Gospel Story Finder

One Sunday at church I realized that my time with the Young Women program was almost over and I would soon be with the young single adults. I was sad because I knew that things would never be the same. After Sunday School, I tried to cheer up, but I just couldn’t do it. I tried to tell myself that Heavenly Father did not want me to feel sadness but rather joy (see 2 Nephi 2:25).
I was just about to cry on my friend’s shoulder in the hallway when the ward clerk came up to me and said, “Sister Danelys, here’s the mail!” He handed me a white envelope with only my name on it. I was curious to know what it was, so I asked the clerk who had sent it. As he walked away, he told me it was from the patriarch and that it was a copy of my patriarchal blessing. I did cry, but my tears were tears of joy because I knew God had seen my sadness and had provided a way for me to find joy in my sadness. My patriarchal blessing had finally arrived in writing, at the precise moment when I needed it most.
When I got home and read it, I cried again and prayed and thanked God for it and for helping me to remember how fortunate I am to be His daughter and to have the light of the everlasting gospel in my life.

Christl Fechter moved to another country after war tore apart her homeland. She didn’t speak the language well and didn’t know anyone in her new neighborhood, so at first she felt isolated and alone.

As a member of the Church, she summoned her courage and began attending her new ward. She worried that her thick accent would keep people from wanting to talk to her or that she would be judged for being a single woman.

But she met others who overlooked her differences and welcomed her into their community of friends. They reached out in love, and she soon found herself busy helping teach a Primary class. The children were great examples of acceptance, and the feeling of being loved and needed strengthened her faith and helped rekindle her lifelong devotion to the Lord.

“Come on,” Benjamin said to the other man on guard duty. “We can’t stop.” Benjamin Platt’s throat felt tight. Swallowing was difficult. He talked between clenched teeth to keep his throat from hurting. If he had felt this sick back in England, he would have gone to bed. As a member of the Martin handcart company, however, he couldn’t stop and wait to get well.
Blowing snow blocked the two men’s vision. The frozen ground was uneven, and they often stumbled.
“We have to keep moving.” Benjamin spoke with as much force as he could. “We need to check the other side of the camp.”
“Why?” his friend asked. “What are we guarding?”
“The camp’s provisions.”
The other man laughed quietly. “We have no provisions. We have nothing.”
Benjamin knew the man was right. The camp had very little. His stomach hurt with the pain of no food. His breath was shallow, his fatigue great. All he wanted to do was lie down on the frozen ground and sleep, but he knew that doing so meant sure death. So he urged himself and his companion on. They shuffled around the borders of the camp, waiting for light to ease the cold blackness.
Yesterday the handcart company had made little progress from the Platte River. Much of the snow had melted during the day, turning the trail to mud. Mud caked onto the travelers’ clothes. When the sun set behind the gloomy clouds, the heavy mud had frozen. No one was clean. Benjamin recognized most of the handcart company by their eyes and voices rather than their faces. What was not covered with rags was covered with mud and dirt.
“I can’t go anymore,” his partner said now. “I’ve done my best, and it isn’t enough.”
Benjamin looked at his tired companion. Dirt caked his face and was frozen into his hair. His hands were wrapped with rags. His pants were ripped and showed skin purple from the cold. Tears slid down his face as he grieved over not being strong enough.
Benjamin put his hand on the other man’s shoulder and helped him around the camp. “It’s OK, Brother. Just remember a poem my father used to tell me:
“For great and low,
There’s but one test.
’Tis that each man
Shall do his best.”
After one more painful tour of the camp, Benjamin’s companion crawled into a tent to rest. Benjamin began his rounds again. He heard the wind blow, and the branches of a few scattered cedar trees creaked with the weight of the snow and force of the wind. As the wind heaved one hearty blow, Benjamin saw that the large tent the man had just crawled into had collapsed.
Benjamin started forward. His wife, Mary, and at least 20 other people had been sleeping in that tent too. They were all now trapped beneath tent poles, tent fabric, and heavy snow. With numb hands, Benjamin struggled to pull up the icy fabric. The snow weighed the canvas down, smothering those underneath. The tent stakes had been pounded into muddy ground. Now the ground was frozen. Those on the inside of the tent could not pull the stakes out.
Straining every muscle, Benjamin pulled harder. A small girl was screaming under the tent. A woman started sobbing as she tried to free herself from the icy canvas that was suffocating her. Unseen hands punched upward at the tent. The group was trapped.
Scrambling frantically around the outside of the tent, Benjamin found the opening. Quickly scraping off snow, he forced himself into the opening and under the wet material. Slowly, a little at a time, he stood up with the tent on his shoulders.
Benjamin yelled, “This way. Crawl this way.” Few people heard the soft voice coming through his sore throat. Benjamin shouted louder. This time, two men understood and crawled toward his voice. When they got to where Benjamin had lifted the tent, they stood up and helped him support more of the wet material. Gradually all the people in the tent crawled out into the snowy night.
With frying pans and cooking pots, the awakened Saints scooped the snow off the downed tent. Dawn streaked the sky with soft light, so they rolled the tent up and prepared for a long day’s trek in the snow.
When the first three rescuers arrived from Salt Lake City seven days later, the Saints cheered. Benjamin didn’t join in the cheering. His throat was raw and tight. But he had yelled his best when it had mattered most.

The last barrel was rushing toward me.
“Your horse isn’t on the right lead, Susan,” shouted Grandma from the fence.
I know, Grandma. You don’t need to tell me, I thought.
Leaning low over Ginger’s withers, I shifted a little to the left and tapped my horse emphatically with my right boot. Underneath me, I could feel Ginger’s long stride switch left—but not in time. Ginger went so wide around the barrel she nearly knocked me against the corral fence.
As I urged her toward the imaginary finish line, I could see Grandma shaking her head.
“That’s no way to win a rodeo prize. Those other barrel racers will whip you good.”
“Grandma, you know Ginger isn’t usually this bad!”
“That’s just the point! You’ve been working her too hard. She’ll go sour on you before she ever makes it to her first contest.”
I stuck out my lower jaw. “I can train my own horse, Grandma.”
She didn’t seem to hear me and went right on. “The way I see it …”
The trouble with Grandma living across the road is that she usually isn’t across the road. She’s at our house giving advice to everyone. Last week it was my hair for the school dance. The week before it was my “mediocre” A minus in journalism class.
“There isn’t any excuse for it,” she said. “You can write 10 times better than those other youngsters.” But Grandma’s favorite hangout was on the corral fence watching me train Ginger.
Grandma reached to scratch behind Ginger’s ears. “That sassy little blonde down in Glenville who won rodeo queen last year, she can hardly rein left or right. You better not let her beat you at the barrels.”
I leaned down and yanked the wire latch off the corral gate.
“Just push open the gate for me, Grandma,” I asked.
“You better let that horse cool down before putting her away.”
“I know, Grandma,” I sighed impatiently.
She opened the gate for me. “If you’re going to win,” she said, “you better shorten your stirrups a notch and hang more with your horse.”
I exploded. “Grandma, I’m riding, not you.”
Grandma looked up at me in surprise. Ginger danced underneath me.
I was heating up. “What do you know about horses, anyway! Have you even been on one in the last 50 years?”
I was staring right at her. I could see the hurt come into her gray eyes. But I didn’t stop. “Just leave me alone. Don’t come watch me anymore.”
I jerked Ginger toward the hay field and galloped away. My face was hot with anger. I knew Grandma was standing stiff and hurt behind me. I fumed, gritting my teeth. But as the breeze cooled my face, I knew I would apologize. I’d never seen Grandma look so hurt. I fingered Ginger’s black mane. Tomorrow would be a good day. I’d apologize tomorrow.
“Dead? Dead!” My voice started to squeak, and I felt the tears coming. I didn’t want Mother to see. “But Grandma is too young to die.”
“I’m sorry,” said Mother, putting her hands on my shoulders. “The doctor said her heart just gave out in the night.”
“But, but—not today! Grandma can’t die today! I was going to make things right.”
At the funeral I sat hunched on the bench beside my two brothers. I kept looking down, but the only thing I could see was Grandma’s hurt gray eyes. In my head pounded the words, “What do you know about horses? Don’t come watch me anymore.”
“I’m sorry, Grandma,” I murmured. But I knew it was too late.

Buzz! Buzz! Buzz! A busy yellow bee landed on a flower by Andrea. She jumped up and hurried away. Andrea didn’t like bees. She moved to a different part of the garden to pull weeds by a leafy tomato plant.
The sun was warm on Andrea’s back. She could hear Mom close by in the rows of corn. Suddenly Andrea heard more buzzing. Buzz! Buzz! Buzz! She ran to find Mom.
“There are too many bees, Mommy!” she said. “I want to work in the garden without the bees.”
“We need the bees to make our garden grow,” Mom said. “Jesus created bees to pollinate the plants so we can have our favorite foods.”
“Without the bees we wouldn’t have our garden?” Andrea asked. She thought about all of her favorite plants. She liked pretty flowers. She liked to eat strawberries and tomatoes. She would be sad to live in a world without them.
“I’m glad Jesus made the plants,” Andrea said. “And I’m glad He made the bees too!”

One day I decided to make a Christmas wish list because I was so excited about Christmas. I made a fancy title and used Santa Claus hats as bullet points.
My older brother came into the room to print off his list. I didn’t really care about his list because mine was going to be so fantastic. Mine had color and Santa Claus hats, and his was only black and white.
I wanted a lot of stuff: a pogo stick, pens, a puppy, a cat, etc. When I was done, I put my list on the fridge. My brother’s list was already hanging up. It said, “This year I would like to use half my Christmas money to give to others.”
I was amazed at what my brother was doing with his Christmas money. I couldn’t believe it. My brother who gets in fights with me a lot was giving instead of getting.
My Christmas list now seemed small and almost useless. Maybe I could do the same thing. I would be helping others, and I would feel good about myself. There’s a center near my home that helps children. I asked my mom if I could make some blankets for the kids there for Christmas. I hope I can give just like my brother.
I learned a lot more than I probably have ever learned about Christmas. Jesus Christ gave His life for us, so why should we not give to others in need? We don’t need all our wants. This year I will think more about Christ and what He did for us than I ever have. And I will focus on giving instead of getting.

In various locations throughout the Church, I have observed members’ lives change as they become fully engaged in helping to establish the Church. Two such individuals are Carlos and Rosario Casariego.

I was serving a full-time mission in Uruguay when I first met Carlos and Rosario. They were teenagers at the time, and both were receptive to the gospel and eager to live by its principles.

Carlos was baptized in December 1970, and three months later he met Rosario when he was asked to speak at the baptismal service for her family. Following their baptisms, both Carlos and Rosario were called to serve with the youth, and soon they became the presidents of their respective groups. They were among the first students when the seminary and institute programs started in Uruguay. Additionally, Rosario served in the stake Primary presidency, and Carlos appeared on the Church’s weekly television program Nuestro Mundo (Our World).

By 1975 Carlos and Rosario were planning their wedding. Then they attended a regional conference, and the course of their lives was changed. During the conference, President Spencer W. Kimball (1895–1985) told the youth that every qualified young man should seriously consider going on a full-time mission and that young women should be supportive of that goal.

Carlos and Rosario determined that they would follow the counsel of the prophet. Later that year, Carlos received a call to the Uruguay-Paraguay Mission. Rosario commenced a full-time mission to Argentina six months later. Due to Carlos’s and Rosario’s dedicated service, many good people and future leaders were baptized into the Church.

Since their marriage in July 1981, Carlos and Rosario have had four children and have served in numerous positions in the Church. They have done everything in their power to help establish the Church in their native Uruguay. Their dedication to the Lord has been a blessing not only to those with whom they have served, but in their own lives as well. They are examples of good people who have become fully engaged in helping to establish a strong, multigenerational church in their own country.

The Church introduced the Light the World program with this same idea of doing things for others. This program brought tremendous joy into my life as each good act was unwrapped every day. I was curious and excited for what the next act would be.
Day 6 challenged us to donate and while I donated blood in the hospital, I remembered my mother who passed away from cancer at 30 years old, leaving behind her three precious children. I did witness the struggle of my father to arrange for blood as her body was running short of it. While I was carrying out this act of donation, I thought to myself that someone will not have to struggle to save a life as my father did with this single act of mine.
My experience with the Light the World program has been uplifting and my faith has been increased, my testimony has been strengthened and I have definitely become closer to my Heavenly Father. An increase in family love has been witnessed by me with my purpose on this earth being more clear in serving and loving my fellow brothers and sisters.
I know this program is designed by the hand of the Lord Himself to make us better people. The Savior loves each of us equally and His only plea to all of us is to love as He did. I hope and pray that we continue to light the world all 365 days of the year, one by one as Christ did.

We talked long into the night. “Should we or shouldn’t we?” The bishop had announced in priesthood meeting that they needed a full-time custodian for the stake center. My husband Ace had inquired about it after the meeting and had been told to talk it over with his wife and then meet with the three bishops the next evening.
Would he like such a job? It was a large church house that served three wards and a stake. With all the activities, there would be plenty of work. I would undoubtedly help, dusting the organ and piano and washing a few windows. Since we lived close by, he could come home for lunch and also reduce transportation expenses. There would be no more long hours working in the sun, rain, wind, and snow that his present job with a plumbing supply company demanded, and no more need to work a second job at night as a warehouse custodian. But at age fifty-nine it’s hard for a man to change jobs. Suppose the new job didn’t turn out well?
Monday the big decision was made. We would take it! Ace gave his employer notice that he was quitting Sunday; we went to church and for the first time really looked at the building. There was a lot to do.
The first task we undertook was to clean the stairways on each end of the hall. One was four feet wide, the other six feet wide, each with seventeen steps. It had been some time since they had been cleaned and they were a dull gray, covered with black marks from shoes, spills, etc. For two hours we worked with suds, cleanser, and steel wool. How pleased we were, though, to discover they were a light, cream-colored vinyl with dark streaks that resembled marble.
Ace found there was always something that had to be repaired or replaced. He changed all the locks on the outside doors and replaced the latches on the rest room doors and cultural hall doors. He fixed the showers in the girls dressing room and this does not mean “bolted them shut” but “bolt (anchor) them to the floor” the lockers (which were in the middle of the floor for some unknown reason) back into place. He mended several broken classroom tables that had been stacked in the furnace room.
We hadn’t been working long when construction was started on a new stake president’s office and high council room in a cemented area that had been used as a patio. The laborers worked just a short time each day, drilling and crushing cement and creating dust that permeated the building. We would just get the building cleaned when they would start working again. The ward members didn’t understand the situation, so there was a lot of criticism. This went on for about three months.
One day we were told they were going to have a youth conference in the Junior Sunday School room. The leaders asked if it could be fixed up a little special, so we really went to work. We washed all the windows and woodwork, scrubbed and polished the floor, and even sent the curtains out to be cleaned. Everything just sparkled. After the meeting was over I asked Ace if they were pleased. He said, “Well, one of the counselors in the bishopric asked if we couldn’t be a little more careful about dusting the chairs.” They had needed extra chairs for the large crowd, so someone had brought them from the construction area! We had a good laugh, realizing for the first time that it was not the things we did that were noticed but the things we didn’t do.
It took some time to get all the plastered walls throughout the building washed. We started with the rest rooms, then did the foyers and halls, the Relief Society room, the high council room, and the classrooms. We painted all the heat convectors, door frames, stair railings, entrances, and various other places. The carpets in the foyers and the Relief Society room were worn and soiled with several orange punch stains that were impossible to remove. Ace asked the bishops if someone could be hired to shampoo the carpets but was told not to bother since they planned on replacing them right away. After waiting a few weeks, Ace rented a shampooer and cleaned the carpets himself. This made an immense improvement. Little by little the building began to shape up.
After two years of custodial work, another ward was added to our building, making a total of four. On Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday we had Relief Society, with the officers arriving as early as 8:30 A.M. The Relief Society room, foyer, kitchen, south steps, nursery, and rest rooms had to be ready. While Relief Society was in session, we cleaned the rest of the classrooms, the chapel and the cultural hall.
Then at 3:00 the Primary officers began to arrive. The relief society room, nurseries, kitchen and rest rooms had to be checked and cleaned if needed. When Primary was over we picked up, swept, straightened chairs, and cleaned backboards to get ready for activity night. This went for about a year; then two wards moved out of the building. It seemed like we were on vacation!
One beautiful morning a salesman sold us a can of chemical cleaner to be used on stainless steel sinks, drinking fountains, and other types of metal. I decided to try it out on the brass light switch plates, which were covered with film and grime. After polishing a half dozen with good results, I went into the boys rest room where there was a larger plate with three switches on it. I wiped it off with the chemical, and was reaching for my damp sponge, when I heard a crackling sound. I turned to see flames shooting out of the plate clear to the ceiling! I raced down the hall shrieking. “Fire! Fire! I’ve set the church on fire!” Ace came bounding down the hall into the rest room. The fire was out and it was pitch dark. The switch box had completely burned out. I learned that chemicals and electricity don’t mix.
Last summer we began our two-week vacation on a Monday morning. Ace insisted on coming home both of the following Saturdays in order to clean the building before Sunday. I was feeling rebellious at having to come back before our vacation was over. As I cleaned, I said to myself, “This is absolutely stupid. Nobody cares whether this place is clean or not. If they did care they wouldn’t throw trash around. Nobody will even notice that the work was done.”
All at once I felt as if someone was there with me. It seemed as though someone spoke to me and said, “I care. It is my house and I care! Suppose we had visitors tomorrow and the house was dirty? What would investigators think? I would be embarrassed.” I was really shaken. It was such a strong impression. Never again have I begrudged the time I have spent cleaning His house.
During our first few months as custodians we were either ignored by the members or treated with what we felt was condescending sweetness. Gradually as we became acquainted, their attitudes began to change. Ace was always there, ready to set up tables or help in any way. He made friends with the children and young adults, letting them in the building to play basketball or volleyball whenever he was there. They reciprocated by trying not to track up the foyers, especially on Saturday when he had it all cleaned for Sunday.
After the first year or so people began treating us more warmly. Some of the Primary teachers and classes brought us goodies and baskets of fruit for Christmas. One year a group of boys made a nativity scene for us out of cardboard and molded sugar. They also brought a wreath made of pine cones and nuts. Another Primary made a lovely poster with all their names on it telling us how they loved us and appreciated the way we kept the building clean.
The Relief Societies invited Ace to eat lunch on work day. Once we were even invited by the stake presidency to have dinner with them and the high council while they entertained the visiting General Authority at conference time.
We retired last spring after six years of keeping house for the Lord. We have worked hard; we have laughed; we have cried. We have made hundreds of friends and hope we have made no enemies.
The tears and troubles have been many, but just the same, this has been a wonderful experience in our lives!

In the vicinity where I lived and served, we operated a poultry project. Most of the time it was an efficiently operated welfare project, supplying to the storehouse thousands of dozens of fresh eggs and hundreds of pounds of dressed poultry. On a few occasions, however, the experience of being volunteer city farmers provided not only blisters on the hands, but frustration of heart and mind. For instance, I shall ever remember the time we gathered together the teenaged Aaronic Priesthood young men to really give the poultry project a spring cleaning. Our enthusiastic and energetic throng gathered at the project and in a speedy fashion uprooted, gathered, and burned large quantities of weeds and debris. By the light of the glowing bonfires we ate hot dogs and congratulated ourselves on a job well done. The project was now neat and tidy. However, there was just one disastrous problem. The noise and the fires had so disturbed the fragile and temperamental population of several thousand laying hens that most of them went into a sudden molt and ceased laying. Thereafter we tolerated a few weeds, that we might produce more eggs.

There is an old Jewish tale about a soap maker who did not believe in God. One day as he was walking with a rabbi, he said, “There is something I cannot understand. We have had religion for thousands of years. But everywhere you look there is evil, corruption, dishonesty, injustice, pain, hunger, and violence. It appears that religion has not improved the world at all. So I ask you, what good is it?”
The rabbi did not answer for a time but continued walking with the soap maker. Eventually they approached a playground where children, covered in dust, were playing in the dirt.
“There is something I don’t understand,” the rabbi said. “Look at those children. We have had soap for thousands of years, and yet those children are filthy. What good is soap?”
The soap maker replied, “But rabbi, it isn’t fair to blame soap for these dirty children. Soap has to be used before it can accomplish its purpose.”
The rabbi smiled and said, “Exactly.”

The Europe Rising Generation summer Reach and Rise programme was planned to compensate across the UK and Ireland, for cancelled For the Strength of Youth sessions, due to the COVID-19 pandemic. Heavenly Father truly guided it.
I volunteered to be a young adult counsellor to the youth in my stake. My responsibility was to go through the scheduled lesson plans with the youth in my assigned group every morning for an hour. Each lesson followed a theme inviting young adults and youth to get themselves mentally, physically, and spiritually to the temple, even though at home.
The youth and young adults each had a physical distance goal, equivalent to the number of miles from Cheltenham Stake centre to the London Temple. The miles completed, through local walking, running or other exercises, were recorded each day to help stay motivated. I’m proud to say that my group collectively covered the 129 miles to the London Temple.
The mental and spiritual goals were more personal—the intention for each person being to increase their mental and spiritual efforts so that, by the end of the week, they felt they carried the same spirit that they would have felt if they had visited the temple.
At the end of the Reach and Rise week the youth were invited to a socially distanced event to gather and celebrate. I know, for at least a few, it was the highlight of their summer.
The summer of 2020 was generally dull and lonely, but it was made brighter through the Reach and Rise programme. Just as intended, I benefited from it mentally, spiritually, and physically. I was also blessed socially. I loved seeing so many of my young adult friends jump at the opportunity to get involved. I took comfort in the fact that we were doing this to support one another, to have fun together and to edify one another as the rising generation in God’s kingdom.
In July 2021, I hope we follow the patterns set by Heavenly Father and the leaders of this programme, as we young adults serve each other in uplifting ways.

My mom and I were reading an encyclopedia about the human body. I was very interested in the pictures of two sets of lungs. One showed the lungs of a healthy person, and the other showed the damaged lungs of a person who smoked. Two days later some men came to our home to replace some carpets. I noticed one of the men smoking outside our home. Several times I heard him cough as he worked. I wanted to show him the picture of the lungs. When he was alone, my mom and I talked to him. I showed him the picture of the damaged lungs, and my mom told him that I was sad that he was smoking. The man smiled at me and said thank you. I felt good inside, and I hope he stops smoking so his lungs can be healthy.

Photograph by Shaun Stahle
Elder Brandon Burton served as a proselyting missionary in the Philippines Cabanatuan Mission for eight months. “I loved teaching in Tagalog and felt that I had adjusted to the culture,” he said.
Unfortunately, he started to experience unexpected challenges.
“I felt like my life was slowly losing its color, and it was difficult to see the joy of the work,” he said. “Eventually, after I was diagnosed with depression, my mission leaders and I concluded that I should go home to navigate my new health challenges.”
Elder Burton was disappointed. He said, “I thought I was ruining God’s plan by coming home.” But he worked with his stake president to transfer to a service mission.
Through a series of miracles that took place before Elder Burton even boarded the plane home, his parents met individuals at Church headquarters who gave him the opportunity to serve the Lord with his unique skills and abilities.
The rest of his mission included teaching the gospel in the evenings, helping with articles for the Liahona magazine, working with horses, and serving in the Bountiful Utah Temple.
“God clearly showed that this was His plan and that He would provide for me,” he said.
“God clearly showed that this was His plan and that He would provide for me.”
Elder Dale G. Renlund of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles has said that “service missionaries bring great blessings to themselves, but more importantly, as they are doing this work, they’re blessing Heavenly Father’s children in unique ways.”
Elder Burton concluded, “I thought I came home because I was broken, but I learned that is not true. I transferred to a service mission because that is where God needed me, and He provided a way.”

I lay awake under the wagon with my dog, Swisher, close by. Once in a while I could hear Ma moving restlessly in the wagon bed above me. I wondered if it was because Ma was hungry too.
Thinking about it brought a lump to my throat and an even deeper feeling of emptiness to my stomach. She had given me her share of the thin flour soup that had been passed around the small circle of wagons at sunup. I had gulped it down before I learned it was the last of our food until relief wagons from Salt Lake were to reach us.
I planned to stay awake until the relief wagons rolled in. I would be the first in line to get Ma a share of food. And maybe there would be something for Swisher too.
When Swisher began to growl softly, I listened for the sound of wagons. Suddenly Swisher leaped to his feet, staring into the half-light night. My heart pounded.
“Shush your dog, Sam,” a voice whispered. “It’s me, Dirkin.”
Dirkin!
I didn’t much like Dirkin. He had kicked at Swisher more than once. I raised up on one elbow and put an arm over Swisher’s neck. His growl settled to a nervous rumble in his throat.
“What are you doing here, Dirkin?”
“I’m going after some wheat.”
“Wheat?”
“Shhh!” Dirkin cautioned. “Folks say old man Crowley has a whole sack of it. He keeps it hidden in the daytime and sleeps on it at night.”
I had heard about Brother Crowley’s wheat. “That’s for planting when we reach the valley,” I told Dirkin. “He doesn’t even eat any of it himself.”
“Yeah? Well that wheat should belong to all of us. I don’t aim to starve while he has it handy.”
“Brother Crowley wouldn’t let anyone starve clean to death. Anyway, the relief wagons are on the way. That rider who passed through camp this morning brought the word.”
“I only aim to fill my pockets,” Dirkin whispered. “It’ll be easy. Old man Crowley is at that meeting the men are having over at the main campfire.” Then in a warning voice, he added as he turned to go, “Keep your dog quiet!”
I felt sick. What Dirkin intended to do was wrong. I wished he hadn’t told me. Somehow, just knowing about it made me feel guilty.
“He’s lots bigger than I am,” I reasoned to my dog. “He’s older, too, and mean. Remember how he kicked at you for no reason?”
Swisher licked my hand. Then he wiggled out from under the wagon, and I followed. I only intended to sneak along behind Dirkin, but when I saw him moving through the half-darkness, something made me holler out. “Dirkin!”
He lunged at me. I felt his fist hit me in the eye, and I yelped. It hurt. I dove at his legs, and we tumbled to the dirt. I aimed a fist at Dirkin’s eye. He turned his head, but not fast enough.
Swisher barked and growled and jumped around us. In spite of the hurting, I felt pleasure in knowing that the noise would spoil Dirkin’s plans.
“Hey now—what’s going on here?”
I knew it was Brother Crowley even before he lifted me off Dirkin’s back.
“What’s this rumpus all about?”
My mouth was full of dirt, and I kept busy spitting it out so I wouldn’t have to say anything. I couldn’t rightly tell Brother Crowley. Dirkin wasn’t about to explain, either.
“All right, if you’re not talking, I guess the best thing is to keep you fellows separated until morning so that the rest of us can get some sleep.”
He lifted me by my galluses (suspenders) and pushed me toward his wagon. “Up against the wheel, Sam. Sit tight until daylight. I’ll put young Dirkin up against the other wheel. … Well, look at that! He’s slipped away.”
My back was sore where Dirkin had pounded me. I leaned enough away from the wagon wheel that my back wouldn’t touch it. My stomach hurt more, and I rubbed at it. I wanted to get back to my bed. Maybe if I told Brother Crowley. …
“Brother Crowley,” I began, “about the wheat you have …”
“Good wheat for planting.” It was as though he read my mind. “When those relief wagons head back to Salt Lake, I’m going along to get it planted.”
“I hope those wagons hurry,” I said.
“Hungry, are you? Well, I’m a mite hungry myself. But we can stand it a few more hours, can’t we, Sam?”
I hoped I could. And I hoped Ma could. I was glad when he added, “You may as well go roll up in your own blankets, Sam. No need sitting here without young Dirkin to talk to.”
I wasted no time getting back to my bed, but I couldn’t sleep. My eye was puffed up and hurting.
I was awake when the relief wagons pulled into camp near first light. I heard the shouting and the laughter and the welcoming. Out of one eye, I saw Ma running to join the crowd. Even Swisher left me to follow.
I pulled Ma’s old patchwork quilt up over my face. I wondered what she would say when she saw my eye.
“Hey, Sam!”
Dirkin again!
I threw off the quilt, rolled out from under the wagon, and jumped up with my fists doubled. Dirkin blinked at me, and I almost laughed. He had a swollen eye too.
“I brought you something.” What he handed me was tied up in a cloth. I could tell by the feel of it—wheat!
“Dirkin, you didn’t—”
“Nope,” he said with a grin. “Old man Crowley sent it. It’s sort of a reward.”
I stared at Dirkin, trying to puzzle it out.
“I told him. He said to make it right I’d have to go with him when the relief wagons leave and guard his wheat.”
“Guard it?”
“Yeah—I’m going to help get it safely to Salt Lake, then help him plant it.” He paused. “Sorry I kicked at your dog, Sam.” With that he left.
All of a sudden I didn’t mind the smarting, swollen eye he had given me. “Dirkin,” I called after him, “see you in Salt Lake.”

The snow lay in a thick blanket all around our small farmhouse. Inside, the warm, cheery lights were a sharp contrast to the cold dreariness outside. It was the first Christmas Eve that our family had spent together in the last five years. My oldest brother had been away at college and hadn’t had the money to return for every Christmas. My older sister, who had been married for three years, was visiting with her husband. For the first time in a long time, our family felt complete.
That Christmas Eve was a special one and has given me many fond memories. Bright lights sparkled on the Christmas tree that blessed the room with its scent. Everywhere festive holly, garland, wreaths, or some other ornamentation decorated the house. The sounds of laughter mixed with the faint Christmas carols that came from my sisters singing to each other in the upstairs bedrooms. From the kitchen drifted the heavenly aromas of turkey, potatoes, and pumpkin pie.
It was in the midst of this happy scene that I heard my mother calling me from the kitchen. Slowly I pushed myself up from the floor, where I had been sitting listening to one of my brother’s stories about college, and dragged myself into the kitchen.
My mother was wrapping up a beautiful golden pumpkin pie.
“James,” she said without looking up. “I need you to run this pie over to Clair. I promised him that I would bring it, but I just don’t have the time. Thank you!”
I opened my mouth to protest, but she had already hustled me out the door so I had no chance to argue. I couldn’t believe it. It was Christmas Eve, all of my family was having a great time, and I was stuck driving alone in the snow to a strange old man’s house to deliver a pie.
It was barely noon, but already a gray dreariness hung in the sky. The icy wind had picked up and the dark clouds hung low, giving every indication of an impending snowstorm. With luck I wouldn’t be gone long, and I’d beat the storm back home. I climbed into the old pickup and started the engine.
Clair was our closest neighbor, but it still took a while to get to his house. I didn’t know much about him, not even his last name. His wife had died before I was born, and all of his children were grown, married, and lived far away. I supposed he was at least 80 years old, just a lonely old hermit. The rest of his farm had been sold a long time ago, but he still lived in the same house, the house he had built himself. My mom said he flatly refused to leave, even when his children begged him to move in with one of them. He even refused to go to visit them over Christmas. He would say, “I just can’t leave my home.” His home now was really little more than a two-room shack. It was old, weak, and run-down—much like the man who lived in it—but he loved it.
When I pulled up to the shack, I wasn’t surprised to see that all the lights were off. After all, I thought, it was the holidays and even Clair must have some friends to visit somewhere, right? Still, I had a pie to deliver, so I decided to make sure no one was home. I knocked lightly and waited. After a few minutes, I tried the door handle. The door opened easily.
“Who is it?” a voice growled.
“It’s James from down the road,” I answered above the rising wind.
“What do you want?” the voice asked.
“I brought you this pie …” I began.
“What kind of pie?” he demanded.
“I think it’s pumpkin.”
“Well bring it in and shut the door. It’s awfully cold outside.”
“Yes, sir,” I answered, ducking inside. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dimness. I flipped the switch and the lights flickered on. The small room was a far cry from the cheeriness of my own home. I shivered slightly.
“Excuse me, sir,” I said softly. “Is there a reason it’s so cold in here?”
“Of course there’s a reason,” he snapped. “Would I be sitting here in the blasted cold for no reason? I just don’t have the strength to build a fire, that’s all. And stop calling me ’sir.’ My name’s Clair.”
Without waiting for permission, I started building a fire in the cold fireplace. It wasn’t long before the light and warmth of the fire was spreading all about the small room.
“Much better,” I said.
The fire seemed to lift the old man’s spirits as well. Cheerfully, he demanded, “Well now, James. Let’s cut up that pumpkin pie, shall we?”
I really wanted to get back home and was tempted to excuse myself, but one look at the lonely man’s expectant face, and all I could do was ask where the forks and plates were. As I was serving large helpings for both of us, Clair said, “Of course I would be doing this if I had the strength, but since my illness, some days it’s just too hard.”
I didn’t know what to say. I hadn’t even known he was sick.
When we had finished one piece of pie, and I was dishing up another, I finally asked him, “How could you raise five kids in a house like this?”
After I said it, I realized how rude it must have sounded, but he didn’t seem to notice. He thought a moment and said, “Well now, James, just because this house is small doesn’t mean it wasn’t big enough. There was plenty of room for love, and this house has seen a lot of it.”
“But why do you still live here all alone?”
“Oh, I’m not alone at all,” he sighed and leaned back in his chair. “Sure I could go live with my children or grandchildren and be surrounded by people. But here I’m surrounded by memories. This house has seen better days, happy days full of laughter, love, and joy.
“Christmases were never this dull before. We’d have a large tree in that corner with all the children’s presents underneath it. Their stockings would hang above the fire, and in years when the farm was doing well, there would be twice as many presents and a big turkey dinner as well.”
Clair paused and leaned forward intently. “But it wasn’t the turkey, the presents, the tree, or anything else that made Christmas special, James. It was having our family together, sharing our lives and love. That is what made Christmas a happy time. The outside world could go on its merry way, or even end for all we cared. When we were close together nothing else mattered. And now that everyone close to me is gone, I can still sit alone remembering those happy times and it’s like they’re all here.
The silence that followed as I thought of what he had said was suddenly broken by a fierce howl of the wind. It startled both of us, and I hurried outside. The storm had hit suddenly and viciously. The snow swirled all around so that I could barely see a few feet in front of me. I walked a few feet away from the house and tripped over a large pine bough that had broken off in the wind. I ran back into the house with the branch in my hand.
Clair looked at me in puzzlement, but I didn’t say anything until I had the branch standing up in a corner, supported by some books.
“There!” I said with satisfaction.
“What is it?” Clair asked.
“It’s your Christmas tree, of course.”
Clair looked at it, frowning. Then he started to laugh. It was a wheezy, tired laugh; but it grew steadily stronger, as if he were just out of practice. I couldn’t help joining him.
And so, with the wind shrieking outside, the snow piling up deeper and the day growing later, Clair and I set about decorating the tree. Clair had given his decorations away to his children, so we cut paper snowflakes and strung popcorn. Then I draped them over the little branches according to Clair’s directions. I tried to get Clair to sing Christmas carols with me, but he protested, saying he was too old. No amount of coaxing seemed to work, so I sang twice as loud.
When we were finished, we sat in silence, admiring our work. The sorry little tree only stood three feet high. No fancy presents lay beneath it, and no lights shone from its branches. But we both agreed it was the prettiest Christmas tree we had ever seen. It was even more beautiful to me than the lavishly decorated tree at home.
That thought gave me an idea.
“Clair,” I asked, “how would you like to come home with me and spend Christmas with my family?”
Clair looked almost angry. “James, I already said that I didn’t want to be surrounded by a bunch of people when I’m perfectly happy here.” He paused for a moment. “I’m not going to burden your folks when I’ve got my own home.”
“You won’t be a burden,” I said. “They’ll love it.” When I saw that he wasn’t going to budge, I added softly, “And besides, no amount of memories can replace the love of living human beings.”
Clair looked away in silence. For a few minutes he sat stubbornly still. Then I saw tears fill his eyes and he asked, “What about our tree?”
I grinned. “We’ll leave it here and it will be waiting when you get back.”
“All right, I’ll go, but just for an hour or so.” He sighed heavily, but I could see the twinkle in his eyes.
In the increasing dimness of the dying firelight I gathered a few things that Clair wanted to take so that he could still have his memories with him for Christmas. By now the snow was so bad I could hardly see my way to the truck and had to use the wall of the house to guide me. As we pulled away from Clair’s house, I looked in the rearview mirror. Through the snow, the house was just a dark form, a place where, minutes before, Clair and I had shared a pumpkin pie. The little house that had been built with such loving care was just a house, I realized.
But for some reason, I felt a strange sense of peace—glad that the little house could have had one more happy memory. Clair must have felt this same peace, for he began to sing softly, “Silent Night, Holy Night.”
All the way home we sang Christmas carols. Despite the slow treacherous drive, we were home sooner than I had expected. It was late and I knew my mom was worried, but I quickly explained what had happened. The family welcomed Clair as if he were one of us.
The next morning, Clair’s daughter arrived unexpectedly with her husband and children. They had come to surprise him for Christmas, and after a few days of pleading, he gave in and went to live with her family. Before he left he said something to me about thanks for showing him that love comes from people, not places. He telephoned Christmas Day every year until he passed away. And now, when I look back at my favorite Christmas memory, it is not one of a big Christmas feast, a bright Christmas tree, or even the beautiful sound of my sisters singing carols. Rather, it is the memory of eating pumpkin pie in a small, lonely shack, a humble three-foot branch decorated with paper and popcorn, and the memory of a lonely old man singing “Silent Night” that fills my heart with love.

Serving a full-time mission in the Dominican Republic, I had just been transferred to a new area that had a reputation of being difficult to find people to teach. When I arrived, we had only one investigator. His name was Oriviades. He had attended church before, but because he was deaf and communicated using sign language, previous missionaries hadn’t been able to teach him.
One day my companion and I decided to fast and pray for a miracle that would allow us to teach Oriviades. We set an appointment with him at a time when one of his family members would be available to help translate, since neither my companion nor I knew sign language.
When we arrived to meet with Oriviades, however, none of his family members was there. When Oriviades briefly left to get a chair, my companion and I took the opportunity to pray that the Spirit would guide us. Before we had even finished the prayer, I felt the Spirit’s presence strongly.
Oriviades began signing, but we couldn’t understand him. We simply smiled at him and looked at each other, trying to figure out what we should do. We decided to write a note indicating a time for our next appointment, hoping that next time we would have a translator. But suddenly both of us felt strongly that we should stay and try to teach him. “Let’s at least try—the Spirit will help us,” I told my companion.
We tried using drawings and rudimentary hand signals as we taught the lesson. Gradually we started understanding Oriviades’s signs and were able to sign in reply to him. He seemed to understand us perfectly.
We felt prompted to share our testimonies with him. We showed him a picture of the First Vision, and I wrote on a piece of paper, “I know it’s true.”
Then, using signs, Oriviades responded, “I know it’s true—God told me. I prayed and know it’s true.”
My companion and I left the appointment with tears in our eyes. I knew that God had allowed us to testify of the restored gospel to this investigator and that the Holy Ghost had carried our message unto his heart (see 2 Nephi 33:1). I learned that we don’t need to speak perfectly or eloquently when we share the gospel—sometimes, we don’t need to speak aloud.
It’s incredible how simple things like fasting, prayer, and faith can work mighty miracles in our lives and in the lives of those we serve.

It was a happy, carefree time in my young life until on such a day, sorrow and tragedy brought me closer to God in humble, sincere prayer. In the summer of my thirteenth year, on a July night, I eagerly joined some neighborhood friends to light fireworks. Five of us took turns igniting the colorful assortment of Roman candles and rockets and firecrackers. Each was a new surprise with its burst of sights and sounds through the evening sky.
Not all of our fireworks worked as they should have. Most, in fact, were what we called duds. They sputtered momentarily, and then died. We set the duds aside until we had tried to light all of the fireworks. We had so many defective ones remaining, we wondered what to do. We couldn’t just throw them away. What if we emptied the powder from all of them into the cardboard box? We could toss in a match and have one gigantic blast!
Fortunately for us, our idea failed—at first. The match was tossed; we quickly ran away and waited. Nothing happened. Pressing our luck, we tried a second time, using a makeshift fuse of rolled-up newspaper. Again we anxiously waited at a distance. Again, to our good, nothing happened. That is when we should have quit. Foolishly, we gave it one more try; this time my friend Mark and I huddled around the box to keep the flame from being extinguished by the evening breeze.
Then it happened! The “gigantic blast” we thought we wanted exploded with fury into our faces. The force of the explosion knocked us off our feet, and flames from the ignited powder burned us severely. It was a tragic scene. Responding quickly to the screams and cries of the injured youth in her driveway, our friend’s mother gathered us into her home. “First we will pray,” she said, “and then we will call the doctor.”
That was the first of many prayers I remember being offered for us. Soon after, I felt my face, hands, and arms being wrapped in bandages. I heard the voices of my father and my doctor administering a priesthood blessing to me. I heard my mother’s voice many times, pleading with Heavenly Father to please let her son see again.
I had been taught very early in my life to pray. Mother and Father had made prayer an important part of our family life. Not until that day, however, did it become so meaningful to me. In those frightening moments I found peace and comfort through prayer.
Following the incident when I was badly burned, I had felt with a surety that I would be healed. From the moment that first prayer was offered in my friend’s home, I felt a comforting peace. While the doctor treated my burns, I hummed a hymn, finding comfort in these words:
When sore trials came upon you,
Did you think to pray? …
Oh, how praying rests the weary!
Prayer will change the night to day.
So, when life gets dark and dreary,
Don’t forget to pray.
[“Did You Think to Pray?” Hymns, 1985, no. 140]
Each day when the doctor changed my bandages, my mother would ask, “Can he see?” For many days the answer was the same: “No, not yet.” Finally, when all the bandages were permanently removed, my eyesight began to return. I had anticipated that time with anxious expectation. The peace and comfort I had earlier felt gave me assurance that all would be well. However, when my vision cleared enough for me to see my hands and face, I was shocked, unprepared for what I saw. To my terrible disappointment, I found that all was not well. Seeing my scarred and disfigured skin brought great fear and doubt into my mind. I can remember thinking, Nothing can help this skin to be healed—not even the Lord.
Gratefully, as my prayers and the prayers of others continued, I felt the gifts of faith and of peace restored, and then, in time, my eyesight and my skin were healed. My friends who were injured were also blessed with complete recovery.

Some gifts Si has received were not altogether welcome at first. One day in 1977 a young man named Duane Simpson walked into Si’s room, snapped off the TV set, and demanded, “What are you doing with your life, Si? Why are you wasting your time watching TV? There’s nothing wrong with your brain—Why aren’t you using it?”
Si was stunned. His mother was furious. But Duane continued, “Si, I’m here to help you any way I can.” He explained that he had been assigned to Si as a tutor.
Beginning then, Si’s life changed dramatically. “I guess I needed Duane to bawl me out like that. I wasn’t doing anything because I never really thought there was anything I could do. But he helped me to change my attitude.”
Since then Si has worked off all of his grade 11, and is now completing grade 12. His aim is university entrance and a degree in social work.
How does someone in his condition study? He listens to tapes and his tutor. The tutor then reads him the questions, he figures them out in his mind, then answers “orally.” His tutor reads his lips, writes down the answers, and sends them to the Alberta Correspondence School to be graded. It is a slow, tedious way to study, but Si quips, “I’m getting better marks than I ever did before.”

Jeremy Miller is a lively, 18-year-old priest in La Habra, California, but because of a car accident when he was three, he is also a quadriplegic—paralyzed from the neck down.
Constant care is required for Jeremy. He must have a nurse, a family member, or knowledgeable friend with him at all times. He is usually attached to a small respirator and can move only by maneuvering his wheelchair with a device he activates with his chin. But Jeremy is far from helpless.
As a matter of fact, Jeremy is constantly involved in helping others. And his efforts are not confined to the southern California community where he lives—they’ve even reached overseas. “It’s a blast doing things for other people,” he says in his deep, enthusiastic voice. “It’s just so great!”
Jeremy’s latest endeavor will help thousands see. For his recently completed Eagle service project, Jeremy was responsible for collecting over 2,000 pairs of used glasses to send to an optometry school, which would then catalog them and send them to Central and South America.
Many are surprised that Jeremy is involved in Scouting at all, but it’s a family tradition he refuses to break. His three older brothers earned the rank of Eagle Scout. It hasn’t been easy for Jeremy to work on all his merit badges, and it’s required quite a bit of help from those around him. But everyone involved agrees it’s worthwhile.
“I love Scouting,” says Jeremy. “Besides, it saved my life.” When the car struck Jeremy, his older brother Russell used the life saving techniques he’d learned in Scouting to keep Jeremy breathing until he got professional care.
But just as Jeremy helped many people with his Eagle project, many helped Jeremy complete it. Jeremy created over 3,000 flyers, which the Scouts in his troop helped deliver. Soon both local and national papers picked up the story, and Jeremy was receiving glasses from all over the country. The Los Angeles Temple sent a box of glasses left by patrons over the years, and a car rental company sent a crateful of glasses that had been left in their cars. Encouraging letters accompanied many of the offerings.
“It was so great hearing from all those people,” Jeremy says. “I can’t believe so many would respond. Every time the doorbell rang, Dad would look at me and say, ‘More glasses!’”
“It just shows you that you can do anything if you put your mind to it,” Jeremy says, and then thinks a minute. “Well, maybe not anything. I’d really like to go scuba diving someday, but of course that’s impossible. Still, there are a lot of things I haven’t done yet that I plan on doing.”
Jeremy recently graduated from high school with a 4.0 grade point. His classmates there were always eager to lend a hand, and the school even tried to accommodate his special needs by acquiring a voice-activated computer. “My friends are really supportive,” Jeremy says. “It’s awesome.”
And Jeremy, in his own way, has given something back. At an awards banquet, where the top 100 students were honored, Jeremy received a special award and as it was presented, it was pointed out that Jeremy had provided a great experience for the student body. Not only had he given them an opportunity to extend themselves in service, but he’d provided an incredible example of tenacity, courage, and high spirits.
Ward members have been extremely supportive of Jeremy as well, and in return he serves as the first assistant in the priests quorum. He makes innumerable phone calls, takes his turn conducting Bishop’s Youth Committee meetings, and carries out most of the responsibilities his position requires, but there’s one thing he is still working on. “My goal is to bless the sacrament,” Jeremy says. “Now it’s set up so I can’t get up the stairs to where they bless it. The wheelchair is a problem, but we’ll get around that somehow.”
When Jeremy is not doing schoolwork, church work, or socializing with his friends, you might catch him involved in another rather surprising activity. Jeremy is a painter. His mother, an accomplished artist herself, has been a tremendous help and inspiration to him in this area and many others. With his canvas propped up in front of him, he holds the brush with his teeth and produces some impressive artwork. His favorite subjects are birds, but he created a Christmas scene that the Make-A-Wish Foundation used on their annual Christmas card. Make-A-Wish had previously helped Jeremy by making his lifelong dream of visiting Hawaii come true. By letting them use his painting, he was able to help them in return.
Jeremy is now trying to prepare himself so he won’t be completely dependent on his parents in the future and will have the power to give a little back to them as well. He’s involved in a two-year program that will teach him more about computers and enable him to take an active part in the computer industry. He already works part-time using a mouth stick to type tests into computers.
The Book of Mormon has also done a lot for Jeremy’s life. “It teaches me things I don’t know. One of the neatest things I’ve learned from it is how to get along with family and friends.” Jeremy would like to share the Book of Mormon on a full-time mission, but for health reasons, he probably won’t be able to serve in the traditional way. He’s always eager to tell about the goodness of the gospel, though, and many have heard his testimony.
That testimony includes a major helping of gratitude—for his life, which is a miracle in itself, and for the helpfulness of those around him. People feel good around Jeremy. They like to help him. In return, Jeremy does his best to see that what comes around goes around.
As the New Era went to press, we received word that Jeremy passed away. He did achieve his goal of blessing the sacrament before he died.