Gospel Story Finder

Susan, baptized into the Church at age 28, had always lived the law of chastity. “My parents had integrity and expected me to have high moral standards, to be honest and chaste, so I just did it,” says Susan, who was raised in the midwestern United States. “Now I realize I was responding to the light of Christ. I never dated a Latter-day Saint until I met Tom. When I heard the gospel, I was glad I had never given in to sexual temptation. Later, Tom and I were married in the Salt Lake Temple. One year later our baby daughter died at birth. We were devastated but grateful we had been worthy to be sealed in the temple when we were first married. Knowing that our baby was born in the covenant brought us understanding and peace.”
Susan and Tom still live in the Midwest after 24 years of marriage and five children. “Several of our friends and cousins have divorced,” says Tom. “We have had our share of financial and family challenges, yet we both want to be true to our temple covenants, so we just work things out.”

I had a period in my life when I felt disconnected from Heavenly Father. Even though I was going to the temple, praying, and reading scriptures, I still felt overwhelmed. I realized I had been doing important spiritual things, but I wasn’t allowing quiet time in my life to really ponder my connection with Heavenly Father. I decided to try meditation—to take a break from the world and to deepen my sensitivity to the Spirit.
After I started setting aside quiet time to meditate and tried to connect with Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ, I felt a huge difference in my ability to recognize Their guidance in my life. I also felt more peace and joy in my circumstances.

Joseph was most sad and lonely when he was separated from his family for any length of time. How distressed he must have been to so frequently have to hide or live in seclusion for fear mobocrats would take his life. On one occasion, his friends were transferring him to another hiding place when Joseph insisted that they drive past his home. Upon seeing that there were no enemies nearby, Joseph rushed into the house, knelt beside the beds of his children, and uttered a brief prayer for them. He kissed each child and his beloved Emma, then rushed out the door on his way to a new hiding place (E. Cecil McGavin, The Family of Joseph Smith, Salt Lake City: Bookcraft, 1963, page 138).

He smiled as he reminded his daughter of one of her favorite rides at the amusement park when she was younger. “Remember how much time you used to spend on that large spinning turntable in the fun house? You and all the other children would scramble toward the center and try to hold your places as the huge wheel spun.”
“Oh, yes,” the daughter replied. “Once that wheel started spinning, the kids closest to the edge went sliding off just like that cotton ball, and the ones who managed to hold their position near the center stayed on.”
Her eyes sparkled as she remembered how she would slip and slide on the big wheel. “I tried my best to work my way from the edge toward the center, but it was a real struggle. I had to crawl and apply great traction with my hands to pull myself up toward the center. And if that weren’t hard enough, I always had to be on guard for those who didn’t make it, because they usually grabbed someone else as they spun off and tried to take them with them.”
“In a way, life is like that,” her father explained. “There are struggles, and people going downward sometimes tend to drag those nearby down with them. We, on the other hand, are trying to climb against those forces that are pulling us down.
“Now back to your question. How far you can go as you enjoy the companionship of your friends depends on where you want to go. If you want to go up and onward, you behave one way. If you want to go down and out, you behave another way.”
“I want to go up, Dad,” she replied without hesitation. “I want to reach my goals.”
Since his daughter had recently attended a lecture by a member of a team that tried to conquer Mt. Everest, the father could not resist another comparison. “If that’s the direction you want to go, let’s take some lessons from those expert mountain climbers you met. What do you remember most about their experiences?”
“Oh, I learned a lot, but the most important thing I remember is their advance planning. They anticipated everything that could possibly happen and were prepared with decisions made well in advance in response to whatever they might encounter.
“Their teamwork was really impressive to me too. As they had tremendous hardships to overcome and heights to climb, they linked themselves together with ropes. The ropes were attached to something solid above as they pulled themselves up. Occasionally even the other people to whom they were linked became their anchors. We saw photographs showing one person dangling in midair while being tethered to people he trusted both above and below. Yet he didn’t fall because of his ties to other people!
“They also maintained excellent communications. Even though they might have been temporarily separated, they were always in good communication. It seemed that the closer they were to potential danger, the more they leaned toward the center.”
After hearing his daughter’s report, the father responded, “Did anyone ever ask the question ‘How close to the edge can I come?’”
“No! Quite the contrary. Their emphasis always seemed to be ‘How close to the center can I stay!’” Then, with a look of enlightenment, she replied, “Dad, now I am beginning to understand.”
The father continued, “Let’s apply these lessons to your question. One of the most important things you can do as you face the challenging climb of life is to plan in advance. You must know what pitfalls might befall you. No matter what your problem may be, you must decide in advance how you will react—what actions you will take—just like the mountain climbers on Mt. Everest.
“Remember you are part of a team that is pulling for you. You are connected by unseen tethers of love to people who pray and pull for you daily, even though those ties are not as visible as the ropes of the mountain climbers. Your teammates even extend into the world beyond. Your ancestors are concerned for you and supporting you. Relatives, teachers in school and in church, and good friends always try to lift. If you ever have acquaintances who are trying to pull you with them on their downward drift, know that these people are not truly your friends at all. Real friends never pull you down; they always lift!
“Communication in your life is as important to you as it is for mountain climbers. That’s why I think you are so special for wanting to communicate with your father when you have such an important question. Just as receptive is your Heavenly Father, who appreciates your communications with him in prayer.
“Finally, when dangers do come, always look toward the center. Remember, your record player would not produce very good music if it were not for that rod in the center that anchors the record to the spinning disc. If you allow the world in which your activities revolve to be anchored centrally to the iron rod of the gospel, life’s music will be sweet for you.
“On this or any other important question you have, cling to the center. Know what your loved ones would do in a similar circumstance. Think what the Lord would counsel you to do. If you are firmly and securely anchored to the iron rod, which is the word of God, you’ll be safe in your activities. The wiles of your whirling world and the winds of temptation will not spin you off but will find you safely rooted centrally toward your quest for salvation and exaltation.
“God has great blessings in store for you. You will attain the heights that he has placed within your grasp. Ultimately he will reward you through your obedience. Listen to his promise: If you are faithful, you ‘shall inherit thrones, kingdoms, principalities, and powers, dominions, … and a continuation of the seeds forever and ever’ (D&C 132:19). This, my daughter, is what I want for you.”
The lovely daughter thanked her father with a warm hug, grateful for his love and understanding. She now knew that she no longer was really interested in the answer to her question. She didn’t want to know how close to the edge she could go. She was now determined to stay close to the center, where the great rewards of fulfillment in life are found.

Colly Creek Ward
The Colly Creek Ward, Topeka Kansas Stake, challenged the Primary children to bring their scriptures every Sunday. They placed an anchor on the bulletin board and started making a paper chain connected to the anchor. The name of each child who brought his or her scriptures was written on a paper link every Sunday. Soon the chain grew to reach the back of the Primary room! This activity reminded the Primary to be “anchored” in the scriptures.

Years later, at the age of 15, the Prophet’s nephew Joseph F. Smith was called to serve a mission in Hawaii. You will remember that he was only five when his father, Hyrum, was martyred. His mother, Mary Fielding, died when he was just 13. Upon arriving on the island of Maui, young Joseph fell gravely ill. Despite these and other adversities, he wrote to Elder George A. Smith: “I am ready to bear my testimony … at any time, or at any place, or in whatsoever circumstances I may be placed. … I am ready to go through thick and thin for this cause in which I am engaged” (as quoted in Joseph Fielding Smith, comp., Life of Joseph F. Smith [1938], 176).

When we started our pirate band, there were six of us: Jason, Kyle, Joel, Jeremy, Marv, and me. We made swords out of sticks and borrowed bright-red bandannas to tie around our heads. And we rolled our pant legs to our knees, wore patches over our eyes, and painted tattoos on our arms with watercolor markers.
Brother Rogers’s huge backyard was a jungle of cornstalks, cantaloupe and watermelon vines, apple and peach trees, and berry bushes, so we met there to make our plans for raiding and plundering everyone along Piccadilly Street.
“Do we share the loot?” Jason wanted to know.
“Sure,” I said, sounding as gruff as I could. “That’s what pirates do. We’ll bring the stuff back here and divide it up evenly. Any more questions?”
For a while everyone was quiet, then Joel asked, “Where are we going first? Who are we going to raid? And what are we going to plunder?”
I hadn’t thought much about that.
Jason spoke up. “Maybe we ought to look around first and see what there is to raid and plunder.”
“Good idea,” I agreed. “We’ll split up and meet back here in fifteen minutes. But don’t let anybody see you or follow you back here to our hideout.”
We all nodded, straightened the bandannas on our heads, adjusted the patches over our eyes, checked our swords, and sneaked out of the cornfield.
“Wow! What a gang of cutthroats!”
We all jumped and whirled around. Marv tripped over a cornstalk, and Jason and Jeremy dropped their swords. Joel jabbed me in the back, and the patch over my eye slipped down and covered my mouth.
Brother Rogers was hoeing the weeds around his cantaloupes. He leaned on his hoe and grinned. “I heard some dastardly deeds being planned in there,” he said, nodding toward the corn, “but I didn’t dare go in for fear I’d be taken hostage and put up for ransom.”
“Now we’ve been caught,” Joel grumbled. “We got caught before we even got started.”
“You’re not going to tell on us, are you, Brother Rogers?”
Brother Rogers took off his straw hat and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “Do you pirates have a hideout?” he asked.
“We figured on using your cornfield,” Marv muttered.
“Oh, an old cornfield isn’t any place for a pirate hangout,” Brother Rogers said. “You need a place where you can really hide and plan. I think I know just the place. Come with me.”
We followed Brother Rogers to the corner of his lot behind some thick berry bushes. Almost hidden by the bushes was a little shed. I’d seen it before, but I’d never paid much attention to it.
Brother Rogers pushed through the bushes, opened a little door, motioned for us to follow, then ducked inside the little shed. At first we wondered if Brother Rogers was going to hold us hostage, but we finally followed him.
For a little while we had to just stand still while our eyes got used to the dimness. The place was full of rusty tools, boxes of newspapers, and battered buckets and cans.
“This used to be my three boys’ clubhouse!” Brother Rogers explained. “It’s a little dusty, and there’s some junk in here that needs to be cleaned out, but it could be fixed up into a right good pirate hideout.”
“You mean you’d let us use it?” Kyle asked.
“Sure.” Brother Rogers grinned. “No other gang of pirates has asked for it yet. You’ll have to promise not to do any raiding or plundering around my place, though.”
“Would you get some of our loot?” I asked, not sure I wanted to trust Brother Rogers with our pirate plans or to give up any of our treasure.
“No, you can keep the loot.”
The others in the gang looked at me and nodded. I started for the door. “Well, let’s get going, then, and find out what there is to raid and plunder.”
“Wait a minute,” Brother Rogers called after us. “Are you good pirates or bad pirates?”
“Shoot,” Kyle said, “I thought all pirates were the same.”
Brother Rogers shook his head. “No,” he answered slowly. “It depends on how you raid. If you raid to do good, then you’re good pirates.”
“But what’s the sense of raiding and plundering to do good?” I wanted to know.
Brother Rogers thought for a long time. “Pirates are always looking for treasure, aren’t they?” We all nodded our heads. “Well, if you’ll raid and plunder to do good, you’ll find some treasure.”
“Oh, come on, Brother Rogers,” Jason said. “There isn’t any treasure around here. You’re just kidding us.”
Brother Rogers shook his head. “You mark my word—you pirates go on your first exploration, looking for good things to do, and before you’re finished today, you’ll have found some treasure.”
When we left, we weren’t sure that Brother Rogers knew what he was talking about. But since he’d offered to give us a hideout, we decided to give his way a try.
“What are we looking for?” Kyle grumbled, swinging his sword at a branch.
“Hey, look!” Jeremy pointed down the street at Tiffany and Tami Mason, who were walking our way. We crept into the bushes on the opposite side of the street and watched them approach.
“I wonder where they’re headed,” Marv whispered.
“They’d better watch it when they go past the Bailey place,” Joel said. “Old Ripper will scare the daylights out of them.”
Ripper was the Bailey’s German shepherd, and he was more bark than bite. But if you didn’t know that and he came charging up to you with his teeth bared and growling, you were likely to jump right out of your skin.
From where we were, we could see Ripper’s ears prick. As Tiffany and Tami approached, laughing and talking and not worrying about a thing, Ripper made his move.
“Now, Pirates!” I sang out.
Jerking the bandannas down over our foreheads and holding our swords high, we charged across the street, swinging our swords.
When Tiffany and Tami saw Ripper coming, they were so scared that they just froze. And Ripper was concentrating so hard on Tiffany and Tami that he didn’t notice us. He had charged around the Bailey’s chain-link fence and was only about five yards from Tami and Tiffany when we cut him off.
When old Ripper saw us pirates with our swords out and heard our pirate yells, his bark changed into a surprised yelp. He tried to stop, but he slid right into us. He didn’t waste any time getting turned around, though. And he didn’t stop running until he was clear around the Bailey’s house and under their back porch.
Tiffany and Tami stood wide-eyed with their mouths open. We grinned at them, and Marv made a little bow and announced, “The Piccadilly Street Pirates just wanted to make sure that you made it safely to where you were going.”
I liked the sound of that name. I puffed out my chest and said, “Yes, we’re the Piccadilly Street Pirates, and it’s our work and mission to go about spreading good.” Bowing to the two girls, I turned and shouted, “Let’s go, men.” And before Tiffany and Tami could say a word, we were gone.
“Hey, that was kind of fun,” Jason said as we hid in some bushes in my front yard.
“But we can only scare Ripper once,” Joel complained. “Now what do we do?”
“That,” Kyle said, pointing across the street to Sister Ballard’s garden. Sister Ballard had been in her garden most of the morning, pulling and hoeing weeds. But she had gone inside, leaving the last few rows of beans and peas unfinished. “Let’s finish weeding her garden,” Kyle said.
“Doesn’t seem like pirate’s work to me,” Joel grumbled.
“Let’s give it a try,” I said. “Maybe this will be as much fun as chasing old Ripper.”
We sneaked out of the bushes, crept across the street, and began to work. Because there were six of us, finishing the garden didn’t take long, and it was fun creeping up and down the rows and whispering to each other. When we finished, we gathered the weeds into a pile.
“When we do things,” Kyle said, “people need to know that pirates did it.”
“I know,” I said, “Wait here.” I ran across the street to my house for a notepad and pencil and scribbled a note: “The Piccadilly Street Pirates have struck again!” I put the note on top of the pile of weeds and jabbed a stick through it just as Sister Ballard started coming out her side door.
“Hide!” I commanded. We pushed behind the lilac bushes growing beside her house and watched. Sister Ballard pulled on her gloves, adjusted her straw hat, then walked right past the pile of weeds, picked up her hoe, and started for the rows of beans and peas!
We giggled as she began searching for weeds. She looked hard, scratched her head, and looked some more. Finally she saw our pile of weeds. When she read the note, the biggest, happiest smile spread across her face.
“The Piccadilly Street Pirates!” we heard her exclaim. “Well, that’s the best thing that’s ever happened on Piccadilly Street!”
She went into the house, and before we could slip away, she returned with a bulging bag. She set it by the weeds, then went back into the house. We looked at each other, then, making certain that no one was watching, rushed over to the weed pile. Taped to the bag was a note: “Treasure for the Piccadilly Street Pirates.” We snatched the bag and skedaddled. Safely away, we opened the bag and found chocolate chip cookies!
“Let’s go back to the hideout,” Marv said, “and eat our treasure.”
We headed for Brother Roger’s shed, but on the way we noticed that dogs had knocked over the Hansens’ garbage cans and scattered the trash, so we cleaned things up for them. Down the street Sister Wheeler had been trimming her bushes and hadn’t yet picked up the branches, so we gathered them and hauled them to the curb.
We dashed here and there, doing little good turns on the sly. And wherever we went, we left a note stuck someplace that said, “The Piccadilly Street Pirates have struck again!”
By the time we reached Brother Roger’s place, we were laughing and shouting and waving our swords like conquering heroes.
“Well, the pirates have returned.” Brother Rogers grinned as he saw us. “I finished just in time. Come in and see if you approve of your pirate den.”
“Wow!” I shouted as we filed inside. All the junk had been taken out, and the board floor had been swept. Brother Rogers had put an old table in the middle, with boxes and buckets around it for chairs. The two windows were covered with burlap sacks so that no one could peek in. There were nails pounded in the wall where we could hang our swords, and Brother Rogers had even made a big pirate map of the neighborhood and tacked it on one wall.
“We’re pirates for sure now!” Jason whooped.
“Thanks, Brother Rogers,” we all chimed in.
“And how was your raiding and plundering?” he asked with a wink.
“We saved Tiffany and Tami from Ripper.”
“We picked up the Hansens’ spilled trash.”
“We gathered branches at the Wheelers’ and hauled them to the curb.”
“We weeded part of Sister Ballard’s garden, and we even got some treasure!” I shouted, holding up the bag of cookies. “We’ll share them with you. And since we’re using your hideout, Brother Rogers, we’ll make you an honorary member of the Piccadilly Street Pirates.”
“I’ve always wanted to be a pirate,” he told us. “I’ve just been waiting for the right band to join.”

In earlier times, tithing was paid in kind—a tenth of the herdsman’s increase, a tenth of the farmer’s produce. I am sorry that our modern cash economy deprives parents of the wonderful teaching opportunities presented by the payment of tithing in kind. In a recent book, Tongan Saints: Legacy of Faith, the author quotes a Tongan bishop’s memories of one such example:
“Grandpa Vanisi’s spirituality inspired an awe in me as a child. I remember following him daily to his plantation. He would always point out to me the very best of his taro, bananas, or yams and say: ‘These will be for our tithing.’ His greatest care was given to these ‘chosen’ ones. During the harvest, I was often the one assigned to take our load of tithing to the branch president. I remember sitting on the family horse. Grandfather would lift onto its back a sack of fine taro which I balanced in front of me. Then with a very serious look in his eyes, he said to me, ‘Simi, be very careful because this is our tithing.’ From my grandfather I learned early in life that you give only your best to the Lord” (in Eric B. Shumway, trans. and ed., Tongan Saints: Legacy of Faith [Laie, Hawaii: The Institute for Polynesian Studies, 1991], pp. 79–80).

My dear brothers and sisters, when I was 12 years old, my family lived in Göteborg, a coastal city in southern Sweden. By way of reference, it is the hometown of our dear associate Elder Per G. Malm, who passed away this summer. We miss him. We’re grateful for his nobility and his noble service and for the example of his absolutely adorable family. And we certainly pray God’s richest blessings to be theirs.
Fifty years ago, we attended church in a large remodeled home. One Sunday, my friend Steffan, the only other deacon in the branch, greeted me at church with some excitement. We went to the chapel’s adjacent overflow area, and he pulled from his pocket a large firecracker and some matches. In an act of youthful bravado, I took the firecracker and lit the long gray fuse. I intended to snuff out the fuse before it blew up. But when I burned my fingers trying to do so, I dropped the firecracker. Steffan and I watched in horror as the fuse continued to burn.
The firecracker exploded, and sulfurous fumes filled the overflow area and the chapel. We hurriedly gathered up the scattered remnants of the firecracker and opened the windows to try to get the smell out, naively hoping that no one would notice. Fortunately, no one was hurt and no damage was done.
As members came to the meeting, they did notice the overpowering smell. It was hard to miss. The smell distracted from the sacred nature of the meeting. Because there were so few Aaronic Priesthood holders—and in what can only be described as dissociative thinking—I passed the sacrament, yet I did not feel worthy to partake of it. When the sacrament tray was offered to me, I took neither the bread nor the water. I felt horrible. I was embarrassed, and I knew that what I had done had displeased God.
After church, the branch president, Frank Lindberg, a distinguished older man with silver-gray hair, asked me to come to his office. After I sat down, he looked at me kindly and said he had noticed that I had not partaken of the sacrament. He asked why. I suspect he knew why. I was sure everyone knew what I had done. After I told him, he asked how I felt. Through tears, I haltingly told him I was sorry and that I knew I had let God down.
President Lindberg opened a well-worn copy of the Doctrine and Covenants and asked me to read some underlined verses. I read the following out loud:
“Behold, he who has repented of his sins, the same is forgiven, and I, the Lord, remember them no more.
“By this ye may know if a man repenteth of his sins—behold, he will confess them and forsake them.”
I will never forget President Lindberg’s compassionate smile when I looked up after I had finished reading. With some emotion, he told me that he felt it would be fine for me to resume partaking of the sacrament. As I left his office, I felt indescribable joy.
As a 12-year-old in Göteborg, I could have blamed Steffan. He was the one who brought the big firecracker and the matches to the church in the first place. But blaming others, even if justified, allows us to excuse our behavior. By so doing, we shift responsibility for our actions to others. When the responsibility is shifted, we diminish both the need and our ability to act. We turn ourselves into hapless victims rather than agents capable of independent action.
Another choice that impedes repentance is minimizing our mistakes. In the Göteborg firecracker incident, no one was hurt, no permanent damage occurred, and the meeting was held anyway. It would have been easy to say that there was no reason to repent. But minimizing our mistakes, even if no immediate consequences are apparent, removes the motivation to change. This thinking prevents us from seeing that our mistakes and sins have eternal consequences.
The fact that we can repent is the good news of the gospel! Guilt can be “swept away.” We can be filled with joy, receive a remission of our sins, and have “peace of conscience.” We can be freed from feelings of despair and the bondage of sin. We can be filled with the marvelous light of God and be “pained no more.” Repentance is not only possible but also joyful because of our Savior. I still remember the feelings that washed over me in the branch president’s office after the firecracker episode. I knew I had been forgiven. My feelings of guilt vanished, my gloomy mood lifted, and my heart felt light.

Sister Winder A friend of mine in Salt Lake City is suffering from a debilitating disease. She rides in a wheelchair and drives a car especially equipped so that she can do her visiting teaching. She will pick up her companion, then drive to the home of a sister. The sister will come out of her house and sit in the car while my friend does her visiting teaching. She is such a bright and loving spirit that neighbors will often come and visit around the car.

While preparing to teach a family home evening lesson, I wanted to give my children some perspective on the daily rigors and challenges of missionary work. As I opened my missionary journal to look for a suitable example, I found a summary of a not-so-uncommon day.
First, my companion and I went to see Maria, who was washing clothes. “Could you come back later this morning?” she asked.
We went to see another investigator, but he was sleeping. When we returned to Maria’s home at 11:30 a.m., she was still washing clothes.
Later, at 3:00 p.m., we had an appointment with another investigator. When we arrived, he was making grease.
“I’m really busy right now,” he told us. “Can you come back later?”
We returned to Maria’s home, but she was now washing dishes. Then we went to visit another investigator named Junior. He was busy cooking.
“How about tomorrow?” he asked us.
I wrote in my journal: “We try to plan really well, do our best to keep our appointments, and make plan B and plan C. We pray for inspiration. There’s got to be a more practical way to help people.”
As I reread those experiences through more mature eyes, I chuckled. The lesson I had intended to teach my children about developing resilience to face disappointment now seemed less important than the lesson I had just been taught.
My exasperated plea of 30 years before seemed funny to me now. The answer to my exasperation was right there in my plea. Thinking of my younger self, I mused, “Elder Jackson, what if you had tried to help people by helping them in their time of need?”
Today, if my companion and I found Maria facing a burden of laundry and dishes, we would say, “How can we help you?”
Today, if the man we had scheduled to visit was busy making grease, we would exclaim, “Can you teach us? We’d love to help you!”
Today, if we found Junior busy preparing food, we would say, “We’re at your service! What would you like us to do?”
As a young missionary, I tended to look at service as something to schedule rather than as something to offer when needed. Today I try to teach people about the love of Jesus Christ by showing them His love.

Much of what I know came from my family. When I was about eight years old, my wise mother asked my brother and me to pull weeds with her in our family’s backyard garden. Now, that seems a simple task, but we lived in New Jersey. It rained often. The soil was heavy clay. The weeds grew faster than the vegetables.
I remember my frustration when the weeds broke off in my hands, their roots stuck firmly in the heavy mud. My mother and my brother were soon far ahead in their rows. The harder I tried, the more I fell behind.
“This is too hard!” I cried out.
Instead of giving sympathy, my mother smiled and said, “Oh, Hal, of course it’s hard. It’s supposed to be. Life is a test.”
In that moment, I knew her words were true and would continue to be true in my future.

Oripa lives in the Fiji islands. A few years ago she wanted more than anything in all the world to join The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Her big sister was a member of the Church, and Oripa asked her parents if she could be baptized too, but they refused.
Finally, however, when Oripa was ten years old, her prayers were answered. She was so happy when she was confirmed a member of the Church she just couldn’t stop crying tears of happiness. Oripa knew that our Heavenly Father would bless her.
Oripa worked hard and did her best at home and at school. All the children of Fiji in class 6 were given their intermediate examination. When the tests were graded, Oripa had the highest mark of any child in her grade in all of Fiji.
That night when her big sister came home, she kissed Oripa and congratulated her for doing so well on the test. When her proud parents asked Oripa about the examination, she explained that she knew this was a blessing from our Heavenly Father because she had joined His Church.

Marusia Lawrence, longtime member of Aylesbury Ward lives in a small community on the outskirts of her town.
In 2018, she made a house-to-house collection hoping to raise enough funds to purchase a silent soldier (also known as ‘Unknown Tommy’, see https://rbli.shop/products/unknown-tommy), a black silhouette of a soldier armed with a rifle, which would be displayed permanently in the village. To her delight, these efforts raised enough money for two silent soldiers for the special 100 Year Centenary Remembrance Sunday in 2018.
For 2019, she organised a Remembrance Service for November of that year. She felt strongly that there should be a formal start prior to the two-minute silence and asked fellow Church friend—Richard Godivala—to play the “Last Post” on his trumpet, dramatically setting the scene for the rest of the programme.
All neighbours attending were able to sincerely reflect on a reading of “In Flanders Field” by John McCrae (Canadian poet, soldier, and physician, who died in 1918 in France) and then a reading of “For The Fallen,” written by Englishman Laurence Binyon in 1914.
The service finished by singing the national anthem. Afterwards attendees socialised and talked of their thanks for peace in Europe since 1945, sharing beverages and biscuits at local venue, Cooper’s Barn. Marusia said these quotes made by World War II soldiers truly resonated at this Remembrance Service:
“For your tomorrow they gave their today.”
“Attitude, gratitude and service before self brings happiness and fulfilment in life”
“Brave soldiers laid down their lives for everyone to bring peace into the world.”

That is no way to listen to conference. I have since repented. I have grown to love general conference, I’m sure partly because of my mother’s love for the words of the living prophets. I remember listening to the sessions of a particular conference all alone in an apartment while I was in college. The Holy Ghost witnessed to my soul that Harold B. Lee, the President of the Church at that time, was truly a prophet of God. This happened before I went into the mission field, and I was excited to testify of a living prophet because I had come to know for myself. I have had that same witness about each of the prophets since that time.

We often find it difficult to accept things that we cannot change. I know a man who does not believe in God. He continually stresses that he is only happy, at least as most people understand happiness, when he himself has control of every situation and has a firm grip on the reins of his life. Several years ago he had an accident. At that time, he almost despaired at the fact that others held the reins and had the power to decide what would happen to him. He kept asking himself the question, “How could I have had so little control over my life that such an accident could happen to me?” When he started to feel better, he attributed his recovery to himself alone, not to the doctors, and definitely not to the prayers of his faithful wife. He simply could not accept the reality of his accident.

It could have been a disaster, but instead it turned out to be one of the best girls’ camps we had ever held in the Philadelphia Pennsylvania Stake.
The campsite we usually used had mistakenly been double-booked that year, so we were forced, at the last minute, to share Camp Mack with another large group.
The other group could not have been more different from us. It was a police academy camp for troubled youth, ages 11 to 15. The camp had been set up to teach them discipline and coping skills through rigorous activities led by police officers.
At first, neither group was too excited about sharing Camp Mack. So, with the help of our priesthood leaders, we worked out a schedule with the other camp to try to stay out of each other’s way.
The first day, we watched the police academy group drilling, marching, and doing calisthenics. We heard their noise and yelling all day long no matter where we were. They, in turn, kept a watchful eye on us as we did crafts and rotated to different classes.
That first evening our young women were ending the day’s activities by singing “I Am a Child of God” (Hymns, no. 301). The police academy youth were walking to their sleeping area. They stopped and listened to the music floating through Camp Mack. When the song was finished, the campers walked slowly and quietly to their lodge. What a difference from the yelling we had heard throughout the day.
The second day we tried to keep out of the way of the police academy activities. Both groups continued to watch each other. At the end of the day two, police officers approached some of the Young Women leaders. They wanted to know what we were doing with the girls at camp and why they were so well behaved and friendly. What were our camp goals and philosophies, and what did Latter-day Saints believe? We were thrilled to have them ask these questions and grateful for the opportunity to share the gospel.
The following day the Young Women leaders told the girls that they had been standing as witnesses without even knowing it. They had made a deep impression on the police officers running the other camp.
Immediately, our girls wanted to give them a Book of Mormon. We presented an officer with a copy of the Book of Mormon the following night. We assured him that if he would read it and pray for an answer of its truthfulness, it would change his life. The Spirit was so powerful during this conversation that the officer got tears in his eyes and said he had never felt the peace he was feeling then.
By the last day of camp, there was a feeling of friendship between both camps. Their cooks stood side by side with our cooks as they helped each other make breakfast for both groups. The Spirit of God filled Camp Mack that week. What could have been a disaster turned into a wonderful experience for all of us. We learned that when we stand as witnesses of God at all times, in all things, and in all places, the Lord can use us to help Him perform miracles every day.

Megan compared the name on the warm, paper-wrapped parcel against the name carved into the board hanging from a pole by the gate: M. Maybaum. This was it. Slowly, carefully, so that she wouldn’t drop Grandma’s package, Megan lifted the latch on the gate and walked up the uneven path to the squat, ramshackle house. She almost expected the seven dwarfs to come heigh-hoing in answer to her timid ring instead of the old lady with twinkling, violet eyes.
“Landsakes! Do we know you, girl?”
“No, ma’am,” Megan said.
“Oh. Well, you’d best come in, anyway.” Mrs. Maybaum stood back, pulling the door wider, and Megan edged in.
The inside of the house was dim and cluttered and smelled of flowers. Megan followed the old lady down the tiny hall to the living room, where she perched on an overstuffed chair and asked, “What brings you to see us?”
As Megan held up the parcel, she glanced around but couldn’t see anyone else in the room.
“A package for us? And what might be in it?”
“It’s bread. My grandma made it.”
“Ah, bread!” Mrs. Maybaum studied Megan. “You’re Helen’s grandchild, then. You have the look of Helen.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m Megan.”
“And where might your mother be? Why hasn’t she come to see us?”
“The hospital sent her on a seminar to be trained on a new invention.”
“More training! Well, Marian always did like to keep up on the latest. Old things too—like our honey taffy. Hollyhocks.”
“Excuse me?”
“Hollyhocks. Your mother was a one for hollyhocks—made dolls out of them, she did.” Mrs. Maybaum hopped up and scuttled over to Megan. “I’ll just take that package and put it in the kitchen. We expect that you’d like a bit of our honey taffy, too, so I’ll get it for you.”
Alone, Megan looked around again. The room was so full of things, most of which looked breakable, that she was afraid to move. On one wall were a lot of interesting looking pictures, and she edged carefully closer. They were all different sizes and shapes and had stitched pictures of houses and flowers and alphabets and sayings. They all looked very old and beautiful, though Megan noticed that one of them wasn’t finished. Leaning closer, Megan saw “Lovina Maybaum, 1945” neatly stitched at the bottom. The poem centered in the frame read:
The rising morning can’t assure
That we shall end the day,
For death stands ready at the door
To take our lives away.
“Oh, do you like samplers?” Mrs. Maybaum asked from the doorway.
“Is that what they are?”
Walking over to Megan, Mrs. Maybaum pointed to one. “That’s mine. The family tree. Maybelle Trimble. I was nine years old when I started it. All the girls in my family started one when they were nine. That was one of our family traditions.”
“It’s a beautiful sampler. They’re all beautiful.” Megan pointed to Lovina’s. “I think that one’s interesting, but the poem is so sad, and the sampler isn’t finished. Why wasn’t it finished?”
Mrs. Maybaum gently traced the stitching to where it stopped. “This was our daughter’s sampler. She was a good girl—too good to live.”
“I’m sorry.” Megan reached out and squeezed the old lady’s hand.
“It’s all right, dear,” she said. “She died a long time ago. We wish … well … we’re sad that there won’t be any more samplers.”
That evening Megan looked up from her position on the floor to where Grandma was working out on her walking machine. “Grandma, why does Mrs. Maybaum say ‘we’ when she talks to me? She lives alone, doesn’t she?”
Grandma paused in her walking and looked at Megan. “Yes, but I guess that she doesn’t feel alone and still includes her husband in her conversation. Does it bother you?”
“A little,” Megan admitted. “She’s the first really old, old person I’ve known.”
“And what do you think of her?”
“Well, she’s weird, but it’s a nice sort of weird. Do you think she’d mind if I visit her again?”
Grandma smiled. “I’m sure that she’d enjoy another visit.”
Megan sat up and traced the pattern in the rug with her finger. “Have you seen her samplers?”
“Of course. Why do you ask?”
“Then you’ve seen the one that isn’t finished, the one her daughter did.”
“Yes, Lovina died before she could finish it.”
“Did you know her, Grandma?”
“Oh, yes. In fact, we were friends.”
“Why did she die?”
“Lovina died because no one knew how to make her better, Megan. She was always sickly. She couldn’t go out, so I used to visit her once a week. We would make dolls—hollyhock dolls, cornhusk dolls, and paper dolls. Sometimes we had tea parties with honey taffy and lemonade for them. Lovina’s dolls looked alive, and she made the most beautiful clothes for them. She couldn’t wait to make her sampler. On her ninth birthday she got a basket and some little embroidery scissors shaped like a stork.”
“Why did Mrs. Maybaum say that there wouldn’t be any more samplers?”
“Well, she has only a son left. And he has only sons.”
“I wish that I could make her a sampler. But I guess that it wouldn’t be the same.”
“No, it wouldn’t be the same,” Grandma said, “but if you’re serious, I think that it would be very special for her.”
“Could you show me how?”
“Don’t you want her to show you?”
“I wanted to surprise her.”
“Surprises are fun, Megan,” Grandma said, sitting down by Megan and putting her arm around her, “but Mrs. Maybaum’s family weren’t just handing down stitched pictures. The art of making the pictures was the real treasure being passed on. I think that it would mean a lot to Mrs. Maybaum to pass her art on to someone.”
“Is a family treasure the same as a family tradition? That’s what she called it. Do we have any family traditions?”
“Yes, a family tradition really is a treasure—and yes, we have some family treasures.”
“What are they, Grandma?”
Grandma smiled mysteriously. All she said was, “The best treasures have to be discovered, don’t they?”
It was several days before Megan knocked at Mrs. Maybaum’s door again.
“Well, it’s Helen’s granddaughter again. Come in! Come in! We were hoping you’d come see us again.”
When they were settled in the living room, Megan blurted out, “Mrs. Maybaum, would you teach me how to do a sampler? I’m nine now, and I’ll be here five more weeks.”
Mrs. Maybaum leaned back in her chair. “Are you sure? It’s not as easy as it looks. And you’d have to do it right.”
Megan smiled eagerly. “I’m sure. And I promise to do it just like you want.”
When she talked to Grandma later, Megan said, “I’m to design my sampler before I go back. She said that it should be something that’s important to me.”
Megan was very nervous when she showed her design to Mrs. Maybaum the following week. “This is my family,” she explained to the old lady. “Mom’s in her uniform, Dad’s on his oil rig, and my two brothers—they’re visiting my other grandparents right now—are playing ball. In the middle I want it to say, ‘Home is where the heart is,’ because even though we move a lot, we love each other and take care of each other wherever we are. That’s our family tradition. What do you think?”
“We think that it’s exactly right. Now you’re ready to start.”
Mrs. Maybaum showed Megan how to trace her pattern onto the fabric, then put it in the hoop. She showed her how to hold it while she pushed the needle through.
When Megan went home that day, she was carrying a practice scrap of fabric, fabric for her sampler, and a pair of small, stork-shaped scissors in Lovina’s basket. “Mrs. Maybaum insisted that I borrow them, Grandma,” she said.
Megan’s hands were clumsy at first as she tried to make the tiny stitches, and they got tired and crampy. The thread kept knotting up, and many times Megan longed to throw the sampler away. Then she’d look at the stork scissors and the basket and try again.
After a while, the front began to look a little like her drawing. But the back was a mess! There were knots that she couldn’t get out, and big clumps and crisscrosses of thread. Mrs. Maybaum would be very disappointed.
Suddenly Mom was back from her seminar, and it was time for Megan to go home. She hurried over one last time to Mrs. Maybaum’s.
“We were afraid that you wouldn’t have time to come and say good-bye,” the old lady said. “Here’s some honey taffy for you and your mother.” She held out a parcel with a hollyhock doll for a bow. “Now, let us have a last look at your sampler.”
Megan handed her the sampler with the top side up. She thrust Lovina’s basket and scissors along with it, trying to prevent Mrs. Maybaum from turning the sampler over. “Here are Lovina’s things, Mrs. Maybaum. I took good care of them.”
“Megan, we’d like you to have them if you want them. It would please us to know that they were being used and appreciated.”
“I’d love to have them—but I just can’t take them. I don’t deserve them, Mrs. Maybaum. My sampler isn’t right.”
“It looks fine to us. What’s wrong with it?”
When Megan turned the sampler over, the old lady held it up. “It certainly is a mess,” she acknowledged. She got up and took Lovina’s off the wall, pulled the cardboard backing from it, and showed the back of it to Megan.
Megan stared in astonishment. It was every bit as messy as hers!
“Mine’s even worse,” Mrs. Maybaum laughed. “Most of them are. Samplers are for learning—you’ll do better next time.”
Megan got up and gave the old lady a big hug. “Thank you, Mrs. Maybaum. Thank you for everything.”

Fritz Engels walked into the huge Frankfurt/Main train terminal, his heart pounding so loudly that he was sure everyone could hear it.
“Herr (Mr.) Schiller, I’ve come to ask for the job as errand boy,” said Fritz, rubbing his damp hands on his best lederhosen (leather shorts).
“So you think you can load a food wagon and roll it to the train?” the station manager asked. “Can you be prompt? Always on time?”
“Ja (Yes), Herr Schiller,” Fritz answered, nodding his head.
“Do you know what makes a perfect day for me?” the manager asked, looking directly at the young boy, but without waiting for an answer. “The day no trains are late. You must do your part to help the trains leave on time. A food cart has to be on each train so that the attendant can deliver it to the next station.”
“I’ll work quickly,” Fritz promised, “and I’ll always remember how important time is.”
“Good boy! You can start work today.” Herr Shiller called to a boy about seventeen years old. “Ludwig, take Fritz and show him what he is to do.”
As the two boys walked into the huge terminal where trains waited in long rows, a voice over a loudspeaker announced the departure of some of the trains. Fritz loved to hear the voice switch languages, from German to French to English.
“When I grow up, I want to be a train announcer,” said Fritz.
“Then study hard, because you must speak at least three languages well to get that job,” said Ludwig. “Hurry along, now. We have to load the cart for the Berlin D-Zug (Express).”
The boys arrived at a room where small carts were parked in rows. “Place crackers, sandwiches, chips, soft drinks, and cookies on one of these carts,” explained Ludwig, “then roll it down to the departing train. Turn the cart over to the boy on the train. He’ll take it to the next town, selling as much as he can, then get off and board a train coming back to Frankfurt.”
“Do you sell much?” asked Fritz. He understood something about the vending process because he had been watching for months, hoping for a job.
“Most Germans pack a lunch,” Ludwig explained as he filled a shiny cart, “but since few trains have dining cars, the tourists usually buy from us.”
“How do I know when to load a cart?” asked Fritz, still nervous about his new job.
Ludwig pointed to the huge white display boards that lined the depot waiting room. “Those are the departure times and the gate numbers for each train.”
Fritz nodded and recited his duties for Ludwig’s benefit: “I check the board for the time the next train leaves, and I must be at the right gate at the right time with a loaded cart. An older boy, like you, will be waiting to take the cart aboard and ride with it to the next station.”
Ludwig patted him on the shoulder. “You are a smart lad, Fritz. Now we must hurry. The train I sell on leaves in five minutes. When do you have to be ready for the next one?”
Fritz’s eyes rounded in shock. “The Amsterdam train leaves in eight minutes!” he cried, grabbing supplies and filling his cart.
“Good-bye and good luck,” called Ludwig. “See you later.”
Fritz worked so fast that he dropped several packages of chips and had to stop and pick them up. He glanced at the large clock in the waiting room. He had three minutes to get to the platform. Pushing the cart as rapidly as he could, he steered his way through the crowd.
The aroma of knockwurst, a thick round sausage served on a yeast roll and covered with mustard, drifted by. Fritz didn’t stop as he usually did to watch the knockwurst twist on spindles over a charcoal fire.
“Hi, Fritz! So you got the job, did you?” called Fraulein (Miss) Greta, who ran the magazine and refreshment stand. “Want a free knockwurst?”
“I can’t stop now. I must get to the train on time,” he called back, waving to her with one arm and steering with the other.
Fritz skidded onto the platform ramp just as the announcer began the last call for passengers to board, Happily he handed the cart over to the blond-haired boy who was anxiously awaiting it.
“Good work,” said the attendant, lifting the cart onto the train. “See you later.”
The train whistle blew, and the Amsterdam train began rolling down the track and out of the terminal. Fritz stood watching, pleased that he had not caused it to be late.
All afternoon Fritz worked, never failing to get a loaded cart to the right place at the right time.
Fritz enjoyed the sounds of the terminal. Trains hissed, people spoke rapidly in different languages, and everything echoed in the high-ceilinged building.
“Fritz, what are you planning to do with all the pfennige (pennies) you’ll be earning?” asked Fraulein Greta.
“Help Mutter (Mother) pay for things we need,” he answered shyly. Fritz could think of many things his mother needed now that his father was ill and out of work.
Things went smoothly, and Fritz was loading a cart for the Paris train when the stationmaster came by to see him. “You’re doing an excellent job, Fritz. However, don’t get careless and be late,” warned Herr Schiller.
The happy boy grinned as he wheeled the cart down the concrete walkway. “I won’t,” he promised.
Suddenly he heard a cry, then the sound of someone falling. He looked up to see elderly Frau (Mrs.) Wagner, his neighbor, lying on the steps. She had slipped and fallen, and oranges and canned goods from her shopping bag rolled across the platform. People hurrying to board departing trains stepped over the food.
Fritz glanced at the clock. The Paris train would leave in just three minutes. Should I stop and help Frau Wagner, or should I pretend I don’t see her? he agonized.
Even if he lost his job, Fritz knew that he couldn’t just leave Frau Wagner there on the steps. He stopped the cart, locked the brake on it, and ran to help her. Taking her arm, he asked, “Frau Wagner, are you hurt?”
“Nein, nein (No, no), but I’m going to miss my train. My daughter is sick, and I must catch the train to be with her in Paris.” Tears began to run down her face. “My food! My food! I was taking it to her.” She gestured at the scattered groceries.
“Don’t worry. I’ll get everything back into the shopping bag,” Fritz said, scurrying to gather the things up. Tossing the last runaway orange into the bag, he took Frau Wagner by the arm and led her quickly to the train.
“Bless you!” she cried, smiling and waving from the train steps. “Auf Wiedersehen (Good-bye).”
The stationmaster’s whistle blew, signaling the train’s departure, just as Fritz arrived at the ramp with his cart. He raced along the loading ramp beside the slow-moving train until Ludwig could grab the cart handle and swing the cart aboard.
Turning to leave, Fritz heard his name called.
It was the stationmaster. “Fritz, did you cause the train to be late?” asked the man, pretending to be stern.
“Nein, Herr Schiller, but I almost did. I’m very sorry.” He swallowed hard. Am I going to be fired? he wondered.
Herr Schiller patted him on the shoulder and said, “I saw what happened, Fritz. That was a kind thing you did. Everyone else ignored the poor lady in their hurry to catch the train.”
“I could not leave her,” said Fritz.
“That, my boy, is what makes you special. A lad with a kind heart will be good for my train station. That lady was more important to you than your job.” He winked at Fritz. “Who knows, one day you might even be a stationmaster!”

Beth, Blondie, Freckles, Beauty, and Dolly went on a backpacking trip. But on their backs they carried Amy, Linda, Jennifer, Heidi, and Cherish.
Beth, Blondie, and crew are the four-legged, half-ton-with-mane-and-tail variety of backpackers; but even though they see the trail from a slightly different angle than their human cargo, they know the mountain trails as well as anyone. They know how to pick their way down a rocky trail because they hate to slip on the loose rocks. They remember the spots where they have stopped to camp for the night. They know how to work a little slack into the reins so they have a chance for a quick bite of succulent mountain grass. They know how good it feels to roll in the dust after their humans have removed the saddles and saddlebags. Even though they enjoy getting out on the mountain trails, they are only horses, more intent on their next mouthful of grass than the beauty of a panorama of rugged mountains, blue sky, and snow-fed lakes. Those beauties are left for their riders to enjoy.
And the beauties of the Tetons, a range of mountains slicing the border between Wyoming and Idaho, were not lost on the girls from the Idaho Falls Idaho East Stake. They chose to spend three days on horseback as their Summiteer trip. The Summiteer program is the adventure-laden fifth year of the Young Women camp certification program. Girls are encouraged to plan and carry out an activity themselves, using the things they have learned about organizing and camping during their four years of the Campcrafter program.
It was a gorgeous morning in August when the girls met to carpool to the mountains. In reviewing how the activity got started, Susan Butikofer, Summiteer leader for the stake, said that the girls wanted to go horseback riding or winter camping, both ambitious undertakings. She said the girls got together to make their decision. “I backed clear off,” said Susan. “If these girls are here after four years of Campcrafters, they want to be here. The leaders aren’t pulling them along anymore. At this age, these girls have so many things keeping them busy, they have to have a real desire, and some have made a real sacrifice to pursue their Summiteer.”
It took extra effort to arrange for the trip. Every girl who participated in the horseback Summiteer trip was working a summer job and had to arrange to take the time off without pay. Also they were inventive about the ways they came up with the fee to pay for the rental horses. One girl gathered earthworms to sell to a fisherman’s bait shop to earn the fee.
The first morning of the trip was spent saddling the horses and consolidating equipment into small bundles to be packed on the mules. Then everyone was assigned a mount. For the inexperienced, coming eye to eye with the animal she would be responsible to saddle, curry, hobble, and keep under control for the next three days was a daunting moment. But the horses knew what they were doing even if the girls didn’t and put up with the fumbling fingers, the jerking reins, and the indecisive directions given by their riders. The horses fell into line behind the lead horse regardless of the directions given by their riders as they headed up the trail. The girls were soon to learn who really was in charge on this trip and that they were just along for the ride.
It was a glorious summer day. The air at that mountain altitude was crystal clear. The sky was such an intense blue that it was a subject of debate whether it was closer to the color of robins’ eggs or more like a tropical sea. The meadows were alive with wild flowers, every color and kind—columbines, Indian paint brush, bluebells, purple lupine, buttercups. Although the valley was in the heat of summer, here in the mountains, it was spring. It was soon obvious that the horses needed little direction while on the trail. This made it easy for the girls to absorb the scenery with names as colorful as the places themselves—up Fox Creek, past Death Canyon, along the Teton Shelf, down the Sheep Steps, into Alaska Basin, and on the Skyline Trail.
As the trail climbed, the trees began to thin out. Tall stands of pine were separated by stretches of rocky meadows. Water seemed to gush from every crevice, and clear, cold streams joined together to form high-running creeks. With the sun, the flowers, the water, the scenery, and the good company, it was nearly as perfect a day in the mountains as it could be.
But there were saddle sores in paradise. At the end of the day’s ride, when at last the camp spot for the evening was selected, there were some mighty groans, some bent backs, and some crooked legs as the girls dismounted. But no matter how tired the girls were, the first concern was to take care of the horses. Saddles were removed, bridles carefully coiled, and hobbles attached. “Come on, come on, just move your other hoof over here.” Linda Garner, of the Idaho Falls 38th Ward, was talking out loud as she struggled to get her horse to put his front legs close enough together to fasten the hobbles, a small girl trying to coerce a large animal into cooperating.
After setting up camp and getting dinner started, it was time for a treat. Custom-made snow cones were just the thing to cool down and quench thirst. The crushed ice was gathered from the remnants of a nearby snowfield. Punch mix was prepared at double strength and poured over the snow. No machine could chop the ice more perfectly than nature had already done.
That evening a full moon rose over the mountains like a spotlight. It was so bright that the girls didn’t need flashlights to find their way around camp.
By the second day, the girls were old hands at preparing their horses for the day’s ride. Jennifer Goodell of the Idaho Falls 38th Ward saddled her horse and wandered up the hill from camp and sat down to watch the early-morning light play among the peaks. It was a time for a moment’s introspection as she absorbed the beauty of nature and the feeling of oneness with our Creator.
The second day offered some unexpected challenges. The group had to negotiate a section of steep loose shale, and there were mushy snowbanks that would be too dangerous to ride across. The girls walked down the trail, leading their horses across the snowbanks, staying uphill in case their horses started to slide. Everyone was careful and made it across safely.
By now, some of the inexperienced riders were feeling more comfortable on horseback. Cherish Haroldsen of the Idaho Falls 41st Ward had never been on a horse until this trip. She was given a gentle horse, and she soon got into the rhythm of trail riding. She just tied her reins to the saddle horn and let her horse find his own way. “I figure the horse knew where to put his feet better than I did,” Cherish said. “As long as another horse is in front of him, he does real good. But just try to make him do something the others aren’t doing. He’s like a teenager. He follows peer pressure.”
The group entered a beautiful basin where snow-fed lakes connected by small waterfalls descended like huge stairsteps. The trail faded and disappeared altogether as it led across flat, slick rock. By this time, the girls were gaining confidence and, instead of following the lead horse, they spread out in groups of twos or threes, picking their own ways across the rock. But they soon found that taking off on their own didn’t always work well. What looked like a good way to go often led to the edge of cliffs or into an impossible thicket of trees that forced them to turn back and retrace their routes.
A forest ranger had gone over the trail before and had marked the best way across the slick rock with small pyramids of stone. These markers, or cairns as they are called, were easy to spot and if followed led safely across the section where the trail was obliterated. The girls found they could not rely on their own instincts or observations to select a good path. They found they had to trust the one who had gone on before to show them the best way. The girls started talking about following the cairns. “This is like our leaders giving us lessons about how to live our lives,” said one. “Yes,” said another catching on to the symbolism, “it’s like learning to follow the prophet. By listening to him, we can follow the right trail even when we can’t see where it leads.”
On the final day, the girls were busy packing the mules and saddling their horses. Heidi Hicks, of the Coltman Second Ward, settled into the saddle and said, “It doesn’t hurt as bad this morning.” Indeed, the girls were becoming toughened to riding, but it was time to head home.
The downward trail was rough. It was very steep, eroded in spots, and had plenty of rocks to trip up even the most surefooted horse. But things went well. When a horse slipped, its rider hung on or slipped a foot out of the downhill stirrup in case a hasty dismount was called for. Horses and girls came through like troopers. Heidi summed up the feelings of many when she said, “If we had done that the first day, we would have been in tears.”
At the end of the trail, the horses were anxious to get back to the corral, and the girls were again thinking about the activities awaiting them in the valley. But the impact of the trip was not overlooked.
As one leader said at the last night’s campfire, “Many of you will be taken to faraway places to serve in the Lord’s kingdom. You’ll always remember these beautiful mountains and your home nearby. Bathe in the beauty, and pay attention to it.”
The Summiteer program is designed to allow girls to use what they have learned in Campcrafters in planning and carrying out their own activities. It is easy to draw parallels to life. Girls are taught correct principles about outdoor life and about living the gospel. They find that in both, if they follow the markers, the cairns along the trails, set out by wise leaders who have led the way, they can find the correct paths.