chapters of the Book of Mormon and finish my study with heartfelt prayer to my Heavenly Father.
Despite various distractions, I rarely missed a day of gospel study for six months. I gained a greater understanding of many gospel topics and strengthened my relationship with my Heavenly Father through regular and sincere prayer.
My testimony was again becoming something I could lean on. My doubts faded because of the new witnesses I had received of the restored gospel. I found myself worrying less because I was trusting God more. I felt fear and despair leaving me. I also lost interest in time-wasting activities and noticed that I was becoming more generous and gentle to others.
As I heeded my stake president’s counsel, God was able to transform me. I was healed and restored by the Master Himself as I feasted upon His word.

I visited the hospital room of an old friend who had been diagnosed with terminal cancer. I took with me my two young daughters. I did not expect that she would even be able to recognize them. Her own family were gathered, standing around her bed as we entered.
She looked up and smiled. I will always remember her look as she saw that we had brought our daughters with us. She motioned them to come close to her on the bed. She sat up, held them, and introduced them to her family. She spoke of the greatness of those two little girls. It was as if she were presenting princesses to a royal court.
I expected our visit to end quickly. Surely, I thought, she is tired. But as I watched, it was as if the years melted away. She was radiant and obviously filled with love for all of us.
She seemed to savor the moment as if time had stopped. She had spent most of her life succoring children for the Lord. She knew from the account in the Book of Mormon that the resurrected Savior had taken little children one by one, blessed them, and then wept for joy. She had experienced that joy long enough herself to be able to endure in His loving service to the end.

Charles’s favorite time of the year was firefly season.
On firefly nights, he ran barefoot over his grassy yard, pausing only long enough to listen to the cheerful greeting of crickets.
Sometimes when he reached toward a twinkling light, his hand would come back empty. Then, far beyond his fingertips, a star would wink at him. Charles only laughed at his mistake. He kept running and reaching out toward flittering lights.
Most of the time he guessed right: the light would belong to a firefly, not a star. At those times, Charles gently closed his hand, being careful not to crush the firefly or damage its wings. He put dozens of fireflies in a large glass jar with a lid with holes in it. After he watched their glorious light show—accompanied by the crickets’ songs—for a while, he unscrewed the lid and watched the fireflies crawl to the rim of the jar and fly away.
He would much rather run beneath the stars on those firefly evenings than sit inside the house. If his mother had been home during the evenings, she would have been catching fireflies with him. But she worked at the hospital until late each night. The only other person in Charles’s house each evening was his sitter. He had invited her several times to catch fireflies with him.
“Catch fireflies?” she had said. “I’m too old for that. Besides, my favorite TV show is on.”
So Charles always chased fireflies by himself.
Until one night.
Charles was chasing an especially tricky firefly through the yard. Just when he was positive that it wouldn’t escape him, it turned off its light and blended with the evening blackness. Then, a few feet away, it lit up again as if to say, “Fooled you! Here I am!” Charles chased it, grabbed, missed. Chased, grabbed, and missed again.
“Got it!” boomed a familiar voice.
Charles knew at once that it was Brother Ralph, Mom’s and his home teacher. Brother Ralph lived down the street and frequently stopped by to ask about his day. Charles always enjoyed talking with him.
Brother Ralph held out his open hand, palm up. A dot of light walked across it and lit the palm’s wrinkles like a moon lights a rock-strewn valley. “Here,” he said.
Charles reached for the light. He lifted it from Brother Ralph’s hand and dropped it into his jar with the rest of the light-show cast.
“Quite a collection,” Brother Ralph said as he bent over the jar.
“Yes,” Charles said proudly. “I want to catch a lot more, though.”
“Mind if I help? I’ve always been pretty good at catching fireflies.”
“Sure. I’d like you to help.”
The two of them scurried around Charles’s big yard. Charles was the faster of the two, one hand carrying his jar, the other hand reaching out toward dots of light. Brother Ralph moved more slowly, but his hands snatched fireflies from the sky as deftly as a magician plucks quarters from behind someone’s ear.
When the jar was brimming with neon flickerings, Charles and Brother Ralph sat on the front porch and listened to the crickets’ summer concert. They sat silently and watched the fireflies and the stars.
Before the time came for Charles to go inside, they opened the jar together, allowing the fireflies to sprinkle into the freedom of the night sky.
“It’s quite a sight,” Brother Ralph said.
“Yes,” Charles agreed, “it is.”
For several nights after that, Brother Ralph returned to catch fireflies with Charles. They always sat on Charles’ front steps and listened to nature’s concert while enjoying the firefly light show.
One night Brother Ralph did not come. Charles waited in his yard until the sitter’s television program ended and she called him in for bed.
His mother told him the news the next day: Brother Ralph had died in his sleep during the night.
“Did he hurt a lot?” Charles asked.
“No, dear,” his mother said. “Brother Ralph died peacefully.”
Later, during a twinkling firefly evening, as Brother Ralph’s house sat empty and dark, Charles walked to Brother Ralph’s front door.
He knelt and placed a jar of fireflies on the front step. “These are for you, Brother Ralph.”
He unscrewed the jar’s lid so that the fireflies, whenever they wished, could fly from the jar and mingle with the stars above Brother Ralph’s house. Maybe they would let Brother Ralph know how much Charles missed him.

One day while studying the scriptures, I felt impressed to share my testimony at the upcoming fast and testimony meeting. I’d thought about doing it before, but I hadn’t since I was really young.
When fast Sunday came, I passed the sacrament and felt the impression even stronger than before. I knew it was the Spirit telling me to bear my testimony. But then thoughts began flowing into my mind, like “You’re too nervous,” “You can do it next month,” and “What will people think of you?”
I was about to give in to my doubts and remain seated when my uncle handed me a small piece of paper and whispered, “This is from your aunt.”
Written on the paper was the one-word question “Testimony?” I immediately decided to do it. When I spoke, I wasn’t even nervous because I felt the Spirit so strongly. I was also happier and felt more grateful after I went up. The Spirit really does work through other people to help us.

Now I bear you my testimony, brothers and sisters, that I know this matter of tithing is a true principle and that blessings come from it. My parents taught me to pay tithing, and in the words of Enos I say, to their honor, “Blessed be the name of my God for it” (Enos 1:1).
We were refugees from Mexico. During the years that followed, father had a difficult time getting enough food to feed his family. I remember about two years after we came out of Mexico (that would be about 1914), father got a job in Oakley, Idaho, teaching in the Cassia Academy for $80 a month.
When father and his brother came out of Mexico, they both had large families. Knowing that they would have a difficult time to make a living (they brought nothing out of Mexico except what they could bring in one trunk), they joined together and pooled their earnings. After a short stay in El Paso, Texas, they went together to Los Angeles, California, where they worked as carpenters. Later they moved to Oakley, Idaho, where they could raise their families in a Latter-day Saint environment. When one of them was out of work, they divided the income of the other and thus eked out an existence for both families. My uncle got out of work one winter in Idaho. That left them the $80 that my father received for teaching with which to support about 17 people. They had to pay rent, they had to buy everything they ate, and they had to buy fuel, except that I went out on the side hill and dug the sagebrush from under the snow for fuel. I kept warm digging and mother kept warm poking it into the stove. The rest of them nearly froze.
The question came up in the family council—did father pay tithing on that $80? If he didn’t, he would have $40 a month to care for the family; if he did, it would be cut down by $4 and he would have $36 a month. I remember that council, and I remember that they decided that they would pay their tithing, and I remember that they sent me with the tithing to the bishop. It was cold, and I didn’t have warm clothes, and I wondered what really had gone wrong with father. I learned from that—the training of my parents—that there is truth in the Lord’s promises.

I began studying the scriptures more earnestly and was allowed to start a Book of Mormon study group with my fellow inmates. The missionaries also met with me and others in prison. For the next 15 years, I listened to the missionaries’ lessons, and for the remainder of my time in prison, I tried to live differently. This wasn’t easy in that environment. But it was possible because of my Savior, who supported and guided me through that experience and into the next chapter of my life (see Mosiah 24:15).

Perhaps less visible than the Prophet’s father, but equally important in shaping and influencing his life, was his mother, Lucy Mack Smith. Although this strong woman gave occasional leadership, her primary role appeared to be support to the family. She gave birth to eleven children and endured faithfully as all but four preceded her in death. During her life, she watched six of her immediate family and one grandson die as a result of ruthless mob violence and persecution.
Lucy prepared herself early in her marriage to raise a prophet. On one occasion she became seriously ill, and the doctors said she would die. Lucy records that she “made a solemn covenant with God that if He would let me live I would endeavor to serve him according to the best of my abilities.” After a voice assured her that she would live, she told her mother, “The Lord will let me live, if I am faithful to the promise which I made to him, to be a comfort to my mother, my husband, and my children” (Lucy Mack Smith, History of Joseph Smith, ed. Preston Nibley [Salt Lake City: Bookcraft, 1958], pp. 34–35).
She gave continual encouragement, support, and strength to her son Joseph the Prophet. His mother was the first person with whom young Joseph shared some of his momentous experiences of the Sacred Grove. Years later, he shared with her the joy and relief he felt when the Lord allowed others to view the sacred plates of gold. Lucy wrote that “Joseph threw himself down beside me, and exclaimed, … ‘You do not know how happy I am: the Lord has now caused the plates to be shown to three more besides myself. They have seen an angel, … and they will have to bear witness to the truth of what I have said, for now they know for themselves, that I do not go about to deceive the people, and I feel as if I was relieved of a burden which was almost too heavy for me to bear’” (Lucy Mack Smith, History of Joseph Smith, p. 152).
The Prophet’s mother shared also in his sorrows, sufferings, and persecutions. One time a mob took Joseph and his brother Hyrum prisoner and threatened to shoot them. The two brothers were confined under a cloth cover in a wagon. Their courageous mother risked her life and forced her way through the hostile mob to comfort her sons. Joseph and Hyrum could not see their mother and could only extend a hand from under the confining cover. As Lucy’s hand and the hands of her sons touched, the wagon drove off, literally tearing the sorrowing mother from her two sons.
Her determination to testify to the restoration of the gospel may have led her to dictate her well-known History of Joseph Smith. This was a major undertaking in her day. The book’s importance to the Church today is immeasurable! It contains many details of the Prophet Joseph’s life that might never have been known otherwise. It stands as a monument to the devotion of Lucy Mack Smith and her family.
Like great parents of all ages, Lucy turned to prayer for divine help to sustain her family. During the march from Ohio to Missouri known as Zion’s Camp, Joseph and Hyrum were seriously ill with cholera, and their lives were almost taken. At one point, “Hyrum sprang to his feet and exclaimed, ‘Joseph, we shall return to our families. I have had an open vision, in which I saw mother kneeling under an apple tree; and she is even now asking God, in tears, to spare our lives. … The Spirit testifies, that her prayers … will be answered’” (Lucy Mack Smith, History of Joseph Smith, p. 229).
In the exercise of agency and in the divine providence of God, Lucy’s sons Joseph and Hyrum ultimately sealed their testimonies with their blood. As the grieving mother looked upon their lifeless remains, she cried, “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken this family!” As a kind blessing to a faithful mother, the Lord softened her grief and granted to her the peace that only God can bestow. A voice spoke to her soul: “I have taken them to myself, that they might have rest” (Lucy Mack Smith, History of Joseph Smith, p. 324).

Melinda Marx lived in an apartment building in a big city, and she often played in the hall near the front door. She liked to watch the people going in and out. Eight families used the door, and she knew all of them.
She knew where each of them lived too. “So how are you today, Miss Merry Sunshine?” David Sullivan would say as he rolled his wheelchair out to get his mail. He lived in A-2, and every day he had a different name for her.
“Let me through, kid—I’m late enough for work now!” Mr. Warrel would growl, his big bushy eyebrows wiggling. He lived in A-5, right across from Melinda and her mother and the baby. He frowned and complained a lot.
“Want to play jump rope with us?” the Johnson twins would ask as they swung on the hall door. They lived in A-7 with their mother, who worked at a bakery, and their father, who was looking for a job.
“It’s a disgrace! A disgrace!” Miss Bates would exclaim each time she went in and out, her brown curls bouncing up and down. “Children cluttering up the hallway—a disgrace!” She lived in A-4, and she thought everything was a disgrace.
“Watch out! I don’t want to step on you!” Mr. Spreely, from A-3 would shout when he passed through. He always shouted because he was almost deaf.
“You ought to get out in the sunshine more, Melinda,” admonished Mrs. Treski, from A-8, as she left each day to go jogging. She had glasses that bobbed on her long thin nose as she jogged, and she ran in place as she talked, her words going up and down as she did.
Yes, Melinda knew all of these people. She liked some of them a little, and she liked some of them a lot. But Mrs. Pasquali, in A-1, was absolutely, positively, without a doubt the very nicest of all. She had loved Mrs. Pasquali since the day the little lady moved in, and Mrs. Pasquali loved Melinda too.
“You remind me of my own Rosanna when she was your age,” Mrs. Pasquali would say, her brown eyes sparkling. She had a brown face, with gray hair twined around her head in a braid. Her face was lined and worn, and she walked with a limp. Mrs. Pasquali had the happiest laugh in the whole world. Even the metal mailboxes in the front hallway seemed to chuckle right along with her.
She had the most interesting apartment, too, Melinda thought. It was full of wonderful, marvelous inventions. The best one was a record player that didn’t need to be plugged in.
“You just wind it up like this, and you have beautiful music,” Mrs. Pasquali would say. She really did have beautiful music—exciting songs with strange words sung by people with deep, full voices. Mrs. Pasquali seemed to have absolutely everything.
Except money. She didn’t have much of that. “But who needs money if you have love?” she would ask, hugging Melinda. Somehow she always got along just fine. Often her cupboard would be almost bare, but she always managed to find a box of rice or a bit of macaroni when things were bad and her check was late.
But then one day it happened! Mrs. Pasquali had no money at all, and none would come until the next day. She had no food, either. Not one scrap. “Dearie me,” she said, peering into her empty cupboards, “I feel like Mother Hubbard today.”
Melinda felt tears come to her eyes. Then a happy thought came to her. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Pasquali,” she told her with a merry smile. “You can have some love stew!”
“Love stew?” Mrs. Pasquali stared at Melinda. “What’s that?”
“It’s wonderful,” Melinda said. “You invite people you love to come to dinner, and then you all just sit down and eat love stew. It’s delicious!”
“How can I invite people to dinner?” Mrs. Pasquali asked. “I have no food to feed anyone, and I hardly know anybody. I haven’t lived here very long.”
Melinda spied a huge pot and struggled to put it on Mrs. Pasquali’s stove. “That’s no problem,” she said. “I know everybody in this building, and they all love you. I’ll tell them to come here at six o’clock tonight for some love stew.”
Mrs. Pasquali wrung her hands. “But, Melinda, when they come and find I have nothing to feed them, they’ll laugh at me.”
Melinda patted the huge pot. “This will hold the love stew!” she said. “Now I’ll go invite the guests.”
Melinda knocked at the apartment of David Sullivan first. “There is only an empty pot on the stove,” she finished telling him, “but I told Mrs. Pasquali we’d all eat love stew.”
David Sullivan wiped his eyes. He’d been peeling onions, he said, and they made his eyes water. “Hey, Princess, I’d love to come! Count me in.”
Melinda had tears in her eyes, too, but they weren’t from onions. She turned to go upstairs. The front door banged open, and Mrs. Treski came bouncing in, carrying two jugs of milk.
“Love stew?” she cried, when Melinda invited her. “Sounds very healthy! I’ll be there. Six o’clock on the dot!” She bounded up the stairs.
Melinda looked after her and grinned. Now to invite Mr. Spreely.
The smell of meat cooking drifted out from his apartment. “What?” he kept shouting. “Love stew? Where? When? Who?”
“What’s all this racket?” Miss Bates cried, opening her door across the hall. “It’s a disgrace! A disgrace!” She waved the carrot peeler she had in her hand. “What’s going on out here?”
Melinda hadn’t been sure whether she wanted to invite Miss Bates and Mr. Warrel. But yes—even if they were cranky and complaining sometimes, Melinda was sure they liked all the people in the building. And so, twisting her braids, she told Miss Bates about Mrs. Pasquali’s love stew.
“Love stew? I declare! I accept your invitation. It would be a disgrace not to accept it!”
“Six o’clock?” boomed Mr. Spreely. “Yes, yes, I’ll come!” Both doors banged shut.
“Don’t block the stairs, little girl,” said Mr. Warrel, hurrying past Melinda. He was carrying a grocery bag with celery leaves sticking out of the top.
“I was just going up to ask you to come to dinner,” Melinda said. “It’s at Mrs. Pasquali’s. The lady in A-1.” She told him the whole story.
“Well,” he said. He stood a moment, thinking, and Melinda realized that he was rather handsome when he wasn’t complaining or wiggling his bushy eyebrows in a frown. “I usually watch the news then,” he mumbled, “but I’ll come.”
Melinda’s mother agreed to come, too, and to bring the baby. She had planned boiled potatoes for their dinner, she said, but she would rather eat love stew.
Melinda hurried off to the top floor.
“Glad to come,” Mr. Johnson answered. He promised to bring his wife and the twins as soon, as Mrs. Johnson returned from work at the bakery.
Just before six o’clock, Melinda went down to Mrs. Pasquali’s apartment to help her set the table. She put water in the huge pot and turned on the burner under it. Then Melinda found her favorite record and was cranking up the record player when there was a knock at the door. Mrs. Pasquali rushed to open it.
“I declare!” cried Miss Bates, hurrying inside and over to the stove as the music started. “I haven’t heard that song since I was a girl!”
“Let me have a look at our dinner!” cried David Sullivan, entering next and wheeling himself toward the stove.
The rest of the guests all arrived together. “I want to see the love stew too!” shouted Mr. Spreely, bobbing impatiently behind the Johnson family. “Excuse me,” said Melinda’s Mother, “I want the baby to see that magic pot.” Mrs. Treski opened the refrigerator door to put the milk in to keep cool.
Soon everyone was laughing and talking. Some of them started singing along with the music. Mrs. Pasquali’s merry laugh rang out above the other happy sounds.
Melinda scurried about between the kitchen and the guests and the dining room table. Finally she called out, “Dinner’s ready!”
Mrs. Pasquali’s laughter turned into a deep sigh as everyone crowded around the table.
“Make way for the love stew!” cried Mr. Warrel, carrying the huge pot from the stove. He placed it on a thick pad.
Melinda put a potholder on the lid and said, “Come dish it up, Mrs. Pasquali.”
Still looking anxious, Mrs. Pasquali lifted the lid.
The pot was full! It had meat and potatoes and carrots and onions and celery and gravy and a wonderful aroma! There was bread and milk, too, and even a freshly baked pie for dessert. Mr. Spreely offered thanks for it all.
Everyone ate and ate, then bustled around and cleaned up the dishes. A little stew was even left over for Mrs. Pasquali to eat the next day.
“How can I ever thank you?” Mrs. Pasquali asked timidly as her guests started to leave.
“Just bring something to our next love-stew dinner,” said Mrs. Johnson as she helped her husband guide the twins out into the hall.
“Yes, it’s a tradition we have here,” Melinda’s mother explained, hurrying away to put the baby to bed.
“We do it when one of us is lonely,” Mr. Spreely shouted.
“Or sick,” chimed in Miss Bates.
“Or bored,” added Mr. Warrel.
“Or celebrating something special,” David Sullivan put in.
“It keeps us on our toes,” Mrs. Treski joked as she started out for her nightly jog.
“Love stew is a wonderful tradition!” Mrs. Pasquali exclaimed, giving Melinda a big hug. Melinda just grinned and hugged her back.