Gospel Story Finder

We were nearly halfway through the journey from Utah to our homestead in New Mexico. For several days we had found no water, and our barrels were low. The men were becoming anxious. We knew from the map that we were coming into Indian territory.
When we reached the edge of the reservation the wagons stopped for our leaders to consult. Because of his experience with Indians, Papa was chosen to go ahead and see what arrangements he could make. As we slowly drove on, we had a feeling that we were being watched.
“I hope the village ahead has plenty of water,” Papa said.
“I hope they are friendly,” Mama replied.
“I’m prepared to take care of that even if they’re not,” Papa assured her.
“How?” Mama asked.
“I have a trick up my sleeve,” he answered, but he would tell her no more.
In a few moments we saw a cluster of huts up ahead. And about the same time two little girls with black braids ran from the shadows toward the village.
“Messengers,” Papa observed.
“What do we do now?” Ed asked.
“Wait,” Papa said and pulled the horses to a stop. He jumped down, climbed in the back of the wagon, and came out carrying his unfinished basket and a hank of straw.
“You children stay in the wagon,” he instructed firmly. And we settled in a spot where we could watch what was going on.
Papa sat down on the ground and began weaving. It seemed to me like a silly time and place to finish his basket, but I had learned that patience answers many questions, so I watched and waited.
Before long five or six braves came riding up on their ponies and formed a circle around Papa.
“You cannot cross Indian land,” one insisted.
Papa said nothing but kept on with his work.
“Go back,” another brave said, pointing in the direction we’d come from. “Do not cross Indian land.”
Papa nodded to acknowledge he had heard but he stayed where he was. Nothing moved but his hands. I had watched him make many baskets, and I knew that his fingers could fly as fast as frightened quail. Now he was weaving slowly, exaggerating the in and out movements as he laced the wide strips between the twisted upright ribs.
The belligerent expression on the Indians’ faces changed to curiosity. One by one they slid off their ponies and came closer. After they had watched awhile, Papa handed the basket to one of the braves, who copied the motions he had been watching. The Indian smiled at his handiwork. Then the basket was passed around the circle, with each brave taking a turn at the weaving and all of them becoming excited and pleased.
Papa began a new basket and handed some straw to one of the Indians to start one too. Before long each brave was sitting cross-legged on the ground, busy on a basket. Papa had motioned to Ed and me to climb down from the wagon, and we slipped out quietly and stood by his side. Other Indians came one by one and soon quite a crowd was watching the activity.
I turned to look toward the village and saw a large squaw coming toward me with a loop stretched open between her hands. Smiling, she came closer and closer, holding the noose high as if to place it over my head and around my neck. To choke me, I thought, and began to shake with fear. Please, Heavenly Father, save me, I silently prayed. My hands tightened on Papa’s arm, and he sensed my fright.
“It’s all right, Dora,” he assured me. “She won’t hurt you.”
By now the squaw was close enough so that I could see she was holding a beautiful necklace of dried berries and seeds. She placed it over my head saying, “Pretty, pretty.” I guess she had never seen yellow hair before.
All of a sudden I felt that she was a special person, and I wanted to do something for her. I climbed into the wagon and found the mirror I had brought rolled up in my sweater so it wouldn’t break. It was a round one with a handle. I handed it to the squaw and when she looked at it and saw her face reflected back, she was delighted. She showed it around with great pride, pointing to her image and laughing.
While the braves worked and the others watched, Papa spoke to them in gentle tones. “We want to be friends and will do you no harm. We are moving to New Mexico and would like to cross your land. We have our food and supplies with us. We need to stop tonight to rest our horses and fill our water barrels. We will leave tomorrow. Other wagons are behind waiting to hear your answer.”
At this point, five more braves and the chief rode up at a gallop. They began to talk rapidly in their own language with the weavers, who jumped up, showing off their baskets. After some discussion the chief turned to Papa and asked, “What are you teaching?”
“Basketmaking,” Papa said. “How to make baskets.”
“Basket,” one brave repeated, pointing to what he had done.
“You are good,” the chief said. “You can camp here tonight. There is plenty of water.” Then he motioned for Papa to mount one of the ponies, and they rode back together to get the rest of the camp to join us.
Soon after we left the Indian reservation, Sister Owens in the next wagon became ill, and we camped for several days.
Some of the braves rode over from the reservation to get help with their baskets. Papa didn’t have much straw left to give them, but they had already decided that bear grass would do just as well. Papa showed them how to do a braided edge around the top of their baskets. He took out a pocketknife to trim the ends, and a little Indian boy who had come with his father looked so pleased with the knife that Papa let him keep it. Later that day the boy’s father returned with a strange-looking three-pronged stick that he gave to Papa, explaining how he could use it to find water for digging a well.
“I can probably use this later,” Papa said as he fastened it securely to the wagon.
After we left this place the weather became hotter and the land drier. We had one more stop for supplies before we came to a stretch of desert, and Papa was able to replenish our ice supply. We had left Salt Lake City with a hundred-pound block of ice in a tub to keep our meat cool. Since it was wrapped in newspapers and burlap bags, it melted slowly and lasted quite a while. Ice was harvested from frozen streams and lakes just before the spring thaw and packed in sawdust in dirt-covered sheds. Most towns had a supply that lasted until the next winter, so we were able to buy it as we needed it along the way. That day we were very glad we had some.
The desert sun was hot. Heat waves curled up in ghostly spirals. We choked on the dust stirred up by the wagons and animals. Papa chipped off pieces of ice for us to suck on. They tasted so good that soon all the other children were coming to our wagon for ice chips.
“You’ll give it all away and then we won’t have any,” Caroline complained to Papa.
“Now, now,” he replied. “They don’t have any, and we can share.”
Our trip was nearly over when the wagons drew up in a long line by the homestead office in Harmony, New Mexico. After the families finished their business inside, they drove away to locate their new home. As our friends left one by one, they called to the rest of us, “See you in church.” We had passed the meetinghouse so we all knew where to go on Sunday.
Our wagon was the last to leave. Mr. Talbot, the officer in charge, went with us to show us our land and then take us to our temporary living quarters. The family in our house had not moved out yet, but an arrangement had been made for us to live in a dugout on a neighbor’s property. With great eagerness we set out on the last dozen miles of our trip to find our new place.
When we first saw the piece of land, I must say it didn’t look like the Garden of Eden I was expecting. Mr. Talbot pointed to a stick with a red rag tied to it. “Your property begins right there at that stake,” he told us, “and extends half a mile east, north, west, then south to make a square.”
“Half a mile, hon,” Papa said to Mama. “That’s four Salt Lake City blocks. Sixteen square blocks in all!”
Papa slowed the horses to a walk as he looked over the piece of land. “Seems pretty level,” he said. “Won’t take any clearing either. Not much here but weeds and cactus.”
“It’s a good piece,” Mr. Talbot said. “Needs a little work is all.”
Papa stopped the wagon and jumped down. He kicked the dirt with his boot, picked up a handful and let it trickle through his fingers. “Good sandy loam for growing things,” he said.
“Here’s the gate and back there’s the house,” Mr. Talbot explained. “It’s not very big. You’ll have to add on. The Evans should be out in a month or so.”
We could see the lone building surrounded by a tangle of weeds. It was just the right size for a playhouse.
“Papa’ll build a new one and let us have that one to play in,” Caroline said to Ed and me.
“Goody!” I squealed and jumped up and down at the thought.
Papa climbed into the wagon and we started off to find the dugout we were going to live in. When we saw it, it looked like a playhouse too. A steep roof sloped down to the ground on two sides. At one end was a door and dirt steps that led down to a room that had been dug out of the ground. A window in the opposite end gave the only light.
“Who are our neighbors?” Papa asked.
“Neighbors?” Mr. Talbot seemed puzzled.
“Up there where the smoke’s coming out of the chimneys,” Papa explained.
I looked in the direction he pointed and saw some more slanty roofs with gray wisps puffing up into the sky.
“Oh,” he laughed. “That’s just some of the old Indians who stayed here when the others moved onto the reservation.”
“How come?” Papa asked.
“They’re pretty old and didn’t want to go, so the new owners let them stay. They won’t bother you any—can hardly move around even.”
“How many are there?”
“Just five. All squaws. Each one has a brave assigned to her, who comes down once a week with supplies.”
“Do they live together?”
“No, each one has a separate house. Just leave them alone. They’re perfectly harmless.”
Ed was looking at me in a way that meant here was a new adventure that needed to be explored, and I was looking back at him as though to say I’d have to think about it first.
We soon unpacked our wagon and Papa hooked up the smokestack of the stove to the chimney, ready for Mama to start cooking. It was hard to believe we were here at last.
Before dinner we knelt down to thank the Lord for our safe arrival at our new home.

When our youngest daughter returned home after her first day of school, I asked, “How did it go?”
She answered, “It was good.”
The next morning, however, when I woke her up for school, she folded her arms and firmly stated, “I already went to school!” Apparently I had not prepared her or explained that going to school was not a onetime event but that she was expected to go to school five days a week for many, many years.

The ringing went on and on, and Jamie finally opened his eyes. He rolled over and shut off the noisy alarm. He wanted to stay in bed, but he knew that if he didn’t get up, his mother would come get him. He needed to clean his room this morning. He swung his legs out of bed and jumped on the floor.
“Ouch!” He had banged one of his big toes on a red racing car that was on the floor. He looked around at the clothes on the floor, his train and blocks by the door, and the books on the floor of his closet.
“It just isn’t fair,” Jamie thought. “My room is always messy.” He felt frustrated. “Why can’t I keep my room clean?”
He knew that his big sister, Jill, would ask him the same question. Jill was nine, and it seemed like her room was always clean, her clothes were never on the floor, and her toys were always neatly put away on her shelves and in her toy box. Jamie couldn’t figure out how she did it.
Last week in family home evening, Mom and Dad had talked to the family about goal-setting and asked each person to set some goals for the new year. Jamie decided that his goal would be to keep his room clean. Well, it was the first week of the new year, and already he was failing. He tried and tried to keep his room clean, but it got messed up every time he played in it.
After breakfast, Jamie went back to his bedroom to clean. He decided to drive the toy train around the room to help pick up some toys. He added some blocks and toy cars to the train’s load, then he stopped by the toy box and dumped them all off. Then he stacked up a few books to make a bridge for the train to cross. Before he knew it, he was busy creating new bridges and pathways for the train. By the time Mom called him for lunch, he still hadn’t finished cleaning his room. In fact, it looked worse than it had before! There were even more toys out, and his pajamas had joined the other clothes on the floor.
Jamie walked slowly into the kitchen, dragging his feet and sighing. Mom looked at him. “Jamie, is something bothering you?”
“Mom, I can’t keep my New Year’s goal,” Jamie admitted. “I can’t keep my room clean. I guess I am just too little.”
“Do you mean that your toys are too heavy for you to put away, or that your dresser drawers are too hard to open?” Mom asked.
“No,” Jamie answered, “I’m just too young to keep my room clean. I don’t know how Jill keeps hers clean. She must not play in it very much.”
“I don’t think that’s it.” Mom thought for a minute. “Jamie, I think you need to learn a little bit about how goals work.” She got out a box of graham crackers and a bunch of grapes, then sat down at the table next to him.
“Jamie, what things need to be done to have a clean room?”
He thought for a minute. “Well, my toys need to be put away, and my books should be on the bookshelf. My bed should be made, and my clothes should be in the closet.”
As Jamie named each item, his mom placed a graham cracker on the table. The crackers formed a line.
“And when all of these things are done, your room is clean. Right?”
“Right.” Jamie answered. Mom placed a grape at the top of the line of graham crackers. The graham crackers looked like a pathway leading to the grape.
“OK, Jamie, pretend that the grape is your goal—keeping your room clean—and the graham crackers are things you have to do to reach your goal.” She took one of the crackers away. “What happens if one of these things isn’t done?”
“The crackers don’t reach the grape anymore.” Jamie thought for a minute more. “And I can’t reach my goal.”
“That’s right. See, all it takes to reach a big goal is doing a bunch of little tasks all together. But it’s hard to accomplish your goal if you don’t know what little steps you have to take.” Mom picked up all of the graham crackers and handed them to Jamie. Then she helped him decide what he needed to do to keep his room clean.
“I can make my bed as soon as I get up in the morning,” Jamie said. He put down one cracker. “I can put my books away after I read them.” He put down another cracker. “I can put my toys away after I finish playing with them.” He added another cracker to the line. “And I can put my clothes away after I take them off.” The graham crackers now reached the grape.
“If I do each of these things, one at a time, soon I will reach my goal!” Jamie said excitedly. He grabbed the grape and tossed it into his mouth.
After lunch, Mom and Jamie made pictures of the things he had to do to keep his room clean. They hung the pictures on the back of his bedroom door to remind him. Then Mom helped Jamie clean his room.
The next day, the pictures helped Jamie remember to make his bed before breakfast and to put away his pajamas instead of leaving them on the floor. Jamie smiled. It was nice to have a clean room, but it was even better to know that he could keep it clean all by himself.

A short time after our visit, Luan’s condition worsened, and his doctors found a large tumor at the base of his spinal cord. It could not be removed surgically, so Luan went to the hospital for another round of chemotherapy.
One night when President Soares and I visited Luan in the hospital, we found him in a lot of pain. He asked us several questions, including “What is death?” and “What is dying like?”
I explained that dying is part of eternity and that death is not a closing door but a door that opens for us as we go back to the presence of God. Luan understood and smiled. He said that now he was prepared. Then he asked us to give him a blessing, and we did so.
In the bed next to Luan was a 14-year-old boy named Pedro. Now Pedro asked us to bless him too. I asked if he had faith in Jesus Christ, and he said he did. We explained what the priesthood is and that we would be blessing him in the name of Jesus Christ. He closed his eyes and smiled as we blessed him. Next an 18-year-old young woman asked us to give her a blessing too.
I found out that Luan and his mother had comforted Pedro and many of the other young cancer patients and their parents. As I left the hospital that night, I was edified to see that Luan and his mother, though suffering themselves, found the strength to visit others and minister to their needs.

When I was young, our little family lived in a one-bedroom apartment. I slept on the couch in the living room. More than anything else in the world, I wanted to be an athlete. I did everything I was told might help me. While some of the advice I received was questionable, I tried it anyway, just in case it might help. I was advised not to eat chocolate, so I didn’t eat chocolate. I remember being told not to drink soda pop because it would “cut your wind.” I never drank soda pop. I was also told to sleep with the windows wide open to get plenty of fresh air, so all year long I slept with the windows open.
My dad, a steelworker, left home for work very early each day. Every morning he would quietly close the windows I had opened in the living room; then he would tuck the covers around me and stop for a minute. Often, half-dreaming, I would sense my dad standing beside the couch, looking at me. As I pretended to sleep, he would bow his head and quietly pray with all his attention, energy, and focus—for me.
Each morning he would pray that I would have a good day, that I would be safe, that I would learn and prepare for the future. And since he could not be with me until evening, he would pray for the teachers and my friends that I would be with that day.
At first, I didn’t really understand what my dad was doing those mornings when he prayed for me. But as I got older, I came to sense his love and interest in me and in everything I was doing. It is one of my favorite memories. It wasn’t until years later, after I was married, had children of my own, and would go into their rooms while they were asleep and pray for them, that I understood completely how my father felt about me.

Jessica gazed at her reflection in the mirror. She felt very grown-up. Nana (her grandmother) had made her a new Sunday dress for her baptism this week. It was a beautiful dress with daisies and a green sash. The sleeves reached to her elbows and were trimmed with the same delicate lace that Nana had sewn on the hem. It looked like a dress from a fancy department store. Nobody would ever know the material came from a dress Jessica’s mother wore at a senior dance! That was what made Jessica feel so grown-up.
She sat on the edge of Nana’s bed and tried to remember her mother. Sometimes it was awfully hard! She looked at her family’s last picture on Nana’s dresser. Mommy and Daddy were posing with a wheelbarrow full of vegetables from Poppy’s garden. They had put four-year-old Jessica at the top of the heap. They were laughing at Jessica because she had peeled a small ear of corn and was eating it.
The memory of that day was like a dream, but the pain of it was still sharp four years later. After everyone had posed for pictures, they had gone in to clean up. They were tired from working in the garden all day. Nana had decided to take a nap.
Poppy and Daddy walked down to the barn to check a sick calf.
Mommy said that she was going to make a salad and grill hamburgers for supper. First, she would need to buy some hamburger buns at the market in town. Jessica asked Mommy if she could go with her to the store. Her mother smiled and said, “Sure, sweetie!” She strapped her daughter into her car seat. Mommy drove down the dusty, unpaved road to town.
They had not gone far, when a dog ran in front of their car. Mommy swerved to avoid the animal and ran the car into a tree. Jessica was unharmed, but her mother was hurt. A passing motorist stopped, put them into the back of his station wagon, and took them to the hospital.
Jessica remembered the prayer her mother whispered over and over as they bumped along the dirt road in the back of the stranger’s station wagon: “Heavenly Father, take care of my family.” Then, after they arrived at the hospital emergency, Mommy spoke once more before they separated mother and daughter—“Jessica, I love you.” Jessica watched them put her mother on a bed and take her away.
Jessica did not remember much about her overnight stay in the hospital. She did remember that her mother did not go home when Nana and Poppy picked her up. Daddy said Mommy fell asleep and never awakened. He told his little girl that Mommy went to live with Heavenly Father.
The happiness Jessica had enjoyed a few moments ago slowly seeped away, and tears began to roll down her cheeks. She missed her mother so much! If only Mommy could see how pretty she looked.
It would be so nice if Mommy could be at her baptism.
Jessica felt prompted to kneel beside Nana’s big bed. She folded her arms and began to pray. “Heavenly Father, I thank Thee for blessing me with a neat dad. And I thank Thee for Nana and Poppy. I love them! But Heavenly Father, I miss my mom. I wish she could be here for my baptism on Saturday. Sometimes it is hard not having a mom like my friends. …” She began to cry.
A calm feeling crept into her. She lifted her head, remembering when her family had been sealed in the temple shortly before her mother died. Because they were sealed, Daddy said, they were a family for eternity. He said that even though Mommy was no longer with them on earth, she was waiting for them in the spirit world. He said that Mommy could see their family and still loved them. So, Jessica thought now, Mommy will be at my baptism in her own way.
Once more the eight-year-old stood to look at herself in the full-length mirror. This time her grin grew wide as she understood what it meant to be an eternal family. When she wore her new dress this Sunday, Jessica would feel very close to her mother.

The highlight of Joseph’s beekeeping adventure was when his hives yielded 60 kilograms of beautiful wild honey. He gave away dozens of jars and received rave reviews. “Even my friend who runs a honey business said that my honey tastes better than what they produce,” Joseph beams. He couldn’t wait to see how his hives would perform in the next harvesting season.
Then one morning, he found an entire hive was empty. The bee colony had left!
Joseph searched the neighbourhood, with no luck. “Sometimes the queen [bee] just decides to leave and take her colony with her,” he explains. “Sometimes you can find them, and sometimes you can’t.”
He knew once a colony has left its hive, it’s unlikely that it will ever return. Also, bees never take over another colony’s hive. For these reasons, beekeepers tend to keep many hives—but Joseph only had two.
Tragically, a couple of months later, his second beehive was also abandoned.
Joseph was heartbroken: “I was so sad. I really felt like I had lost something.”
He hung up his beekeeper suit and went to tell his wife, Atelaite, the bad news. “Our bees are gone,” Joseph said to her. She encouraged him to pray.
From that morning, the couple prayed fervently, every day, for their bees. They would thank Heavenly Father for the privilege of having raised bees, and for the joy the experience had brought them, and then they’d prayed for a miracle—that the bees might somehow return.
After almost two weeks, however, Joseph began to lose faith. He told Atelaite he was ready to take down his empty hives and just purchase new bees in the next season. “These things happen,” he said to her. “Let’s just let nature take its course.”
But Atelaite wasn’t ready to give up. She had the words of Amulek in her heart: “Yea, humble yourselves, and continue in prayer unto him. . . .
“Cry unto him over the crops of your fields, that ye may prosper in them.
“Cry over the flocks of your fields, that they may increase (Alma 34:19, 24–25).
She did not stop praying.
One Saturday morning, Joseph noticed bees hovering above the flowerbeds in his garden. With the eyes of a trained beekeeper, he saw that many were carrying pollen, and that their flight path headed towards his hives.
Joseph hurried to put on his beekeeping suit and went to investigate. Bees swarmed especially around one of his hives, and when he opened it, it was filled with thousands of busy bees.
Joseph shed tears and said a quiet prayer of gratitude. He looked for the queen bee and thanked her for bringing her colony to this hive. Then he ran into the house to tell Atelaite.
“I said, ‘Honey, guess what? The bees have come back!’” He hugged and kissed his wife, and then told her, “Your faith is greater than mine.”
To this day, Joseph doesn’t know if the bees in his hive now are the same bees that left it, or if a new colony took over the hive. As neither situation is likely, he only knows that a miracle happened, and it was preceded by faith.
“I almost doubted and just, let nature take its course,” Joseph says, “but my wife never did. I have learned to never give up on our prayers and to trust in Heavenly Father. A miracle won’t always happen, but when it does, it brings great joy.”

In France, it isn’t unusual to see sleek sports cars whizzing around the streets. But it is unusual to see a large family van driving down the road—with a father, a mother, and seven children squeezed into it.
Many families in France have only one or two children. People are often surprised to learn that Bishop Michel Küsseling and his wife, Pascale, have seven.
The Küsselings live near Paris, in Gournay, a beautiful town of about six thousand people. They are members of the Torcy Ward, Paris France East Stake. There’s a row of child-sized bicycles in their driveway. In the backyard are trees to climb and a slide to play on.
There are four boys and three girls in the family. Julien (13) is a deacon who likes to swim. Jérome (12) is also a deacon; he likes to swim and to play the piano. Next come twin girls (10): Claire plays the flute and likes ballet; Laurence also plays the flute but prefers swimming to dancing. Marie (9) likes to dance and to play the piano. Christophe (6) is learning judo, and Nicolas (4) likes to play ball.
“I always wanted to have a large family, even before I was a member of the Church,” Sister Küsseling said. “I love children.”
“The most difficult time,” Bishop Küsseling laughed, “was when Marie was born, and the twins were only a year old. We suddenly had three girls nearly the same age. They became a little jealous of each other because I had three girls to hold and only two knees to hold them on!”
Large families can have lots of challenges but also lots of blessings. On the challenging side, sometimes the children need to have patience when Mom and Dad are busy with the others. And sometimes brothers and sisters tease one another.
On the positive side, there’s always somebody to play with or to work alongside. “I’ve always had lots of brothers and sisters,” says Laurence. “For me, it seems normal. It’s nice to have older children and younger children in the family. That way, we all learn from each other and help each other.”
And there are plenty of family members to share assignments for family home evening. “We try to give each child a responsibility every Monday evening,” Sister Küsseling said. “Someone leads the music; someone tries to find something for the lesson; somebody makes a treat for refreshments. They all try to participate.” Family home evening is also a time to share things the children have learned or made at church.
The twins love to go to Primary. “I learn about Jesus, about His life and what He did,” Laurence said. “And we learn about Joseph Smith. He translated the Book of Mormon and organized the Church when it was restored. I believe he was a prophet.”
The children enjoy stories from L’Étoile (now the Liahona), the Church magazine in French. They also read the scriptures together and have family prayer. And they love to sing. Laurence’s favorite song is “Love One Another.”* Claire’s favorite is “Silent Night.”† “I love Christmas,” she says, “because we remember the birth of Jesus and can all be together. That’s important to me.”
Bishop Küsseling has been a member of the Church all his life. As a young man, he served a mission in New Caledonia, an island in the South Pacific. Sister Küsseling, a counselor in the ward Primary presidency, was baptized sixteen years ago and is the only member of the Church in her family. Brother and Sister Küsseling were married in the Bern Switzerland Temple. Claire said that it’s a wonderful feeling to know that their family can be together forever.
Claire is also thankful for many other blessings that come with being a member of the Church. When she was three years old, she became extremely ill and began having seizures. “We were very frightened,” says Sister Küsseling. “Her dad gave her a blessing, and then we took her to the hospital. The next day she was well. She hasn’t had any seizures since.”
Claire can’t remember that incident, but she knows that she was healed through the power of the priesthood. She does remember another time when the priesthood was especially important in her life—when her father baptized her. “It made me happier than before,” she said. “I knew that my sins could be forgiven.
“I have seen my father bless and baptize the children in our family, and bless other people in the ward who are sick or need a blessing. He also gives us blessings when we start a new year at school. When he does, I know I will have a good year at school.”
Laurence said, “I believe that Heavenly Father hears me when I pray. He has answered my prayers. We prayed when our father lost his job a month and a half ago. We all prayed for him to get a new job, and he got a new job in two weeks!”
Both Claire and Laurence like to study math, and both are good students. Although they are the only Latter-day Saints in their school, they have learned to choose friends who have similar standards and values, and they have talked with some of them about the Church. “Since my parents and relatives are not members of the Church,” says Sister Küsseling, “the children often bear their testimonies to their uncles, aunts, cousins, and grandparents.”
And they try to show by their actions that they are followers of Jesus Christ. For example, they often help their neighbor, an elderly man who lives alone. They help carry his groceries into his house because they worry that he might fall. And they help feed his dog. In return, he lets them eat cherries from his tree.
“I’ve learned in church to be polite,” Laurence said. “The gospel teaches me to be kinder to people around me, including my family.”
Most of all, Claire and Laurence each want to be the kind of mother their own mother is. They are glad to be part of a family that people notice. Some may notice the Küsselings because of the size of their family or because of the car they drive. But more importantly, people notice them for their love for one another and for their efforts to live the gospel.

“What’s this?” I said to myself as I walked into my bedroom and saw a vase and flower on the dresser. It was a bud vase of green glass, with a yellow ribbon tied around it. It held a red velvet rose, made with obvious care and skill.
I knew my 15-year-old daughter, Ellen, had made flowers like this before, usually for friends or to give away as presents. But why would she be giving one to me? Though we rarely quarrel, she and I had quarreled earlier in the day, and the storm clouds between us had not yet evaporated.
And what was this—a note addressed to me? I opened it and read:
“Dear mom, this may seem like a small thing to give, and it may only be a copy of the real thing, but it still has the beauty of a real rose. This rose isn’t real, though, and that’s on purpose. Because real roses die. But this one will always be alive. And so will the love I have for my mother. Even though it sometimes seems that I don’t love you, I do love you.
“Just like when there’s dust on the rose and you blow it away and everything seems new, the same is true when we’re upset. Blow the dust away and our love shines clean and new. I love you, mom. I always will.”
Tears dropped down my cheeks. I felt ashamed for not having been the first to apologize, but Ellen had apologized first. She had more than cleared the problems between us. She had given me a gift of love.
We still disagree occasionally, but now we both know how superficial that dust on our relationship is, and we have learned to quickly blow it off. After we have, then, with warmth and tender appreciation, I walk into the bedroom and blow the dust off my velvet rose, too.

Chita’s Christmas Tree
When Chita and Papa go to look for a Christmas tree, Mama packs them peanut butter sandwiches. But they get hot, sugary waffles from the waffle man and give the sandwiches to Henry, their horse (he loves them!). Chita finds the perfect tree, and Papa carves her name on the trunk. Will Santa Claus find it and bring it Christmas Eve? Chita worries about it as she helps Mama bake.

We were miserable performers as children. We could do all kinds of things together while playing, but for one of us to try to sing a solo before the others was like asking ice cream to stay hard on the kitchen stove. In the beginning, we would laugh and make cute remarks about one another’s performance. But our parents persisted. We sang together. We prayed together. We listened quietly while Mother read Bible and Book of Mormon stories. Father told us stories out of his memory. I still remember one of those stories. I found it recently while going through a book he had published some years ago. Listen to it:

“An older boy and his young companion were walking along a road which led through a field. They saw an old coat and a badly worn pair of men’s shoes by the roadside, and in the distance they saw the owner working in the field.

“The younger boy suggested that they hide the shoes, conceal themselves, and watch the perplexity on the owner’s face when he returned.

“The older boy … thought that would not be so good. He said the owner must be a very poor man. So, after talking the matter over, at his suggestion, they concluded to try another experiment. Instead of hiding the shoes, they would put a silver dollar in each one and … see what the owner did when he discovered the money. So they did that.

“Pretty soon the man returned from the field, put on his coat, slipped one foot into a shoe, felt something hard, took it out and found a silver dollar. Wonder and surprise [shone] upon his face. He looked at the dollar again and again, turned around and could see nobody, then proceeded to put on the other shoe; when to his great surprise he found another dollar. His feelings overcame him. … He knelt down and offered aloud a prayer of thanksgiving, in which he spoke of his wife being sick and helpless and his children without bread. … He fervently thanked the Lord for this bounty from unknown hands and evoked the blessing of heaven upon those who gave him this needed help.

“The boys remained [hidden] until he had gone.” They had been touched by his prayer and felt something warm within their hearts. As they left to walk down the road, one said to the other, “Don’t you have a good feeling?” (Bryant S. Hinckley, Not by Bread Alone [Salt Lake City: Bookcraft, 1955], p. 95).

In conclusion I want to encourage you to remember the importance of marriage and family and place them first in your priorities. I want to spare you an experience similar to one I had 15 years ago.

Our family was sharing a Christmas afternoon with another family, and at some point we started playing games like Trivial Pursuit. One game was based on Freudian psychology and involved identifying dominant personality traits. My wife and three sons independently wrote their estimation of my dominant personality trait on small pieces of paper. I was confident I would be labeled by my family as “kind,” “righteous,” “loving,” or similar positive traits.

Imagine my surprise when my wife’s paper said, “Bruce is a workaholic.” I thought to myself, “That ungrateful woman! The pleasant quality of life she enjoys is the fruit of my hard work.” But it was Christmas, and I did not want to spoil the day, so I did not respond.

My three boys confirmed her diagnosis! One son also used the hated workaholic word. The other two used similar words that made it clear that in their eyes my career, profession, or work was the most important aspect of my life. At this point, even though it was Christmas, I protested a little.

One of my sons replied, “Dad, we never went on a family vacation that did not involve your work.”

Again I wanted to reply: “True, but you—ungrateful son that you are—have been to Disneyland as well as to Walt Disney World, traveled to Central America, traveled Europe, visited the Holy Land, and lived two summers in a beach house on an island in the Pacific Northwest.” But it was Christmas, and I did not want to be a poor sport, so I remained silent.

In the days that followed I tried to justify how I lived my life to myself. But it did not do any good. No matter how I rationalized things, my dear family felt that my career was more important to me than they were. This is not and was not true. But the fact remained that that was the impression I had given by my actions. Since that time I have tried to make my priorities more visible. I occasionally say to Carolyn on Friday morning, “I will be done teaching at noon. Would you like to go to the temple this afternoon? Or go ride around the Alpine Loop, see a movie, or visit the gardens at Thanksgiving Point?” Or, if I am really feeling expansive, “Would you like to go shopping?”

I hope during the past 15 years that somehow I have altered the perceptions of my family. They are most important to me. I share this experience in the hope that you will be spared the anguish of confronting who you are at age 45 or 50 and being disappointed. I don’t want a list of my publications or administrative positions chiseled on my headstone. Rather, I hope that the following words reflect my life: “Bruce Chadwick, a devoted husband, loving father, and humble follower of Jesus Christ.”

Bruce came into the kitchen, slammed his books on the table, and announced, “I don’t want to set any table, even if it is an assignment!”
The assignment to enter a table-setting contest was given by his teacher in a marriage-preparedness class, a class Bruce had liked, until now.
“I might do it if it wasn’t sissy,” he said, staring at my lace tablecloth.
“You can make it look like a man’s table,” I told him, silently wondering how.
The day the assignment was due, Bruce gathered together what seemed to fit his idea of masculine. He placed plain white stoneware on a black leather desk pad and used a black and silver desk lamp for the centerpiece. The tablecloth he used was a piece of grey flannel I had purchased for a skirt but had not sewn. The table was accented with chrome salt and pepper shakers and a black goblet. But the clincher was the black linen napkin knotted as a man’s tie.
His table, one of 1,800 entries, was titled “The Executive Lunch.” It was original because it was masculine and exciting.
Bruce worried about his “macho image” when he entered the table-setting contest, but he participated and became more aware of the beauty of a table set with care. He does squint sometimes, looking at the sterling silver he won as first prize, imagining it in the shape of tire rims.

Margaret Dean knew all about the misconceptions people had about the Church. As an African American, Sister Dean had friends who wondered if she would be discriminated against when she became a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. But she knew better, and she wanted others to know better, too. So Sister Dean set about knocking down those walls that Troy, Melissa, and all the rest of the members of the stake came up against when they tried to do missionary work.

Under the direction of the stake president, Sister Dean set about organizing a Black history celebration to be held at the stake center. She enlisted the help of the youth and youth leaders in the stake, and she also asked local leaders from other churches to participate. That first year no one really knew if it would work, or if anybody would even come. But by the fourth year, the last year that Sister Dean would be alive to attend the program, the celebration was filling the stake center to capacity and providing countless missionary opportunities. One highlight for Sister Dean—who has always loved music—was the 60-member choir comprised of youth from the Pensacola stake and the nearby Mt. Zion, John the Baptist, Mount Lily, Zion Hope, Greater Union, and Greater True Vine Churches.

April Reisinger, a Laurel, was a member of that choir. “I think that something like this helps you get to know each other. In the choir not only did we learn to sing together, which was a challenge since there were so many of us; we also prayed together at rehearsals. There was always a good feeling there.”

Although Sister Dean has died, the program she worked so hard to develop lives on. Every year, the crowd at the stake center grows larger. And every year, Latter-day Saint youth get a chance to share in the heritage of their community and to make friends who are members of other faiths.

The 2022 For the Strength of Youth theme4 perfectly describes this pattern. My wife, Ailsa, and I had the privilege of being part of the Manchester Scotland session of FSY in 2022. We witnessed this pattern playing out in the lives of many participants. One young woman brought many difficult questions to FSY, with no expectation that they would all be answered. She recounted in joyful tears that, during this Christ-focused event, every one of her questions had been answered. She knew that He knew her. This young woman has recently been called to serve Him in the Frankfurt Germany Mission.

The Campbells didn’t have as far to travel as many volunteers. Their home is in Gowanda, New York, about a two-and-a-half-hour drive away. They arrived on a Friday. The next morning began with breakfast and a devotional. Then casting (choosing people for parts in the pageant) started.
There are ten major scenes in the pageant. Each scene has a director. Each director chose the people for their scene and what part each person would play. Brittany and Tishna’s little brother Montgomery (5) was given the part of Jesus Christ as a young child. Their mother and other brother, Christian (2), were assigned to the scene where Christ visits the Americas. Their father didn’t have an acting part. He’s served as a pageant choreographer (someone who plans out everyone’s movements on stage) for ten years.
The girls’ favorite scene to be in is the “Voyage to Ancient America.” When Tishna and Brittany went to the tryout, there were more children than parts. Three years earlier, Brittany had played a child on Nephi’s ship in the voyage scene. She’d had fun being tossed into the air on a blanket by other actors. She decided that it was someone else’s turn this year and tried out for another scene.
When the tryouts were over and the parts had all been assigned, the directors started blocking the scenes. Brittany and Tishna learned where to stand, what to do during the scene, and how to get on and off the stage. The speaking parts, music, and sound effects for the pageant were all prerecorded, but the actors had to learn to move and react in time with the tape. The first practices were held on the big lawn in front of the stage. Later, rehearsals were held on stage.
Tishna was cast as one of Lemuel’s daughters in the voyage scene. Wondering if and when she’ll get splashed by the water during the scene added excitement. Usually she did get wet. After the scene was over, she had to be especially careful to hang up her costume neatly so that it would dry before the next performance.
“The boat scene is the most fun,” Tishna said, “because you get to run and play during the scene.” The tricky part of her scene was opening the floor hatches so that Nephi’s ship could be raised onto the stage. “It can be hard to do it quickly enough,” she added.
Rehearsing wasn’t always easy. Brittany was cast in the “Burning of the Prophet Abinadi” scene. She played a page in King Noah’s court. It was an important part because she was responsible for handing fans to all of King Noah’s courtiers as they came onstage. But once she herself was onstage, she didn’t have much to do but stand beside King Noah’s throne. Rehearsals lasted up to three hours and sometimes were hot and boring, but she still wouldn’t trade being in the pageant for any other vacation.
Although they weren’t in it, Tishna and Brittany’s favorite part of the pageant was the harvest dance. “That’s when the Book of Mormon people were righteous and they prospered,” Tishna said. “It’s a happy scene—very colorful, and everyone is dancing.”
When Tishna and Brittany weren’t practicing their scenes, they met in small groups they were assigned to. They had leaders who prepared lessons, stories, and activities for them.
“I like working on our journals,” Brittany said. “We write things down, and the leaders give us stickers and stamps we can use to decorate the pages.”
One year each child drew a picture on a quilt block. The group leader sewed the blocks into a quilt. The child who picked up the most garbage from the grounds during the pageant would win the quilt. Brittany won it.
Tishna’s favorite group activity was stamping designs on fabric.
Montgomery liked making a little garden, and one day his group went out and looked at the trees and leaves through magnifying glasses.
Everyone involved with the pageant attended three 35-to-45-minute devotionals each day. Sitting quietly through the devotionals was the hardest part of the pageant for Montgomery and Christian, but Tishna and Brittany enjoyed them. On performance days, the actors didn’t have to arrive at the grounds until noon. The Campbells used this time to sleep a little longer, get pizza or ice cream together, or visit some of the Church historical sites in the area.
With all the work and practices, why do the Campbells keep coming? “I have been to the Hill Comorah Pageant every year since I was three years old,” Brother Campbell said. “It’s a family tradition.”
“At the pageant, people are so nice to you,” Brittany said. “You make a lot of friends here. When we get home, we run to the mailbox each day, looking for letters from our new friends.”
“Everyone plays with my little brothers, and there’s no fighting here,” Tishna added. “It’s exciting because it’s for the Church, and it helps you understand the Book of Mormon. It’s our favorite vacation in the whole world.”

One hundred forty-eight years later, in June 1977, again in a print shop, another step in the coming together of these two sticks occurred.

James Mortimer, long experienced in publishing scriptures, and Dr. Ellis T. Rasmussen, recently dean of Religious Instruction at Brigham Young University, called at the Cambridge University Press in Cambridge, England. Bibles had been printed at this prestigious press for 293 years before Egbert Grandin opened his print shop in Palmyra.

They met with Mr. Roger Coleman, director of religious publishing, to discuss the publication of a most unusual edition of the King James Bible. The printers were quite as skeptical about this proposal as Egbert Grandin had been nearly 150 years before.

The Cambridge Press had been publishing the King James Bible since the first edition in 1611, but they had never been asked to do anything like this. The text was to remain exactly as it was, no changes, not one. But all footnoting, cross-references, chapter introductions, indexes, and so on, were to be replaced. Only the chapter and verse numbering for the sixty-six books would be retained.

And that was just the beginning. This edition of the Bible would be cross-referenced with three other books of scripture: the Book of Mormon, the Doctrine and Covenants, and the Pearl of Great Price. The printers had barely heard of them.

But there was more. A new, innovative system of footnoting was to be used. Instead of progressing from A to Z in each chapter, the letters would start over in every verse, for innumerable verses would have many footnotes in them.

The technical problems seemed insurmountable. Computers could help, but there was always the human factor. How could you cross-reference the Bible with any other book? To cross-reference it with the three volumes was to require tens of thousands of footnotes. Thereafter there would be hundreds of thousands of possible combinations of information. It was too big even to think about. The technical challenge alone was staggering, to say nothing of maintaining accuracy, harmony, and consistency with the biblical text itself. It could not be done!

But in that meeting also was Mr. Derek Bowen, editor, a most remarkable man. A World War II injury had left him unable to hear. Thereafter he devoted his remarkable compensating abilities to the editing, typesetting, and printing of Bibles. He was, perhaps, the one man in the world who could direct such a printing project.

All of the problems mentioned so far related only to the printing part of the project. The actual compiling and organizing of the tens of thousands of footnotes would require many hundreds of workers. This work had already been underway for several years. Without the computer it would be manifestly impossible!

That also was but a beginning. There would be a combined concordance and topical guide, listing hundreds of subjects; a Bible dictionary; maps; and a new format. New chapter headings would be written. All in harmony with the sacred message of the Old and the New Testaments.

Several years into the project we asked for a report. How were they progressing with the tedious, laborious listing of topics in alphabetical order? They responded, “We have been through Heaven and Hell, past Love and Lust, and now we’re working toward Repentance.”

The 750 headings for the Topical Guide were painfully rendered down from a list nearly twice that long. For there was a practical consideration: the book had to be of a size for everyday use.

There was a spirit of inspiration brooding over their work, and those working with the project talked often of how it was blessed. There were humbling spiritual experiences.

After more than seven years of quiet, intensive work, the Latter-day Saint edition of the King James Bible came off the press. Already work was well under way on the Book of Mormon, the Doctrine and Covenants, and the Pearl of Great Price. Over the years manuscripts had come into our hands which made possible the correction of printers’ errors which had crept into early editions.

The work would be seen by more than the sympathetic students and the devoted members of the Church. The cold, impartial eyes of the research scholars would study it, and the angry eyes of enemies and detractors would pore over it. It must be correct in every detail.

Finally, after two more years, the books came from the press, the most accurate we have ever had.

Three months later, Derek Bowen, master editor of Bibles, passed away in England.

Sometimes it is not easy to tell the difference between a mistake and a sin. The boundary can be uncertain. Take the matter of the beautiful flowering crab tree in our front yard. One spring when the limbs of this tree were getting too long, I pruned them, quite severely. June, my wife, evaluated my pruning and told me she thought it was a sin. I thought the extent of my pruning was a mistake at worst. I was willing to be corrected, but I did not feel I was needful of chastening and repentance.

This story happened in the USA.
Xóchitl lay in her bunk bed, looking up at the bed above her. Her family had just said family prayer, and it was time to sleep. She hadn’t said her own prayer before bed yet.
Why do we need to pray? she wondered. Her family always said the same things, like thanking God and asking Him for good dreams. Were their prayers really answered? Sometimes she still had bad dreams anyway.
What would happen if she stopped praying? Ready to test her new idea, she turned over on her side and fall asleep.
For the next few days, Xóchitl didn’t pray. Then the days turned into weeks. Nothing really changed. She didn’t feel that much different.
She finished the rest of the school year, and soon it was summer. Xóchitl had fun going to swimming lessons and playing with her dogs. She got to see her cousins at a big family gathering.
Every night, she joined her family for prayer. But she still didn’t pray on her own.
Soon summer had to end, and Xóchitl started to get ready for school. But she wasn’t excited at all. A few days before school started, she met her new teacher, found her locker, and got a new backpack. Whenever she thought about going to school, she felt sick. Every day the feeling got worse.
One night she stayed awake in her bed, thinking about school. I don’t want to go. It’s scary, she thought. Then she remembered what her parents taught her about prayer. They said she could pray anywhere and that she could pray for help and comfort.
Xóchitl knelt down next to her bed and took a deep breath. For the first time in months, she said her own prayer. She prayed to Heavenly Father. She thanked Him and asked Him for good dreams just like they did in family prayers. When she finished, she didn’t feel much different inside.
The next night, she tried again. And again. She asked Heavenly Father to bless the prophet and her family. Soon she was telling Him her feelings and what she hoped for at her new school.
“Heavenly Father,” she said one night, “I’m so scared about school. I can’t sleep. Can you help me not feel scared anymore?” She felt a strong feeling of peace wrap around her, almost like a warm blanket. Right away, she knew it was the Holy Ghost.
So this is why we pray, she thought. To feel Heavenly Father’s love. It was an amazing feeling. For all those months she didn’t pray, she had been missing out on this feeling.
Xóchitl smiled. She was still nervous to start school, but she felt much stronger knowing God could comfort her. She really could pray for comfort anytime, anywhere, because God really was listening.

I just received my August 1996 issue of the New Era. As I read through it I came upon the FYI article “Fine Tuning” about watching television. Recently my mother and I moved to Montana from southern California. It was a big change. I had grown up having everything within reach, like TV, radio, and different kinds of music. There is so much corruption and temptation everywhere, and after a while you kind of get used to it. I used to watch TV when I was at home, and I listened to the radio when I was in my truck. So when we moved here, at first I was upset that we didn’t have TV, and I got bored really easily. But then I started going outside and playing with my dog, reading books, and writing poetry on my computer. Then slowly I started forgetting about watching TV. I have been reading more books on the Church and developing my testimony. I sometimes go outside and watch the sunrise or sunset, admiring nature and all of the beautiful gifts Heavenly Father has blessed us with. Thank you for the spiritual encouragement.
Layla BastiansenHelena, Montana