Gospel Story Finder

Nancy jumped down the steps of the school bus and ran into the house.
“Mom, guess what happened—I got first place in the class spelling bee! Now I get to compete in the spelling bee for the whole school!”
“Oh, Nancy, that’s great!” Mom said, giving her a big hug.
Nancy took her backpack to her bedroom. Kicking off her shoes, she lay back on her bed and grinned. With two weeks to study the list of words her teacher had given her, there would be plenty of time to study for the school spelling bee.
As the competition approached, Nancy started to get a little nervous. But she studied hard and won the school spelling bee. She even got her picture in the newspaper! But Nancy knew the hardest work was still to come.
Now Nancy had a month to study for the district-wide spelling bee. She kept the spelling list in her pocket and studied the words every chance she got. She had done everything she could to be ready, but she was still nervous.
The morning of the spelling bee, Nancy woke up with a sick feeling in her stomach.
“I don’t feel so good,” she told Mom.
“Do you think it could just be that you’re nervous about the spelling bee?” Mom asked.
Nancy nodded. “I don’t think I can do this,” she whispered.
Mom gave Nancy a hug. “I think you should say a prayer,” she said.
Nancy returned to her bedroom, knelt down, and asked Heavenly Father to help her feel better. She remembered that she had studied hard and was well prepared. She asked Heavenly Father to give her the confidence she needed. She felt better as she ended her prayer and stood up.
Mom drove Nancy to the spelling bee and smiled at her whenever Nancy looked out into the audience. After five rounds, only two spellers were left: Nancy and another girl. Nancy approached the microphone, her heart pounding.
“Can you please spell the word camouflage,” the woman giving the words said.
Nancy felt her courage fail as she realized this was one word she didn’t know.
Hesitantly, she began. “Camouflage. C-a-m … o-f-l-a-g-e. Camouflage.”
The woman’s quick shake of the head let Nancy know she had spelled it wrong. Hanging her head, Nancy returned to her seat, barely listening as the last girl spelled the word correctly. The audience began to clap, and Nancy joined in, but inside she felt like crying. That same sick feeling returned to her stomach.
Then Nancy remembered her prayer from that morning. Still sitting on the stage, she whispered, “Please help me be happy, Heavenly Father. I did my best, but I’m so sad. Please help me be OK with not winning. Please comfort me.”
Slowly, a peaceful feeling spread through her. A smile inched onto her face. She stood and put out her hand to the winner, giving a hearty congratulations.
Afterward, Mom wrapped Nancy in a hug. “Nancy, I’m so proud of you. You did fantastic. Are you OK?”
Nancy nodded. “Yes, I’m OK. I asked Heavenly Father for comfort, and I feel good in my heart.”
“I’m glad you remembered to pray,” Mom said. “Heavenly Father will always be there for you.” She winked at Nancy. “I think you learned a lot more today than just how to spell the word camouflage!”

Then a Brother Vance rose from his seat in the congregation. A large, strong, grandfatherly man who worked well with his hands, he related his thankfulness to the Lord for the growth of some lilac bushes that were most precious to his wife.
The bushes had grown so tall they blocked the sunlight to the Vances’ tiny home. Brother Vance told his wife he had to cut the bushes back to ground level and move the roots to a new location. She vigorously protested his decision, afraid the bushes would not survive. But he felt it was necessary.
He told of the painful but loving task of pruning the bushes, preparing the soil in the new location, and, finally, digging up the roots and planting them.
He described how every day he weeded, watered, and looked for signs of new life. The lack of new growth, he said, made him worried and concerned that he had destroyed his wife’s lovely bushes. The more he thought of his love for his eternal companion, the more feeling he developed for the roots he had nurtured in the earth.
Finally, early one morning, he was relieved to find green evidence that the roots were alive and growing. He brought his wife to see her lilacs and offered a prayer of thankfulness for the growing results of his work.

I sat down and wrote the first few verses and laughed. And then I thought about Eric when he was six.
“Eric’s got a girl friend! Eric’s got a girl friend!” I remembered how Brad teased as he and Eric came home from school.
Eric was silent. I couldn’t detect a smile, a frown, anything on his cherubic face. He just ignored Brad totally and asked, “Can we eat breakfast sooner tomorrow, Mom? I want to go to school early.”
“Yes,” I answered. I was surprised at his coolness. “Yes, of course. Do you want to tell me about it?”
“No.” He shook his head, smiled, and walked out the back door to play.
“See. I told you!” Brad confirmed.
I’m not a nosy mother—well, only a little nosy. I wanted to know why Eric went to school 15 minutes early and came home 15 minutes late for a week. But he volunteered nothing.
On Tuesday I had to return library books. I decided to go at 1:50 so I would be driving by the school at 2:20 when school was out.
I was late and had to drive almost home before I saw Eric. He was with a girl. From the back I could see she had long, blonde hair and a pretty dress. But something was different. She didn’t raise her left leg far from the sidewalk, and as I passed I could see her left arm was limp. Eric saw me. He grinned widely and waved. As I smiled back my eyes surveyed a beautiful little girl with an enchanting smile and blue eyes.
At dinner I decided it was time to be open about the whole thing. I wanted Eric to know it was acceptable to have lots of friends in the first grade—even if one was a girl.
“I saw your friend today, Eric. She’s pretty.”
“She’s nice,” he added.
“So that’s the reason you go to school early?” his father asked.
“Yes.”
“Well, tell me about her. What’s her name? What does she took like?”
“Her name’s Jena. And she looks like … like … uh … like a girl.”
The family laughed. “She’s very pretty.” I explained. “She has blonde hair, blue eyes, and a warm smile.”
“What’s wrong with her leg?” Brad asked innocently.
Eric bristled and raised his voice. “There’s nothing wrong with her leg.”
“Brad wasn’t being mean, Eric. She does have a problem with her leg and arm. She has cerebral palsy, Eric. That doesn’t change her being pretty or nice.” I taught physically handicapped children and accepted the fact that everyone has limitations of some kind.
In early December I got a phone call.
“Is this Eric’s mother?”
“Yes,” I replied.
“This is Mrs. Hamilton. I’m Jena Hamilton’s mother.”
“Oh, yes. Hello!”
“I called because I wondered if you were aware of what Eric has been doing for us—I mean for Jena—but really it affects all of us.”
I was puzzled. “No, I suppose I don’t,” I replied honestly.
“Do you know Jena?”
“I saw her going home from school. She’s a very pretty girl.”
“Then you know she has a problem with her leg and arm. She has cerebral palsy.”
“I see.”
“When we moved here last summer and I went to register her, the school said they wouldn’t accept her. Her learning isn’t impaired. It’s just a motor involvement, but they insisted the other children would taunt her until we would be sorry. They asked me to enroll her in a special school, but I insisted they let her try here. They were skeptical, but I was quite firm in my decision.”
“I understand your feelings.”
“When school started, it was just like they said. Some of the children wouldn’t stop yelling names and making fun of her. And no one would play with her. After the first week and a half of school, with her coming home in tears every day. Then a little miracle happened—Eric!”
“Eric?”
“He decided enough was enough. He asked Jena if he could play with her at recess. The boys laughed at him and called him names too. But he ignored them.”
“That’s not my Eric,” I thought.
“He walked home with Jena to the accompaniment of jeers. From that day on he has walked her to school, played with her at recess, and walked home with her. The third week of school some boys started throwing rocks at Jena. Eric challenged them to a ferocious fight if they didn’t stop.”
That’s my Eric. He was two inches shorter than anybody, but he was never afraid of a fight if it was necessary.
“I guess he said it so firmly they decided to leave her alone. Jena is doing so well now. Other children are playing with her, and no one seems to be paying attention to her problem.”
“That’s wonderful!”
“There’s more,” she continued. “Yesterday I stopped Eric out in front—I was so happy how things are going—and I said, ‘You’re such a nice boy! How did you ever get to be such a nice boy!’ It was a comment, not a question of course, but he spoke right up and said, ‘Our church teaches all the boys to be nice boys.’”
“Well, I was so surprised, I said, ‘And what church do you belong to, Eric?’
“And he said, ‘The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, sometimes called the Mormon church. Would you like to have the missionaries?’ He’s quite a boy!”
Well, do you want the missionaries? I was hoping my voice would say. But it didn’t. “Yes, I guess he is. I really appreciate your calling me.”
Jena Hamilton didn’t need Eric much after that. They were friends, but he went back to playing with the boys and calling all girls “dumb.” In a year or so Jena moved, and we moved.
I looked down at the birthday card I was making. I decided not to write a verse about Eric when he was six. It was too special.

It was a fall day in Wyoming. The majestic Teton Mountains rising high into the blue sky were delicately mirrored in Jackson Lake—a breathtakingly beautiful setting for the beginning of a high adventure canoe trip down the 158 kilometers of rugged Snake River. True to its name, the river curled its way through a wilderness area abundant with wildlife. There would be few roads and only occasional trails.
Excitement was high, and hearts seemed to be beating a little faster than usual as the 19 Scout leader fathers and their 16-year-old sons waited on the river bank at Moran to begin their canoe trip down the Snake River.
Two tanned, tall, river-experienced 19-year-old young men would be our guides—one at the head of the group and the other following close behind. Their every word of instruction and warning was caught by ears that were straining to learn. There was a bit of apprehension as they warned about whirlpools, with their circling current, that could take a canoe and its occupants down under. There was also the instruction about approaching and riding through the turbulent water areas. The main word of instruction was, “Whatever you do, don’t unbalance your canoe.” We resolved and it was our intention that we would do everything the guides had instructed us to do. We would stroke evenly on each side; we would kneel up all the way so we could move easily and keep the canoe in balance.
As the leader responsible for the group, I seemed to be having some doubts as I listened to the safety precautions the guides were giving us. I remembered a newscast a few days before telling of a father who had fallen from his canoe while going through a rapid and had struck his head on a rock and had drowned before he could be recovered, even though he had his life jacket properly in place.
The lead guide gracefully slipped his canoe into the water and glided effortlessly out into the river. In turn, each canoe, with father and son in place, followed. It was a beautiful day—the fresh clean air was invigorating; the clear blue sky with an occasional white billowy cloud added to the beauty of the surroundings. The water was clear and the river flowed smoothly along. The spruce and pine trees, together with grass and shrubs, made each turn of the river one of artistic beauty. The first 16 kilometers were so enjoyable that most of the fear and concern faded away.
As we looked ahead, we could see another stream emptying into the main river. We could see the whirlpool signs, and we became more alert as we approached the junction point. All of a sudden there was an excited cry ahead: “Look at the moose!” I wanted to see the moose, so I whirled around and caught a fleeting glimpse of it with its large flat antlers just as I was going headfirst into the Snake River.
The water was cold; the rocks were hard. I struggled to get to the surface. A thousand thoughts raced through my mind: “I wonder where my son Dave is. How will I find our canoe? Can I find my paddle?”
As I swam toward the shore, I caught sight of Dave right ahead making his way to the bank. I lost my hat and all of the suntan lotion and the dark glasses I had in my pocket. But I was glad to get out of the cold water and again get back in the canoe so we could stay with the others.
After that, they could have said “Look!” at a thousand moose and we would not have turned around to look. We looked straight ahead. There were kilometers of rapids and turbulent water, and we went safely through. We didn’t look to the left or to the right. In fact, one rapid was so severe that one canoe in trying to negotiate it tipped over backward. The father was heavier than his 16-year-old son, and he was in the back. They had not intended to unbalance the canoe, but they did. They got wet just the same. Intention is not enough!

It was here, during my time as a student at BYU–Hawaii, that I met my husband, Thomas. At the time, it didn’t feel like anything extraordinary—it actually started in a very ordinary way. I was a staff writer for Ke Alaka‘i, and I had been assigned to cover a big event taking place in the ballroom that weekend. I ended up having one circumstance after another pile up, which meant I arrived at the event a little late and by the time I got there, I had completely missed the band that everyone had been talking about. I remember thinking, this is not ideal… I still have to write this article.

I told my friend, “I didn’t even get to see them play—what am I supposed to do?”

And she said, “Well, the good news is I know the drummer. He’s my Gospel Doctrine teacher, and he’s really nice—you can just interview him.”

So, I walked up to this tall, thin haole guy, wearing a skinny tie, and really cool shoes—which I noticed immediately, because I always notice people’s shoes.

And I introduced myself and explained, “Hi, I’m writing an article about your performance… but I didn’t actually see it.”

And he blinked at me a few times, kind of laughed under his breath, and said, “Seriously?”

And I said, “Yep. So… can you give me a quote for my article anyway?”

And he very kindly did. I don’t even remember what he said. But I do remember having a very clear impression at that moment: This person seems like he would be a really good friend. And at that point in my life, I really needed a good friend.

The next week, I was talking to someone from his band and mentioned that I had met their drummer and was going to quote him in my article.

And he said, “Oh—Tom?”

And I said, “I think so…”

And he said, “You two would actually really get along. I could connect you.”

And I said, “Absolutely not. That would be so embarrassing. I’m good—thank you.”

But, he gave him my number anyway. And Thomas called me the next day. We spent time together the day after that, and we have pretty much been together every day since. I went from missing his performance to attending just about every show his band played around the island—and even a few on Maui. And over time, that simple introduction became something much more. We built a life together. We have raised four beautiful children. We have gone through multiple graduate programs together. And we have walked through both joyful seasons and very difficult ones.

It’s a whirlwind BYU–Hawaii, Seasider, slightly punk-rock love story. But looking back now, I can see something I couldn’t fully see then. What felt like a small, even inconvenient moment—missing a performance, arriving late, was actually part of something much bigger. I was exactly where I needed to be. The Lord was quietly shaping my life in ways I didn’t yet understand. And even then, even in that early beginning, I was not alone.

Extremely unusual circumstances had led my son and me from our home in Salem, Utah, to our adventure in the Northwest, a 700-mile trip I never would have undertaken without the direction and inspiration of the Lord. When Bob was a senior in high school, like most teenagers he wanted a job. A large portion of his income was to go to his mission fund. He had dreamed of a mission most of his life and longed to follow the example of his older brother David, who had served in the Florida Tallahassee Mission.
But the job brought bad influence with it. At first Bob thought he could rise above it, and he should have been able to, but little by little it began to soak in. My wife and I suggested that he change jobs, and he did. But the second job was even worse than the first. Severe changes—lack of personal prayer, for example—became evident. His desire for a mission faded, and he spent several thousand dollars of his mission fund for fun and parties.
Heartbroken, his mother and I had fasted and prayed and visited the temple often. On one occasion as we sat in the Provo Temple, the answer came. My wife whispered that she had a strong impression that if I would take Bob on the Coppermine River, he would regain his love for the gospel. At first I thought she was crazy.
My sons and I had read about the Coppermine in an outdoor magazine several years earlier. Six American explorers told how, in 1974, they had been the first to travel the length of the river, which wanders through 300 miles of barren tundra before emptying into the Coronation Gulf of the Arctic Ocean. (Several small groups fly to the Coppermine each year to run the river and fish, but they usually portage around the larger rapids. Maps show 38 sets of rapids, and a government report rates some of them at five on a scale of zero to six. One set of rapids is said to have waves nine feet tall. The Americans had run them all.) A Canadian group had attempted to follow the same route in 1973, but had been forced back by violent weather.
Ever since that article appeared, David and Bob and I had dreamed of conquering the Coppermine. But it had always been a dream. Our finances wouldn’t allow us to fly in to the headwaters, and that would mean paddling and portaging through 400 additional miles of small lakes and hostile terrain just to put in at the river. Even though all of us had considerable wilderness experience, it would be a difficult, arduous journey.
But I knew my wife had been inspired. I trusted the Lord to tell me the same thing, and before we left the temple, I received the same confirmation. Still, it was hard to imagine ahead of time what such a trek would mean.
We obtained maps from the Canadian Government. David decided he shouldn’t leave his young family alone, so Bob and I began planning our trip in earnest. We began an exercise and running program to get in shape. We plotted our route on maps that covered a 20-by-20-foot area if we unfolded them all at the same time. We had been on many wilderness trips and river runs before and relied on our experience to dictate what we’d need for food and supplies. We read and reread the report of the group that had succeeded in running the river but couldn’t get in touch with them. After four months of planning and research, we had every square inch of our packs and other bags crammed with equipment, every dehydrated meal carefully rationed, every ten-mile landmark and every daily distance on our time schedule charted in. When we arrived in Canada, we would fill out forms with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, listing our intended route and estimated date for completion of the trip.
On June 23, 1978, we left Salem. We arrived at Yellow Knife on the Great Slave Lake five days later and left our car with some friendly Church members. Our trek began in earnest when they dropped us off 16 miles from their home.

Thinking about her attitude, I remembered a lesson I learned many years ago when my father died. He died suddenly, leaving my mother a widow with fifteen children, ten of whom were dependent on her. This was a great tragedy in her life. Of course, the gospel, the fellowship of the Church, and our own testimonies gave us a solid base which comforted us and helped us to accept this loss with dignity. In spite of the fact that we never left her alone, it affected her deeply. Although she accepted the will of God, her soul did not find inner peace.
One morning as we were traveling downtown on a bus, she began to feel her loneliness. I noticed it, but also knew that I couldn’t give her the comfort she needed. She cried in silence, but with dignity. A lady passenger came up and said: “You seem to be very sad.” My mother answered, “I have just lost my husband.” Then the lady asked, “Do you have children?” and my mother answered, “I have fifteen children, and each one of them has some trait that reminds me of their father. So I am constantly reminded of him.”
When she heard this, the woman said: “You are truly blessed, because you only lost your husband. I lost my husband, too, and my two daughters in an automobile accident, and I am living alone. So I do understand your pain and sorrow.” Then she added, “Only God can help us overcome trials like this.”
Those who suffer great adversity and sorrow and go on to serve their fellowmen develop a great capacity to understand others. Like the prophets, they have acquired a higher understanding of the mind and will of Christ. To me, this woman was like an angel. She gave comfort and raised my mother’s thoughts toward God in a time of great trial. From that day on, each time my mother felt lonely or abandoned, she would say to me: “Son, pity the woman who lost all. I am grateful that the Lord has blessed me with fifteen children to be my companions in life.”

The same year that Lorenzo Snow set out on his first mission, the Prophet Joseph Smith gave Heber C. Kimball a very significant missionary assignment. The Prophet Joseph approached Heber while the latter was seated in the Kirtland Temple. Joseph said:

Brother Heber, the Spirit of the Lord has whispered to me: “Let my servant Heber go to England and proclaim my Gospel, and open the door of salvation to that nation.” [Orson F. Whitney, Life of Heber C. Kimball, an Apostle (Salt Lake City: Bookcraft, Inc., 1967), p. 103]

The First Presidency and the Twelve hold the keys for opening the nations to missionary work (see D&C 107:35). When the pattern has been followed of calling an apostle to open a land to the preaching of the gospel, great success has resulted. Heber C. Kimball baptized more than one thousand converts in the western part of England during his mission. He and his companions laid the foundation for future growth in that great nation.

I think of a sister missionary. Her challenge was not lustful thinking. It was negative thinking due to continued sorrow. There were some awful, external conditions in her life. Together we turned to Moroni 9, where Mormon describes some of the worst external conditions in all history. He then suggests that if Moroni is faithfully moving towards Christ, Moroni will be filled with power, and the terrible external conditions of his life would not weigh him down. Indeed, Christ would lift him up (Moroni 9:25). This touched the heart of this missionary. For the rest of her mission, she chose to move forward in her purpose while being lifted up in Christ. Her external conditions remained the same, but she was no longer determined by them.

I conclude with a story from Dr. William Weaver who was the Chairman of Surgery at the Morehouse School of Medicine in Atlanta for 13 years. He shared this story about his father, Ted Weaver, who worked as a janitor and chauffeur in Nashville, Tennessee, when William was growing up:
When I was in high school, I was taking algebra, and I was sitting at the kitchen table trying to do my homework. And I got frustrated, said, “I just can’t figure this out, I’m just . . .” so my father said, “What’s the problem?” And I said, “It’s just algebra.” And he said, “Well, let me look at it.” And I said, “Dad, they didn’t even have algebra in your day.” And I went to sleep, and around 4 o’clock that morning he woke me up and he said, “C’mon, son, get up.” He sat me at the kitchen table, and he taught me algebra. What he had done is sit up all night and read the algebra book, and then he explained the problems to me, so I could do them, and understand them. To this day, I live my life trying to be half the man my father was, just half the man. And I would be a success if my children loved me half as much as I loved my father."

On a beautiful afternoon towards the end of August, my friend and I made a discovery. Along the old railway embankment at the back of a park were scores of blackberry bushes with the biggest, juiciest fruit we’d ever seen. We hurried home to collect containers and then returned to the park to pick the blackberries. We worked methodically in the warm afternoon sun, stripping the bushes bare of their treasures until we reached the end of the path.
As we made our way back, we were surprised to see more luscious berries we had not seen before. We stopped and continued to fill our containers, amazed that we could have missed those berries the first time. At last our containers were full, and we were ready to make blackberry pie.

Brother Berlin told the story of a brother who had joined the Church in St. Petersburg, Russia, many years ago and felt prompted to return home to Armenia to build up the kingdom. He did so, and a year later Brother Berlin arrived to begin the scripture translation work.
The man had helped in the translation of the Book of Mormon, published in 2000, and after his English skills increased, he became the translator of the Doctrine and Covenants and Pearl of Great Price in the full triple combination.

Orla Rode Nielsen, baptized in 1956, served as branch president twice in Århus before that unit became a ward. Kirsten Bokhonko, another longtime member, says that Brother Nielsen and his wife, Esther (now deceased), are the kind of people who made it a habit to do good for others quietly, in the background. When the Nielsens discovered a love of family history, they devoted much of their own free time to helping more than 30 other members compile their family history. Brother Nielsen still goes to the city archives almost every day to gather information. “I love it. When you get started, you can’t stop.” From the time he joined the Church, he has felt that way about the gospel. On the day he was baptized, he sang all the way home for happiness. “Since my baptism I have never doubted.”

It had been one week since school started, and I was very discouraged. I had so many things to do. I wanted to be a cheerleader, and I wanted to take voice lessons. I was planning to take private flute lessons, as well as playing in the band. I was taking piano, and I had a big part in a play. I also had lots of homework each night. On top of that I was trying to maintain a decent social life. Every single day from September to the middle of November was booked solid. I could not fit in everything I needed to do.
The day of our annual family breakfast in Waterton, matters really came to a head. After climbing the usual mountain, we left for home with seven tired brothers and sisters cooped up in a small car. That is enough to make anyone depressed, but in addition to that I was thinking of all the things I had to do. I could not think of any way possible to accomplish it all. When we got home I was not only discouraged—I was cranky. My heart was screaming, and life didn’t seem worth living. When I get like that, I often retreat to my bedroom and read my patriarchal blessing.
As I was reading it this particular time, I thought about the day I had received it. It had been a very spiritual experience for me, and I had felt the power of the truthfulness of the gospel. I had felt so good and peaceful that day. I wanted to feel that way again.
After I finished reading my blessing, I prayed sincerely. My heart was still crying. I needed answers. I was so confused. What about school? How would I ever find time to study or do homework? What about all the things I want to do? Where will I find the time? What about piano—when will I practice?
The answer came, but not in the way I expected. I remembered the words I had read in my blessing: “Remember your father is the patriarch in your home. You can go to him for counsel, for direction, and to receive blessings for …”
I read over and over the words from my blessing. Finally I got the courage to ask my father for a blessing.
I invited my mother to listen, and my father began. “Charlotte Marie ZoBell, by the power of the Holy Melchizedek Priesthood which I hold, I lay my hands upon your head to give you a blessing. …”
The words which my father spoke answered the questions I was struggling with, calmed my aching heart, and gave me hope. I felt the same spiritual feeling that I had experienced the day I received my patriarchal blessing, and I felt good and peaceful inside. It was indeed a blessing given by God, for only God and I knew the questions that needed to be answered. It was God’s blessing given through my father.

For example, as a young missionary in Brazil, I decided to learn to speak and read Portuguese 100 percent. Returning home from my mission, I didn’t think I would be using Portuguese again. But two years later I took the medical school entrance exam, and, lo and behold, my Portuguese was extremely helpful because Portuguese is a strongly influenced Latin-based language—as are many medical terms. Twenty years later I returned to São Paulo, Brazil, with my family as a mission president, and 35 years after that original decision, my wife and I returned to serve in the Area Presidency in the north of Brazil. Even today the joy of speaking another language without having to interpret word for word in my mind is a mystery and a blessing.

Take the example of Dr. Blair Bybee. After his call he received additional training in parasitology and nutrition. He was then sent to a Latter-day Saint hospital in a rural area so that he could gain experience in that situation.
Q—How long was this extra training in the rural hospital?
Dr. Mason—Two weeks.
Q—What happens when the health missionary arrives in his field of labor?
Dr. Mason—For the first five months of Elder Bybee’s mission, he performed as any other missionary would. He was a junior companion in a small village. During this time his responsibilities were divided between proselyting (70 percent) and health service (30 percent), as he learned the language and the customs of the Samoan people. Then in January he ended his preparation period and began concentrating on his specific health mission responsibilities. He was assigned by the mission president to create a health education and disease prevention program for all the Saints in Samoa. Appropriate health lessons that had been developed with the help of the BYU faculty and then translated into Samoan during the first five months of his mission were ready for use. He began conducting health seminars in conjunction with district conferences throughout the mission. He is lecturing in village after village—wherever we have a chapel—to members and nonmembers—anyone who wishes to attend—on such subjects as nutrition, alcoholism, baby care, home sanitation, the evils of tobacco, and so forth.

Some years ago in our ward fast and testimony meeting a young father proudly gave a name and a blessing to his first child. Afterwards the father stood to bear his testimony. He expressed thanks for this, his first son. He then said in a rather perplexed way that since the little fellow didn’t seem to understand anything they said, he wished he knew just how to communicate with him. “All we can do,” said he, “is hold him, cuddle him, gently squeeze him, kiss him, and whisper thoughts of love in his ear.”
After the meeting I went up to the new father and said that in his testimony he had given us a success pattern for raising healthy children. I hoped he would never forget it; even as his children grew to maturity I hoped he would continue the practice.

My mother had a wonderful sense of humor. When I was in high school, unbeknownst to any of us children, Mom and Dad decided to redecorate the living room and kitchen. Upon returning from school one day, we arrived home to find royal purple carpet in the living room and bright blue, green, and yellow flowered drapes in the kitchen. They were not just bright, they were very bright—the Provo version of Hawaiian aloha floral. My mother loved the floral drapes. While none of us children were particularly fond of the drapes, my sister Kristi was very vocal about it and made it quite clear that she thought the drapes were especially ugly.
On most of her visits home to see Mom and Dad, Kristi would tell Mom that she should definitely replace those hideous drapes. Mom in return told Kristi that the kitchen drapes were to be a large part of her inheritance and to be sure to remember to take them when the time came. One day in May 2003, about two weeks before my mother passed away unexpectedly, Mom and I were making plans to redecorate her kitchen. Mom said that when we purchased the new drapes, we should take the old ones down and make shorts out of them for everyone in Kristi’s family, just like Maria did for the von Trapp children in the Rodgers and Hammerstein 1959 musical The Sound of Music.
After Mom passed away, Kristi did in fact receive the drapes as part of her inheritance as Mom had wished, even though it was a joke. At a family reunion the following summer, when Kristi, Jim, and their children arrived at the reunion and got out of their car, they all were wearing “stylish” bright blue, green, and yellow floral, handmade shorts.

In the late 1990s, my twenty-something self was all about pursuing my passions. After I had returned home from my mission in Paraguay, a study abroad in Mexico led me to change my major from biology to Spanish. I worked as a backcountry guide in the summer and a ski patroller in the winter. A mentor and I started two companies in the outdoor recreation industry. So naturally, when the time came to pursue a master’s degree, I chose parks, recreation, and tourism, with an emphasis in finance and marketing. Later, at the end of the 1990s, I worked in business development for a technology start-up. My life was busy and demanding, but it was also full of promise and always exciting.

Then things changed. In 2000, when the growth of all my business ventures was peaking, I began having impressions that I should return to school, complete a PhD, and, of all things, become a professor. I didn’t know anything about being a professor. But the impressions became clearer when I heard a talk by President Gordon B. Hinckley in which he counseled listeners to “get all of the education you can.”1 In 2001, without really knowing what I was getting myself into, I left the technology company and the two start-ups I had cofounded. Amy and I packed up our things in a U-Haul truck and drove south, away from our families in Utah, to College Station, Texas—in the middle of a hot and sweaty August.

I started classes and quickly became overwhelmed. I questioned if I had made a mistake. I sat in my tiny, windowless office—hour after hour, with a foul-mouthed office mate—asking myself how I could run another regression, review another paper, or evaluate one more ridiculous theoretical puzzle assigned to me by my professors. I was surrounded by people who seemed much smarter and more capable than I was. I worried that someone was going to figure out that I didn’t deserve to be there.

I remember writing my first academic paper. I spent days working to produce what I thought was a well-written manuscript. My professor returned the paper covered with red marks and critical comments. I walked outside to a wooded area near the business building. My hands crumpled the paper as I paced next to a small creek. I sobbed as I prayed out loud. I could not understand why God had prompted us to travel to this place only to let me fail.

I lay awake night after night contemplating how I would get out and how it all would end. I met with a counselor and tried medication to help. I even took up the habit of eating a huge bowl of Blue Bell ice cream every night—which did help a little! I prayed for answers, but none seemed to come. What was I to do?

In Texas, when everything seemed so hopeless to me, I dragged myself to sacrament meetings, fulfilled my callings, and kept praying for help—even though the heavens seemed closed. Those actions kept me in good places in the orbit of good people. They were my way of being faithful even though my path to future success felt tenuous. Rather than focusing on outcomes, which I mostly could not control, I spent time on inputs—the things I could control.

One day during my first October in graduate school, I was feeling particularly discouraged, unsuccessful, and marooned. The southern Texas weather was still balmy, and there were no colorful autumn vistas. I missed feeling the crisp air of a Utah fall and getting together with family for general conference.
Nothing felt awesome in Texas—not even my favorite hobbies. I had tried camping, but then I discovered fire ants. I had attempted kayaking in a river, but the signs warning of alligators scared me off. I was certain my life of pursuing my beloved passions was over. Forget about ­awesome—I longed for anything that just felt normal!
So between general conference sessions, Amy and I acted. We got on our bikes and rode, searching the neighborhoods and back roads in hopes that we might see some fall colors. We rode for over an hour and did not see a single autumn vista. Eventually we found ourselves down a beautiful, rural dirt road. Birds were chirping and toads were croaking under a vast Texas sky. We rounded a corner, and there it was: a tree with two branches of leaves that were turning color! They were mostly brown, not bright yellow or red, but it was something. It was a divine surprise. We cut off one of the small branches and placed it on our little kitchen table. It became a precious reminder to me that God was aware of my challenges and was giving me glimpses that He was there. While I did not find exactly what I was looking for that day, I received a reason to keep believing.

What we did in this little exercise made a big difference for me when I was in Texas. It struck me hard when President Hinckley said to “get all of the education you can.” But the feeling dissipated over the years. During those dark and difficult times in my doctoral program, even when I couldn’t feel or see God’s influence in my life, I reflected on that memory. And that memory gave me hope to keep going.

The actions I have shared—acting, remembering, and seeking thin places—were important choices that I began to practice during my PhD program, even on the days when I felt numb to the Spirit and had a difficult time remembering what hopefulness felt like. But slowly, as I practiced them, things began to change. The awe returned and darkness began to give way to more light. I studied until my brain hurt and got better at understanding the material. My office mate and I began exercising together and became close friends. My grades improved, and I started to realize that I was capable of doing the work.

With one assurance after another, the Lord nudged me to continue on. I began to notice Him in the simple details of my everyday life, in things I had previously taken for granted or been unable to enjoy: my interactions with classmates and professors, my daily bike rides to and from school, Wednesday night activities with the youth in the ward, and the remarkable goodness of my wife, Amy, whose love and support was constant and whose faith was unwavering. All of these small miracles had been there from the beginning of my journey, but I hadn’t been able to notice them.

I finished my PhD program, and nearly five years after beginning our adventure in Texas, I stood as a faculty member in front of my first class of students here at BYU—something I could never have imagined during that first semester of my doctoral program. After a student said an opening prayer, I had a distinct impression—a ­realization—that Heavenly Father had brought me to where I was. It was He who had made all of this happen as I gave my best efforts. This was truly a divine surprise.

“What about family home evening? Aren’t we going to have it tonight?” my six-year-old daughter, Leilani, asked. A feeling of guilt flooded over me. My husband and I had been trying to hold family home evening, but with many claims on our time, we had fallen out of the habit. Leilani’s reminder made us recommit to not neglect family home evening for any reason.
As Leilani and her sister, Nadia, have gotten older, they have wanted to teach during family home evening what they have learned in Primary. They even draw their own visual aids to illustrate the principles they want to teach. We rejoice as parents to see them talking about the gospel and often can expand on the subject they have chosen.
“What about family home evening? Aren’t we going to have it tonight?” are words I am trying hard not to hear repeated. I know that when children are young is the best time to teach them. The world may exercise its influence, but if we work and grow alongside our children, we can reach our goal of raising men and women of principle.
Patricia Cárdenas de Prado, Guatemala